The plane went down from twenty-six thousand feet to six hundred and drew a shining aluminum spiral over the capital of the Federal Republic. Manuel Ortega sat on the inside of the curve and through the window saw the city gradually become larger and nearer. It was white and beautiful with parks and wide tree-lined avenues, the sunlight winking on the cathedral’s copper roof and reflections glittering in hundreds of thousands of windowpanes. At this time of the day most of the shutters were not yet closed. The pilot flattened the plane out just above the rooftops; the circular bullring and an oval soccer stadium slipped by beneath the wing, then blocks of apartments and a suburb of dirty small houses and sooty black factories, but even they seemed neat and tidy. It was obvious that this was a great city in an orderly country, a country to be proud of. Then came a chicken farm with thousands of shapeless white blobs fleeing in all directions below the great shadow, then grass and the windsleeve and the first bounce on the concrete runway.
As the plane was still rolling and long before the warning notices were switched off, a uniformed official, presumably the radio officer, came aft down the aisle and said quietly: “Would you and the lady kindly mind waiting in your seats until the other passengers have disembarked?”
So they stayed seated and waited. When the plane was finally empty, a police officer in a white uniform stepped in through the doorway. He saluted and said: “Welcome home, sir.”
His tone of voice was gruff and his face serious, as if he were on a difficult and important mission.
At the foot of the steps stood a white American police car with a radio aerial and spotlights on the roof. The white paint was marred by the word Policía painted in (black) block letters across the doors. Ten yards away stood a white jeep. The engine was running, a policeman sat behind the wheel and another was standing upright in the back. Otherwise there was not a soul in sight. The plane had stopped unusually far away from the airport buildings.
The officer opened the car door for them, made a commanding gesture to the guards on the steps, and then got into the back of the car himself. He was fat and it was quite a squeeze. The jeep drove past with its siren wailing and took the lead. Then the little convoy drove three hundred yards over to an annex of the airport buildings which was seldom used for anything but ceremonial welcomes for prominent visitors. Manuel Ortega threw a confused glance at the woman at his side. Her face was completely expressionless.
The car had stopped, and although the distance to the entrance was no more than three yards, the arrangement with the guards was repeated before the Resident and his secretary were allowed to enter the foyer. This room was ostentatiously equipped with luxurious furniture and colorful wall decorations. A policeman opened a door in the far wall and at the same time made a sign to the woman to stay where she was.
Manuel Ortega went into a small room containing low tables and leather armchairs. Two men were already in there, one whom he had only heard of and seen in pictures and one whom he knew of old. The former was Jacinto Zaforteza, Minister of the Interior in the federal government, the other Miguel Uribarri, Chief Inspector of the C.I.D.
Manuel shook hands with Zaforteza and embraced his brother-in-law.
The Minister of the Interior was a large, coarse man with a bull neck and short gray hair. Several heads of government had considered him invaluable, but no one really knew why. He was a skilled orator and his powerful blustering voice had over the years become almost physically penetrating.
He began to speak at once.
“The only thing I can do for you at the moment is to welcome you most warmly and give you a word or two on your way. Your task is an extremely delicate one and perhaps it will land you in some awkward situations. Don’t expect swift or grandiose results—the situation is much too complicated for that. We expect nothing of that sort from you anyhow. What we do expect, on the other hand, is uncompromising loyalty and complete cooperation. Two things must be avoided at all costs: open military activity and incidents of a kind that arouse international attention. Otherwise you have a free hand. It is important that you get to your destination as quickly as possible. So an air force helicopter is coming to pick you up in twenty minutes. You should be able to get down there in less than five hours.”
Zaforteza glanced at his watch, embraced him, heavily and powerfully, and then dashed out of the room.
Manuel Ortega stared in astonishment at the closed door. He had in fact not had the chance to say a single word.
“Yes, you can see how much help you can expect from that quarter,” said Uribarri.
He was a small, neat man with a thin face and a narrow black mustache. Although he was wearing civilian clothes, his bearing bore traces of many and long years in various uniforms. He strode impatiently up and down the room.
“Manuel, what in the hell have you done?”
He said it suddenly and with unexpected violence.
“You’ve made a terrible mistake. The situation down there is horrible. They’re all mad.”
“I’m certain the problem can be solved.”
“To hell with the problem. It’s possible that you might get them to agree, but I don’t care about that. What I’m thinking of is your personal safety.”
“But the Federal Police …”
“The Federal Police are a collection of idiots—at their best. You saw the circus out there for yourself? Huge escorts with sirens to move one man three hundred yards on an empty airfield. The most logical thing would have been to let you come in as unobtrusively as possible.”
“Well, anyhow, it’s too late now.”
“Yes—it’s too late to withdraw—but not to save your life. Listen now. I’ve sent four men down there. They’ll meet your helicopter. They’re my men, the best I can find. Their only job is to look after you, and I promise you they know their job. Remember one thing: of all the people you’ll meet, these four are the only ones you know you can trust. Don’t trust anyone else, not the army, nor the police, nor anyone else.”
Uribarri walked over to the window and peered out between the slats of the blind.
“Who’s that woman?”
“My secretary.”
“Where’s she from?”
“The embassy in Copenhagen.”
“Name?”
“Danica Rodríguez.”
He pondered the name for a moment.
“Doesn’t mean anything to me,” he said finally.
Manuel Ortega smiled and looked at the clock.
“I must be going now, I suppose, Miguel. I can hear the helicopter.”
“Are you armed?”
“Yes.”
“What with?”
“An army revolver.”
“Where is it?”
“Wrong place, Manuel, wrong place. Here! Here!”
He slapped the left side of his chest with the flat of his hand.
“You’ve always been so dramatic, Miguel. Are you quite certain that you’re not exaggerating the risks?”
“No! No! I know I’m not exaggerating. They’re mad. They’re out of their minds. They’ll try to kill you, if only for fun, or to be able to say someone else did it.”
“Who?”
“Everyone. Anyone. Although no one here or anywhere else in the country thinks about it or even knows about it, they have been at war down there for eighteen months. Hard, bloody, ruthless war. Both sides are in despair, exhausted, finished, but neither will give way an inch. For fifty years those people have been pawns in the chess game of international politics. Now the pawns have gone mad. And still there are people who go on playing with them.”
Ten minutes later the helicopter rose, humming straight up into the sky, wrapped in its own roaring swirl of air. Through the segmented plexiglass Manuel Ortega saw the white police cars break away and drive off. Only Uribarri remained on the concrete apron. He stood there, his feet apart and two fingers on the brim of his hat, quite still. He swiftly became smaller. Soon he vanished from sight.
Manuel Ortega wiped the sweat from his brow and looked at the woman sitting beside him with her book open on her knee.
“What fearful heat,” he said.
“Wait till we get there,” she said without looking up. “We’ll have much more reason to complain then.”