LIEUTENANT COLONEL ENRIQUE TRINIDAD OLIVA crashed into his office and shouted from the doorway:
“Someone’s assassinated the president! Activate emergency measures! Close the borders! We need patrols at all strategic points! Put the military bases on lockdown! No exceptions!”
For a moment, he saw how perplexity immobilized the civilians and soldiers, who looked at him without managing to do anything. They were frightened, stunned, some standing, some sitting at their desks. A second later, all were on their telephones, sending his orders out across the country.
“Apparently it was one of the soldiers escorting him,” the lieutenant colonel said. “I need to speak with the head of the presidential guard immediately.”
“Yes, sir, right away,” one of his secretaries said, a young man in civilian clothes and glasses, with a pencil behind his ear, who dialed the number and passed him the telephone.
“This is Lieutenant Colonel Enrique Trinidad Oliva, Director of Security,” he said as soon as he’d grabbed the receiver, shouting so that everyone in the office could hear him. “Who am I speaking with?”
“This is Major Adalberto Brito García,” the voice on the other end replied. “The news is confirmed, sir. A soldier from the presidential guard is the guilty party. Apparently he’s committed suicide. According to the medical examiner, who showed up on the scene immediately, the president received two bullets to the chest. One of these was fatal.”
“Have you arrested any suspected conspirators?” the lieutenant colonel asked.
“Not yet, sir. We’re going through the Palace room by room. I’ve ordered everyone to stay on the premises until further notice. The dead soldier’s name is Romeo Vásquez Sánchez. He seems to have killed himself immediately after committing the murder. Almost all the ministers are here. The president of the congress, Mr. Estrada de Hoz, also just arrived.”
“I’ll be over there soon to put emergency measures in place,” Trinidad Oliva said. “Keep me informed of any developments. Wait—how is Odilia?”
“The doctor has given her tranquilizers. Her dress is covered in blood. Don’t worry—I’ll keep you up to date.”
Enrique Trinidad Oliva walked over to his second-in-command, Ernesto Eléspuru, who stood when he saw him approaching. He was pale, and asked him in a low tone:
“Was it the communists who killed him? I could have guessed it.”
“Who else if not them?” his boss said. “At any rate, we need to start arresting suspects immediately. You take charge of that. I’ve got a list for you here. Don’t let anyone get away. You answer to me on this.”
“No need to worry, I’ll send the order out right away.”
Lieutenant Colonel Trinidad Oliva, now on his way out, turned around and walked back.
“Have Marta Borrero, the president’s girlfriend, arrested, too,” he ordered his subordinate. “Now.”
Commander Eléspuru stared at him, perplexed.