DELTA DEL PARANÁ
Marta was surprised by the way things turned out. Despite her best efforts at manipulation, Liliana Méndez refused to talk. More surprisingly, her dad, Ubaldo Méndez, seemed almost eager to betray.
Marta could barely believe her ears as the hardened ex-cop, famous for having been simultaneously chief of an anti-kidnapping squad and boss of a gang of kidnappers, spilled his guts when she and Ricardi questioned him at the safe house in Barracas.
"Maybe it's middle age," Ricardi told Marta, when they took a break. "He can't face the prospect of prison."
"Or maybe he's just a guy who has no concept of loyalty," she said.
The interrogation was conducted in the same squalid converted bedroom in which she and Rolo had questioned Galluci. Outside, the oil-slick surface of the Riachuelo River was dappled by a heavy afternoon rain.
Ubaldo, slouching in his chair, wearing his old-style cop's smirk, admitted it was Charbonneau who'd ordered him to set his goons loose on Marta.
"'...I don't care how you do it,' Father Charbonneau told me, 'just make sure the bitch deadends that damn murder investigation!' I chose Galluci and Pereyra for the job, figured they'd terrorize the shit out of you." Ubaldo squinted at Marta. "Turns out you were tougher than we thought. Galluci came to me afterwards, said 'that girl's got a pair of cojones!' So...win some, lose some. Father Charbonneau was damn pissed, I can tell you. Especially when you burst into his office the next day. 'Seems your goons weren't up to the job,' he says to me. 'Maybe you're not up to it either!'"
"Is that why you're so eager to testify against him?" Ricardi asked.
"That's one reason. I got a couple more. One thing's for sure, I'm not falling on my sword for any of those guys.”
“Which guys?" Marta asked. "Father C. and the rest of them. They'd throw me to the dogs quick as a wink...so why shouldn't I do the same?"
"Who's this 'the rest of them?'" Ricardi asked.
Ubaldo shrugged. "I got no idea. There's a group of them. They want to control everything. To them Viera's just another puppet."
"You're the one told Andrés Quintana to try and bribe me," Marta said.
Ubaldo sat up straight. He was a short guy, a lot smaller than his strapping daughter. "Who told you that?" he demanded.
Marta smiled. "We know plenty, Ubaldo. Which is how we can tell when you're lying."
Ubaldo smirked. He told them he had no idea who'd killed Granic and Santini. Like everyone else Marta had questioned, he said he'd heard the crocs had done it.
"Right!" Ricardi said, in his most sarcastic whisper. "Charbonneau goes to you when he wants Inspector Abecasis roughed up. But he goes to someone else when he wants Granic whacked."
"Who says it was Charbonneau ordered that?"
"What do you know about it?"
"Let's get this straight, Chief—I don't do murder. Abduction, kidnapping, intimidating witnesses, but not killing. I leave that to the military."
"That's some admission," Marta said.
"I'm just being truthful."
"You ready to tell all this to Judge Lantini?"
"I'm ready," Ubaldo said. "Get her to sign my plea agreement, then bring me to her!"
Ricardi motioned Marta to join him outside. They didn't bother to handcuff Ubaldo, just left him alone with Rolo on guard at the door.
Outside the house, they pulled up the hoods of their police slickers and took a stroll along the river. Even in the rain, the Riachuelo stank. Old abandoned boats, left to rust, lined its banks. Oil and chemicals oozed from these nautical carcasses, embellishing the water with a rainbow-hued sheen.
"Getting cold," Ricardi said. "Going to be an early winter." He turned to Marta. "What'd you think?"
"He's been fairly honest. Admitted he told Liliana to mess up the Santini crime scene. Implicating her couldn't have been easy. On the other side, he won't say who told him to call her."
"He knows more than he's telling."
"And being an ex-cop, he understands the game."
"Which means he knows he has to satisfy us. I got an idea on how to squeeze more out of him."
Back in the safe house, Ricardi told Ubaldo they'd decided to lock him up.
"You're not telling us enough. No deal until you tell it all."
"You want to know who told me to phone Liliana?"
Marta smiled: He knows all the tricks! Hold something back, then spit it out soon as we apply pressure.
"No more games, Ubaldo," Ricardi snapped. "We're not in the mood."
"Think I'm happy about talking to you guys? Turning on my only daughter? She's a good kid—tough, smart, damn good at her job. I'm not too pleased about her orientation, but that's her business. Times have changed."
"Get to the point."
"I got a call...."
Here we go again, Marta thought.
"...caller didn't identify himself. But he knew who I was all right. He says: 'We're going to dump a body by the Recoleta wall. Tell your daughter to mess things up.'"
"And like a zombie, you did what you were told?" Ricardi shook his head with disgust.
"Yeah, because I had a pretty good idea who he was. Not his name, but I knew he was one of the crocs. I could tell by the way he talked."
"So you passed the word to Liliana?"
Ubaldo grinned. "I didn't give a shit. I didn't kill anyone."
"Do something for us," Ricardi said. "Imitate the way you think a croc talks."
Ubaldo grinned again, then launched into an imitation of a tough military guy barking out orders. Though it was obvious he was putting them on, Marta thought his performance wasn't bad.
"Everyone tells us: 'I heard the crocs did it,'" she said. "Like we're supposed to accept that as an excuse."
This time when Ubaldo squinted at her, she saw something different in his eyes, as if he were cannily calculating whether to reveal something big. Ricardi picked up on it too. He glanced at Marta, a glance that said: He's ready to divulge.
"Suppose I told you something very interesting that has nothing to do with Granic, but has a lot to do with the crocs? Like what they're up to, what they're planning and where you'd find them if you looked?"
"Go on," Ricardi said.
"The crocs I'm talking about could be the guys who took care of Granic. But this is bigger than Granic, bigger than Charbonneau though he may be involved. This is the most valuable information I have. The point is ..."
"You want a deal before you reveal it?"
Ubaldo nodded. He was dead serious now. "You understand me, Chief."
"You know the protocol," Ricardi said. "You have to tell us the substance first."
"Yeah, I know," Ubaldo said, lowering his voice, drawing them closer. Then he hesitated.
This guy knows how to play people.
"Suppose I told you," Ubaldo whispered, "there's a plan to bust Kessler out of prison?"
Ricardi leaned back, not wanting to show he was intrigued.
"Yeah," he said, "that's interesting. Tell us more."
"Some of the old crocs, probably from the same gang killed Granic, are planning it. They'll have help inside Magdalena Prison, sympathetic guards. They've been training at a secret location. They have guns, explosives, everything they need. I hear they're going to create a diversion by blowing up a power station and a row of electrical towers, then scoop up Kessler in a hijacked helicopter and transport him back to their hide-out."
"How do you know all this?"
"My wife heard it from a friend in her betting pool. This woman's husband's a croc. One night he got drunk and told her stuff. She blabbed about it to a couple friends. Obviously I can't identify her. If the story gets tracked back to my wife, I don't have to tell you what would happen."
"Why should we believe you?" Ricardi asked.
"You don't have to. You're detectives. Soon as we have a deal, I'll tell you the location of the camp. Then check it out for yourselves."
"Sounds like a trap, a way to embarrass us."
"How could it be?" Ubaldo actually seemed to be begging them to believe him. "What does it cost you to investigate?"
"Our time," Ricardi said, motioning Marta to join him in the hall.
"If he's got what he says, it's huge," Ricardi said. Marta agreed. "But what about Charbonneau?"
"Ubaldo'll testify Charbonneau ordered him to have you roughed up. If he's believed, Charbonneau'll be convicted."
"It'll be the word of a discredited cop against the word of a priest."
Ricardi shrugged. "Even if Charbonneau gets off on criminal charges, he'll be ruined. Then you bring a civil suit against him. You're sympathetic, he's not. You'll win."
I wouldn't mind that, Marta thought. And if Raúl knocks off Viera with his exposé, all the better. But that still leaves Pedraza....
"Ubaldo wants immunity for Liliana," Ricardi said. "She'll have to resign, of course."
"And settle with Raúl and Miguel Giménez!"
"Yeah, sure...," Ricardi agreed.
Ricardi stayed with Ubaldo while he phoned his lawyer, then the three of them hammered out a plea agreement. Meantime, Marta went to the Palace of Justice to present the proposed deal to Judge Lantini.
"It's a good agreement," Elena Lantini told her, after Marta described it. "Too bad you couldn't trap the priest. But I think Ricardi's right—even if Charbonneau gets off at trial, he'll be a ruined man." She peered at Marta. "Don't be discouraged. You can't win them all. I admit I've been troubled by some aspects of this. Still you've done a fantastic job."
"Thanks," Marta said, brightening up.
"If Ubaldo Méndez's information proves out," Lantini told her, "and you capture this gang of Crocodiles, maybe one of them'll break and tell you who issued the kill-orders on Granic and Santini. Of course there'll be no immunity for Ubaldo if his story doesn't prove out. But I don't see an old ex-cop playing games on something like this. He'd be putting his life at risk."
It had been a grueling night followed by a punishing day.
By the time she got back to her apartment, she was exhausted. She also felt dirty. Not only had she shot someone, she'd spent the day making deals with scum. She'd also taken a heavy dose of verbal abuse from Liliana. How she'd wanted to smack that bitch! Or, better, shoot out her other knee!
One thing she was happy about: that when she'd fired at Liliana, she hadn't shot to kill, thus disregarding a cardinal rule of police training: When your life's in jeopardy, use overwhelming force.
She knew her life had been in jeopardy. Liliana had been determined to throw her off that roof. She might have done it too if the shot to the knee hadn't dropped her.
A little past 5:00 a.m. her phone rang, waking her up from a deep sleep.
It was Raúl.
"Sorry to wake you, Marta, but I couldn't resist. My intern just drove by your building. She left a copy of this morning's El Faro on your steps. Take a look. I think you'll be pleased."
He hung up before she could complain.
She lay back on her bed and smiled. Raúl's enthusiasm charmed her. He was brave, she thought, a truly heroic kid. His ordeal hadn't broken him; if anything it had emboldened him.
She slipped on a robe, went downstairs. The newspaper was, as promised, on the front steps of her building. Unfolding it, she glanced at the front page. Even under the low wattage bulb that lit the staircase, the huge photo leapt out. It showed a pretty young woman, face battered, both eyes blackened, nose squashed, cuts on her lips. The headline was sensational:
"HE TOLD ME HE'D TEACH ME A LESSON!" SAYS
FINANCE MINISTER VIERA'S BATTERED SPOUSE
The accompanying story, bearing Raúl's byline, was a devastating portrait of José Viera, depicting him as a man whose brutal temper belied his smooth facade. Raúl and his intern, it seemed, had induced Graciela Viera to tell all, even obtaining her reaction to Father Hugo Charbonneau's plea that she keep quiet until after the election ("The piercing look in the priest's eyes was clearly intended to frighten me into compliance....")
There was also an explanatory box in the lower right-hand corner of the page:
Investigative reporter, Raúl Vargas, is currently in the hospital recovering from a brutal beating administered by a ranking officer in the Federal Police in retaliation for an investigative report recently published here. In tomorrow morning's edition, Mr. Vargas will describe the beating and its aftermath.
Marta was elated; she knew Shoshana and her friends would be too. The story about Graciela would finish off Viera's campaign even before he officially announced.
"They're training at a secret camp on an island in the Delta del Paraná," Ubaldo told them, after he finished swearing out his confession before Judge Lantini.
Marta and Rolo exchanged a glance. The safe house interrogation room felt oppressively small after the grandeur of Judge Lantini's office.
"That's all you got?" Ricardi sneered.
"Not enough?" Ubaldo asked. He seemed unnerved by Ricardi's reaction, and also, it seemed to Marta, at having betrayed such an important secret. He must know, she thought, that now there was no turning back.
"There're hundreds of little islands in the delta."
"Over three thousand," Marta added.
"So which one are you talking about?" Ricardi demanded.
"Don't know. Never been there." Ubaldo looked severely stressed. "This island's privately owned, I know that. A single property, not shared. There's a big villa on it with outbuildings behind. The crocs live in the outbuildings. According to my wife's friend, there're about a dozen of them, all hard-core fanatics. They have a firing range, trenches, a watch tower, a model of Magdalena prison, and they train hard every day. My wife's friend says this group has done lots of bad stuff. To me that means they're probably the ones who knocked off Granic."
"Yeah...we'll look into it," Ricardi told him. "Meantime, we'll hold you here in protective custody."
Ubaldo was outraged. "Don't I get to visit my daughter?"
"Not till we check your story out."
This time they placed him in one of the closet holding cells, before they went downstairs to talk.
"In a crazy way, you know, a plan like that makes sense," Ricardi said, as the three of them assembled in the headquarters room with Marta's flow-chart mounted on the wall.
"How do you mean?" Rolo asked.
"If they manage to extract Kessler from prison, they'll provoke a crisis. That could be enough to bring down the caretaker government."
"Then what?"
Ricardi shrugged. "Kessler and his people thrive on confusion. In a situation like that, people crave a strong leader."
Marta nodded. "A man on a white horse. And haven't we already had our fair share of those?"
Ricardi scratched his shaved skull.
"A planned prison bust-out isn't a homicide case," he said. "Still our informant says the guys involved could be the same ones killed Granic. So following up, we discard the bust-out story, but give credence to information that the killers we're after are operating from this island. No need to pass this on. Far as we're concerned this is just another development in a highly complex, unsolved murder case."
Marta smiled. This was vintage Ricardi. And she knew it wasn't just because he wanted to gain prestige for the Homicide Division. He also wanted to keep Ubaldo's tip between the three of them because he knew that if he passed it on there was an excellent chance word would get back to the conspirators, the island would be evacuated and the bust-out operation abandoned.
"How do you want to handle this?" Ricardi asked her.
"Rolo and I'll get property maps of the Delta," she said, "then narrow our search to one-owner islands large enough to conceal a training area. Then narrow it further to islands with a single large villa and outbuildings. Then requisition a police chopper, fly overhead and take a look. Not too low or too obvious, just a casual sweep-over to see what's what."
Ricardi nodded. "Sounds good. Do it. Meantime, I'll go see the assault commander, arrange for the chopper and have him put a squad of assault police on stand-by."
She and Rolo spent the day going over property records. Though the delta area was huge, their task was easy now that property data had been digitalized. Hundreds of islands were under sole ownership, but less than a hundred possessed structures. By consulting the property tax rolls, they were able to narrow their search to twenty-four sole-proprietor islands with significant villas. Next they consulted aerial photos to determine which of these possessed out-buildings. By the end of the day they had three suspect properties.
Marta phoned Ricardi. "We're ready to take a look," she told him. "I know it's late for a fly-over, but if they're preparing to bust into Magdalena, my hunch is they'll be training at night. My suggestion: fly over at midnight with night-vision equipment and see if we can pick up movement. If we do, and are certain we have the right island, then storm them at dawn just when they're falling off to sleep."
"Good plan!" Ricardi said. "Go home, get some rest. I'll send a car for you at eleven." He paused. "Did you hear about Viera?"
"Just what I read this morning."
"He resigned this afternoon as Finance Minister. Good riddance, huh?"
"Yeah, good riddance," she said.
It was, she thought, when she saw it on the six p.m. TV News, an amazing moment in an altogether extraordinary piece of news footage. And each time it was replayed (and it was replayed over and over through the evening, as if to make certain no one in the country would miss it), it struck her as even more amazing, a moment that crystallized exactly who José Viera was:
An unruly mob of reporters, photographers and TV news cameramen were shown jostling in front of the Finance Ministry awaiting Viera following his sudden resignation.
Before he emerged, a number of flunkies came out and formed a phalanx to protect him. Then another flunky stuck his head out the door, took in the situation and retreated.
Next, half a dozen burly policemen emerged, followed closely by Viera, the cops pushing their way through the boisterous crowd to the limousine hovering at the curb.
As Viera worked his way through, the journalists closed in, creating a gauntlet of flashing strobes and shouted-out questions, most having to do with whether Viera would admit to brutally beating up his wife over some faked up photos in which she appeared in a murdered lesbian's embrace.
Viera moved through this gauntlet with studied indifference until he reached his car. There he turned, lifted his chin and preened while the strobes burst like lightning across his face.
It was only then, after a nearly interminable pause, that Viera issued his rejoinder:
"Why do you assholes need so many pictures of me? Are you going to masturbate to them?"
He smirked while the strobes lashed his face, then calmly stooped to enter his car. As soon as one of the cops slammed the door, it took off toward Avenida La Rábida, circled behind the Casa Rosada and disappeared.
It was that vicious smirk, following the vulgar rejoinder, that Marta found so amazing. For it was, she thought, Viera's actual face, the one he hid behind his expression of compassion and strength—the expression that would have appeared on his campaign posters had Raúl not taken on the task of destroying his image of high rectitude and by so doing turned his political ambitions to dust.
Five a.m., on a police speedboat on the Río Paraná de las Palmas: Marta felt the dampness and the chill. The new moon was mirrored on the smooth water ahead, while the water churned by the boat formed an ever-widening "V" behind.
She studied the shoreline. The air was windless. The trees stood still like sentinels...or multi-armed monsters, or perhaps, she thought, dinosaurs frozen at the water's edge. It looked very different here on the water than it looked when she and Ricardi flew over the area hours before, definitively locating the island where the crocs had built their camp.
She turned to Ricardi, standing beside her, smoking, staring straight ahead.
"In daylight they say the water's 'lion-colored' here," he told her.
"Right now it looks black as oil. And creepy."
Ricardi nodded, threw his cigarette into the water. "We'll be turning soon."
She went to the prow to join Rolo. She could smell the shore, a combination of tropical vegetation and autumnal rot. The River Police captain, who commanded the vessel, stood beside his helmsman.
At the captain's signal, the boat slowed. Then its lights went out as it slipped quietly into the narrow Arroyo El Banco.
Marta turned. Two larger boats, each carrying ten assault police, also made the turn. When the lead boat turned again, this time into an even narrower channel, the engines became so quiet she could barely feel their vibrations.
The three boats began to move slowly through a series of narrow interlocking streams, turning right then left, right then left, until, within minutes, she realized she was lost.
Another labyrinth...like this whole damn case! she thought.
They were in the maze of waterways that constituted the Delta del Paraná, working their way between hundreds of little islands demarcated by narrow creeks and canals. There were small clusters of houses on the islands, simple vacation fishing shacks and an occasional luxury villa. But mostly the land was overgrown with willows, reeds and hydrangeas, which, in the darkness, made a barrier as impenetrable as a jungle. The sounds issuing from the shore were jungle-like too, screeches of exotic birds, cries of nocturnal creatures scavenging for food.
The Delta de Paraná was much beloved by Porteños, a favored weekend destination. She and Leon had brought Marina here once to explore the complex of waterways in a hired boat owned by a fisherman who steered them about for the afternoon.
Marta had marveled then at the exotic beauty of the islands. But that had been in daylight, an escape from the noise and fumes of the city. This visit was different. She, Rolo, Ricardi, and the squad of assault police had come tonight to storm an island. The police helicopter they'd used earlier was standing by in Tigre, awaiting Ricardi's order to swoop in.
She peered into the blackness. The boats had cut their engines, were drifting silently toward shore. The island they were preparing to storm was called "Isle of Gulls," but the locals, Marta had learned from the captain, referred to it as "Dignidad" for "Villa Dignidad," the name of the beautiful Palladian-style house that rose grandly just a hundred feet behind the island's landing dock.
As the two larger boats floated off in opposite directions to flank the island, Ricardi summoned Marta to the stern.
"If we don't catch the crocs asleep, they're going to fight. I know you're a great pistol shot, Marta, but I want you to stay back. Let the assault police do their job."
When she nodded it was to indicate she'd heard what he'd said, not that she took his words as an order. He'd tried several times to dissuade her from joining the raid, and each time she'd told him she had no intention of sitting it out.
The assault police wore all-black uniforms and black helmets with communication and night-vision equipment attached. They carried rocket propelled grenades and automatic weapons.
She watched as their leaders led them ashore, then directed them with hand signals into the bush. There was silence for a time, then a flurry of small arms fire in the distance. Suddenly there was a flash and explosion behind the house. Just as the lights in the house went out, the assault police shot up flares. Then Marta could see the silhouettes of men as they criss-crossed in front of the house, could hear more fire-fights breaking out, and then two large explosions in the outbuildings area behind.
When she saw a policeman fall, she could not longer hold back. She rushed toward the house, pistol drawn, zig-zagging her way, stumbling over the roots of trees, falling, thrashing like a swimmer through a web of vines. Finally, rolling free, she landed in a bed of dead flowers.
She crawled toward a thick bush, cautiously pulled herself up as the fighting ebbed, then hovered in a crouch as it broke out again.
She saw one of the assault police toss a grenade at the front door of the house. When the door burst open, four more police rushed inside. She got up and joined them, holding out her pistol with both hands.
Inside the front hall she found shattered glass, mangled chairs, the wreckage of a chandelier. Ignoring the sounds of gunfire, placing her penlight beside her pistol then gripping them together, she moved rapidly through the downstairs rooms, finally finding herself before a set of closed double doors.
She moved forward and tried the handles. They turned, but the doors remained shut. She stood back, carefully aimed her pistol and fired at the lock. Both doors sprung open.
The room was large, double-storied. Swinging her penlight around, she saw that the furnishings were sparse, just a set of eight leather upholstered armchairs arranged in a semi-circle as if to embrace the enormous painting on the far wall.
It was this painting that drew her into the room. She played her light upon it, examining its glossy surface. It was a larger-than-life, full-figure portrait of a husky man wearing a military hat, jodhpurs, shiny tall black boots, and a long uniform dress jacket covered with medals and decorations. In one hand he gripped what looked to be an elaborately decorated baton. His other hand rested on the hilt of an equally elaborate dagger that dangled from a set of silk hangers suspended from the thick black leather belt that hugged his jacket to his waist.
The setting was alpine. Ice-covered mountains filled the background. The sky was overcast except for a brilliant shaft of sunlight that broke through the cloud cover to illuminate the man's face, endowing it with the same glow of enlightenment she'd seen in religious paintings on the faces of saints.
But this man's face, though idealized, was not at all beatific. Round, firm-jawed, almost grim, it reminded her of pictures she'd seen of busts of cruel Roman emperors. It was depicted in three-quarters view, the eyes staring out of the painting at some distant point in space and time. A half-smile of vindication slightly turned the subject's lips.
Moving forward, she noticed a brass plaque attached to the bottom of the frame. She walked closer, shined her light on it, then stooped to read:
REICHSMARSCHALL HERMANN GÖRING por OSCAR VALASCO, 1992
She was taking this in, recalling the name Göring from history class, when a harsh beam of light fell upon her and a familiar voice cut to her from across the room:
"So...Santa Incorrupta herself!"
She turned. There was no one in the doorway. But above it, on a little balcony entered from the floor above, she saw the silhouette of a man shining a heavy-duty directional lantern at her face.
Brilliant light from a flare suddenly burst in through the windows illuminating the entire room. It was then that she recognized the man on the balcony. It was Charbonneau, gazing down at her with unconcealed distaste.
He did not look his usual composed self, nor did he appear apoplectic as he had on the day she'd confronted Viera in his office. He was dressed peculiarly too, in a white night-shirt that hung upon his body like a dress, covering everything except his bare bony legs. A simple wooden cross hung from a rough strand of rope around his neck.
They stared at one another as the light of the flare slowly dimmed. When the room went black again, he switched off his lantern. When she pointed her penlight at the balcony, he was gone.
She rushed back to the front hall, found a policeman, ordered him to block the back stairs, then raced up the main stairs to the second floor.
He was somewhere up here, she knew. It was a miracle to have discovered him in this house the very day of Viera's resignation. Now she wanted him more than any quarry she'd ever tracked. He was, she knew, the key to everything, the only person who could link the kill-orders to Pedraza.
She began flinging open doors, rapidly searching bedrooms, bathrooms, closets, making her way methodically down the central hallway, all the time shouting out his name. She had him cornered. There was no chance he could slip by her now.
In one room she paused to look out the window. There were fires burning behind the house. A watch tower was ablaze. The shooting had turned sporadic. She saw several bodies sprawled on the lawn. The assault police were herding a half dozen disarmed crocs, bare to the waist, hands cuffed behind their backs.
Back in the hallway, she hollered: "Come out, Charbonneau! No one's going to break out Kessler now! Give yourself up. It's all over for you and the Immaculates."
She was standing there, in combat stance, pistol extended in both hands, waiting for him to show himself, confident he would, but unsure whether he would try to take her on.
"What do you know about the Immaculates?" His voice was subdued, close too, issuing through the door of the next room down the hall.
She moved to the door, carefully pushed it open with her foot. She was disoriented for a moment. The room seemed much too small, there was a railing ahead, and beyond it an abyss. Of course! This was the balcony above the big room with the painting. But where was Charbonneau?
She shined her light around, discovered a narrow vaulted space to the left, a tiny chapel. A man in a nightshirt, back to her, was kneeling before a crucifix mounted on the wall.
"I know all about them," she told him. "Pedraza's in charge. He gave the kill-orders to you and you passed them along."
"Ah, our little Juana de Arco is smart, a real smarty-pants." He looked over his shoulder at her, leered as she played her penlight upon his face.
"You know too much," he said softly, reaching for something between his knees.
Even before she saw the revolver, she was poised to shoot. She hesitated only when he turned the gun toward himself.
"You can be sure we'll win in the end," he told her, then thrust the barrel into his mouth. He grinned at her, shut his eyes and pulled the trigger, showering the crucifix just behind with his blood.
After the bodies were picked up, the prisoners hauled off, the fires extinguished, the arms, escape plans and model of Magdalena Prison collected, catalogued and taken away, Hector Ricardi, whom she knew only as her hard-ass Chief, cradled her in his arms.
"You couldn't have stopped him, Marta. Who'd have thought a priest would commit the mortal sin of suicide? Go easy on yourself. Because, damn!, you did it, brought them down."
If that were true, and she wasn't sure yet that it was, she took surprisingly little satisfaction in it. Pedraza was still walking free. Without Charbonneau, there was no way she could tie him to the killings.
For a moment she was tempted to phone Shoshana, tell her everything she knew about Pedraza, leaving it to the Israelis to settle the matter as they saw fit.
But she couldn't do that. Justice, she knew, could not be properly rendered unless she could prove her case. And since she could not...there the matter would have to rest.
But there was a phone call she was eager to make. It would be the best call of her life—to Montevideo, to summon Leon and Marina, to call them home.