I said nothing.
“You know, I could always take you back to Caseros. Have my men go to work on you with that electric cattle prod. Then you’d tell me what I want to know.”
“I know a little bit more about torture than you think, Colonel. I know that if you torture a man to make him tell you lots of things, then gradually he’ll give them up, one by one. But if you torture a man to make him tell you one thing, the chances are he’ll clam up and take it. Make it a contest of wills. Now that I know how important this is to you, Colonel, I’d make it my life’s last mission to say nothing.”
“A tough guy, huh?”
“Only when I have to be.”
“I believe you are. I suppose that’s one of the reasons I like you.”
“Sure you like me. That’s why you wanted to throw me out of a plane at five thousand feet.”
“You don’t think I enjoy this sort of thing, do you? But it has to be done. If the Communists were in power, they’d do the same thing to us, I can assure you.”
“That’s what Hitler used to say.”
“Wasn’t he right? Look what Stalin has done.”
“It’s the politics of the cemetery, Colonel. I should know. I just crawled out of the one called Germany.”
The colonel sighed. “Perhaps you’re right. But I think it’s better to live without principles than be righteous and dead. That’s what I’ve learned in the cemetery. There’s this, too, that I’ve learned. If my father leaves me a gold watch, I want my son to have it after me, not some paisano carrying a copy of Marx he’s never read. They want my watch? They’d better kill me first. Or it’s out the door they go. They’d better know that in Argentina we practice the redistribution of health. Anyone goes around thinking that all property is theft soon finds out that all killing is not murder. The last Communist we hang will be the one who helped himself to our rope.”
“I don’t want to take anything from anyone, Colonel. When I came here, I wanted a quiet life, remember? Nothing made your business my business except you. For all I care, you can hang all the Communists in South America on your Christmas tree. All the Nazis, too. But when you hire me to be your dog and sniff around, you shouldn’t be surprised if I bark a bit and piss on your flower bed. That may be embarrassing to you, but that’s the way it is. I embarrass myself sometimes.”
“Fair enough.”
“Fair enough, he says. You haven’t played fair with me since I got off the damn boat, Colonel. I want to know everything. And when I know everything, I’m going to get off this plane and I’m going back to my hotel and I’m going to take a bath. And when I’ve had some dinner and I’m good and ready and I’ve understood how everything works, I’m going to tell you what you want to know. And when you find that I’m telling the truth, you and von Bader and Evita are going to be so damned grateful you’re even going to pay me like you all said you would.”
“As you wish, Gunther.”
“No. Just what I said. What I wish would be too much to expect.”
24
BY THE TIME we landed at Ezeira, I knew almost everything. Almost. I still didn’t know if Anna Yagubsky was dead or alive. I found a pay phone and called Anna’s parents, who told me they hadn’t seen her since the trip to Tucuman but that she’d left them a note saying she was going to stay with a friend.
“Do you know who this friend is?” I asked Roman Yagubsky.
“As a matter of fact, I thought it might be you.”
“If she comes back or calls, tell her I need to speak to her, urgently.”
“Always in a hurry,” he said.
“It’s the business I’m in.”
“Did you find my brother yet?”
“Not exactly.”
“What kind of an answer is that?”
“Not much of an answer, but I won’t lose any sleep over it. If you think I’ve done an unsatisfactory job, you can refuse to pay me. I won’t argue about that. But when I say ‘Not exactly,’ that’s exactly what I mean. There are rarely any definite answers in the private-detective business. There are only probablys and maybes and not-exactlys. They’re the kind of answers that are to be found in the crevices of what we’re allowed to know for sure. I have no evidence to say your brother and your sister-in-law are dead. I didn’t see their bodies. I didn’t see their death certificates. I didn’t speak to anyone who saw them die. All the same, I know they’re both dead, sir. It’s not an exact kind of knowing, but there it is. Fact is, it’s best I don’t say any more. For your sake and mine.”
There was a silence. Then Senor Yagubsky said quietly, “Thank you, young man. Of course, I’ve known they were dead for a while. If they were alive, they’d have got in touch, but a brother is a brother and a twin is a twin and you feel an obligation to find out what you can. To have someone independent tell you what you think you know already. And you’re right, of course, that isn’t an exact kind of knowing but it’s better than nothing, right? So thank you again. I appreciate your candor. Not to mention your discretion. I know what kind of people are in this government. But I’m a Jew, Senor Hausner. I’m used to it. Maybe if I had more money and I was ten years younger, I’d go and live in Israel, but I don’t and I’m not. So I say may God bless and keep the Perons a long way from me and mine.”
“Don’t forget, sir. Tell Anna to call me. I’ll be at my hotel.”
“I know, I know. Urgently. Germans. Every time you people open your mouths, I hear a clock ticking. Hitler might still be in power if he hadn’t been in such a hurry to do things.”
THE NEXT MORNING, I went to meet the colonel at the Jockey Club, as arranged.
The luxury of the Jockey Club of Buenos Aires would have put any Berlin or London club to shame. Inside, there was a great, empire-style rotunda, a fine marble statue of the goddess Diana, and a magnificent staircase that looked like the eighth wonder of the world. There were Corinthian columns everywhere, and these were ornamented with onyx, ivory, and more lapis lazuli than a Russian Orthodox cathedral. I found the colonel in the library-although calling the library at the Jockey Club a library was like calling Rita Hayworth an actress. There were plenty of books, it was true, but nearly all of their bindings were tooled with a little bit of gold, so that it was like entering a long-lost burial chamber in the Valley of the Kings. And there were some members who clearly belonged in a tomb: old men with profiles you might have seen on a thousand-peso note. There were no women in that club, however. They wouldn’t know what to do with a woman in the Buenos Aires Jockey Club. Try and saddle her, probably, or, in the colonel’s case, defenestrate her.
He put down the book he was reading. I sat in the chair opposite and, curious, picked it up. I’m always interested in what mass murderers are reading.
“Martin Fierro, by Jose Hernandez,” he said. “Our national poet. Are you familiar with this?”
“No.”
“Then I give it to you. I think you’ll enjoy it. It’s somewhat romanticized, but I’m sure there are elements that will appeal to you. The hero is an impoverished gaucho whose house, farm, wife, and family are all gone. Destroyed. He gets himself into one scrape after another. Knife fights and other brutal combats and various affairs of honor. Eventually, Martin Fierro becomes an outlaw, pursued by the police militia.” The colonel smiled. “Perhaps this is a familiar tale to a man like you, Gunther. Certainly this book is very popular here in Argentina. Most children grow up able to quote a few stanzas from Martin Fierro. Myself, I know most of it by heart.”
“Assuming you have one.”
The colonel smiled almost imperceptibly. “To business,” he said.
There was a briefcase beside his leg. He laid his hand on it for a moment. “In here is one hundred thousand American dollars. Fifty from Evita and fifty from von Bader. There is also an Argentine passport in the name of Carlos Hausner. This bag is yours if you tell me what I want to know. The true whereabouts of Fabienne von Bader.”