"Mmm," Castillo mused. "He probably figured they would just rot out there on the Gran Chaco without ever being discovered."
"I think this Martinez is not worried one way or the other," Tippelskirch said. "He has friends in high places. A cover-up would be easy to arrange."
"That is quite an advantage to the gentleman," Castillo said.
"Not only for him, but for us as well," Tippelskirch said. "I could take Suboficial Punzarron to La Paz and meet with that journalist friend of mine. He works for the right-wing newspaper El Conquistador. Since Punzarron speaks Portuguese, he could pose as a survivor. He can name the killers and describe the massacre. Be assured the information would be quickly published."
Castillo frowned. "What advantage is that to us?"
"He can tell them the crime was committed by norteamericanos," Tippelskirch said. "Men in uniforms speaking English and wearing green berets. American Special Forces."
Castillo's frown warped into a grin. "And he could say the people were killed because they supported the Falangists, no? It would be a great propaganda coup in our favor."
"Por su puesto--of course!" Tippelskirch said.
"Put your plan into action, Capitan Tippelskirch," Castillo said. "Wait! I should say Comandante. Tippelskirch. I am promoting you."
"Gracias, mi generalisimo!"
"And you should add the name of Coronel Martinez to the file of potential Falangists."
Tippelskirch smiled. "I already have, mi generalisimo."
.
1800 HOURS LOCAL
THE two dozen convicts were pleasantly surprised that their workday had been called off so early. There was still almost four hours of light left in the Southern Hemisphere summer day, and they generally were kept at their toil until the sun began to redden for its descent over the western horizon.
The prisoners marched in a column of twos from their latest machine gun emplacement work sites toward the barbed wire-encircled camp they called home. One thing that frustrated them as much as the hard labor was having no idea where in the world they were. One of the diehards said it didn't make much difference. Even if they escaped and became lost in the wilderness, it would be a faster and easier way to die than years of wasting away in prison.
When they got back to the camp they found the impressive and very tough-looking officer they had learned to fear, standing at the gate. They were marched up in front of him and brought to a halt. He waited until the group settled down before speaking to them. He displayed an uncustomary friendly smile.
"I remind you that I am Coronel Jeronimo Busch, the field commander of the Grupo de Batalla stationed here. One of our Argentine officers arranged for you to be taken from your prison cells and flown to this location to build field fortifications for our noble cause. You were chosen because you are all under life sentences, doomed to spend the rest of your days in prison until you are planted in the cemetery outside the walls. Nobody comes to visit you anymore, and you are lost and abandoned not only by society but by your families."
The convicts listened impassively to the words that simply repeated things they already knew and had accepted. This coronel was correct. They were the hopeless ones simply putting in time in the hell of confinement until their bodies gave up the ghost.
Busch continued, "But you now have a way out of this miserable existence to which your stupidity and evilness have condemned you. I am sure you have now figured out we are soldiers. In truth, we have a holy purpose for taking up arms. We call ourselves Falangistas and will one day rule all of South America. I am at this very moment offering you a chance to join our cause. The most obvious advantage to you is that you will not be returned to that penitentiary in Patagonia. You will be given new names, your pasts will be wiped out, and if you serve the Falangist cause faithfully, you will be given fine opportunities in the new order. You'll have money and women, be able to start families and raise children. And, best of all, yo honored and respected members of established society?' He paused as he watched them consider the proposition. "Now! All who wish to join the Ejercito Falangista take one step forward?'
One man immediately stepped forward. Within an instant he was joined by the others. Coronel Jeronimo Busch smiled to himself. Now the Falangist cause had cannon fodder to throw at the enemy.
Chapter 11
LA PAZ, BOLIVIA
HOTEL VISTA DE MONTANA
23 DECEMBER
0815 HOURS LOCAL
THE cheap room seemed even smaller than it was with the five men crowded into it. They consisted of Dirk Wallenger, a reporter for the Global News Broadcasting television network of Washington, D. C.; the Chilean journalist Miguel Hennicke of the newspaper El Conquistador; a local TV cameraman; and a translator who was fluent in English, Spanish and Portuguese. All were gathered around the bed where Suboficial Adolfo Punzarron sat.
The Falangist wore a faded sports shirt, badly worn slacks, and cheap sandals that adorned his sockless feet. He was uncharacteristically unshaven, and his usually carefully tended mustache was shaggy and drooping. He had identified himself to his visitors as Mauricio Castanho, a Brazilian cattleman and survivor of the massacre at Novida in the Gran Chaco of Bolivia.
Hennicke, speaking through the translator, said, "You told us you had photographs of the atrocity in your village, Senor Castanho. May I see them?"
Punzarron aka Castanho walked over to the luggage stand in the corner of the room. He retrieved a large brown envelope from a battered suitcase and returned to the bed. "Here they are."
Hennicke began looking at the photos, passing them over one at a time to Wallenger. The images were disturbing. Dead men, women and children were strewn within a small area just outside a village. The corpses were bullet-torn and sprawled in grotesque positions from the violence of their deaths. It was obvious to the veteran journalists that these were real, not fakes.
Wallenger winced at the scenes. "Who took these photographs, sir?"
"A priest," Punzarron replied, using the cover story invented by Tippelskirch. "He is a traveling padre who visits settlements in the Gran Chaco. He performs marriages, baptisms, last rites and other such services for the people there. He always has a camera to record ceremonies. He used it to take those pictures of my poor, dead friends and neighbors." He sighed audibly and dramatically. "And my family who were all murdered:'
Since Hennicke also spoke English, the translator had only to interpret in that language for the two journalists. After he told them what Punzarron said, he was confused. "This fellow speaks fluent Portuguese, but he does not speak in the Brazilian manner. I don't understand."
Hennicke shrugged. "What difference does his accent make? He was obviously there at that place. See? He's even in a couple of the photographs, standing among the corpses."
Wallenger agreed. "We don't care how he speaks. We're interested in the story of the slaughter." He turned to the cameraman. "Record all this. I'll edit it later myself."
Hennicke's attention was back on the subject. "Senor Castanho, tell us exactly what happened."
"We were all asleep," Punzarron said. Then the sounds of helicopters woke us up. We all went outside our huts to see what was going on. We thought maybe it was our friends the Falangistas. But the visitors were somebody else in uniforms. I think maybe more than twenty of them. Their commander told us we were under arrest as illegal aliens. But our village chief Joao Cabecinho said we had all the necessary visas and permits. He offered to go get them to show him. This made the commander angry, and he said we had to walk out of the village into the open country on the far side."