Juan Carlos slipped the bike in gear, revved up the engine, and popped the clutch, nearly spilling both of them before he managed to regain control. Teva’s arms were around his midsection, and she jerked hard, causing him to wince in pain.
They rounded the plaza and headed north out of the city, up the coast, toward the railway station at Olivos. Conversation was impossible because of the wind whipping around their ears and the engine noise, and it was just as well, he thought. Just as it was for the best that very soon they would be going into action. It was already the end of June, and all of them were on edge. Each accused the other of worrying too much, of being too nervous.
“It is the pigeon in the park too frightened to eat near the well-intentioned passerby, who will starve,” the Argentine homily went.
And it was true. Drink at the well, or die of thirst. Move forward, ever forward, or stagnate and die.
For years there had been order and stability in the country. Socialist goals were becoming a fact. But then, after Perón, nothing seemed the same. Of course Juan Carlos knew of those times only through books and political tracts, but he could see with his own eyes what was happening these days. The farmers were oppressed, little more than slaves. The government was rotten, a mere tool of the North American capitalists. And even the military was unable to do anything right. The loss in the Malvinas was a national shame that would sting for years to come.
A blow had to be struck. Now. And very hard. But with care, lest they fail. They could not fail, for if they did, it would set back their cause — Argentina for Argentines — by years.
Loyal but empty-headed women like Teva, and idiots like Eugenio, knew what had to be done and why, but neither of them had the slightest feel for the details.
The little man had taken him aside personally last night and told him that he was to be the leader, because he had an iron courage and a head for detail.
“You are a natural-born leader, Juan,” the little man had said. “I trust you to be my field commander.”
“I will not let you down,” Juan Carlos had promised. Nor would he.
It was a few minutes after 7:00 P.M. when they finally made it into the small college town of Olivos. Juan Carlos drove directly over to the railway station, where he parked his bike behind the market stalls, closed now for the evening. He was careful to wrap his chain first around the bike’s frame and then around a metal light pole, before locking it and pocketing the key.
Teva watched him, and when he straightened up, she shook her head. “Is that what you call your attention to detail?”
He looked back at his bike and shrugged.
“We are not returning here. Not for a very long time. Once we are finished we will be leaving the country. Or we will be dead. Yet you lock your precious motorcycle.”
“If they are to steal it, let the bastards work for it,” he said, and he strode off around the corner, toward the front of the depot.
There was quite a bit of traffic around the station, mostly college students heading into the city, farmers going to market, and businessmen coming out of the city from work.
Eugenio was waiting for them, across the street from the taxi stands, in a battered old pickup truck. “Any trouble coming up here?” he asked, pulling slowly away from the curb. He was dressed as a farmer.
“None,” Juan Carlos said. “How about you? Did you notice anyone watching you? Anyone suspicious?”
“There was an accident in front of the depot, and the stupid police had half the barracks there. Must have been someone important. There were ambulances too.”
“When?” Juan Carlos snapped, looking back at the depot. It didn’t smell right. That was how they could have brought in their snoops. Set up their watchers, maybe even taken photographs of stupid Eugenio.
“Half an hour ago. Maybe a little more. They just cleared it up a few minutes before you arrived.”
Eugenio Mendes was a larger man than Juan Carlos, and although at twenty-eight they were the same age, Eugenio seemed ten years older in his face, his actions, and his speech. At first he seemed a thoughtful man who chose his words with care. Perhaps a scholar. But in actuality Eugenio was that rare person who was slow, yet recognized he was slow, so always took care with what he said and how he acted. As slow as he was mentally, however, he was quick on his feet. In school he had been a fine athlete, and now as a terrorist, he was a fearless fighter. A follower, not a leader.
They came onto a narrow secondary road that roughly paralleled the main federal highway back into Buenos Aires. Eugenio drove at a steady forty miles per hour, a huge yellow dust cloud rising behind the truck.
Teva lit a cigarette with nervous hands and flicked the ashes on the floor. “Did you call your cell?” she asked Eugenio.
He glanced over at her and managed a thin smile. “Yes, I did. They will all be out of the city by morning, and ready the night after tomorrow. There is nothing to worry about now, Teva.”
“All hell is going to break loose once we pull this off. You know that, don’t you, Juan?” she asked, turning the other way.
“As long as everyone keeps his cool, and doesn’t do anything he isn’t supposed to do, it’ll work out. Is it you worrying now?”
“Of course I’m worried, but about the proper things,” she shot back.
“Don’t fight,” Eugenio said simply.
Teva started to say something, but then thought better of it and slumped down instead, staring out the dirty windshield.
Juan reached for her cigarette, took a deep drag, and handed it back. “Where is the meeting to take place?”
“On the boat,” Eugenio replied, without taking his eyes off the road.
“When?”
“As soon as we get there. He is taking us up to Tigre; from there we will have to go on foot to the clearing.”
After that it would be touch and go. But in the short time that Juan Carlos had known the little man, he had developed an abiding trust in him and his judgment. If the little man said such-and-such was so, and would work… then such-and-such was the truth, and it would go like clockwork.
He had known only a few men like that in his life: a professor at the university, who had introduced him to the group; two instructors in Libya; and then of course Colonel Qaddafi and Arafat.
All great men. All like the little man, who inspired trust and confidence. Anything that could be thought of as worthy of doing for the cause, could be done. Given the proper plan, the proper equipment, and the proper manpower, anything on this earth could be accomplished.
The Red Brigades, the Baader-Meinhof gang, the Sandinistas, the FALN — all of them lent credence to that philosophy.
Juan Carlos and his Montonero cell would go into the history books for their upcoming action. He could almost taste the victory that would be theirs. Soon, very soon.
Eugenio drove them into Buenos Aires, right through the downtown Federal District, and then to the commercial docks along the southern waterfront. There they entered a warehouse and parked the truck.
Without a word, the three of them climbed out of the truck, hurried across the warehouse, and slipped out a back door. They crossed the wide dock and went down a flight of stairs to the floating concrete dock, riding on the tides, where a sixty-foot sport fisher was tied, its diesels ticking over slowly, its bridge lit a dull red. Farther up the dock, a Swedish ship was unloading cargo. But here it was quiet, with no prying eyes to see the two men and the woman slip quietly aboard the local charter fisher Santiago, and move into the shadows along the port companionway.
As soon as they were aboard, several deckhands emerged silently from one of the aft hatches and slipped the docklines. The boat slowly headed away from the dock toward the breakwater and out into the Rio de la Plata.