‘You know they’re fucking Nazis, right?’ said Eddie. ‘Escaped war criminals?’
A dismissive huff, smoke wafting across the cell. ‘Perón and then El Proceso were happy for them to be here. They want the same thing — strength and power. And I believe that also. Argentina would be much better with a strong government again. Maybe we do not have that in the whole country… but we do have it here. Lago Amargo is my town, English. And I will not let you or anyone else take it from me.’
Vargas reappeared and spoke to him. The corrupt cop nodded, then addressed Eddie once more. ‘Time to go. Your friend wants to see the Enklave, so now he will. As for you, our graveyard is not very beautiful, but you should make the most of it. It is the last place you will see.’ He started for the door — then whipped back around to kick his prisoner hard in the chest. ‘Goodbye, English.’ He walked out, leaving Eddie paralysed by pain.
Vargas and Miranda hauled the Englishman from the cell. They took him outside and shoved him into the back of an elderly Chevrolet police car. Eddie glimpsed a few onlookers before his head was pushed down, but no one moved to help him.
Miranda took the wheel, Vargas pointing his gun at Eddie. ‘You make trouble, I shoot you,’ he snarled as the car set off.
‘We should not be doing this,’ said Miranda. ‘This is wrong! We have never killed anyone before.’
Vargas responded in irate Spanish. ‘Yes, he attacked us,’ Miranda continued, ‘but we were going to arrest them for no reason! El Jefe did not even try to hide drugs on them.’
The young cop’s continued use of English was both confusing and angering his companion. ‘Hable en español, pendejo!’ he barked. Miranda gave Eddie an apologetic glance, but caved in, the argument continuing in Spanish.
The car headed into the hills overlooking the little town. Somewhere up there was the graveyard, in which Eddie would become the latest nameless resident.
Zane was also going into the hills, but along a different route. He had been dumped in the trunk of Santos’s own car, a half-decade-old Mercedes that nevertheless was probably the newest and most luxurious vehicle in the region. After several minutes of jolting along rough tracks, the car stopped. He squinted as the trunk lid opened and dust hit his eyes. ‘Get out,’ ordered Santos, dragging him on to the stony ground.
They were on what had once been the lake’s shore, the water now just a shimmering line in the distance beyond a flat pan of exposed silt. Zane made out indistinct tracks on the surface — had an aircraft landed on the dry lake?
Closer by were the weathered remains of a jetty, the wood and stone structure extending out from the old shoreline. The rusted lines of a narrow-gauge railroad track ran to it. He turned his head to follow them, seeing that they led up the rising slope to a tall metal gate, high barbed-wire fences extending into the distance on each side.
The gate was open. An old Jeep was parked just outside, two men walking from it towards the new arrivals.
One was a young blond man whom Zane didn’t recognise. But the other was all too familiar.
Rasche.
Cruel glee crept on to the Nazi’s face at the sight of the handcuffed captive. ‘I saw you in Egypt,’ he said. ‘You killed some of my men.’
‘And I suppose you’re going to kill me,’ Zane replied, fighting to control his tension.
‘In time. But only after you have told us everything we want to know.’
Zane pushed out his chest in defiance. ‘I won’t tell you anything.’
Rasche smiled coldly. ‘Many have said that to me in the past. They were all mistaken. You will be no different, kleiner Jude.’
‘Lech lehizdayen.’
The insult produced only mocking amusement. ‘Many have said that to me too. It is anatomically impossible, I am afraid. But we shall see what is possible with your anatomy. I have seen Jews turned into all sorts of useful things.’
With a roar of fury, Zane jumped up — only to be pistol-whipped back down by Santos. Rasche stepped hard on the fallen man’s neck until vertebrae crackled. ‘The Final Solution did not stop in 1945,’ he said. ‘It was only… paused. We shall start it again, soon enough. Perhaps you will even have the honour of being the first of its new victims.’
Zane choked out each word. ‘You’ll be… dead… before then.’
The Nazi let out a muted laugh. ‘Not by you.’ He drew something from inside his coat.
Not a gun. An SS dagger, a silver skull on its hilt. He stepped back, bent down — and stabbed it into Zane’s thigh. The Israeli screamed.
‘Leitz told me that the man I killed in Alexandria was your friend,’ said Rasche, voice low and gloating. ‘Benjamin Falk, a Mossad Nazi-hunter.’ He twisted the blade, blood running down Zane’s leg. ‘I was aiming at you, but one dead Jew is much like another.’ A last jab, Zane crying out again, then he withdrew the knife. ‘Do not worry — you will join him soon enough.’ He kicked the writhing man, then turned away.
His companion yanked Zane up, jamming a gun into his back and pushing him to the Jeep. ‘What about the other man who was with him?’ Rasche asked Santos.
The Argentinian savoured a mouthful of cigar smoke before replying. ‘If he isn’t dead already, he will be soon.’
Miranda halted the car. Vargas got out and opened the rear door. ‘Move.’
Eddie was pulled out to find himself on a hillside about a mile from the town. The wind had picked up, pale dust swirling up the slope from the dry lake bed.
Vargas turned him around — revealing the cemetery.
The plot was dotted with stunted, twisted trees between the graves. Far in the past, the inhabitants of Lago Amargo had had money to spare on the dead, small tombs and angelic statues standing amongst the gravestones. But the town’s decline over time was easy to see; the markers became smaller, plainer, before stone finally gave way to simple wooden crosses.
‘This is wrong!’ Miranda protested. ‘We are not murderers!’
‘Shut up,’ said Vargas. He pointed at a nearby mound of dirt, dusty tools lying beside it. ‘Get the shovel.’
The young cop threw up his hands. ‘I want no part of this.’
‘Cobarde,’ muttered Vargas. ‘You, English. Get it.’
Eddie’s arms were still cuffed behind his back. ‘How, with my fucking mouth?’
The cop made an exasperated sound. He spoke to Miranda, but the other man shook his head. ‘Don’t try anything,’ said Vargas as he poked his gun against Eddie’s back and fumbled for the handcuff key. He tried to push it into the hole on the left bracelet, metal clinking on metal before it found its home. He turned it, and the cuff came loose. ‘Okay, you’re going to dig—’
Eddie twisted at the waist, using his left elbow to slam the gun away from his body as his right arm whisked around to deliver a punch to Vargas’s face. ‘Dig this!’
It wasn’t as solid a blow as he had hoped, but it was enough to unbalance the Argentinian. Eddie shoulder-barged him, knocking him down.
But the cop still had his gun — and was already recovering. The Yorkshireman ran for the nearest row of gravestones. If he could get behind them, he would have at least partial cover…
Too slow. ‘Bastardo!’ Vargas shouted as he scrambled upright and took aim—
A shot — but it went wide. Eddie glanced back as he reached the first of the markers to see that Miranda had grabbed his partner’s arm. Vargas broke free — then clubbed the smaller man with his gun. Miranda fell against the car.