In the middle of the row of mean shops, pale green and garish pink, stood the Pulqueria La Providencia. Even from here he could smell the rank odor of the pulque. Fermented juice of the agave, the century plant, sweet and cloying, with a smell so sickening that he always wondered how people could drink it. But it was cheap and it contained alcohol, and if you mixed it with pineapple juice it was almost bearable.
Diaz pushed through the rickety screen door, which seemed to function only as a trap to keep the buzzing hordes of flies locked inside. There was one customer asleep, drunk, his head pillowed on his arms. Otherwise the bar was empty, with just the owner rinsing out glasses in an enamelled basin. He had a three-day growth of beard and a wall-eye and he watched coldly as Diaz approached.
“Good evening,” Diaz said. A slight movement of the man’s head was his only response. “I was told to come here. For a message.”
“You got a name?”
“Leandro Diaz.”
“That’ll be twenty pesos.”
Diaz knew that no payment was needed, that this was pure graft. But it was easier to pay than argue. It had been hard enough to set this meeting up in any case. He passed over the money. It vanished and the barman jerked his head towards the door.
“Outside turn left. Go three blocks straight then turn the corner and there is a restaurant called the Parador.”
“Do I turn right or left at the corner?”
A disgusted grunt was his only answer; he had had hi: twenty pesos worth. The restaurant should not be hard to find.
While he walked, there was a marked improvement in the neighborhood, with the slums giving way to a factory block, then a street with small shops. It was easy enough to locate the restaurant, a two-meter-wide neon-bordered sombrero hung over the doorway, emblazoned with the name. He went in, blinking in the near darkness after the full sunlight outside. It was too early for dinner and only an ancient pair of American tourists sat near the front window sharing a Turkey Mole. A waiter came towards him bearing a wide menu.
“Good evening, sir,” he said, pushing the sheet of cardboard forward hopefully. Diaz waved it away.
“I’m meeting someone here. Are there any messages?”
“No, none at all.”
“He may be late. Bring me a beer, a Moctezuma.”
Diaz seated himself at a table by the back wall where he could see the entrance clearly. He would just have to wait. Josep was a wanted man. The police of a number of countries — and particularly the CIA — would be happy to pay large sums to lay their hands on him. Therefore, this roundabout way of meeting, to make sure that Diaz was alone. He was pretty sure that he had been followed, positive of it in fact. It didn’t matter. He had to see Josep. They had met once, briefly, years earlier, and Josep would know all about his organization and the work he was doing. Yet this would be no assurance to him that Diaz had not turned police informer since then. Therefore, the precautions. He sipped at the chill beer — then jumped, startled, as someone sat down next to him.
“Back entrance. That’s why we meet here,” the man s*aid. “What do you want, Diaz?”
“To see you about something important to both of us. You got my message…. “
He broke off as the waiter approached. Josep ordered a beer as well. He had changed since Diaz had last seen him, lost weight, fined down. His nose was even more hawklike and the skin was stretched tight over his Drominent cheekbones. He no longer wore the familiar ^yepatch, that would have been too recognizable; but when you looked close it was obvious that his right eye was false. They sat in silence until the waiter had brought the beer and moved away out of earshot.
“Do you still have an organization we could work with?” Diaz asked.
Josep nodded. “Still in operation. We don’t have as many as we did before the murders in 1974, but the Tupamaros will fight on as long as there is one of us left.”
And they would too, Diaz thought to himself. The Tupamaros in Uruguay had been the toughest urban guerillas in the entire world. Terror had been only one of their weapons. The movement had been crushed by the government, but only after years of struggle. While the organization was dead inside the country, it existed in exile just as Diaz’s organization did. They had that much in common, forced to flee from their own countries by military dictatorships at home. Otherwise they were very different. Diaz was working for peaceful liberation by democratic means. The Tupamaros believed in violent revolution. Their common bond was exile — and hatred.
“We must cooperate,” Diaz said.
“Why?”
“Because my organization has uncovered an operation launched in common by the rulers of our two countries.” +>
“What do you mean operation? What do those pieces of dung have in common?”
“The need for repression — and the fact that they are loathed by every nation in the civilized world. The> must have guns and weapons for this repression anc they are running out of sources. But not any longer They have made a deal with an organization called Global Traders. Have you heard of them?”
“Yes. A really big-time operation. They’ll sell any thing to anyone — as long as you have the price. The were the ones supposed to have supplied the plutonium to the Israelis to make their atom bomb.”
“… they’re selling to Uruguay and Paraguay now. An operation worth over two hundred and fifty million dollars. I have a transcript here of a recent conference they had with Global. The weapons and their quantities are all listed. They are going to have a meeting very soon to pay for the shipment. In diamonds, I don’t know if we can intercept the shipment — but if we can interfere with the payment the deal won’t be completed.”
Josep’s good eye glared fiercely. “Interfered with,” he said in a low voice, “And perhaps intercepted?”
“That’s what I was thinking about. We are working on the intelligence end—”
“But you will need people to carry through the interception operation. People who know how to handle weapons and how to fight. Right?”
“My thoughts exactly. If we can stop them, we will have done something important. If we can possibly lay our hands on the payment, or even part of it, there will be funds enough for all our needs.”
“I agree,” Josep put out his hand. “Now let me see the transcript.”
“One more thing first. Or rather two things. No ^discriminate bloodshed. Your organization has killed a lot of people who had nothing to do with the military.”
“You can’t make an omelette without scrambling eggs.”
“You can this time — or there is no deal. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Josep said with disgust in his voice. ‘What other conditions are there?”
“The split. Whatever we get out of this is fifty-fifty. light down the middle.”
“Yes, of course, no trouble with that one. You set them up and we’ll knock them down. Now give me the papers.”
Diaz passed the sheaf of typescript across the table and sipped at his beer while the Tupamaro leader read through the transcript of the tape that had been secretly recorded of the meeting in the Palace in Asuncion a few days earlier.
When Josep had finished he let the papers drop from his fingers onto the table as he sat, buried in thought. “Diamonds,” he finally said. “Diamonds. As good as gold — better than gold — anywhere in the world. Untraceable. What is this mention in the end about the QE2? Do you have any more details on the connection with the ship?”
“Some. That is the lead we are working on now, in fact that is the lead that started this whole operation. And we have outside aid, people you have worked with before. They will help a lot and they will not ask for any cuts. They just want some Nazis who are involved.”