Renaldo (44 page)

counterterrorists who might have gained access to their inner circle.

As a graduation present, Lonnie was presented with a nine millimeter

Spanish-made Llama handgun. Its thirteen-shot clip rendered it a very deadly

weapon in the hands of a trained shooter, and Lonnie had scored the highest

points for marksmanship among the new trainees. His reward for this feat was

a German-made Merkel twelve-gage shotgun. The camp’s munitions expert,

Señor Amarillo, balanced this over-and-under beauty to perfection as he sawed

off the stock and barrel to suit Lonnie’s grip and upper thigh length. A special

leg strap holster for his two-shot widow-maker completed the transition of this

former schoolboy into a walking human arsenal.

Itching to put his diploma to use, Lonnie returned to Buenos Aires with

Celeste to arrange for his false identification. They then set out to scrounge up

enough secondhand clothing to make his new identity believable, bought the

old Chevy Corvair with money Lonnie gladly donated to the cause, and rented

the room in Versailles.

The newly indoctrinated terrorist was able to spend a week at Celeste’s flat

while all the arrangements were being completed. This allowed her to fulfill

her part of Lonnie’s graduation present.

Initially, their passion was purely animalistic. Lonnie was left drained and

handcuffed to her brass headboard to fall asleep that first night. He awoke the

next morning to find his manhood in the process of being completely devoured

by her sensuous mouth, and when it had risen to its full majestic splendor, she

straddled him and rode him as if he were a stallion at a Wild West rodeo.

When he finally gained freedom from his metal captors, he returned the

favor in kind, working her swollen clitoris until she begged for his cock to be

thrust deep inside her. He did not oblige, but left her still handcuffed to the

headboard just short of orgasmic splendor. He rose from the bed, looked down

at her writhing form with disinterest, went to the refrigerator to get a beer, then

turned on the television. The sound of the announcer’s voice prompted a stream

of expletives from the bedroom. Lonnie’s impatient response was immediate.

“Shut up, you little commie puta. The boxing match is about to begin.

Now be a nice, quiet little slut, and I might decide to come and fuck you

between rounds. Otherwise, I’ll just leave you there and go out for pizza with

some of my university friends. Maybe I’ll bring them all back to work over that

little terrorist pussy of yours. Now be quiet, or I’ll be forced to gag you.”

It was all bluff, of course, for he had no intention of leaving her now or ever

again. Their brashness could quickly turn to tenderness, and they would make

love as if they were society newlyweds on their consummation night, cautious,

nervous, and yet curious about the wonders each other’s body possessed.

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He hated to leave her when his forged documents finally arrived, for he

had no idea when they would be able to spend time together again, in such a

carefree manner.

Lonnie De Seta was about to step over the brink, leaving his old life behind

him with the distinct possibility that he would never be able to return to it

again. His family, the privileged upbringing, society status, all those women,

and yes, the money . . . they meant nothing to him now. He was a soldier of the

people’s revolution, and he had a feeling that he was about to cut his teeth with

the phone call that he would make at ten the next morning.

“Are you ready to stop playing games and see what you are really made of?

If so, bring your car and your gifts and meet me at Café Ultimo on San Martin

Avenue at noon. We have work to do.”

The receiver went dead. She was all business again, no more honey in her

voice. Cold, strictly business. Well, he was man enough to stop playing games.

He ached to prove himself to her once and for all.

The gifts that she referred to were the weapons that he had received upon

graduation at Taft Viejo. They were hidden in the trunk of his car, and he now

brought them to his room to clean, in preparation for the activities to follow. He

did not shave, for he wanted to look as rugged and fearsome as possible. Blue

jeans, old beaten-up cowboy boots, a torn short sleeve shirt, and an oversized

baseball cap completed his wardrobe.

He stood staring at the reflection in the mirror, quite proud of himself.

He looked exactly like any of the thousands of transient, unemployed laborers

milling around Buenos Aires that summer. Nothing set him apart from the

restless hordes now. No one would suspect that only two months before, he had

dressed in the finest designer jeans, wore only Gucci loafers, ate at the capital’s

priciest restaurants, and squired his dates around in a Mercedes.

His dumpy Corvair was the crowning touch to Señor Marco Figueroa’s

new identity. It was so ugly that no one had given it a second glance, not even

the young car thieves that roamed Versailles at night. Ugly on the outside, but

under the hood she was supercharged for action. A mechanic friend of Celeste’s

had retrofitted the engine so that the four-speed manual transmission was

performing to its maximum efficiency. The grease-monkey had told Celeste

that, while the car could be quickly overtaken on the highway, in city streets

with lots of turns and quick braking and acceleration, it would have no equal.

The room in Versailles had been chosen primarily for the easy access its

location provided to all parts of the capital, and if necessary, westward into

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the hinterlands. Avenida Juan Justo was a major artery running from the city

limits on the west, straight into the heart of Palermo. It intersected the capital

ring road, Avenida General Paz, only a block from Lonnie’s new home. He

had driven the streets of Versailles many times, learning their nuances and

directions in case of an incident involving police pursuit. A small garage had

been rented from an elderly woman who no longer had an automobile as a

safe hideout for the Corvair. The Montoneros had been very thorough in their

preparations, and it was finally time to show the oligarchy and the junta that

the revolution was still very much alive.

Lonnie arrived half an hour early at the café, but he remained in the parked

Corvair across the street. He had been taught to never make himself noticeable

in any situation where someone could give a description of his appearance. A

waiter, another café patron, anyone. Celeste arrived exactly at noon and noticed

the parked Corvair before she even set foot inside the café.

“Good job, Lonnie! I half expected you to be sitting in the sunshine

sipping on a beer,” the lady smiled as she climbed into the passenger seat.

Celeste was wearing a realistic, shoulder-length red wig.

“I’m not some dumb cowboy, Señorita. Don’t forget, I’ve been to terrorist

school. Nice hair. Sexy redheads always get my cock stiff!”

“Drive! Head north.” Her voice was suddenly steely, all business. “Take

General Paz up to Avenida del Tejar, then turn south. Do you know where the

army headquarters is by General Paz Park? All the top military men do their

banking at a large branch of the Banco Nacional across from the park. We are

going to make a withdrawal from that branch and leave that scum a message

they won’t forget.”

Lonnie noticed that his palms were perspiring as he held on to the steering

wheel. Beads of sweat also dotted his forehead.

“You look nervous, cowboy. Don’t worry, we are not pulling this off alone.

Serge and Jean Pierre are meeting us in the park. They have cased the whole

scene. Just follow Serge’s orders and you will be fine. We are going to arrive at

the bank when it is about to close at three p.m. You are the official getaway-

car driver, so you won’t be inside on this job. I hope this piece of junk you’re

driving is up to the task.”

“Piece of junk? You helped me select it, and it was your mechanic that

overhauled it! Both the car and I will do our jobs just fine!”

Lonnie was consumed by a strange sensation of relief, intermixed with

disappointment. He wasn’t going to be on the inside, but he rationalized that

his role was crucial to the success of the operation, basically ensuring that they

all escaped.

“Does your brother have an escape route mapped out? I haven’t been up in

the Villa Urquiza district in a long time.”

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JAMES McCREATH

“Of course he does. Serge is very thorough. You will have time to drive the

route before the actual job commences. Stop worrying and relax.”

Lonnie followed Celeste’s directions until they found themselves alongside

of General Paz Park, one block east of their intended final destination. The park

was lush with flowers surrounding the statue of General Paz, who was mounted

on a fine charger. Beyond the park, just out of view from the public eye, sat

the complex of buildings that housed the Argentine army headquarters and its

chief personnel. Security around this facility was always extremely heavy, and

it would be considered nothing less than a suicide mission to try and attack the

complex itself.

But to strike a blow for the revolution in the army’s own backyard,

right under their very noses, that would send a message neither they, nor the

Argentine people could ignore!

Celeste had Lonnie pull the Corvair over to the curb. They had barely

come to a full stop when the rear doors were flung open and two men entered

the vehicle, one from either side.

“Hey! Qué pasa? What’s going on here?” Lonnie was half turned in the

driver’s seat protesting the intrusion when Celeste put her index finger to his

lips.

“It’s OK. Drive west past the park and keep going.”

He had no idea who the two men dressed in business suits were, or why

Celeste didn’t let him draw his concealed Llama pistol and get rid of them. He

looked at her incredulously, but her nodding gesture to proceed convinced him

to put the car in gear and drive.

“It’s good to see you again, Lonnie. Celeste has told us that you have done

very well with your training and studies. Congratulations! I hear as well that

you were the best marksman in your training group. Excellent! Maybe you will

have an opportunity to demonstrate those skills this afternoon. Now, I have

a map for you to study. It is our escape route. Pull into this parking lot for a

moment and take a look at it.”

There was no mistaking that voice. Although he had never laid eyes

on Serge Lavalle or his brother, that voice propelled memories of their first

encounter to the forefront of Lonnie’s brain. The blindfolded lecture that he was

forced to endure, ending with the .45 magnum bullet being tossed in his lap.

It seemed like such a long time ago, and yet that voice, there was no mistaking

that voice.

He pulled the Corvair into the parking lot directly across from the Banco

Nacional. It was a large, impressive building, with two tiers of steps running

past the four massive Ionian columns that supported the sloping entrance

façade roof. Both military and civilian personnel could be seen scurrying to and

from the bank, trying to make sure that their transactions would be completed

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before closing time. Serge Lavalle leaned forward so that he could help Lonnie

decipher the handwritten map.

“You will drop us off right here in this parking lot, Lonnie. The three of

us will proceed across the street and into the bank. Once we have disappeared

through the front doors, you will wait exactly three minutes, and then you

will pull across the street and sit directly in front of the bank with the motor

running. Stay in the car, but open the right side doors, front and back, leaving

them ever so slightly ajar. This will ensure easy entry into your limousine, for

I anticipate that we will be in quite a hurry! Do you understand everything so

far, Lonnie?”

“Yes, I think so. Three minutes after you disappear, pull in front of the