Renaldo (46 page)

your past lifestyle. Nice clothes, the Mercedes, all those things you used to do

last summer. That should divert attention from your present guise. Can you

do that?”

“I think it shouldn’t be too hard to accomplish,” Lonnie said with a grin.

“I preferred driving my Mercedes to the Corvair, to tell you the truth. I guess

the people’s revolution still has to work on my materialistic values some more.

As for the rest of it, well, I told my mother that Celeste and I were traveling

for the summer, but most years I work at my father’s camp for terminally ill

children in Tigre. I don’t think anyone would be suspicious if Celeste and I

showed up there to lend a helping hand for awhile. How does that sound to

you?” He directed the question to Celeste.

“Fine with me. You have told me so much about the camp, I would really

like to see it. How long would we have to stay?”

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JAMES McCREATH

“It all depends on the heat,” replied Serge. “Usually they round up hundreds

of suspects when something like this happens. Our escapade will prove to be

all the more embarrassing for the junta because of the ‘peaceful nation’ and

‘nonexistent terrorists’ bullshit they are spewing to the press. Security and a

calm atmosphere for the World Cup has become their top priority. Well, we

just showed the entire world that the people of Argentina want social justice,

not some football circus.” The leader spat out his final words contemptuously.

Another pull on the bottle, then he revealed his own plans. “Jean Pierre

and I are going to Mar del Plata to get lost in the summer crowds. We have

already rented a flat, and we just plan to disappear. Write down the address of

the camp in Tigre for me, Lonnie, and I will contact you when we are ready

to strike again. My brother and I will drop our bounty off at the local cadre

headquarters, then head directly out of town. I suggest that you two leave

Buenos Aires as quickly as possible, for the roadblocks are bound to go up

around the capital in a matter of hours, if not sooner. Any questions?”

The room was silent, then, one by one, they embraced and said their good-

byes. Serge and Jean Pierre left the garage first, carrying the spoils of battle

in an old duffel bag that matched their change of attire. Jean Pierre had a

knapsack slung over his shoulders that contained the two Uzzis and several

more hand grenades, but to those that they passed on their walk to the bus

terminal, they looked just like any other transients in this down-on-your-luck

part of town.

“So, do we head to your casa to get the car and new clothes?”

“The Mercedes is stored at the dealership, so that’s no problem,” Lonnie

responded to Celeste’s query. “As for going home, I would rather not. Too

many questions to answer, especially if I run into my mother. I have my real

identification in a safety deposit box at my bank. Tomorrow we can retrieve

it, take out some money, and go shopping. You can pretend that you are my

socialite girlfriend helping me spend all my hard-earned cash. Who knows, you

might even have fun and cast aside the powers of the revolution for the powers

of the almighty American Express card.” Lonnie shot his lover a sarcastic grin

as he pulled her tight against his muscled torso. The excitement of the day’s

activity had stirred his manly urges.

“Where will we stay tonight, your place or mine?”

“I’m way ahead of you, my preppy hero. I have already vacated my flat for

good. End of school term you know. My things are at a storage facility. We can

pick up what we need tomorrow. I am sure that I will find your accommodations

up to your usual five-star standards. Let’s go. I can hardly wait to order up room

service.”

214

Nijinsky, Pavlova, Stravinsky, Strauss, Bernstein, Caruso, Callas,

Toscanini, Nureyev, Barishnikov, the list goes on and on. Each one

had performed their artistry on the great stage of Teatro Colon, and

very shortly, Renaldo De Seta was going to be standing on that exact same

stage. He would not, of course, ply his particular trade among the gilded boxes

and mauve velvet armchairs. There would be no football played beneath the

great seven hundred-bulb chandelier. But there was no mistaking the reason

that close to four thousand souls had filled every nook and cranny of this

venerable theater.

The elite of Argentine society, as well as the nation’s most powerful

military and political figures, had come to see and be seen at this extravagant,

yet culturally rich fundraising gala. But the magnet that drew them to the

fabled opera house was not drama or music this time . . . it was football! The

eyes of the world would be focused on their turbulent homeland in a few short

months, and fifteen other nations would be their guests at a very special party,

the FIFA World Cup of Football.

A call, one could say almost a plea, had gone out to all Argentines

regardless of social standing to pull together to make the games of the eleventh

World Cup the best that had ever been staged. The junta had promised all

its native sons and daughters a spectacle that they would never forget, as long

as the organizers were allowed to focus on the athletic concerns and not on

terrorist threats or acts of sabotage.

The recent bank robbery near the army headquarters in Buenos Aires had

outraged not only the military leaders, but also many left-wing supporters,

including trade unionists, students, and the leftist-working press. They were in

sympathy with the government-inspired editorials that vilified the perpetrators.

The vast majority of both Porteños and Provincials saw this mindless act of

violence as a blight on their country’s concerted effort to show the world that

Argentina was a safe and sane land, a land where tourists from around the

world could come and enjoy the most popular sport on earth in comfort and

safety.

Now three misguided zealots had blasted their way into the world

headlines, severely undermining much of the credibility that the junta had tried

so hard to establish. The fact that the robbery occurred in broad daylight across

JAMES McCREATH

the street from Argentine army headquarters reflected badly upon the whole

national security program. ‘Heads were rolling’ in the corridors of power, and

on the streets. Heaven help anyone that got caught in a police sweep without

letter-perfect identification.

But on this night, Saturday the fourteenth of February, all the tensions

seemed to melt away once the patrons were seated inside the plush amphitheater.

No one without a valid ticket could get within a city block of the teatro,

and all the guests and performers were electronically screened and searched

upon entering the building. Not even the society matrons objected to this

inconvenience, so great was the outrage at the thought that their country was

perceived as a breeding ground for thugs and violent revolutionaries.

Six people had been killed by exploding hand grenades as they tried to

follow the Montonero thieves from the Banco Nacional.

Colonel Xavier Rodrigues Borges, the country’s senior antiterrorist

strategist, was among those slain. Argentines from all walks of life wanted an

end to the cold-blooded insanity. This night at Teatro Colon was to be their

new beginning, a new focus on the spectacular events to come. Three thousand

military policemen ringing the opulent Greco-Roman structure in the heart of

the capital were there to ensure that nothing would disrupt the gala evening.

The program was artistically enchanting, covering all aspects of Argentine

music and folklore, from ancient times to modern day. Native Indians were

playing the Quena and Charanga, mournful melodies played on a great, long

instrument called an Erke. Gauchos were performing their Milongas, Estilos,

and Cifras, always rousing and immensely entertaining. Then, of course, a tribute

to the late Carlos Gardel, the celebrated innovator of the tango, the national

dance of Argentina. The legendary Argentine composer Hector Panizza was

honored with a moving selection from his greatest symphonic works. A host of

other talented singers and musicians complimented the program.

The pièce de résistance for the young generation, however, was the

performance, late in the show, of the nation’s number one pop star, Symca. She

was to be followed directly by the much anticipated unveiling of the National

World Cup Football Team.

This gala evening was being broadcast live over state radio and television,

and listeners were constantly encouraged to mail donations to the World Cup

Organizing Committee’s capital fund. A letter of gratitude and a poster of the

National Team would be sent to all donors.

By positioning the vivacious Symca near the conclusion of the schedule,

the producers ensured a national audience until the very end of the festivities.

Astor Gordero had arranged the entertainment and structured the acts to

receive maximum exposure vis-à-vis mail-in donations. The introduction of the

National Team, followed by a spirited and emotional rendition of the national

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RENALDO

anthem, was anticipated to bring tears to the eyes, not to mention pens to the

checks, of millions of patriotic Argentines.

Renaldo De Seta sat watching the musical feast on one of several television

monitors placed in the banquet hall, where the National Team waited

impatiently. He, like all the other footballers, was attired in his new navy blue

blazer, the breast pocket adorned with a luminous gold crest, which offset

the black letters ‘AFA,’ (Asociacion Del Futbal Argentino). Lightweight grey

flannel slacks, black Ferragamo loafers, and a powder-blue and white-striped tie

completed the ensemble for all the National Team hopefuls.

The youngest aspirant cut a resplendent figure, one that would make

almost any lady feel weak at the knees. But at this very moment, his thoughts

were of one lady in particular. The subterranean structure of the Teatro Colon

extended for three stories, with seemingly miles and miles of corridors, salons,

reception rooms, and general work areas. The football players were told to

stay in their designated area, but because they were the last group to go on

stage, it didn’t take long for many of them to become restless, despite the fully

stocked bar and endless procession of hors d’oeuvres. Two armed soldiers and

two civilian security guards had been placed outside the banquet room with

strict orders that absolutely no one was to enter or leave the room.

The guards were only human, of course, and somewhat in awe of these

national heroes. As a result, they were easily persuaded to turn a blind eye

when required. An autograph, a handshake, or a brief conversation with one of

their idols seemed to provide sufficient distraction for several of the players to

simply disappear.

Renaldo was able to deftly slide through the door and down the corridor

without being noticed or missed.
Sometimes being an unknown commodity has its

benefits,
he thought gleefully as he set out to find his lost treasure.

That treasure, buried somewhere in the cavernous depths of Teatro Colon,

was to be found in a remote, tiny room, two stories below where the musical

history of Argentina was being woven and spun with great passion.

A star, a solitary star, much like the one the fabled wise men of years

gone by must have followed, marked the end of his search. Emblazoned within

its glittering five silver points was one word, a word that set his heart racing,

‘Symca.’

“Come in,” was the response that greeted the footballer’s knock on the

door. Renaldo paused for several seconds. “Come in! It’s alright, I’m decent.”

Peering into her makeup mirror, she tried to focus her eyes on the handsome

figure that now stood just inside the cramped closet. “Renaldo, my God, is

that really you?” Dressed in a rose-colored satin robe, she let out a little girlish

squeal of delight and leapt into his arms, kissing him full on the lips. He was

taken aback by her enthusiasm.

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JAMES McCREATH

“Easy, easy, or we will ruin your makeup. You look absolutely ravishing.

How have you been?” The athlete was suddenly aware that his reaction to her

greeting had awakened a sleeping giant. He pretended to show interest in the

beautiful pink roses that adorned a side table, managing to stand with his back

toward her.

“These are lovely. From a secret admirer?”

“Not so secret. A mutual acquaintance actually, Astor Gordero.”

She was at his side now, running her fingers through the long curls that

fell past the nape of his neck. A tremor flashed up his spine. He turned, intent

on removing her hand and freeing himself from any physical contact, lest he

lose all control.