Renaldo (49 page)

the youngest hopeful’s turn, and the blinding glare temporarily disoriented the

terrified rookie as he stepped out onto the vast expanse. The routine had been

exactly the same at rehearsal earlier that afternoon, but so much had happened

to him in the last hour. He found himself lost in a haze of overpowering sexual

tension augmented by pure and utter panic.

The master of ceremonies smoothly ushered the stage-struck novice to the

appropriate spot as the fanfare ended and Renaldo De Seta’s biographical notes

were read to an enthusiastic yet curious audience. Who was this unknown boy

among the greatest football names in the country? What had he accomplished

to be worthy of sharing the stage or the soccer field with the national heroes

from River Plate, Boca Juniors, and the rest?

As his eyes grew accustomed to the bright lights and to the intense scrutiny,

Renaldo seemed to become visibly more relaxed and confident. Hearing the list

of his athletic accomplishments being transmitted across the nation brought a

warm smile to his initially nervous countenance. He raised his right hand and

waved to the people in the front rows. The smile grew broader. A particularly

vocal response was floating down from a private box on Renaldo’s right. The

boy glanced up, and there, just beyond the footlights, was Astor Gordero’s

mammoth silhouette.

The handsome teenager’s smile, combined with his mentor’s vociferous

ovation, melted away much of the skepticism that lingered in the minds of

the watching millions. Like the tide rolling over the beaches of Mar del Plata,

he could hear a buzz of curious excitement and acceptance sweep over the

audience.

“He is very cute. What is his name again?”

“He should be a fashion model, not a football player!”

“That smile could launch a thousand ships, all overflowing with lusting

Porteña women.”

These were only a few of the whispered comments that could be heard

rippling through the once staid hall. The reaction was much more blatant and

forceful when it came to the national television audience. Before the boy with

the long curls and the radiant smile had even left the stage, the telephone lines

at the National State Network switchboard were lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Who was that player, number seventeen on stage, the young one? How

do you spell his name? How can we contact his fan club? Where do we get

posters and information about him?”

22

JAMES McCREATH

Of the twenty-two players that were introduced that evening, it was the

unknown and untested rookie who captured the hearts of the public. If only

his athletic prowess could come close to matching his startling good looks,

Argentina would have a new matinee idol!

That test was imminent, for within forty-eight hours, all the talking and

posturing would cease. The game was the thing, and these twenty-two were

about to learn how to play it all over again, from the beginning. It would be

the Octavio Suarez way or the highway!

228

Their elation lasted until they read the headlines of the Clarín morning

paper. La Nacional, La Prenza and the Buenos Aires Herald screamed

similar reactions.

“Montonero Bloodbath!” “Damn the Terrorist Assassins!” “Six Die in

Vicious Terrorist Attack!”

“Six people dead? Those fools must have tried to follow us. Idiots! We told

them that there were explosives outside the bank. They wanted to be fucking

heroes. Well, look where it got them! Look, this fat little colonel that bought

it tried to give me a hard time when I went to the teller’s window. Look, here

is his picture. I’m sure it’s him. Fat little shit. I should have wasted him right

there as he stood in line!”

Celeste’s initial shock that people had actually been killed during the

bank robbery had given way to an aloof fascination. There was no remorse

in her voice. Instead, a morbid exhilaration swept over her as she read and

re-read the names and occupations of the men who had died. Four were army

personnel, the other two, off-duty policemen.

Lonnie De Seta felt extremely nauseous as he poured over every reported

detail in the papers Celeste was not reading aloud.
What am I afraid of? Why

have I started to shake?
His stomach soured even more as he absorbed the morbid

results of his first act of terror. He had been trained to expect bloodshed, even

desire it. But his role had been so removed from the action that he never got a

chance to look a stranger in the eye from the business end of an Uzzi. Not like

Celeste.

Paper after paper called for the death penalty for these cowards. People

from every sector of society, government, clergy, even unionists, condemned

their scurrilous deed. Army and police forces were on total mobilization to

assure that the killers would be apprehended quickly.

Killers?
He had hoped to be referred to as ‘revolutionaries,’ or ‘the people’s

army.’ At worst, they would be described as ‘terrorist bank robbers,’ but ‘killers’?

The dogma of the Andes training camp seemed very hazy to him at this moment.

Why are we doing this, killing people?
The answer had temporarily escaped him.

Celeste will tell me why again, when she is finished reading,
he rationalized.

“All of this drivel is controlled by the junta. We will not be lauded as

heroes until the underground and student papers hit the streets. Do not let this

JAMES McCREATH

garbage sway your mind, Lonnie. Our cause is just, and thousands of people

will have food and clothing because of the money that we liberated yesterday.”

She could tell that he was upset the moment that she put down the final

paper. He looked pale and confused.

“It is the people, Lonnie, the people in the streets who will sing our praises.

And when they rise up and shake loose the yoke of military oppression, they

will remember what the Montoneros did for them! Do not worry about those

six. Many more will die before this is over. The people will not be lied to and

cheated anymore!”

Her words were meant to reassure him, and while they provided some

comfort, he knew that he had truly stepped over the brink.
Killers!
It was time

for Marco Figueroa to go underground immediately. Lonfranco De Seta would

be reincarnated that morning. He called the dealership to have his Mercedes

serviced and awaiting pick up later that afternoon.

One of the newspapers had promised composite sketches of three of the

terrorists in a special late edition dealing entirely with the Banco Nacional

attack. Lonnie was certain that absolutely no one had gotten a look at him

driving the Corvair that afternoon, and there was no description of the getaway

car, or its driver, in any of the papers.

“All I have to do is shave and scrub up a bit, then it shouldn’t be hard to

make it by taxi to my bank,” he told Celeste. The cab ride would be the only

time that Lonnie would be carrying Marco Figueroa’s identification. Once he

was safely inside the bank, he could exchange it for his real documents from

the safety deposit box. Cabs were a much safer means of transport than buses

as far as police spot checks were concerned. Cabbies were experts at avoiding

road blocks, and no one thought it too suspicious if a short-fused, impatient cab

driver pulled a U-turn to find an alternate route rather than sit in line waiting

to be interrogated. Time was money! All Lonnie had to do was find a good

cabbie and make it to his bank.

The sun shone brightly as Lonfranco De Seta emerged from the Banco Rio

de la Plata on San Martin Avenue. Everything had gone off without a hitch, the

cab driver skirting the one road block that they had the potential to encounter.

My first purchase is going to be a pair of new sunglasses,
he thought. A short walk

to his favorite men’s store, Gino Bogani, to pick up some new threads, then

he would head directly to the dealership. He felt totally relieved at having his

old persona back again. He felt invincible. How dare anyone accuse Lonnie De

Seta of being involved in a terrorist bloodbath! He was a man of privilege, of

breeding, a true Porteño!

The society playboy liked the fact that he could have a dual identity. It

was his alter ego, Marco Figueroa, who was the terrorist, the murderer, the

wanted man. Lonnie De Seta was going shopping, not to jail!

230

RENALDO

It was necessary to make one last trip to Versailles to pick up Celeste and

their possessions before heading to Tigre. While Lonnie was away, she had cut

her hair into a short bob, then dyed it blonde.

It doesn’t look half bad,
the former brunette assessed. She had been unable

to leave his shabby little room since walking there after dark the night before.

Lonnie had been the one to go for food and newspapers that morning, as Celeste

was concerned about being recognized. Now all she had to do was make it into

his Mercedes and she was virtually guaranteed a safe escape to Tigre.

The rumble of military vehicles outside her window jolted her sense of

security. She pulled back the tattered curtain and looked down upon a sea of

drab grey trucks disgorging a steady stream of olive-clad national guardsmen.

People on the street were being lined up against the buildings, or, if they

showed the least bit of resistance, made to lay prostrate in the middle of the

gutter. Celeste brought her left hand to her throat, as if she could feel the noose

tightening.

The buildings were being systematically searched, with certain tenants

being brought down to street level for further interrogation. She had only her

real identification in her knapsack, the one saying that she was a visiting associate

professor from Tucumán University. The word Tucumán would be enough for

the police to interrogate her for certain. She had given her false identification

to Lonnie for storage in the bank vault. It would have been perfect. Sandra

Necochea, café waitress from Buenos Aires. A full set of working permits and a

letter from her supposed employer made the documents nearly foolproof. Now

they were locked away, of no use to her whatsoever.

The intruders were on the floor below her now. She could hear their loud

pounding on the doors, their feet on the stairs, their shouts for everyone to

come out of their dwellings. For Celeste, there was no way out. She must act

now!

Suddenly there were three loud thuds on her door, the call to open up and

make yourself seen, then the crash of a jackboot smashing through the flimsy

locking devise. Three guardsmen fell into the room, carbines at the ready. One

glance told them that the room was unoccupied. There was nowhere else to

look, no bathroom, not even a closet. Only a chair and a dresser. They moved

on down the hall.

Being slight in stature sure has its benefits.
This was Celeste’s first coherent

thought after she heard the guardsmen move on.
How stupid they are,
was her

second thought. They had looked under the metal cot to see if someone was on

the floor, but that was it. The junta’s lackeys had failed to search the dresser,

which would have yielded them Celeste’s knapsack with her ID in it. But more

importantly, they hadn’t looked behind the dresser, where the petite terrorist

had been holding her breath to save her life. An artistically beveled baseboard

231

JAMES McCREATH

adorning the dresser had been enough to shield the cute contortionist’s feet

from view.

It was over an hour before the room’s occupant was able to move from her

cramped position, but as long as she could hear the commands and screams

from the street below, she was perfectly content to endure a little claustrophobia.

When Celeste finally freed herself, the only sounds that could be heard were

the sobbing and wailing of the relatives left behind. Their loved ones had been

taken away, away on a journey to Hell.

Lonnie tore up the steps and into his former tenement. The door was still