Renaldo (61 page)

boarding house in Tigre. To remain would only arouse suspicion.

There were already composite sketches of the Banco Nacional murderers

circulating the capital. The sketches were poor quality and bore no resemblance

whatsoever to the physical appearance of Serge and Celeste. He had cut his full

beard and was now clean-shaven. She had discarded the red wig, then cut her

natural dark curls and used peroxide to turn her remaining hair blonde. Only

Jean Pierre’s likeness was even close to the way he had appeared, and at that, it

was still highly flawed. But to stay in Tigre would be a mistake. The odds of

fooling the authorities and the townspeople were getting slimmer by the day.

The next morning’s newspapers were full of the horrors of the police

station bombing. The three officers had all been killed, a testament to Celeste’s

proficiency with a submachine gun. There was the usual outrage from high

officials, but there was also another denunciation by Adolfo Bertoni. Speaking

on behalf of not only the Montoneros, but for all people’s revolutionary activists,

the part-time coke dealer swore to wash his own dirty laundry and rid the

country of these killers.

The two-faced bastard!
were the words that came to Serge Lavalle’s mind.

Bertoni reaffirmed that his own people were hot on the trail of these ‘rebels,’

and that they would shown no mercy if the real Montoneros found them first.

“We will do the job on Friday the eleventh, four days from now,” Serge

announced at their evening meeting. “It will be the start of his weekend. He

should be relaxed, off-duty, and somewhat off-guard. You will hit him in front

of his residence. He lives on a quiet street in Recoleta. We have four days to

perfect our schedule, memorize his routine, and find new accommodations for

us after the fact. Lonnie, we will need more money for cars and necessities. We

can go to your bank this afternoon, right after we do our first drive-through

Panzino’s neighborhood. Lonnie and I will set this one up alone. It is too

dangerous for us all to be in the capital together. Any questions?”

The excitement of his first real revolutionary act clouded the fact that

Lonnie was being used for exactly the purpose Celeste had recruited him

for. The new soldier just could not see the facts. He was financing the entire

operation through his personal bank account. He was now going to take the

fall if anything went awry with the pending assassination. Celeste had molded

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him into exactly the person that she had set out to create. She was aware of the

tremendous physical power she had over him. If football and politics didn’t

mix, no one could say the same for sex and politics!

At exactly five-thirty p.m. on Friday, April eleventh, the unfortunate

Miguel Tobias Panzino happened to step out of a brand-new Mercedes sedan

in front of his residence on Callao Avenue. Señor Panzino had a taste for fine

automobiles, and he had declined a chauffeur on this day to drive the vehicle

by himself. The spacious, walled casa was situated directly up the street from

Recoleta Cemetery. At that moment, the under secretary had no idea that he

would be taking up permanent residence there very shortly.

Panzino’s usual police escort, a precaution afforded to all high-ranking

government officials because of the recent surge in terrorist activities, had been

reduced to one police car. Serge had been right. The unsuspecting official must

have figured that a quiet weekend lay ahead, free from state or public business.

No need for extra security. A brief ride through the downtown streets from his

office and he would be safely home.

Serge Lavalle sat behind the wheel of the latest ‘terrorist taxi,’ as he called

the escape cars. Lonnie De Seta had moved from behind the large shrubs that

bordered the entrance drive to Señor Panzino’s casa. Serge could see the under

secretary wave the police car goodbye as he collected his briefcase and personal

effects. Lonnie, having seen the cruiser depart from his hiding place, was now

twenty paces up the driveway, quickly approaching his target.

Panzino was stooped over the backseat from the rear driver’s side door.

When he stood erect and turned to enter the house, his arms full of folders and

a large leather briefcase, he came face-to-face with the barrel of Lonnie’s Llama

pistol.

Miguel Tobias Panzino was not a brave man, and he was not above begging

for mercy in order to save his life. The official started to tremble, and a warm

wetness ran down his trouser leg.

“Please, Señor, do not shoot me. I have money I can give you, anything

you want! Stop, in God’s name. Do not shoot me. I have children. Oh, Holy

Mother of Jesus . . .” Panzino’s voice was rising in volume as he pleaded for his

life. The under secretary was virtually screaming by the time he uttered his

last word.

“This is for the poor people of Argentina, you military lackey. May your

soul rot in Hell!”

Lonnie was almost sorry that he had to pull the trigger. He was enjoying

the self-serving puppet’s discomfort so much. The single report of the pistol

reverberated throughout the neighborhood. The shot hit Miguel Tobias

Panzino squarely between the eyes, from a distance of six yards. The force of the

gunshot hurled him backwards into the rear door frame of the Mercedes, then

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rebounded his near lifeless body forward, directly into the arms of a surprised

Lonnie De Seta.

The terrorist noticed that there was very little blood evident on Señor

Panzino, only a peso-sized entry hole above the bridge of his nose. As he tried

to free himself from the dying man’s grasp, a screaming Señora Panzino came

flying through the front door of the casa.

“Assassin, you have shot my Miguel. Assassin!”

She was fast approaching the Mercedes. Lonnie turned the pistol on her.

The lady stopped dead in her tracks.

The temporary diversion was costly to the people’s soldier. With his dying

spasm, Miguel Tobias Panzino raised his right arm and managed to dislodge

Lonnie’s dark glasses and baseball cap. The shocked killer stood staring,

unmasked, at the newly widowed Señora Panzino.

“Assassin! I have seen your face! I will remember your face to my dying

day. Shoot me now, for I will never rest until I see you tortured and hanged!”

She spat on the drive in Lonnie’s direction.

Lonfranco De Seta could only stare blankly at this shrieking apparition.

His finger only had to squeeze the trigger once more and he would be rid of

this vile, threatening woman. The blast from Serge’s car horn shattered the

temporary silence.

“Soldier, get in the car, now!” Serge called out through the passenger

side window. Lonnie’s trigger finger seemed frozen, unable to react. He knew

that he should waste the bitch. She could now identify him. She could ruin

everything! But the rookie murderer could not kill a second time. He simply

lowered the Llama, turned, and walked slowly to the car.

The assassin’s last image of the scene in the Panzino driveway was of

Señora Panzino sobbing uncontrollably as she cradled her dead husband’s body.

That woman could be my undoing,
Lonnie thought to himself as Serge hit the

accelerator.

The ‘terrorist taxi’ traveled only a few blocks until it was abandoned in

favor of another vehicle. That car then headed south on Del Liberator Avenue

straight into Boca. The rush hour traffic and early Friday night revellers made it

easy for the two people’s soldiers to meld in. The first stop was a pay telephone

booth, where Serge made a brief call to a local radio station.

“Listen to what I have to say and don’t talk. I am a member of the

Montonero cadre that has just assassinated the under secretary for economic

coordination, Miguel Tobias Panzino. He has been slain because he was a

member of the antipopular economic team of the military dictatorship. He has

committed economic atrocities against the underprivileged masses. The people

will rise against injustice.
Viva la revolution!”

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The next stop was the room in Barracas, where Celeste would be

waiting.

“You did a dangerous thing back there by not killing that woman, Lonnie.

She saw your face, she can identify you. Man, you should have blown her away!”

Serge Lavalle lectured his neophyte killer.

The soldier sat pensively looking at his general. They were parked in

front of the nondescript transient hotel in Barracas that had become Lonnie

and Celeste’s new home. While Serge’s words echoed eerily through the small

vehicle, Lonnie’s thoughts were fixed on the words of the recently widowed

Señora Panzino.

“But you did well, Lonnie, you made a clean hit. The people of Argentina

will make you a hero for this. You are a true revolutionary now, so take pride

in your achievement.”

For some reason, Lonnie could find little solace in the praise of his leader.

Serge continued to address him.

“Be very careful now. Do not go out until you talk to me again. The heat

will be intense because of your actions. I will be in touch in a few days. Here,

take these. They will hide your face as you make your way to Celeste’s room.

Do not look at anyone, do not speak to anyone. If my guess is correct, your

likeness will be on the front cover of every newspaper in the country tomorrow

morning. Start to grow a beard, right away. Let your hair grow as well. Above

all, take care, my friend. Power to the people!”

With those words, he handed Lonnie an old slouch hat and a pair of dark

glasses, then sped off as soon as his rider had stepped onto the curb. The new

guest made it to room number thirty-two without being noticed by anyone, as

even the desk clerk was having an impromptu siesta.

Celeste had outfitted their room for a considerable stay, stockpiling staples

and necessities that would enable them to be exposed to the public as little as

possible. They would cook their food by means of Coleman stoves, and keep

those items that should be refrigerated cool by using ice inside portable coolers.

Only Celeste would venture out to the market and newsstand on infrequent

occasions as needed. The only items that Lonnie had at his disposal for

entertainment were an old television set with uncertain reception and a small

portable radio.

Serge had been correct. Lonnie’s likeness was pasted on the front page of

the Clarín, as well as every other newspaper and television news report the next

morning. The police artist must have worked all night with Señora Panzinos to

capture the traits of her husband’s murderer while they were still vivid in her

mind. It was a vaguely accurate representation, but it could have been almost

anyone. The widow had used the phrase ‘attractive, with a rugged, manly

appearance’ several times in describing the assailant, and the press picked it up

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and ran with it. The ‘Attractive Assassin’ became a media sensation overnight,

and again Serge was correct, the heat was intense.

Hundreds of innocent people were rounded up and interrogated. Many

were never seen or heard from again, but the ‘Attractive Assassin’ remained at

large. He was confined to his own small world, but he was still a free man.

Celeste was the only one in contact with her brothers, and the news that

she brought back to Lonnie after seeing them was always the same. “Sit tight,

it is still too hot to make a move to another hideout, let alone plan another

operation.”

For almost a month he had ‘sat tight,’ but even Celeste’s womanly charms

were starting to wear thin. He was beginning to act like the caged animal that

he felt he was becoming. Several times, his volatile temper got the best of him,

often over insignificant matters. It was only Celeste’s warning that the desk

clerk might call the police that settled him down.

He was also starting to feel that he was all alone in his troubles. Celeste

had been reassuring enough, but she and her brothers were, after all, family.

They would stick together, no matter what happened. Blood was thicker than

water. Likewise, it was his own sense of family duty that compelled him to take

to the streets for the first time on the morning of May fifth.

Celeste had gone to the market and then to see her brothers, so if he was

both swift and lucky, she would never be the wiser to his temporary absence.

If his mother had truly disowned him, then he only had one relative left that

really mattered. It was that relative’s nineteenth birthday on May the fifth,

nineteen hundred and seventy-eight, and Lonnie desperately wanted to hear

Renaldo’s voice again.

He had taken Serge’s advice and grown a lush, full beard. Combined with

his straggly long hair, he bore absolutely no resemblance to the ‘Attractive