Renaldo (83 page)

security at the local Officer’s Club. Your acceptance is still pending.”

Stoltz left the last statement dangling in the air.

“The Officer’s Club, my God, I’ve dined there before. It’s a miracle that

I am still alive after eating the garbage that they pass off as food. Send my

regrets to the general! Lord Russell, I would be more than happy to accept your

offer. Shall we say Ristorante Borgo Antico at nine o’clock? It is on Avenida

Ricardone. A short cab ride. I must be off now. Until tomorrow then, a pleasure

my Lady, my Lord.”

The maître d’ and waiters had formed a line of revue past which their

famous patron quickly departed. Stoltz, haven taken leave of the English,

discreetly slipped an envelope stuffed with currency to the maitre d’ as he

followed his employer past the formally clad servers.

380

RENALDO

“A ‘facilitator’ is he now? What a fancy term for a fat tub-o’- lard,” Reggie

Russell commented half under his breath as the South Americans left the

room.

“Easy now, father. Let’s not form hasty opinions. Señor Gordero might

just be the one man that could facilitate respectability for the Canary Wharf

Football Club. Let’s give him a chance to prove that he can do more than pack

away the groceries.” Mallory’s warm smile and clear logic melted the old man

once again.

“I suppose you are right. What have we got to lose? Why don’t we prepare

a short list of prospects that are acceptable to us and present them to the great

facilitator tomorrow evening? If he truly loves to wheel and deal, we will give

him ample opportunity to produce ‘a conclusion that is beneficial to all the

parties involved.’”

381

Five days had passed since Lonnie and Celeste’s arrival at camp No Se

Preocupe in Tigre. They had been able to slip out of the capital by bus

and train during the Argentina-Italy soccer game on the night of June

tenth. Every living soul they encountered on their journey had only one focus

that evening, ‘the match.’ No one gave the two fugitives a second glance.

Still, Lonnie was careful not to leave a trail directly to the camp. The part-

time local resident had been insistent that he and Celeste walk from the train

station in Tigre to their new hideout. Those people hunting the terrorists might

ask questions of an unsuspecting cabbie. The train station could be staked out

by any number of adversaries at this very moment.

They arrived at the camp shortly after midnight. June was a slow period

at the facility, and Lonnie had no trouble breaking into a remote cabin

undetected. Because of the football match, there was a good chance that the

night watchman might be less observant on his rounds, if he chose to work at

all. The old cabin was one of the original dormitories and still contained cots,

mattresses, and blankets. With any luck, they could stay unnoticed for a day or

two, long enough for Lonnie to snip and shave away the vestiges of his shabby

former persona.

Celeste was not in good shape. She talked incessantly about a plan to find

Serge, and Lonnie had to keep reminding her that their own survival remained

the most pressing matter. To find her brother, they would have to expose

themselves, and Lonnie knew one thing for certain. It was not Serge Lavalle

that was being hunted as the ‘Attractive Assassin,’ it was Lonnie De Seta! His

trail was getting hot, and it was all he could do to keep the two of them alive

and free.

By June the fourteenth, four days later, they were still undetected by

anyone on the campground. It seemed that the entire complex had been shut

down for the World Cup Tournament. There was some activity during the

day at the administrative office, but there were no patients, nurses, or other

staff to be seen. Even the exterior maintenance men were nowhere to be found.

Everyone in the entire country was focused on ‘the show.’

Lonnie’s physical transformation had been swift and startling. Clean-

shaven and hair close-cropped, he bore no resemblance at all to any of his

former identities. His hair had never been this short. He liked it, especially

after the flee-bitten locks that he had worn for the last several months.

JAMES McCREATH

The fugitive had walked into town under the cover of darkness the night

following their arrival, then had hidden in the bushes until the groceteria

opened at eight a.m. He filled two rucksacks with essentials, then headed

cautiously back to the camp.

He took to the woods wherever possible, keeping out of sight and avoiding

all contact. His money was almost gone, and he knew that he had to think out

the next move in this chess game for survival.

The one distraction that took Lonnie’s mind off his own predicament

was the amazing good fortune of his brother, Renaldo. The newspapers were

singing the boy’s praises, especially since the team had done so poorly against

Italy without him in the lineup. It was certain that he would play against the

Poles, or so the press was speculating. Strangely, there was almost as much ink

concerning his good looks as there was about his football ability.

“Matinee Idol of River Plate!” screamed one tabloid sports page. There

was a picture of Renaldo accompanying the story, and it was obvious that it

had been taken prior to his run-in with Torok’s elbow. The more current photos

showed a somewhat swollen beak and dark circles under his eyes, which seemed

to add a masculine roughness to the boy’s features. The result was an even

sexier young football star, according to many female fans interviewed in that

same tabloid. Lonnie noted that Ramon Vida was number two with the ladies

in the beefcake sweepstakes.

Renaldo and Ramon have a lot of high expectations to live up to, both on and off the

field,
Lonnie mused as he tuned in his erratic portable radio to the Argentina-

Poland game from Rosario.

“I hope this little piece of junk doesn’t let me down tonight! Come on,

baby, be good to daddy. I went and bought brand-new batteries for you. Be a

good baby and work for daddy Lonnie!”

The gentle coaxing achieved positive results, and an ecstatic Lonnie De

Seta continued to cradle the radio’s black form lovingly in his arms two hours

later.

“Two goals! My God, I can’t believe it! Two! I knew all along he was pretty

good, but this, two goals for Argentina in the World Cup, unbelievable!”

He was talking to no one in particular, for Celeste had long since retired to

the far end of the dormitory, his screams of delight having woken her twice.

Lonnie removed the cork from a bottle of cheap whisky that he had

purchased in town and took another long pull. He lay down on his cot as the

alcohol’s magic swept over him.

“Good Lord, the papers will be full of him tomorrow. I’ll have to go

and purchase every one of them. My little brother is a fucking national hero!

Amazing!”

384

RENALDO

“Black pants and stockings! I want you to look as sinister as possible

tonight against these ‘Samba Sweethearts.’ This isn’t going to be any garden

party out there. You must assert yourselves early and often. Don’t give these

bastards the space they need to execute their stylish fucking ball control game.

I want you in their faces all night! I want your mother’s maiden name tattooed

on their asses by the time they come off at the half. Does each and every one of

you understand me?” Octavio Suarez had a look on his face that told each of his

charges that they had better not disappoint the manager or their time on the

pitch would be short-lived.

Suarez would use every tactic available to promote an abrasive attitude on

the field, and even changing the shorts and stockings from white to black was

a ploy used to instill confidence and aggression.

The Brazilians had beaten Peru 3-0 in Mendoza four days earlier, and

they seemed to be revving up their offensive machine now that they had left

the inhospitable climes of Mar del Plata. That was exactly what Octavio Suarez

feared the most, that the talented neighbors to the north would hit full stride

this night in Rosario.

The starting eleven for Argentina contained one major surprise. Against all

speculation, Miguel Cruz started at center half over Renaldo De Seta. Suarez’s

only comment to the boy wearing number seventeen was that he wanted keep

the youngster fresh for the second half. This move would also temporarily

relieve some of the enormous pressure and expectation that had come to rest

on his shoulders.

Renaldo was disappointed with his mentor’s decision, but raised no

objection. What Octavio Suarez was most concerned about was that the

Brazilians would go after his new scoring sensation’s tender Achilles’ heel in an

attempt to drive him from the game. The manager had seen the yellow shirts

use this approach before, and their wily defenders had developed the practice

to an art-form. Better to let Cruz take a beating in the first half and see how

the game developed.

The powder-blue and white sea of spectators, once again, showered their

heroes in a white froth of streamers and confetti as they took the field. The

Hungarian referee, Mr. Kukla, was all smiles as the two captains shook hands

and took part in the ceremonial coin toss. His smile would fade quickly once

he blew his whistle to commence the match.

Argentina had not beaten the Brazilians in eight years. That pressure,

plus the intensity of this World Cup fixture, was evident instantly. Suarez’s pep

385

JAMES McCREATH

talk was taken to heart, and the hosts conceded their first free kick after only

ten seconds.

Cheap shots abounded everywhere, and the stunned European official

seemed incapable of gaining control of the match. Six fouls were called in

the first three minutes, and there was no flow to the little bit of football that

managed to escape the rough-and-tumble proceedings.

Scoring chances were initially scarce, but crafty Brazilian left winger João

Batista started to exploit an overcautious Humberto Velasquez with short give-

and-go overlapping thrusts, using the full support of his offensive-minded

midfielders. These exchanges resulted in three almost identical saves at the top

of his right goal area for Junior Calix in the space of five minutes.

Were it not for the continued ill-temper of the game with its lumbering

pace due to stoppages, the Brazilians could have set the tempo to their Samba

beat and done some real damage. As it was, they seemed more intent on

defending their manly honor with every injustice offered them.

While the yellow shirts dominated what little soccer one could pick out

of the first half, they went to their dressing room with nothing to show for it.

Argentina’s midfield had done exactly what Octavio Suarez had asked of them,

but their ‘in your face’ execution had not produced one clear scoring chance for

the home side. The consolation was that, at least, they had kept the visitors off

the score-sheet!

Suarez was hoping for more ball possession from the rough play in the

central part of the field. Nearly all the exchanges up to the interval had gone in

Brazil’s favor. Miguel Cruz had been adequate defensively, but he seemed caught

up in demonstrating something other than football skills to his opponents. On

more than one occasion, he had a clear chance to make a move upfield with the

ball. Instead, he chose to deliver an ill-tempered thank you for any physical

affront offered by an overzealous adversary. Suarez knew it was time to take a

gamble.

“What do you mean you are taking me out of the game?” an incensed

Miguel Cruz screamed across the dressing room at Octavio Suarez. “I’ve done

everything you have asked of me. They haven’t scored yet, have they? Check

their forward Dos Santos’ butt. You will see my mother’s maiden name on

it. I stuck to him just like you asked. I’ll tell you another thing, too, that