Renaldo (86 page)

of the cabin. Suddenly, light spilled through the hole in the front wall where

the door used to stand. He could clearly see the figures of several men hurtling

into the sick yellow-green light. There was very little commotion and almost no

noise. The fugitive stood frozen on the pier. He could do nothing.

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RENALDO

In a matter of seconds, those same figures were outside in front of the

cabin. One of the assassins, the one Lonnie took to be the leader, was visibly

and audibly upset. He swore and cursed in loud English as the others followed

him down to the river’s edge.

Lonnie’s heart pounded in his chest. He had his Llama pistol tucked into

his belt buckle, but all his grenades and extra ammunition were in the cabin.

He was virtually defenseless against those who stalked him.

The only means of escape lay overturned right beside the eyewitness.

Someone had left one of the wooden canoes out on the dock instead of in the

shed. Lonnie had noticed it on his first visit to the pier and had visualized

exactly what he was about to now do. He had thought of the canoe as a possible

escape vehicle in an emergency, and this clearly was an emergency.

Celeste was dead, there was no mistaking that fact! But Lonnie was

shocked by his lack of emotion as a result of her death. He thought it strange

that he hadn’t raced to the dormitory with his Llama blazing. Strange that the

thought of helping Celeste never entered his mind. He was tired, oh so tired.

He would miss her, to be sure, but he would miss his beautiful, spirited lover,

not the apparition that she had become.

Lonnie was also bitter. Bitter with Celeste for leading him down the

road that shattered his once-prosperous, law-abiding life. How had she ever

convinced him that terrorism could change anything? The only thing violence

had accomplished was to ruin more lives, his own included!

No, he would not help her. She was beyond help. The deadly silence inside

the cabin confirmed that. The ‘Attractive Assassin’ was thankful that his former

companion had died swiftly, without torture or sexual abuse. A protracted,

brutal death would have been unthinkable! That was all the remorse that

Lonnie could muster for the passing of Celeste Lavalle.

He slid into the bottom of the canoe, grabbed a paddle, and pushed

himself away from the dock heading silently downstream and out of sight from

his pursuers. His thoughts remained with Celeste. Lonnie was comforted by

the quickness of her killers’ actions, for in his mind, he was certain that she had

been put down by a silenced bullet within seconds of the forced entry.

Rest in peace, my dear Celeste. We will surely meet again in Hell!

395

The Group A qualifying countries for the second round of the World

Cup Tournament were all from Europe. Italy, Holland, Austria, and

West Germany took to the pitches in Córdoba and Buenos Aires to

determine their representative in the final.

Italy had been heavily favored at the outset, but by the time they faced off

against Holland in the final match of the round, they had scored only once in

one hundred and eighty minutes of soccer. Their 0-0 draw with the Germans,

as well as their 1-0 victory over the hapless Austrians had shown the Azzurri to

be erratic in their finishing skills.

The West Germans had nary a victory to show for their first two outings.

They were buoyed somewhat after holding favored Italy to a scoreless draw at

River Plate, but failure to maintain the lead against their usual whipping boys,

the Dutch, turned their camp into a hostile, finger-pointing compound. That

2-2 tie was an embarrassment bordering on disaster. An all-out effort against

weak sister Austria was demanded by the German coaching staff and their

disgruntled followers.

It was the men from the Netherlands that seemed to be hitting their full

stride at the perfect time. An opening 5-1 blowout of Austria left no doubt in

anyone’s mind about the overwhelming offensive skills of the men who wore

the orange and white. Moreover, their struggle to tie the hated Germans had

removed a huge monkey from their backs. That outing had convinced their

quickly growing legion of fans that the Dutchmen had acquired an abundance

of true grit, as well as the determination not to lose.

Finally, in the early afternoon of June twenty-first, they stood in white

shirts, orange shorts, and white stockings on the hallowed turf of River Plate

Stadium. The men from Holland were tied with their opponent Italy in points,

but they had played much more inspired football. A clear victory by either

team would mean a berth in the World Cup final.

The Dutch got off a disastrous start. An own goal by defender Willie

Brax after only nineteen minutes injured starting keeper Hendric Van Der Ven

as well. The blond-haired guardian of the Dutch twines was carried from the

game on a stretcher, not to compete in the tournament again.

The Italians sought to take advantage of their opponents’ misfortune

immediately. Substitute keeper Dirk Wilhelmus had to rise to the occasion

JAMES McCREATH

time and time again. The young keeper was not the field general that his more

experienced, more vocal predecessor had been. The Dutch defenders floundered,

unsure of where their midfielders had gone. In truth, those midfielders were

back on the defensive line helping out, so constant and unrelenting was the

Italian pressure.

As young and inexperienced as Wilhelmus was, however, on this day, he

was also lucky. Luck is always that intangible factor that every keeper hopes

will be part of his bag of tricks. Today, the uprights and crossbar of his net were

to give him the support in the early going that none of his teammates seemed

capable of supplying.

Three times the men in the beautiful blue jerseys hit the woodwork. The

Dutch, for their part, hardly tested the Italian keeper Enzio Sala. Where had the

offensive skills displayed against the Austrians and Germans gone? That was

the question on every Lowlander’s lips as the whistle sounded the interval.

Mysterious things often happen to teams during the fifteen-minute

intermission. Such was the case on this cloudless afternoon in Buenos Aires.

The Dutch rediscovered their free-flowing style in that dungeon of a locker

room. The Italians lost their calmness and teamwork in theirs. One would have

thought that a compulsory changing of team uniforms had accompanied the

changing of ends, so different was the style of play that both teams offered up

in the early minutes of the second half.

The white shirts descended on the previously arrogant Italian defenders in

waves. Shots were fired at Sala from all over the pitch. Long balls, scrambles in

front of the net, corner kicks, free kicks, everything imaginable! The Azzurri

defenders were wilting under the pressure, and who more appropriate to drive

home the new Dutch superiority than the goat of the opening half, Willie

Brax.

Only five minutes into play, a poor Italian clearance landed the ball on the

pate of Dutch midfielder Pieter Thijssen. His responding header was relayed to

the poll of fellow midfielder, Jan Johannes. The lanky Dutchman then directed

the sphere downward onto the approaching foot of the offensive-minded Brax.

From just outside the Italian penalty area, he let go a rocket that exploded

into the top left corner of the Mediterranean men’s net. The Dutch were back

on terms and soaring, the Italians, tied and slumping.

Patience seemed to be the keynote of the renewed Holland offensive. One

could sense that the white and orange men felt victory inevitable now, all they

had to do was continue to create chances. That they did, much to the disgust

of the Italian defense and their frantic manager on the sidelines. Name-calling

and finger-pointing had become part of the Italians’ self-destructive strategy,

and their game descended into a defensive quagmire.

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RENALDO

The script reached its climax in the seventy-sixth minute. Once again,

it was a Dutch midfielder that changed the scoreboard. So tightly packed

in retreat were the Italian midfield and defense that the center of the pitch

resembled uninhabited parkland. The acres of empty pasture gave the

innovative Netherlanders the space to work their magic. Lady Luck then chose

twenty-four-year old Kees Trelaan as the man of the hour.

A specialist in long, curving shots, he hit a beauty, unchallenged, from

almost fifty yards out. Italian keeper Sala stood ready, watching the flight of

the ball.

No problem!
he thought.
This ball is going well wide of the mark.
Then

suddenly, its trajectory started to curve inward toward the goalpost to the

Italian’s left.

Surely it will still pass wide of the net,
was the last unconvincing thought that

flashed through the keeper’s mind as he realized, in desperation, that the shot

was critically close to beating him.

Sala left his feet, lunging to the left. His outstretched right arm could

only wave harmlessly at the ball as it sailed three feet above him. But disaster

had not befallen the keeper yet, for just as he hit the turf, his ears reverberated

with a sound that sent instant relief surging through his sprawling torso.

The ‘thwack’ of the black-and-white orb hitting the upright post was as

sweet as any melody he had ever heard. These posts and crossbar were his allies

now, just as they had been for the Dutch keeper in the first half.

But wait . . . something was terribly wrong. The orange-clad fans behind

the Italian goal had erupted in delight. Sala raised himself on one elbow and

stared disbelievingly into his unprotected net. There, in the far corner sat the

dreaded object. One of the white-shirts was retrieving it, holding it joyously

over his head for all the world to see. Disaster!

The shot had veered into the net once it struck wood. Nine times out

of ten it would have rebounded back into the field of play, or better still,

ricocheted out of play. Sala looked at his stunned teammates, then back at the

fickle upright. Despair and desperation were etched on every Azzurri face. Only

fourteen minutes remained to make amends.

There had been nothing to match the gut-wrenching drama of this

game’s last quarter hour in the entire tournament. Italy was Argentina’s second

team, the team that after the host nation, most Argentines had wished well

for. Millions had reveled in the thought of an Italy-Argentina rematch in the

final.

Now, the stadium, the bars, the cafés, and the living rooms across the

nation were as silent as if they were witnessing a state funeral. Only the few

thousand Dutch supporters behind Sala’s goal made any attempt to dispel the

wake-like pall that had fallen over Argentina.

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JAMES McCREATH

The blue shirts tried gamely to find the equalizer, but the unyielding

Dutch midfield would not allow them to get untracked. Martini and Nazzareno,

so prominent and dangerous in the early stages of the match, were distracted

and ineffective on the attack. So thoroughly smothered and turned back was

each Italian thrust, that the ball rarely crossed into Dutch territory.

The clock was the real enemy. If only the Azzurri could hold back the

clock and gain more time!

It was that same dreaded clock that put an end to the Italians’ on-field

misery, as well as their hopes of a place in the World Cup final. Seventy-five

thousand people in River Plate as well as millions around the world beheld

their agony. What had happened to the Azzurri of the first half? How had they

allowed the Dutchmen to steal victory from their grasp?

The Italian players stood on the pitch, most with tears streaming down

their anguished faces. They had come to Argentina with so much talent, so

much promise! This was not the way things were supposed to end! There