Replay (23 page)

Andrew couldn’t help grimacing in disgust as he looked at the photograph of the officer in his haughty pose.

“He didn’t report to Massera, the head of ESMA. That’s probably why he managed to slip by unnoticed during those few years when he could have been arrested. Ortiz was under the orders of Héctor Febres, the Coast Guard chief. But Febres also headed ESMA’s intelligence service. He was in charge of Sector 4, which included a number of torture rooms and the maternity unit—if you could call it that, considering it was a tiny hole measuring a few square feet where women prisoners were made to give birth like animals. Worse than animals, even, because their heads were covered with burlap sacks.

“Febres forced those brand-new mothers to write a letter to their families asking them to look after their babies while they were in prison. You know what happened next. Now listen carefully, Mr. Stilman, because if you really want me to help you, we’ll have to make a pact, you and I.”

Andrew refilled Luisa’s glass with lemonade. She gulped it down and put the glass back on the table.

“It’s very likely that Febres did Ortiz a favor for services rendered—meaning he was given one of those babies.”

“Very likely, or do you know that for a fact?”

“It doesn’t matter. That’s why we’re making a pact. You have to choose your words with great care when you’re telling one of those stolen children the truth: that’s something we Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo insist on. When you are told, as an adult, that not only are your mother and father not your biological parents, but that they were associated either directly or indirectly with the disappearance of the woman who gave birth to you, it can have terrible consequences. It’s a difficult and traumatic process. We’re fighting to expose the truth and give the victims of the junta their true identities back, but the last thing we want is to destroy the lives of innocent people.

“I’ll tell you everything I know and can find out about Ortiz. As for you, you’ll talk to me—and only to me—if you find out anything about his children. I want you to swear to me that you won’t publish anything on the subject without my permission.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There are truths that need time to be revealed. What if you were Ortiz’s ‘adopted’ child? Would you want to find out all of a sudden that your birth parents were murdered, that your life has been one big web of deceit and that your entire identity, right down to your name, is false? Would you want to discover all of that just because you happened to open a newspaper? Have you ever thought about the consequences a newspaper article can have for the lives of the people involved?”

Andrew got the unpleasant feeling that Capetta’s shadow was lurking in the room.

“But let’s not get too carried away,” Luisa said. “We have no proof that Ortiz adopted one of those stolen babies. But just in case he did, I prefer to warn you and make sure we’re both on the same page.”

“I promise I won’t publish anything without asking you first, even though I suspect you’re not telling me everything.”

“We’ll come to the rest of it when the time is right. Meanwhile, you should watch your step. Febres was among the cruelest of the lot. He picked ‘Jungle’ as his code name during the war because he boasted he was more ferocious than all the predators combined. The stories told by the few people who survived his treatment are horrifying.”

“Is Febres still alive?”

“No, unfortunately.”

“Why unfortunately?”

“After benefiting from the amnesty law, he spent most of the rest of his life as a free man. It was only in 2007 that he was finally brought to trial, for just four of the four hundred crimes he’d been accused of. Everyone was waiting for the verdict. This was the man who’d strapped a fifteen-month-old child to its father’s chest before flicking the switch on the electric chair to make his victim talk. A few days before his trial—and by the way, he was given special treatment in prison, where he lived in princely conditions—he was found dead in his cell. Cyanide poisoning. The military were too scared he’d talk. Justice was never done. For the families of his victims, it is as if the torture continues.”

Luisa spat on the floor, then continued: “The only problem is, Febres took everything he knew about the identities of the five hundred babies and children he kidnapped with him to the grave. His death has made things harder for us, but we’ve carried on with untiring faith and determination. This is all my way of telling you to be careful. Most of Febres’s men are still alive and free, and they’re prepared to go to any lengths to silence anyone who takes an interest in them. Ortiz is one of them.”

“How can I prove that Ortiz is the man hiding behind Ortega?”

“Comparing photos is always useful—we’ll see what’s left on Marisa’s film roll. But there’s a difference of more than thirty years between the arrogant-looking major in my album and the 74-year-old salesman he’s now become. And a mere likeness won’t be enough for the courts. The best way to get what we want, though it seems impossible to me, would be to unmask him and make him confess. How? I have no idea.”

“If I start investigating Ortega’s past, we’ll see soon enough if it stands up to scrutiny.”

“You really are incredibly naive! Believe me, if Ortiz changed his identity, he didn’t do it without help. His existence as Ortega will be perfectly documented, from the school where he supposedly studied to his college degree and all his jobs, including a fake army job.”

Luisa stood up.

“Marisa, come and give me a hand in the kitchen,” she ordered.

Left on his own in the living room, Andrew leafed through the file Luisa had left out. Each page had the photo of a soldier, his rank, the unit to which he belonged, the list of crimes he had committed and—in some cases—the real identity of the child or children he had been given. At the back of the album was a list of five hundred babies whose birth parents had disappeared. Only fifty of the names had the word “identified” next to them.

Andrew reflected that Luisa would have made a wonderful grandmother if the junta hadn’t deprived her of the possibility of having grandchildren.

Luisa and Marisa reappeared a few moments later. Marisa hinted to Andrew that her aunt was tired and that it would be a good time for them to leave.

Andrew thanked Luisa for seeing him and promised to let her know if he found out anything.

Marisa was tight-lipped when they got back in the car. He could tell from the way she was driving that she was on edge. At a crossroads where a truck refused to give her the right of way, she leaned on the horn and let loose a stream of invective that even Andrew, who spoke fluent Spanish, didn’t fully understand.

“Did I say something to annoy you?” he asked politely.

“There’s no need to use that tone with me, Mr. Stilman. I work at a bar. I prefer when people tell things to me straight.”

“What did your aunt want to tell you without me hearing?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marisa answered.

“She didn’t ask you to follow her into the kitchen to help her clear away the glasses of lemonade. You left them on the table, and when you came back your hands were empty.”

“She told me to watch out for you. She said you knew more than you were letting on, and if you were hiding things from her it meant you couldn’t be fully trusted. You didn’t run into me at the bar by chance, did you? You better not lie to me, unless you want to take a taxi back to the hotel and forget about me helping you anymore.”

“You’re right. I knew your aunt was one of the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, and that I’d be able to meet her through you.”

“So I guess you used me as bait. That’s nice to know. How did you find me?”

“Your name was in the file I was given, and the place where you work.”

“Why was my name in that file?”

“I don’t know any more than you do. A few months ago, my editor Olivia Stern was sent an envelope containing information about Ortiz and a couple of people who had been disappeared. There was a letter accusing Ortiz of taking part in their murder. Your name was there too, and your relationship to Luisa, with a note saying you were someone who could be trusted. Olivia was fascinated by the whole thing. She asked me to track down Ortiz and use his story to expose the dark years of the junta. It’ll be the fortieth anniversary next year—a tragic landmark—and all the newspapers will be picking up on the story. Olivia likes to stay ahead of the competition. I guess that’s why she’s so keen on this investigation.”

“Who sent that envelope to your editor?”

“She told me the information came from an anonymous source, but there was sufficient evidence in it for us to take it seriously. And so far it’s all been confirmed. Olivia has her faults, and she can be hard to figure out sometimes, but she takes her job seriously.”

“Sounds like the two of you are close.”

“Not especially, no.”

“I wouldn’t call my boss by his first name.”

“It’s one of the privileges of age!”

“She’s younger than you?”

“By a few years.”

“Your boss is a woman who’s younger than you? Your ego must have taken quite a beating,” Marisa said, laughing.

“Could you drive me to the archives your aunt told us about?”

“If you want me to be your personal chauffeur, you’re going to have to make it worth my while, Mr. Stilman.”

“And I’m supposed to be the one with an ego problem?”

Marisa ground to a halt at a gas station. Her Beetle’s exhaust pipe was throwing out a shower of sparks, and the engine had started making deafeningly loud sputtering noises.

While a mechanic tried to do a makeshift repair job on it—Marisa couldn’t afford a new car—Andrew moved out of earshot and called the office.

Olivia was in a meeting, but her assistant insisted he hold.

“What’s the news?” Olivia asked, sounding out of breath, when she came to the phone.

“Worse than last time.”

“What is it? I’ve come out of a meeting to take your call.”

“I need some extra money.”

“I’m listening,” Olivia said.

“Two thousand dollars.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“We’ve got to grease some palms to get what we need.”

“I’ll give you half that amount and not one dollar more for the duration of your trip.”

“I’ll manage,” replied Andrew, who hadn’t hoped to get even that much.

“Is that all you have to tell me?”

“I’m leaving for Córdoba tomorrow. I have every reason to believe our man’s hiding down there.”

“Do you have proof that it’s really him?”

“I’m following up a very promising lead.”

“Call me back as soon as you have anything new—no matter how late it is. Do you have my home number?”

“It’s in my notebook somewhere.”

Olivia hung up.

Andrew was taken by an overwhelming desire to hear the sound of Valerie’s voice, but he didn’t want to disturb her at work. He’d call her that evening.

The car was ready to go, the mechanic assured them. It could do at least another few hundred miles thanks to his repair job. He had sealed up all the holes and fixed the muffler with new bolts. As Marisa rummaged in her pockets for money to pay him, Andrew handed him fifty dollars. The mechanic thanked him profusely, and even opened the car door for him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Marisa said as she got behind the wheel.

“Let’s just call it my contribution to the trip.”

“Half that amount would have been enough. You got ripped off.”

“Marisa, I really need your help,” Andrew replied with a smile.

“Wait, what trip are you talking about?”

“Córdoba.”

“You’re even more stubborn than I am. Before you set out on that fool’s errand, I’ve got an address for you. It’s a lot nearer than Córdoba.”

“Where are we going?”

“Well, I’m heading back home to get changed. I’m working tonight. You’re taking a taxi,” Marisa answered, handing him a piece of paper. “This is a bar where some former Montoneros hang out. When you get there, act humble.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see three men sitting in the back of the room playing cards. Their fourth partner never returned from his stay at ESMA. Every evening they play the same game all over again, like a ritual. Ask them politely if you can sit in the empty spot, offer to buy them a drink—only one round—and make sure you lose a little, out of courtesy. If you’re too lucky, they’ll send you packing. If you play too badly, they’ll throw you out, too.”

“What do they play?”

“Poker, with several variations that they’ll explain to you. When you’ve won them over, talk to the bald man with a beard. He’s called Alberto. He’s one of the few survivors of the detention centers and was one of Febres’s victims. Like many survivors, he’s consumed by guilt, and it’s very hard for him to talk about what happened.”

“Why does he feel guilty?”

“Because he’s alive while most of his friends are dead.”

“How do you know him?”

“He’s my uncle.”

“Luisa’s husband?”

“Ex-husband. They haven’t spoken for a long time.”

“Why?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“The more I know, the less likely I’ll be to make a faux pas,” Andrew pointed out.

“She’s devoted her life to tracking down the former criminals, and he’s chosen to forget the whole business. I respect both their choices.”

“So why would he talk to me?”

“Because the same blood flows in our veins, and both of us tend to be very stubborn.”

“Where are your parents, Marisa?”

“That’s not the right question to ask, Mr. Stilman. The question I ask myself every single day is: who are my real parents? The ones who raised me, or the ones I never knew?”

Marisa pulled up to the curb and leaned across to open Andrew’s door.

“You’ll find a taxi at that corner over there. If you don’t get back too late, stop by and see me at the bar. My shift ends around one in the morning.”

* * *

The bar looked exactly as Marisa had described it. The decor was untouched by the passage of time, and several successive coats of paint had given the walls the strangest of textures. The only furniture was a handful of wooden tables and chairs. A photograph of Rodolfo Walsh, the journalist and legendary leader of the Montoneros who had been murdered by the junta, hung on the back wall. Alberto was sitting right beneath it. He was bald, and most of his face was hidden by a thick white beard. When Andrew walked over to the table where he was playing with his friends, Alberto looked up and stared at him briefly before turning wordlessly back to the game.