Replay (27 page)

“Doesn’t sound like that bothers you too much.”

“Give me that sandwich. And stop making fun of me all the time, unless you want me to start finding you attractive.”

Marisa twisted around and reached into the back seat. Andrew couldn’t help but admire her butt.

“Here, have some coffee,” she said, handing him a paper cup.

An hour later, they heard the noise of an engine in the distance. Marisa switched off the light.

“It’s too early for it to be Ortiz,” Andrew murmured.

She burst out laughing.

“You’re right to whisper, can’t be too careful. We’re only fifty yards from the road and they might hear us . . . No, that can’t be Ortiz.”

“So why did you turn off the light?”

Before Andrew could figure out what was happening, Marisa had swung her legs over the gearshift and straddled him. She stroked his lips with her fingertips, and then she kissed him.

“Ssssh,” she whispered. “You’re getting married, and so am I. There’s no danger of us falling in love.”

“You’re pretty talkative for someone who’s telling
me
to shut up.”

Marisa kissed Andrew again. They clambered into the back seat and slid into each other’s arms in the silence of the night.

* * *

Marisa reopened her eyes, glanced at her watch and dug her elbow into Andrew’s ribs.

“Wake up and get dressed, it’s three in the morning!”

Andrew started. Marisa whipped her cell out of her pocket. There were six new text messages, each announcing the name of a village Ortiz had passed through. She looked at the screen again and scrambled into the front seat.

“I can’t get a signal anymore: they’ve already cut off the power supply to the exchange. Ortiz can’t be far now. Hurry up!”

Andrew pulled on his pants and sweater and climbed back into the passenger seat. They sat there in total silence. He turned his head to look at Marisa. She was staring intently at the road.

“Look at the road, that’s where it’ll all be happening!”

“What about what happened in the back seat?” Andrew asked.

“Nothing happened. It was just two consenting adults having a good time.”

“How good?” Andrew asked, smiling.

Marisa gave him a poke with her elbow.

“Do you think your uncle’s friends saw us when they came to sprinkle that scrap metal over the road?”

“Let’s hope they didn’t—it wouldn’t be good for either of us. Now just pray we haven’t missed Ortiz.”

“If his car had already gone past it’d be there in the middle of the road, wouldn’t it? Do you see a car?”

Marisa didn’t answer. They heard the sound of an approaching engine. Andrew could feel his heart beating faster.

“What if it isn’t them?” he croaked.

“Collateral damage. Unfortunate, but sometimes inevitable.”

As Andrew sat there fretting, a black sedan sped toward the crucifix memorial. As it approached, three of its tires blew out. The driver tried to hold a straight course, but the car swerved sharply and started weaving before landing on its side. It slid forward until the front fender got stuck in a pothole. The back of the car lifted and the sedan flipped over several times with a deafening crash of metal. The windscreen shattered as the front passenger went right through it. The upside-down car continued its crazy forward skid, shooting out a trail of sparks, and finally shuddered to a stop on the edge of a field.

The cacophony of the crash was replaced by a deathly silence.

“It was all supposed to go smoothly,” Andrew said angrily, starting to get out of the station wagon.

Marisa grabbed hold of his arm and forced him to sit down again. The look on her face was hard, determined. She turned the key in the ignition and drove down the dirt track. She stopped on the side of the road and turned on the headlights, revealing a scene of total devastation. A man was lying a few yards from the wreck. Andrew ran towards him. He was badly injured, but he was still breathing. Marisa walked over to the smashed car. The driver was unconscious, his face covered in blood. In the back, trapped in the wreckage of the car, a dazed man lay groaning.

Andrew joined Marisa and leaned into what was left of the car.

“Give me a hand,” he told Marisa. “We have to get him out of there before the car goes up in flames.”

Marisa crouched down and stared coldly at the wounded man.

“Did you hear that? The car’s going to start burning. We’ve got some questions to ask you. You better answer them quick if you don’t want to be roasted like a pig in there.”

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” the man moaned.

“We’re asking the questions. You just answer them.”

“For Chrissake, Marisa, stop that bullshit and help me, there’s been enough damage already,” Andrew shouted, trying to pull the wounded man out of the wreck.

“Leave him right there until he starts talking. What’s your name?” she asked.

“Miguel Ortega.”

“Yeah, and I’m Evita Perón! I’m going to give you one more chance,” she said, putting a cigarette between her lips. She took a box of matches out of her pocket, struck one and moved the flame close to Ortega’s face.

“My name’s Miguel Ortega!” he shouted. “You’re crazy! Get me out of here!”

“Try harder. It’s really starting to stink of gas in here,” she said.

Andrew was trying with all his might to pull Ortega out, but the old man’s legs were trapped under the driver’s seat. He couldn’t do it without Marisa’s help.

“Come on, we’re getting out of here,” Marisa said, letting her match drop inside the car. The flame flickered and went out. Marisa lit another match and set the box on fire, holding it with her fingertips.

Ortiz looked at the flames dancing above his head.

“Ortiz,” he said. “My name’s Felipe Ortiz. Put that out, I beg you. I have a family. Don’t do it!”

Marisa flung the matchbox into the distance, then turned back and spat on Major Ortiz’s face.

Andrew was fuming. Marisa slipped inside the car and pushed at the driver’s seat. Andrew managed to pull Ortiz free. He dragged him a little way up the road, away from the car.

“We have to get the driver out,” he said.

As he was walking back towards the sedan, sparks started shooting out from under the hood. The next moment, the car was ablaze. He saw the flames licking at the driver’s body and caught a glimpse of his distorted face before a cloud of smoke obscured the nightmarish scene.

Andrew clutched his head and dropped to his knees. He threw up. When he had stopped shaking, he got up and walked back to where Ortiz was lying on the shoulder. Marisa was crouched next to him, smoking.

“We’re taking him to the hospital,” Andrew ordered. “The other man, too.”

“Nope,” Marisa said, swinging the station wagon keys. “And if you get any closer, I’ll chuck these into the field.”

“Isn’t one death enough for you?”

“One? Compared to three thousand? No, it’s not enough. The game has run into overtime, and now I’m ahead. If this sonofabitch wants to stay alive, he’s going to have to talk. Get out your notebook and pen, Mr. Journalist. This is your moment of glory!”

“Take me to the hospital,” Ortiz begged. “Please, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know on the way.”

Marisa got up and walked over to the station wagon. She opened the glove compartment and came back with Alberto’s revolver. She pressed the barrel against Ortiz’s temple and cocked the hammer.

“Shall we start the interview?” she asked Andrew. “See all that blood pouring out of his leg? I wouldn’t waste any more time if I were you.”

“Are you going to shoot me if I refuse to go along with this crap?” Andrew snapped.

“No, I like you too much to do that, but I’d have no problem at all taking him out. In fact I’d probably enjoy it.”

Andrew knelt down next to Ortiz.

“Let’s get this over with as soon as possible so I can take you to the hospital. I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to happen this way.”

“Do you think he was sorry when he had the brake lines cut on Antonio’s car? Or when he sent his goons to your hotel room?”

“You were in my world and you were asking everyone questions,” Ortiz protested. “We only wanted to dissuade you, give you a scare, not hurt you.”

“Yeah, sure,” Marisa scoffed. “You can tell that to Antonio when you’re lying next to him in the hospital. We wanted to give you a scare too, so I guess we’re even. Take a look at my friend here. See how your men rearranged his face? So we’re not even after all.”

“I had nothing to do with that. I don’t even know who you are.”

Andrew was convinced Ortiz was being sincere; he genuinely didn’t seem to know who he was.

“My name’s Andrew Stilman, and I’m a reporter with
The New York Times
. I’m investigating the career of a pilot and certain things he did during the junta. Are you Major Ortiz, who served as a coast guard pilot from 1977 to 1983?”

“To November 29, 1979,” Ortiz corrected him. “I never flew a plane again after that date.”

“Why?”

“Because I could no longer stomach what I was being ordered to do.”

“What kind of missions did you fly, Major Ortiz?”

Ortiz sighed. “It’s been a long time since anyone called me ‘Major.’”

Marisa pressed the revolver against his cheek.

“We don’t give a shit about your nostalgia. Just answer the question.”

“I flew surveillance flights along the border with Uruguay.”

Marisa slid the revolver down Ortiz’s body and stroked the gaping wound on his leg with the barrel. Ortiz screamed out in pain. His leg was broken. Andrew shoved her out of the way.

“You do that one more time and I’ll leave you here on your own; you’ll have to walk all the way back to Buenos Aires,” he said icily. “Is that clear?”

“My, my. How unfriendly we’re being, Mr. Stilman,” she pouted, giving him a flirty look.

“Take me to the hospital,” Ortiz begged.

Andrew got out his notebook and pen.

“Did you take part in the death flights, Major Ortiz?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“How many of those flights did you make?”

“Thirty-seven,” he murmured.

“If you count twenty passengers per flight, that’s over seven hundred people this bastard tossed into the Río de la Plata,” Marisa said.

“I couldn’t see what was going on in the back from my place in the cockpit, but I knew. Whenever the plane suddenly got lighter and started to climb, I knew what had happened. I just obeyed orders. I’d have been shot if I refused. What would you have done in my place?”

“I would have died rather than be part of anything so horrific,” said Marisa.

“You’re young. You don’t know what you’re taking about. You don’t understand the meaning of authority. I was a career soldier, programmed to serve my country and obey without question. You don’t know what it was like in those days.”

“You piece of shit. My real parents were among the people you tortured and murdered.”

“I never tortured anyone. They were dead or dying by the time they were put on my plane. And if I’d tried to play the hero, I’d have been executed, my family would have been arrested, and another pilot would have taken my place.”

“So why did you stop flying in 1979?” Andrew asked.

“I couldn’t do it anymore. I was only an ordinary soldier, a normal man, and not an especially courageous one at that. I wasn’t capable of openly defying my superiors. I was too scared of the consequences for my family.

“One evening, I tried to nosedive my plane into the river, with its cargo and the three officers on board. It was night, and we were flying at a very low altitude with all our lights out. I only had to push the joystick forward. But my copilot managed to wrest back control at the last minute. When we returned to base, he reported me. I was put under arrest and court-martialed. A military doctor saved me from the firing squad. He testified that I was no longer in my right mind, and therefore couldn’t be held responsible for what I’d done. Luckily I was on Febres’s good side. And I wasn’t the only soldier who’d started cracking up. He was afraid that if he had me shot it would encourage others to desert, but showing mercy to an officer who had served his country would earn him the sympathy of his men. I was discharged and told I could return to civilian life.”

“You took part in the murder of more than seven hundred people, remember? You hardly expect us to feel sympathy for you, do you?” Marisa sneered.

“Not in the least. Those unseen faces have haunted me for the past thirty years.”

“How did you build yourself a new identity? How have you managed to remain anonymous for all these years?” Andrew asked.

“The army protected itself by protecting the men who’d served it. After the dirty war ended, Febres helped us. We were given new papers, a reconstituted past, and a piece of land or a small business to start over.”

“Land and businesses that were stolen from their rightful owners!” Marisa shouted.

“You’re Alberto’s niece, aren’t you?” Ortiz asked.

“Well, you may be a civilian, but it seems your intelligence service is as good as ever.”

“I don’t have access to any intelligence. I’m just a humble businessman with a small tannery. I guessed who you were the minute I saw you snooping around Dumensil. You look like him, you talk like him . . . That crafty fox has been tracking me for a long, long time, but he’s become too old to do the job himself.”

“That’ll do for now,” Andrew said, putting his notebook away. “Go get the car, Marisa. We’re taking him with us, and the other one too—let’s hope he’s still alive. And hurry up unless you want to get left behind.”

Marisa shrugged, put her gun away and strolled towards the station wagon with her hands in her pockets.

“I didn’t send those men to your hotel,” Ortiz said as soon as he was alone with Andrew. “I’m sure it was Alberto. That man is a lot more deceitful than you think. He’s been manipulating you from the start, to get you to do what he couldn’t. He was the one who set up this ambush, wasn’t he? You’re only a pawn in his game.”

“Shut up, Ortiz! You don’t know what you’re talking about. It wasn’t Alberto who made me come to Argentina. I’ve been on your trail for weeks, ever since I was given this story.”