The Assignment by Per Wahlöö Page B

clock.
    “The army were naturally a bit touchy about the whole thing. General Larrinaga relied on the army, the way you do on your experts. Anyhow—are you coming to Dalgren’s place this evening?”
    “Yes, with pleasure. Who is this man Dalgren?”
    “This man Dalgren,” said Behounek calmly, “is the outstanding right-wing extremist and member of the Citizens’ Guard. Perhaps its leader. It is presumably with him we shall negotiate, if anything is to be negotiated. No, don’t ask me why I don’t arrest him. Technically speaking, every single inhabitant of the whole province is a member of either the Citizens’ Guard or the Liberation Front. I’d have to arrest two hundred and fifty thousand people.”
    “I wasn’t going to ask you.”
    “Otherwise, Dalgren was originally a pharmacist, a druggist.He found the raw materials for certain medicines here in the province and began a pharmaceutical manufacturing concern. It’s already earned him millions. Basically, of course, it’s pretty squalid: impoverished Indians, women and children, climb all over the mountains for weeks and months collecting roots, or whatever they are, which he then buys from them with a shrug of his shoulders, and they get practically nothing. So he becomes a millionaire and they starve to death. But that’s what it’s like. We’re not supposed to be able to change it.”
    “No, hardly. My life, moreover, was threatened by the Citizens’ Guard today.”
    “I know,” said Behounek.
    Manuel Ortega started and opened his mouth, but said nothing.
    Behounek glanced at the telephone and shrugged his shoulders slightly.
    “The person who threatened you was arrested ten minutes later. A young lady who owns a perfume shop three blocks away from here. A rather exalted type. Full of talk. There are lots like her. Tomorrow we’ll let her go again. But,” the Chief of Police went on thoughtfully, “that doesn’t mean that your position is not a very tricky one. We must hope that there’ll be a relaxation of tension in a week or two. I’ll keep an eye on you and then you’ve got your …”
    He jerked his head toward the man in the chair.
    They rose and shook hands. Manuel Ortega had collected his wits and was able to say: “One more thing. Will you send copies of your reports and your crime statistics over, so that I can let my staff work on them?”
    Behounek thought for a moment.
    “Yes, for the last seven months. You can have them in the morning. What happened before then will be in the military records.”
    They parted.
    Manuel Ortega went in and had a shower and changed his shirt and underclothes. When he went out into the corridor again, López was sitting there on his swivel chair.
    If he doesn’t take his hands off his knees soon, I’ll strangle him. I must send these orangutans back to Uribarri. Otherwise I’ll go crazy. Nice not to have to look at that Frankenheimer anyhow.
    As he put his hand on the doorknob and heard López’s slothful movements behind him, the terror clutched at him. He thrust his hand inside his jacket and nervously gripped the butt of the revolver before pushing open the door to his office.
    There was, of course, no one in there.

The villa was large and white and lay at the top of the artificially irrigated hillside. In front of it was a wide veranda with a grand colonnade of white marble. Dalgren was holding his party there. The darkness fell swiftly and the air seemed even thicker and hotter.
    Manuel Ortega and Danica Rodríguez drove there in the little French sedan. López was driving and appeared later on on the veranda, where he sat on various chairs and ate tiny sandwiches.
    Dalgren was a man of about sixty, thin and bald and dressed in a flimsy white dinner jacket. He gazed at his guests through rimless glasses, peering in a friendly way. Early in the evening while everyone was still standing in groups talking quietly, he walked up to Manuel Ortega, took him by the arm, and spoke to him.