"Madame, I fought the fascist beast, and so, am qualified to speak on it. It is identical to the communist beast. A beast is a beast. And my revolutionary fervor died when I saw what was supposed to replace the oppression of fascism. It was the oppression of such dullards as yourself. To me, Stalin, Hitler and Mao Tse Tung are identical."
"You have changed, Ricardo."
"I should hope so, Madame. People do grow up, unless stunted by some mass movement or other group sickness. I take it you knew me before?"
"You do not remember me?" Her voice, for the first time, wore some warmth.
"No, I do not."
"You do not remember the seige at Alcazar?"
"I remember that."
"You do not remember the battle at Teruel?"
"I remember that."
"And you do not remember me?"
"I do not."
"Maria Deloubier?"
The champagne glass shattered on the fieldstone terrace. Guerner's face paled.
"Maria," he gasped. "You?"
"Yes."
"Gentle, sweet Maria. No."
He looked at the haggard, cold face with the old eyes and he still could not see Maria, the young woman who believed and loved, who had reached out each morning for the sunshine as she reached out for a new world.
"Yes," said the old woman.
"Impossible," he said. "Time does not ravage like that, without leaving a trace."
"When you give your life to something, your life goes with it."
"No. Only if you give your life to something without life." Ricardo deEstrana y Montaldo y Ruiz Guemer gently placed his left hand on the woman's shoulder. He could feel the coarseness of the material, over the hardness of the bone.
"Come," he said. "We will eat. And we will talk."
"Will you do this thing for us, Ricardo? It is so important."
"We will talk, Maria. We have much to talk about."
Reluctantly, the woman agreed, and during the morning repast of fruit and wine and cheese, she answered questions about where she went after this cell collapsed, or that revolution succeeded, or this agitation failed or that one succeeded.
And Guemer discovered where Maria had fled, leaving only this passionless woman before him. Maria was the classic revolutionary, so involved with masses and power structures and political awareness that she forgot human beings. People became objects. Positive responses meant Communists, negative responses meant not Communist.
So it was easy for her to lump Nazis together with monarchists, democrats, republicans, capitalists. To her they were aU alike. They were "them." He also found that she had never remained in a country where her revolutionary efforts were successful. Those who dream most of the promised land are the ones most afraid to cross its borders.
Maria had softened as she shared the wine. "And what of you, Ricardito?"
"I have my vines, my estate, my land."
"No man owns land."
"I own this land as much as any man owns anything. I have changed this land and these changes are mine. Its beauty is nature. Which I might add does very well without the help of a revolutionary committee."
"You no longer use your skill?"
"I use it in different ways. Now I create."
"When you left us, you worked for others also, no?"
"Sometimes."
"Against the revolution?"
"Of course."
"How could you?"
"Maria, I fought for the loyalists for the same reason many fought for the fascists. It was the only war around at the time."
"But you believed. I know you believed."
"I believed, my dear, because I was young. And then I grew up."
"I hope then that I never grow up."
"You have grown old without growing up."
"That is unkind. But I would expect that of someone who could pour a life into a hillside instead of giving it to mankind."
Guerner threw back his leonine head and laughed.
"Really. That is just too much. You ask me to kill a man for $70,000 and you call it serving mankind."
"It is. It is. They are a counter-revolutionary force that we have been unable to overcome."
"Does it not strike you as odd that they sent you to me with the money?"
"You once had a reputation."
"But why now?"
The woman cupped her harsh reddish hands around the goblet as she had done when she was young and soft and beautiful, when the wine was not that good.
"All right, Ricardito. We will follow your thinking because you are the only one capable of thinking. And everyone else, especially a committee, cannot match your wisdom."
"Your organization has many people who effectively eliminate others. True?"
"True."
"Then why after more than 20 years must they choose a mercenary? Do they think I would not speak if captured? Absurd. Or do they plan to kill me afterwards? Why bother? They could get someone else, for much less than $70,000. Someone more politically reliable and less likely to need extermination. True?"
"True," said Maria, drinking more of the wine and feeling its warmth.
"They obviously * chose me because they know they might not succeed with their own people. And how would they know this? Because they have tried before and failed. True?"
"True."
"How many times have they tried?"
"Once."
"And what happened?"
"We lost eight men."
"They seem to have forgotten my specialty in the assassination of one man. At the most, two."
"They are not forgetful."
"Why then do they expect me to attack a company?"
"They do not. It is a man. His name, as best as we can learn, is Remo."
"He killed eight men?"
"Yes."
"With what weapon? He must be very fast and select his range of fire brilliantly. And of course, he is accurate."
"He used his hands as near as we can tell."
Guerner put down Ms goblet. "His hands?"
"Yes."
He began to chuckle. "Maria, my dear. I would have done it for $35,000. He is perfect for my weapon. And easy."
Ricardo deEstrana y Montaldo y Ruiz Guerner threw back his head again and laughed. "With his hands," he said. "A toast to a man who is fool enough to use his hands." They toasted again but the woman took merely a formal sip.
"One more thing, Ricardo."
"Yes?"
"I must accompany you."
"Impossible."
"They wish to make sure that everything is done neatly. There is a Chinese girl who is not to be killed. Just the man and possibly his elderly companion."
She withdrew a picture from the purse she had kept on her arm all the while, even while eating.
"These are the men to die. The Caucasian definitely. And this girl is to live."
Guerner took the photograph between two fingers. It was obviously shot from above, with a telephoto lens. Because of the absence of depth of field and the obvious fluorescent lighting which would allow an f.4 opening, "Guerner estimated the lens to be.200 millimeter.
The Oriental man was elderly, his wraithlike arms waving above Mm in gesture to the young girl. Behind him came the younger Occidental with the look of frustration. His eyes were deepset, his cheekbones slightly high, his lips thin and his nose strong but not large. Average build.
"The Oriental is not Korean?"
"No. She is Chinese."
"I mean the man."
"Let me see," said Maria, taking back the picture.
"I don't know," she said.
"No doubt they all look alike to you, my revolutionary friend."
"Why does it matter?"
"It would matter if he were a certain type of Korean. But that is doubtful. Keep the picture. I have it in my mind."
He whistled gently that afternoon as he removed a long tubular black leather case from the locked safe behind his family's coat of arms.