Iris said to me: “If that’s really him, he’s having trouble making up his mind.” And a second later: “OK, he’s walking through the plaza, make sure it’s him.” I sat up just enough to see, and I recognized him. I didn’t need binoculars. That way of walking, of leaning back and dragging his feet a little, was Rafa’s and no one else’s. He walked along the gravel walkway toward the cedar tree, which must have been no more than fifty yards from us. He sat down on the bench with the gum, looked at the stars for a while, turned to scan the plaza, and then languidly let a hand fall, feeling his way along the iron leg. From that position he could have noticed our Peugeot. He would have had to turn his head to his left. He didn’t. He looked at the stars again, pensive; he got up slowly and headed back at a relaxed pace toward the southeast corner.
Iris communicated over the radio that the Subject was headed toward his car parked on Calle Grajales. A motor started up, and a white Chevy moved at a normal speed eastward along Grajales, along the south edge of the plaza. The Toyota on Almirante Latorre started up, turned right on Grajales, eastward, and casually began to tail the Chevy. At night, the small amount of traffic made it difficult to tail without being noticed. The Toyota, which Pancha was driving with Great Dane beside her, let Rafa get ahead. Great Dane communicated that the Toyota had the Subject under control. Was that when Rafa noticed the headlights of the Toyota behind him and the Nissan parked to the right, close to the corner of Almirante Latorre? Who knows. Rafa’s Chevy continued eastward on Calle Grajales, and three blocks past Almirante Latorre, when he reached Ejército, he turned suddenly and sped southward. Great Dane reported that they had lost the control, and they kept going straight to avoid raising suspicion. Mono Lepe’s Nissan, which was farther back on Grajales, took Ejército southward and became the control car. Rafa’s Chevy sped some five blocks farther, crossed Blanco Encalada, and turned, wheels skidding, onto Tupper. He went straight along O’Higgins Park, crossed the highway, and catapulted onto Avenida Matta, heading east. Mono Lepe informed us of these movements and assured us that the Subject remained under control, that his Nissan was keeping up though the Subject was performing countersurveillance maneuvers. Then Macha gave the order for the blue Daihatsu to take the lead as the control car. But Rafa had already turned right again onto San Ignacio, and then he wrenched the car eastward to double back on Rondizzoni, where it dovetailed with the highway going southward, and he floored it. The Daihatsu was left behind, and it lost the control. Macha gave the order to disperse. Rafa had detected the tail. Nothing could be done. .
A couple days later I went back alone to Plaza Manuel Rodríguez. It was cold and the night was very dark. I took a couple of turns around the adjacent streets to be sure that there were no suspicious people or vehicles. My steps echoed on the pavement. I started at the sound of my own footsteps. Just as Rafa had, I arrived on Grajales and stopped on the southwest corner of the plaza, next to the palm tree; I made sure the place was empty and then I set off down the gravel path toward the bench under the bluish cedar tree. I could smell the dampness of the grass. The sound of leaves in a thicket startled me, and I stood there paralyzed. I touched my gun. A pigeon darted out and flew away. Once I was under the roof of the enormous cedar, I sat down on the bench just as I had seen Rafa do. I looked at the dark sky, across which even darker clouds were gliding. The plaza was intimate, secret. I reached my hand down until I touched the leg of the bench, and I made sure to affix the paper firmly with the gum.
THIRTY-SIX
He called me right on time at my student’s house, interrupting my class as I’d wanted. I arranged to meet him without giving any explanations. My tone, firm and decisive, was enough. Address, day, time. Nothing else. I don’t know why I was so sure he would listen to me, in spite of the irregular way I went about it. The “meet point,” the shadowy Plaza Concha y Toro in the old part of downtown Santiago, had escape routes on three narrow streets: Erasmo de Escala, Maturana, and Concha y Toro. That, I thought, would give him confidence. At one thirty on the dot I heard his footsteps on the cobblestones, breaking the silence of the night. And then he was there. He’d entered from the south on Concha y Toro. His way of walking was the same as always: hesitant and slightly tilted backward. His open parka couldn’t hide his belly. His right hand in his pocket made me think he had a small weapon. He was suspicious.
He made no sign when he saw me. Close to the fountain, as soon as he could check the little street that ends at Maturana, he stopped. Rafa looked and listened carefully. I didn’t move. I watched his legs. I didn’t dare look at his face. Then he rounded the fountain and came closer to me with short, measured steps. When he was very close I reached out my arms to hug him, but he didn’t take his right hand from his pocket. I kissed a cold cheek. Right then, I wavered. I was afraid to do it. I felt a wrenching in my guts. Could I still save him? Yes, I thought, it’s still possible. And in that fleeting moment I wanted to, I swear I wanted to. “They’re following me,” I told him anxiously.
He looked at me with an attentive, cold intensity. I was desperate, I withdrew into myself. “Inform the Spartan that they’re following me,” I told him, dazed. “He won’t answer my messages. I need help.” He looked at me, disconcerted and annoyed. “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I didn’t know who else to turn to.”
“Why don’t you get in touch with your contact?” he reproached me. “Why don’t you follow procedure?”
Something, a flash, passed over his tense eyes. I wavered then, just barely, but I wavered. I couldn’t stand the situation one second more. I still wanted to save him, still. . I looked over his shoulder. “They’re coming!” I told him. “Run, run!” And without waiting for his reaction I took off running desperately toward Maturana. He ran northward to Erasmo de Escala.
I swear, of all that I did, that was the worst.
I fell to the ground. I was running, I heard footsteps and gunfire, a Browning, I thought, and I fell, and then I heard more gunfire. Rafa? Then I heard the first CZ. Now there was machine-gun fire. The narrow streets made the noise echo. I didn’t feel any pain, but when I brought my hand to my calf I felt something warm. I brought my fingers to my mouth: blood. Shouts, but far off. Now there was Macha’s grave voice. He was telling me no, don’t move. The light from a flashlight, a penknife or pocket knife, something cutting my pant leg. “It’s not serious,” Macha was saying to me. “It’s not serious. This will hurt a little.” He lifted me in his arms and carried me as he walked. Pancha supported my leg, which was starting to hurt. Macha laid me in the back seat of a car. He took off his belt and made a tourniquet that almost strangled my leg. “Let’s go,” he said to Pancha. “Let’s go.”
I wanted to know if Rafa had shot me. But no, it hadn’t been him, Pancha explained to me as I was rolled on a cot through the hallways of the Military Hospital. “He had someone with him,” she told me. “Rafa ran toward Erasmo de Escala, with his bodyguard following. He was the one who shot you. When he got to the plaza, he shot toward Erasmo de Escala to cover Rafa’s retreat, but he saw you running to his left, toward Maturana, and he fired. I’m sure he wanted to protect you from me, because he must have seen me next to the car, waiting for you on Calle Maturana. He was aiming at me or at Macha, and he hit you. That’s what I think.”