The hotel had organised a rental car for him and the next morning it was delivered, ready to use. It was nothing exotic – a VW Beetle. All of the Volkswagens in South America were turned out in Brazil. It had done a lot of miles already. Over half the continent since it was made six months earlier.
As he drove out of Buenos Aires, he thought about the note from the night before. It had been in English and on reflection, it couldn’t have been from the brokers. Obviously, someone was observing his movements. They knew he was British and that he was staying at the Marriott. It could have been someone from Argentine internal security or the army or the guerrillas or some other left-wing group opposing the government. It could have been anyone. They might even be following him, right at that moment as he drove along the highway out of the capital.
The interrogation and searches at the airport were a warning that the British weren’t welcome. Perhaps the note under the door would be a pretext for deporting him. Or it could be guerrillas wanting to kidnap him. Either way, it didn’t matter as he hadn’t fallen for it.
At the pharmaceutical manufacturer in the town of Mercedes outside Buenos Aires, he met the brokers and was shown the fermentation process for making antibiotics. The company had been formed after the war by German chemists. (Argentina had supported the Nazis during the war and had sheltered war criminals when Germany was defeated.) It was an old client of Texas Fire, probably from Chuck Fairweather’s days as an underwriter. They’d been working at full capacity in the past year. Orders had been pouring in from the government and the military. An extremely large consignment of one million doses of penicillin was due for delivery shortly. This would have been large enough for every soldier, sailor and airman to have ten courses each. Again, there were indications that some sort of conflict wasn’t too far off.
When he returned to his hotel in Buenos Aires that evening after a full day with risk managers and brokers (they were all Liverpool supporters), the telephone in his room rang.
It was a woman’s voice.
“Senor Ashby ?”
“Yes ?”
“I have to see you – it is very urgent.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not interested,” he said and was about to replace the receiver. In some countries, even the best hotels were frequented by prostitutes who bribed the hotel staff for access to the guests.
“I have important information for you.”
“Information.....did you put the note under my door yesterday ? Well, whatever it is, I’m not interested.”
“You are British – there will be a war soon between our countries.”
“Who are you ?”
“I have information of value to your country – about Las Malvinas.”
“The Falkland Islands ? “I’m here on business. I don’t interfere in politics.”
“But you are British. You care about your country, don’t you ? Would you wish to prevent a war ?”
“A war ? What war ?”
“My country will invade Las Malvinas.”
“What ?”
“It is true.....but there is no time to explain now.”
“But how did you find me ?”
“I have friends. I cannot talk on the telephone. It is not safe. Meet me at the Cafe Santa Cruz tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. I have documents to show you. You must give them to your government in London. I will be wearing jeans and a white t-shirt.” And then she hung up.
Was it a set up ? Or was the call genuine ? It sounded like it was. However, neither he nor the caller knew that the telephone line had been tapped. Argentine State Security had been listening to every word they said.
The next morning he was at the cafe early. It was in a side-street, around twenty minutes walk from his hotel. Inside, there was a long bar in the Spanish style with a row of tables and chairs in the front. Cafe con leche was served in the morning and beer and anis from mid-day onwards. The bar staff were busy making tapas for the lunchtime trade and the place was full of customers having breakfast en route to the office.
He’d gone there, more out of curiosity than anything else, despite his conversation with Trowers in Houston.
He chose a booth at the end of the restaurant with a clear view down the length of the cafe to the entrance and the street outside. Next to him was a swing-door to the kitchen. The waiter was rushing backwards and forwards, in and out, with trays of food. The coffee was strong and with the morning’s International Herald Tribune, he kept half an eye on the entrance and waited.
At just after ten, a young woman in blue jeans and a white t-shirt came in the front door. She was tallish and slim with long, straight dark hair and in her early twenties. She looked like a student. Even though the cafe was busy, she recognised him from the cut of his English suit and his striped shirt and walked towards him.
He saw that she was hesitant and nervous. Their eyes met. Up close, he could see that she wasn’t wearing any make-up or lipstick. Her eyes looked sombre and dark. After sitting down opposite him, she spoke in a whisper.
“Senor Ashby ?”
“Yes. May I get you a coffee ?”
“No. I must be quick. Here are the papers.”
She placed an envelope on the table. He opened it and looked inside. There was printed material in Spanish with the armed forces’ emblem.
“Who are you ? Why are you doing this ?” he asked.
“They murdered my brother. I hate them. Give these papers to your government. Tell the world what is going on in my country. Now, I must go.”
Just as he was about to thank her, she quickly got up and left. At the same moment, at the far end of the cafe, three men in suits came in. Even from a distance, their clothes and bearing were a give-away. As the woman tried to pass them, one of the men grabbed her and she began screaming as he dragged her out of the front door. The other two glanced around them at the frightened customers until one of them saw Ashby and nudged the other one in the ribs. Both of them looked straight at him as they headed down the length of the cafe.