Renaldo (60 page)

JAMES McCREATH

“No, not at all. I just didn’t think that we would be going to the mattresses

this soon.”

Lonnie was referring to the old Mafia custom of family soldiers holding up

in a dormitory-fortress style existence if there was a gang war in progress, or if

one of their own was being sought by the police or an assassin.

“There is nowhere to go except to the mattresses, Lonnie. If Bertoni is

looking for us, you can be assured it is to turn us in and ease the pressure on

the rest of his organization. I knew the man was a coke head. I should have

never trusted him as I did. We go back so many years, though. It’s because he

is a Porteño. He is caught up in the fast life. Always has been. He doesn’t know

the hardships of the common people in the provinces. He is not one of them,

like we are. The working people of Argentina deserve their civil liberties, not

to be thrown in jail and detained without explanation. I want to keep going, to

show the people . . . Hell, the world, that true Montoneros don’t stop pressing

for justice just because of some irrelevant soccer games. We will work as a unit

again and strike independently for our cause. There is no going back. I did not

anticipate six people dying at the banco, but I was ready to lay down my life

and fight my way out of there if I had to. We have all lived to continue our

righteous work. That is an omen. We can never go back now, only forward, for

the people.”

That stirring piece of rhetoric cemented the formation of the outlaw gang

which was to become the most hated and hunted terrorist cadre in Argentina’s

history.

Preparation leading up to the first act of enlightenment by this splinter

group took almost six weeks to complete the procurement of the necessary

explosives and finalization of plans. Serge and Jean Pierre were moved to a

nondescript rooming house in downtown Tigre. An extended stay at the

fishing cabin would have provoked questions once the season drew to a close.

Everything had to be arranged with the utmost of secrecy and caution.

Lonnie had withdrawn ten thousand U.S. dollars from his private account

and turned the funds over to Serge. He and Celeste continued their work at the

camp as usual, with the exception of sporadic meetings at the rooming house.

It was the Lavalle brothers that would handle all the planning and purchasing.

By the twenty-sixth of March, Serge was ready to reveal the first strike plan.

“I want to hit the middle class first. I want to make them wake up and

realize that we haven’t gone away. These bastards are still thinking about their

fucking football tournament. I want to bring them back to reality. This is

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Argentina, home of the powerful and corrupt. The world must see that someone

still cares about the people who can’t even afford a ticket to a football game. So,

this is what we are going to do.”

Two days later, during the morning rush hour in the southern part

of the capital, a main commuter railway bridge was destroyed by plastic

explosives. No one was injured in the blast, but the disruption kept many an

irate businessperson away from work that day. Celeste had, once again, left her

artistic handiwork at the scene, and the florescent red ‘Montoneros’ painted on

the side of the trestle left no doubt in anyone’s mind just who the perpetrators

had been.

Serge wanted to act quickly and consummate as many operations as

possible in a short period of time, then change headquarters and lay low for a

while. The second sortie involved the bombing of a police station in northwest

Buenos Aires. This particular station was acknowledged to be one of the most

brutal detention and torture centers in the entire country. It took Serge until

April sixth to replenish the supply of plastic explosives after the railway bridge

job. They hit the station that same night.

An old clunker of a car that Lonnie had bought a few days earlier with

his false identification was parked in front of the target and left for several

hours while the operatives kept the comings and goings of the station under

surveillance. They were waiting for the arrival of the new internees, the ones

destined to be tortured or killed. Jean Pierre had memorized the times that the

armored police vehicle arrived at the station each night with its load of freshly

rounded up subversives. The plan was to coordinate the detonation of the car

bomb with the opening of the police station gate.

In the ensuing confusion, it might be possible to free some of the prisoners

before the compound was resecured. The assault was risky, but Serge had

concocted this plan as an act of defiance, an act to show the military and the

police that the Montoneros were an ongoing force with which to deal.

Celeste continued to preach her terrorist dogma throughout the initial

planning stage of the cadre’s new operations. That Lonnie was so thoroughly

brainwashed into the cause of the people’s revolution was, in part, due to her

oratorical skills and, in part, due to her oral skills. Rhetoric was always followed

by passionate lovemaking, and she knew that it was her skill as a lover more

than his passion for politics that kept Lonfranco De Seta a member of the

Montonero movement.

Lonnie never doubted any of the plans that Serge came up with. He was

like a big pussy cat, except for one nagging matter. The fledgling terrorist

wanted to prove that he was a worthy warrior, personally. The police station

operation seemed tailor-made for Lonnie to draw his first blood.

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The armored police personnel carrier arrived at its destination right on

schedule. Serge sat behind the wheel of the getaway vehicle, half a block away

from the front gates. On his lap lay a remote control detonator. Celeste was

covering the left flank on foot, thirty yards down the street from the car bomb.

Jean Pierre had taken up a similar position on the right flank. Lonnie was

sitting at the bar in a small café, directly across the street from the police

station gates. He wore a hat and dark glasses, concealing his face further by

engrossing himself in the daily newspaper. When he saw the police vehicle

approaching, he turned his back to the window in order to avoid flying glass.

The blast was deafening. Café patrons hit the floor as the walls of the old

building shook from the percussion. Lonnie was out the front door and across

the street in an instant, his Llama nine millimeter pistol at the ready.

Celeste and Jean Pierre converged on the armored vehicle at the same time

that Lonnie arrived. While the blast had been loud and devastating to nearby

buildings and passenger vehicles, it had only seared some paint off the side of

its intended target. The dazed driver and guard refused Lonnie’s threats to get

out of the cab and open the rear prisoners’ door. The cab’s doors and bulletproof

glass were intact, and there was no way that the two men on the inside were

setting foot on the outside. Jean Pierre was trying to force the rear door open

and having very little success when a frustrated Lonnie joined him.

“The driver has locked himself inside. I can’t get the keys. Ten seconds,

and we are out of here.”

His mute companion nodded in agreement. Celeste was busy with her can

of spray paint, while waiting for the first police reinforcements with her cocked

Uzzi ready for action. She didn’t have long to wait.

Just as the lady artist had completed her standard calling card on the

exterior wall of the prison, three uniformed officers rushed from inside the

compound toward the back of the vehicle. As soon as they opened fire on the

partially concealed terrorists that were trying to force the prisoner’s door ajar,

Celeste cut loose with her own automatic weapon.

It was no contest. The standard issue .38 caliber handgun that the officers

possessed was like a peashooter compared to the Uzzi. All three of the constables

fell in Celeste’s hail of lead. But there were more men on the way, too many

policemen to ward off. The prisoners’ door would not budge, and now it was

time to flee so that they could fight again.

Serge had pulled up in the getaway car, and the three pedestrians piled

through its doors. The squeal of rubber was intermixed with the pop-pop-

pop of the police revolvers. While they had been unable to rescue any of the

‘Disappeared’ from the clutches of the corrupt authorities, they had, at least,

managed to block the entrance to the compound with the armored vehicle. It

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would be several minutes before the police could follow in pursuit. Celeste took

one last glance at her handiwork as the car turned a sharp corner.

“One thing’s for certain, they know who was here!” she smiled.

The four revolutionaries abandoned the first escape car, then drove a second

vehicle casually to the boarding house in Tigre. Their mood was sullen and

the air was thick with frustration. It was the nonfamily member that finally

vocalized his dismay.

“Well, as I see it, we didn’t accomplish a damn thing today. No freed

prisoners, no cash, just three dead policemen. That is sure to bring the heat

down even harder. The people’s movement isn’t really benefiting in a tangible

way from our little escapades, are they? And I have done fuckall to help! We

have to do something that will make a difference. There must be something I

can do to make a difference!”

“Lonnie, remember that we are soldiers of the people, fighting against

terrible odds. Especially right now, with the security forces on the alert. We

have let them know that we exist, and that we are ready to kill and be killed for

the people. But I understand your frustration. You are a young Turk, anxious

to lose your virginity, draw your first coup. Well, I have just the job for you. I

will explain everything back at the boarding house.” Serge Lavalle spoke in an

almost fatherly tone to the anxious young buck.

As promised, less than five minutes after arriving back at their headquarters,

the cadre leader summoned his troops.

“Sit down at the table.”

Serge had retrieved a folder from the secret compartment of his suitcase.

The others joined Lonnie at the dining room table.

“Miguel Tobias Panzino, under secretary for economic coordination. Here

is his picture. Take a good look at it, study it. His job, Lonnie, is to distribute

funds to various government agencies, including the military and social services.

In other words, it is this man, and this man alone, that decides if the army gets

a new tank or farmers in a flood-stricken village get emergency aid.”

“Guns or butter, Lonnie! Remember, just like in my tutorials,” Celeste

interjected.

“That is right, guns or butter,” Serge continued. “But this bastard has

been in the pocket of the junta since they took power. Look at the military

spending increases in each of the last two years. Not only that, this man is

lining his own pockets. He is on the take. Government contracts also pass his

desk. They are available for a healthy deposit to the bank of Miguel Tobias

Panzino. Welfare and social benefits have been halved under this arrogant pig.

The people are suffering as a direct result of this man’s actions. Now, if he were

eliminated, the person replacing him might be inclined, primarily out of fear

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for his own life, to reconsider those allocations. The voice of the people will be

heard, Lonnie, and I am giving you the opportunity to be their spokesman.”

An electric current surged up Lonnie’s spine. This was it! A chance to

make a difference by simply squeezing the trigger of his Llama pistol. A hit! A

contract! An assassination!
Viva la revolution!

He was euphoric as Serge detailed the particulars of their next exercise. It

would be necessary to change their base of operations immediately following

the hit, for the two brothers had already stayed longer than most guests at the