The QE2 Is Missing

“I know you, Captain,” he said to the man in the dressing gown, just as he struck him hard across the side of his head with the long barrel of his revolver. He did not watch the man fall but ran over to Doctor Llusera who was standing, yawning, in the open door of the bedroom. Josep pushed the doctor aside and went into the room, turning on the light. Behind him he could hear Diaz closing and locking the door and he knew that his rear was secure. Admiral Marquez was sitting up in bed, blinking in his direction.

“Who is that? What the hell is going on?” he growled. His contact lenses were in their holder by the bed, but he groped for a pair of old fashioned wire-rim glasses next to them. Josep slid his pistol back into his belt and waited patiently while the Admiral put the glasses on.

“Remember me?” Josep said.

The Admiral did indeed. Josep smiled at the horrified expression on the man’s face, the way the color drained from his cheeks.

“Yes, you do remember me. Afraid that 1 will kill you, Admiral? I could in an instant, I might yet. So just do what I say, don’t cross me and don’t ask any questions. Better drink some of the water in that glass, take some pills if you have them. I don’t want you dying of a heart attack.” He turned and called over his shoulder. “Doctor, drag the Captain in here and lay him out next to the Admiral.”

“This is outrageous, outrageous,” the doctor gasped, pulling the unconscious and heavy form of the aide. “This man is injured, he may have a concussion, I must protest at the manner of this…. “ For the first time he had a good look at this strange attacker’s face — and his own skin paled like that of the Admiral’s. “Josep….” he breathed.

“I’m pleased to see that I am not without recognition among my countrymen. Get dressed, doctor, and get your little black bag. You are going with this man on an errand of mercy.”

Diaz went out with the doctor, and it was almost half an hour before he returned alone. All of that time Josep just sat in the chair, his gun in his lap, looking at the Admiral and relishing the occasion.

“I left the doctor there,” Diaz said. “The guard is watching both of them. He says that the wounded man’s condition is stable, but that he must be operated on soon. The bullet penetrated the intestines, luckily missed any vital organs, but peritonitis is a certainty.”

“It won’t strike that quickly. Call the special bridge number and tell Concepcion to get a man down here at once. It will leave her shorthanded, but not for long. We’ll get them all together soon and your man can guard them. Lead the way, Diaz, Stroessner is your target.”

“He certainly is. This is wonderful, simply wonderful. I am not normally a vengeful man. But this is different.”

They stopped at Hank’s suite first, to check the tape and the eavesdropping equipment. Everything was quiet in Stroessner’s quarters. They were asleep. Josep stood to one side out of sight while Diaz knocked.

“Who is there?” a voice finally asked.

“Telegram.”

The door opened a crack and Diaz found himself staring Sergeant Pradera in the face. He shaped the word now with his lips. The Sergeant nodded slightly but did not change expression. He turned and called over his shoulder.

“A steward here with a telegram for you, Major.”

The Sergeant stepped aside and Major de Laiglesia took his place. Diaz said nothing. He just watched the expression of disbelief and horror spreading over the Major’s face. He opened his mouth to shout — then slumped downwards. The Sergeant had hit a cruel blow on the side of the neck with the edge of his rock-hard hand.

Between them they moved the Major’s limp body silently aside and Josep followed them into the room. The Sergeant jerked his thumb wordlessly over his shoulder at the bedroom door. Diaz nodded. Josep leaned forward and whispered.

“I'll bring the Admiral and the other one in here. They’ll be easier to watch when they are all together. But first go speak to Stroessner — I know that he is looking forward to meeting you.”

Diaz opened the door slowly — and found himself shaking violently. It was totally unexpected, not fear, the opposite if anything. An overwhelming hatred consumed him, a detestation of this terrible little man who had murdered and destroyed Paraguay for so many years. His fingers were on his gun, he was prepared to shoot, to destroy this creature; all trace of civilized morals had fled. For the first time he understood the unreasoning hatred, and violence, that motivated the Tupamaros. They had the right answer. He pulled out the pistol and opened the door wider and saw the empty bed.

This was unexpected, unreasonable, and puzzling to his rational mind. But his reflexes had a much more basic attitude towards survival and his muscles tensed and he jumped back. Therefore, the bullet that was aimed at his head hit the metal doorframe instead and ricocheted wildly away.