The policeman brings his hand to his head. It’s a gesture that lasts a fraction of a second. But it’s strange . . . Then he pulls himself together again.
—Okay —he says dryly.— Go.
Giunta will not forget the scene. Without even noticing, he will continue to build upon it in his mind over the course of many more minutes. He has already conditioned himself, unknowingly prepared himself for what could happen. He has the professional habit of observing faces, studying their reflexes and reactions. And what he just saw in Cuello’s face is still shapeless and nebulous, but worrisome nonetheless.
All of them have now gotten on. And again, the same enigma: How many were they in total? Ten, according to Livraga’s calculation. Ten, Mr. Horacio di Chiano will repeat. But they have not been counted. Eleven, Gavino will say. Eleven, both Benavídez and Troxler will estimate.18 But it’s clear that there are more than ten of them, and more than eleven, because in addition to those five, there’s Carranza, Garibotti, Díaz, Lizaso, Giunta, Brión, and Rodríguez. Twelve at least. Giunta will calculate twelve, a number confirmed by Rodríguez Moreno who, nevertheless, also mentions somebody “with a foreign name that sounded like Carnevali who later found asylum at an embassy.” Twelve or thirteen, Cuello will claim. But Juan Carlos Torres will say that, based on indirect testimonies, there were fourteen. And the Chief of Police of the Province, months later, will also speak of fourteen prisoners in Florida. If there were two extra men, one of them must have been the anonymous NCO that Torres mentions.
And the guards? There are thirteen of them, according to one testimony. Based on information obtained from another source, they seem to be under the command of a corporal by the name of Albornoz, of the district of Villa Ballester. Is he the one Livraga will later see under extraordinary circumstances? We don’t know.
There is one thing that truly stands out: the policemen are armed with Mausers alone. Given the kind of operation that they are carrying out and the circumstances under which they are doing so, it is nearly incomprehensible. Is this about some sort of opportunity, an “out” that Rodríguez Moreno is consciously or unconsciously going to give the prisoners? Or is it that there aren’t any machine guns in the District Police Department? There is no easy solution to this riddle. What’s certain is that, thanks to this fortunate circumstance—and to other equally strange ones that we’ll later encounter—half of those condemned to die will make it out alive.
But they don’t know that they are condemned, and this outrageous cruelty ought to be highlighted in the list of aggravating and mitigating factors. They have not been told that they are going to be killed. What’s more, until the very last moment, there will be those who try to deceive them.
The guards draw the canvas curtains that enclose the body of the police car, and the truck heads northwest. They are followed by the van holding Cuello, Rodríguez Moreno, and Officer Cáceres, along 9 de Julio Street and its continuation, Balcarce Street, which turns into Route 8. They cover 2100 meters—about fifteen somewhat populated blocks—before exiting at the first open lot, which is about a thousand meters long. From there the road veers off to the west.
The prisoners don’t have the opportunity to observe these topographical details. They are traveling as though in a cell, in nearly total darkness. All they can see is the rectangle of paved road that the windshield up front lets through.
It is bitingly cold. The temperature stays at 0°C. Those who suffer the most are Giunta, who is wearing just a jacket, and Brión with his white cardigan. They are sitting face to face on the left, Brión on the first double seat with his back to the driver, and Giunta in the second, looking forward. One of the clasps of the curtain that covers the doorframe is broken, and the fabric flaps against the truck with sharp blows, letting in a gust of freezing wind that cuts like a knife. They both turn to hold the curtain down and talk softly.
—I think they’re going to kill us, Mr. Lito —Brión says.