The QE2 Is Missing

Only then did he take the paper folder from his pocket and spread it out on the table before him.

WORLD CRUISE QE2 it read. Inside were photographs of distant places and copy in English that he did not try to read. What did it mean? Was that piece of filth de Laiglesia going on a cruise around the world? Impossible. He was just a hireling, a jackal, a creature that obeyed. Then had he been sent here? And if so by whom? Rafael wanted very much to know. He wanted to know anything that had to do with Major Jose de Laigksia who had come to his father’s house in the middle of the night with his soldiers. They had clubbed the old man down, struck down Rafael as well when he had tried to stop them, tore his screaming mother from her bed and dragged her into the street in her night-clothes, in front of everyone, and thrown her brutally into the open truck. That was all that Rafael remembered, because he had lost consciousness then.

He had never seen his parents again. They were gone, vanished as though they had never been. His father had been the best known lawyer in Villarrica, which was of course why they had taken him. Rafael was of no importance. Major de Laiglesia had enjoyed beating him with a heavy pole, then had personally attached the electric leads to Rafael’s testicles, had laughed until he had cried at Rafael’s antics when they turned the current on. In a few months the Major had tired of this fun and they had released him because he was unimportant and of no danger to the state.

Perhaps that had been their mistake. Perhaps what he had seen now was important. Perhaps something could be done about it. He didn’t know what, but he did know someone who might be interested. A man he had met at a rally in London who had promised to see if anything could be discovered about Rafael’s parents. Nothing could be found out, but he still reported to Rafael that they were trying. His name was Leandro Diaz and his phone number was on a piece of paper in Rafael’s wallet. He dug it out, took all of the change from his pocket and made his way to the public telephone in the rear near the toilet. It might mean nothing at all, but he felt still that Diaz should know.

Diaz seemed interested, but he was in a hurry and wanted to call back. Rafael gave him the number of the phone, then went back to his table. He finished the beer and had a second one. Then a cold sausage from the bar, because he was hungry, which he regretted as soon as he had eaten it. The British had some strange tastes in food. Almost an hour passed before the phone rang. The barman answered it, then put the hand-piece down and looked around.

“Call here for a Rafael Beer.”

“For me, thank you, thank you a much.”

Leandro Diaz spoke quickly in Spanish.

“Can you come to London? Now, this evening?”

“Of course, that is why I phoned you. Where do you want me to go?”

“There is a public house called the Blue Posts. It is very easy to find. Go down Rupert Street from Shaftesbury Avenue, it is there on the corner of a small passage named Rupert Court. Do you understand?”

“Yes. No trouble. I will take the next train.”

“Good. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Once he was in the warmth of the railway compartment, Rafael found himself dozing off, exhausted by the strain of the past hours. It was not a restful sleep, for he dreamt that he was back in the prison in Emboscada where he was beaten with el sargento, the cat-o’-nine-tails with lead balls on the tip of each thong. He had never been whipped with this cruel invention but had seen others torn to pieces by its flails. It was always his terrible secret fear that it would be used on him as well. It was there, often, in his dreams, especially when he was very tired. When the crashing of doors in Victoria Station woke him up, Rafael was soaked with sweat. He was the last one to leave the train.

The queue of people waiting at the taxi stand was a short one, as was the journey. They passed Buckingham Palace and went through a park, then the driver went through Piccadilly Circus and up Shaftesbury Avenue, stopping at the corner where he pointed out the bar that Rafael was looking for. Rafael paid the sum on the meter, added a careful ten percent tip since the driver had been courteous, then pushed through the door of the Blue Posts. Leandro Diaz was waiting in an alcoved booth to the rear.

They shook hands and Diaz looked him up and down.

“You don’t look so good, my friend,” he said.

“Unhappily, I feel just as I look.”

“You will have a drink then, an Irish coffee, specialty of the house. Very warm and nourishing, with alcohol in it as well.”

They waited until the drinks had been brought before they talked. Then Diaz said, “Please tell me exactly what you have seen.”