Brandenburg by Glenn Meade Page A

Hernandez with contempt.
    The hand that covered Hernandez’s mouth came away for an instant, and the dark-haired man’s fist smashed into his face. Hernandez felt a sharp crack of bone and reeled back in pain, the bridge of his nose shattered, his scream muffled by the hand again over his mouth. Another blow struck him across the neck, fists raining down on him. Someone gripped his hair and jerked his head up so that he was staring into the face of the dark-haired man.
    The eyes were gray and cold, threatening. “You will answer my questions. If you lie, the girl dies. If you tell the truth, she lives. You understand?”
    The man jerked his hand toward Graciella. The two men holding her yanked her head back savagely by the hair until the whites of her eyes showed. One of them ripped her dress. The other took a big silver knife from behind his back, pressed the tip of the blade against the girl’s chest.
    The dark-haired man said again, “You understand?”
    Hernandez heard Graciella’s muffled cries and wanted to vomit. He nodded quickly.
    The man stared into his face. “How did you know we were at the Excelsior? Answer quickly now.”
    The hand on Hernandez’s mouth came away.
    Hernandez gasped, “I was at Tsarkin’s house the day he killed himself . . . covering the story for La Tarde  . . . a call came . . . from the Excelsior Hotel . . . I answered the telephone . . .”
    The dark-haired man’s eyes lit up, understanding. He wrenched at Hernandez’s pockets, ripped out the wallet, and examined the contents. He plucked out the press identity card, scrutinized the photograph, then handed it to the silver-haired man, the one in charge, before he nodded for Hernandez to go on.
    Hernandez’s voice came in short gasps, thick with fear, as he told him about Rodriguez. What he had been told about the men. About the equipment. About his plan. The dark-haired man turned pale.He turned to look at the older man, whose face was even paler, eyes glaring over at Hernandez.
    The dark-haired man nodded toward the table. “The tape. We checked; it’s blank.” His tone demanded an explanation.
    Hernandez sucked in air. His body was on fire with pain; the blows had almost crippled him.
    “Answer!” the man screamed.
    “The microphone . . . there was a problem with it . . .” Hernandez began quickly, but the man suddenly cut him short with a sharp wave of his hand, as if he knew, a sadistic smile on his face now, his hand coming up to seize Hernandez’s jaws in a painful pincer grip. Hernandez wanted to scream: No, the real tape is in a safe place, I can take you to it. We can deal. But the man spoke quickly.
    “Rodriguez . . . what he told you . . . who else did he tell?”
    Hernandez tried to shake his head. The man’s grip still held him. “He told no one else . . . Only me.”
    “You are certain? I want the truth.”
    “Yes.”
    “And did you tell anyone else?” Urgency in the man’s voice now. His grip tightened.
    “No. No one.”
    Pause. “Tell me . . . why did you leave this house?”
    “To get some air. I . . . I couldn’t sleep.”
    “Where did you go?”
    “I . . . walked along the river.”
    The man’s eyes searched Hernandez’s face for the truth. “The cargo Rodriguez told you about . . . what do you think it was? Answer truthfully now. The girl’s life depends on it.”
    Hernandez looked at him through bruised and bloodied eyes. “White powder. You’re shipping cocaine.” Saying it and not caring, knowing now that he was dead no matter what he said, knowing that Graciella was dead, only hoping for her sake it would be quick . . .
    The man released his grip. Hernandez begged, “Please . . . the girl . . . knows nothing. She’s only a child.”
    The dark-haired man was smiling now, laughing as if something had amused him. He turned toward the older man with the silver hair. The man nodded.
    The dark-haired man turned back. He stared into