The Assignment by Per Wahlöö

felt physically and psychologically exhausted, as after a tennis match or an important business deal. Just before Fernández had begun to speak, he had thought that Francisca de Larrinaga was one of those women whom he could not imagine undressed.
    Well, he said to himself, there are different views on most things.
    Then he thought: Why have I begun to think about those things so much?
    As they drove through the dismal screened-off workers’ sector, it struck him that anyone lying behind the wall with a rifle could easily fire and no one would be able to do a thing about it.
    To his own mortification, he hunched up behind Gómez and tried to keep his head as low as possible.
    At two in the afternoon he got in touch with Captain Behounek.
    “How is the situation?”
    “Calm.”
    “And out in the country?”
    “I’ve just come from there. Made a little personal inspection.”
    “And?”
    “Calm.”
    “No attacks?”
    “Hardly any. I think our patrols have pushed the partisans up into the mountains.”
    “I’d like to go with you sometime on a trip out into the country.”
    “There’ll be a very good opportunity tomorrow. A sanitary patrol is visiting one of the bigger Indian villages. It’ll have a safe escort.”
    “Will you arrange the matter for me?”
    “Certainly.”
    “One question. What is meant by a blasting detail? One of your subordinates used the term as if it were quite an ordinary event.”
    “Well, it’s quite an unpleasant story. Roughly speaking, it’s like this: the youngsters in the Citizens’ Guard have learned to use plastic bombs. It was a European idea to begin with, I gather. You get a tough mess of stuff which you stick onto something, and then you put in a fuse with a flint in it. Well, at night, small groups go into the native sector and stick plastic bombs here and there. During the worst disturbances we had a great deal of trouble with them. The streets there are badly lit—mostly not lit at all. It’s difficult to keep an eye on them at night.”
    “Does this still go on?”
    “To a limited extent.”
    “Was there a raid of that kind last night?”
    “Yes.”
    “And the damage?”
    “Trifling. These bombs have an open explosive effect and the damage is usually not very great. I shudder to think whatwould happen if they ever think of putting the stuff into iron pipes for instance.”
    “Was anyone killed last night?”
    “No, I don’t think so.”
    “Think?”
    “I mean that nothing has been reported. Some of the natives are pretty peculiar, you see. They won’t or daren’t report damage and casualties. But their faith in us is growing steadily.”
    “Have you caught the raiders?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Well, let’s hope for the best.”
    He put down the receiver, rang for Danica Rodríguez, and was surprised when he saw her. She was dressed as on the previous day, but her face was pale and resigned and her eyes very serious.
    He could not help saying: “How are you feeling?”
    “Very well, thank you.”
    “You hadn’t come in when I left this morning.”
    “No, I’m sorry.”
    “Oh, well—do you know if the telephone lines are in order yet?”
    “They’re still cut.”
    “Have you asked whether there’s a reply to my cable?”
    “It hasn’t come yet.”
    “Send a reminder then. No, don’t—send a copy of the text and point out that there is some urgency.”
    “Yes.”
    When she reached the door, he said: “Come back for a moment, please.”
    He tried to smile at her, but either it was an unsuccessful attempt or else there was no way of breaking her seriousness.
    “I’ve got some information for you. About the assassination.”
    He repeated all the details of the murder that he could remember from his conversation with Francisca de Larrinaga.
    She listened with interest but made no comment. Then she said seriously: “Did you find that out for my sake?”
    “Well—partly.”
    “Thanks.”
    When she walked away he stared at her thighs and