Free The Assignment by Per Wahlöö

stone walls. At the entrance to the center of the town a barrier had been set up across the road. A white jeep was parked to one side and a policeman was standing in the middle of the road holding a red lantern. López braked the car and the policeman shone his light on their faces. Then he saluted and stood to one side.
    Somewhere behind them, three shots rang out and they heard a shrill drawn-out cry.
    “What was that?”
    “Don’t know,” said the policeman.
    López put the car into gear and drove off.
    Manuel Ortega was very tired but still not sleepy. He nodded once or twice in the car but jerked awake again immediately. He felt sticky and unhealthy and the revolver seemed to be weighing him down on his left side.
    In his bedroom he strode up and down for a long time before taking a shower and putting on his pajamas. Then he remembered something and took out the container he had received from Dalgren, shook out two tablets, went into the bathroom, and filled a glass with water. He had all but got the tablets on his tongue when he stopped himself and put them down on the shelf. He went back into his bedroom and walked round the bed several times. Then he said: “No. It won’t be like that. But just think—what a simple way …”
    He got the tablets, swallowed them, and went to bed.
    His last thought before he fell asleep was of the three shots and the long wailing cry from the native quarter.
    The tablets fulfilled their donor’s promise. Manuel Ortega woke up at exactly eight o’clock. The room was murky and very hot. The sheets were tangled and wet and his pajamas were clinging to his body like plaster.
    When he had dressed he went into the other room; a man was sitting there. Manuel Ortega jumped and was fumbling for the gun inside his jacket before he realized that this must be the man who had taken over from López at midnight.
    The man was called, quite simply, Fernández. He was small and ordinary and was reading a comic book. His colleague was out in the corridor, an older and coarser man but just as ordinary, called Gómez.
    Like the fat López Fernández stood behind him as he opened the door and went into the office.
    Manuel Ortega decided that he would have to take up the matter with the man in the linen suit. Then he realized he would be worse off with his back unprotected and that the chances of there being anyone in the room were very small,and anyhow the whole thing was absurd. Of course no one would try to kill him. There was no valid reason why anyone should.
    He opened the door into the outer office and saw Danica Rodríguez, dressed as she had been the day before. She said: “Good morning. Captain Behounek has already sent over the papers.”
    The copies of the reports lay in stacks on the desk. He stood beside her and flicked absently through the papers. Then he shifted his glance to her. She looked fresh and bright and her dress was loosely buttoned. When she unthinkingly leaned forward to scratch her shin, he noticed two details. She was not wearing a bra and deep down on the inside of her right breast was an elliptical purple bruise.
    He walked over to the window, looked out, and said:
    “Were you late last night?”
    “The party finished about two.”
    “Are you tired?”
    “No. I didn’t drink very much.”
    Manuel Ortega stood silently for a moment. Then he said: “Let the man look after this.”
    He went into his room, sat down at his desk, and waited.
    Fernández made more noise than López. He rustled his comic book and chewed seeds of some kind which he apparently kept loose in his pocket. Sometimes he got up and roamed around the room. Once he opened the door and waved at Gómez, who relieved him for a while.
    Right up to midday, Manuel Ortega waited for something to happen. It was absolutely silent in the building and the heat was appalling.

By ten past twelve López had come and Fernández gone. Manuel Ortega suddenly realized that this was the only thing that had