A Quiet Flame

“You’re no cop. Not with that accent.”

“I’m secret police. SIDE. I’m one of Colonel Montalban’s people.”

“Never heard of him.”

“We both report to Rodolfo Freude. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”

“Matter of fact, I have. It was him who gave me my orders. Explicit orders. He says no one. And I mean no one. No one gets in this place without the express authority, in writing, of the president himself.” He gri

He crept forward and patted me down, his fingers quickly turning my pockets inside out. He gri

Up close, I wasn’t inclined to change my impression of him. He looked inferior and second-rate. But there was nothing second-rate about the gun in his hand. That was special. A.38 Police Special, with a two-inch barrel and a nice bright blue finish. It was the only thing about him that looked like it was in perfect working order. It had crossed my mind to tackle him while he was searching my pockets. But the Police Special quickly changed it for me. He found my gun and tossed it away. He even found the little stiletto in my breast pocket. But he didn’t find the gaucho knife hidden under my belt in the small of my back.

He backed away and patted A

“You,” he told her. “Pretty lady. Take off your jacket and your shirt.”

She stared at him with dumb insolence and, when nothing happened, he got handy with the gun, pressing it under her chin. “You’d better do it, pretty lady, or I’ll blow your head off.”

“Do as he says, A

The man gri

A

The man licked his lips, staring at her bared breasts. “Now those are nice,” he said. “Real nice titties. Nicest titties I’ve seen in a while.”

I pressed my spine back a little against my belt, feeling the big sheath knife that was there and wondering if I even knew how to throw a knife-especially one that looked as if it belonged on a butcher’s chopping block.

The man with one tooth reached forward and tried to take one of A

“Stand still,” he said, twitching nervously. “Stand still or I’ll shoot you, pretty lady.”

A

By now I had the knife in my hand. I slid it up inside the forearm of my sleeve. There was too much distance between the two of us to risk attacking him with the blade in my hand. Most likely he would have shot me, and then raped and killed her. It was too much gun to take a chance with. But throwing the knife was risky, too.

I let the knife slide into the palm of my hand and gripped the blade like a hammer.

A

“You bastard,” she said.

That was my cue, and with a small step forward and both arms pointed straight at the target, I threw the knife, putting my whole hip into it to add to the power of my throw. I aimed at his side, just below his outstretched hand that was still twisting her nipple.

He cried out. The knife appeared to hit him in the ribs, but then it was in his hand. He let it go and it fell onto the ground. At the same time, he shot at me and missed. I felt the bullet zip over my head. I rolled quickly forward, expecting to find myself facing the two-inch barrel, or worse. Instead I found myself staring at a man who was now on all fours, coughing blood onto the ground between his hands and then curling up into a ball, holding his side. I glanced at the knife and, seeing the blood on the blade, guessed that it must have pierced his side to a depth of several inches before he had plucked it out of his torso.

My close proximity seemed to deflect him from the pain and distress of his wound. Twisting his whole body to one side, he tried to shoot again, only this time without lifting his forearm from the stab wound in his side.

“Look out,” yelled A

But I was already over him, wrestling the gun from the grip of his bloody hand even as it fired harmlessly into the ceiling. A

“Are you all right?” I picked up A

“Yes,” she whispered. Her hands were cupping her breasts, and her eyes were full of tears. She was looking at him, almost as if she pitied him.

“Put your clothes on,” I said. “We have to leave. Now. Someone might have heard those shots.”

I put his gun under my belt, holstered my own, put the flashlights in A

“What about him?” asked A

“He’s finished,” I said. “By the time an ambulance gets here he’ll be dead.” I took hold of her arm and moved her smartly toward the door, then switched out the light. “With any luck, by the time anyone finds him, the rats will have spoiled the evidence.”

A

“Maybe you can flash a message in Morse code while you’re at it,” I said. “Just to make sure people know that there’s someone here.” But I left the light on.

“He’s still a human being,” she said, going back to the body on the floor. Trying to keep her shoes out of the blood, she dropped down on her haunches and, shaking her head helplessly, she looked back at me as if begging for a clue about what to do next.

The man twitched several times and then lay still.

“I had a rather different impression,” I said.

Crouching down beside her, I pressed my fingers hard under his ear and paused for the sake of verisimilitude.

“Well?”

“He’s dead,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“What do you want me to do, write out a death certificate?”

“The poor man,” she whispered. Then she did something that struck me as an odd thing to do if you were a Jew: she crossed herself.

“Speaking for myself, I’m glad the poor man’s dead. The poor man was going to rape and kill you. But not before the poor man killed me, probably. The poor man had it coming, if you ask me. Now, if you’re quite through grieving for the poor man, I’d like to get out of here before the cops or any of the poor man’s friends show up and wonder if this murder weapon I’m holding in my hand makes me a suspect. In case you’ve forgotten, they have the death penalty for murder in Argentina.”