The police were confused; they didn’t know if the attacks were connected or if it was a simple coincidence. In general, the victims of the attacks were distinguished scholars, scientists specializing in biology or mathematical logic. Ida seemed to be outside that target range. “But you never know,” he concluded. “It could be a lunatic or it could be pure chance.”
Parker was going to request access to the FBI files. I had to sign off with my permission. He wanted to make it clear to me that, without the cooperation of the security forces, his job couldn’t exist. “There are two United States,” said Parker. “One, visible, the country in which I’m a voting citizen, the founding fathers’ democratic republic. And another one, underground, with an unchecked central power that eliminates everything that puts national security at risk.” He had to make his negotiations and cooperate with that dark power so that they wouldn’t squash him like a mosquito. They knew he was working on the case about the black soldiers murdered in Iraq, but it didn’t matter to them: the army was another world, and they were the boys from internal affairs. “I come from Argentina,” I told him, “I know how these things go. Half of the population works for the information services and the other half is being monitored.”
Parker was going to obtain permission to read phone transcripts and classified information and to consult the records of the case, but I had to tell him why I was so interested in the matter and why I had hired him.
It was clear to me that I couldn’t explain it. I’d been obsessed with the woman, and it was because of my obsession that I’d turned to a private detective. I told him, without getting into details, that Ida was a friend, a renowned intellectual, and her reputation was in jeopardy; the university’s administration had washed its hands of her, but for me it wasn’t all the same thing if she’d died in a stupid traffic accident or in some other way.
“It isn’t the same thing? Why? For the professor’s curriculum?” He looked at me ironically. “There must be something more.”
“I had a history with her, but I hid it from the police.”
“Ah, fine,” he said, and wrote something down on his notepad. “And they know about it, of course. Was she married?”
“No, she wasn’t married.”
“Did any colleague know about the situation?”
“I don’t think so.”
“And why had I hidden our affair?”
“She didn’t want anyone to find out, and I respected her decision.”
“Ooh la la,” he said, amused.
Suddenly I understood that Parker was a typical American ex-cop, ruthless, cynical, and patriotic. Was there anything else he needed to know? he asked, and so I moved cautiously, not going too far into facts or theories.
“They spoke to my doctor in Buenos Aires,” I said, and that surprised him.
He was going to investigate, see one of his contacts. He wanted to warn me that they would only let him investigate in the dead files, that is, there wouldn’t be information about ongoing witnesses (that is, living people). They didn’t want the information to turn into some kind of blackmail.
They were very serious in their search, according to Parker. The Latino man, John Menéndez, was chief of Special Investigations, director of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. He was an ace, the best of all of them, and it was unusual for him to have mobilized personally. He must think there was some loose end between Ida and the series of attacks. In short, he would take the case, and he’d keep me informed. There was no need for me to give him an advance; he preferred for me to pay him by the week.
2
I left my office after noon. I’d made plans to meet Elizabeth in Central Park rather than at her house, as if I thought they were following me and was adhering to security measures. At one time in Argentina everyone did this, even the most careless; terror forces people to imitate their pursuers and act with stealth. Schedule meetings in open spaces where you could escape, never wait for anyone longer than three minutes, take a walk around the block to make sure you weren’t being followed, never write down phone numbers, travel by subway as much as possible. It didn’t do any good. The greatest urban guerrilla operation in Argentina—the attack on an army arsenal battalion in Monte Chingolo—was led by an infiltrator from the intelligence services, whose friends called him The Bear…
I didn’t stay at The Leo House this time, as if by changing places I could deceive the secret police. I saw them in every direction, and anyone who paused on a corner made me think they were following me. They had questioned Elizabeth about me as well. A routine matter. She reacted haughtily when the FBI worker asked whether I’d traveled to Cuba. “Of course,” she said, “they published his first book in Havana, but that was thousands of years ago now…” The two polite, formal agents said nothing but wrote down the information. “They write while standing up,” Elizabeth said, “they must use a shorthand technique or just scribble nonsense to show you they’re working seriously.”
She was a woman who never let herself be pushed over. She had a way of speaking and dressing that denoted her social class, and she lived in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the city. Her adoptive family had raised her in Brooklyn, but she’d gotten into Columbia with a scholarship and that helped her assimilate into the New York intellectual elite. There’s no journey longer than the path from the slums of Brooklyn to the cliques of
