Girls Loved The Handsome Young Man. And They Loved The Handsome Young Man’s Cute Little Brother, Who Loved Them Right Back.
Bernardo’s Beloved Mother Was A Baker’s Assistant And Their Father Martin Was A Prizefighter. Martin’s Dream Was To Save Enough To Open A Gym So His Wife Could Quit Her Job And Live Like A Lady. From The Time Eduardo Was Fifteen, He Spent Many Days And Nights Traveling With The Elder Barone, Working As His Corner Man. Often They’d Be Gone For Weeks At A Time, Participating In The Rio De La Plata Circuit.
Groups Of Fighters Traveled Together By Bus From Mercedes To Paysandu To Salto, Boxing One Another Or Ambitious Locals. Pay Was A Share Of The Gate, Less Fees For The Doctor Who Traveled With The Fighters. Eduardo Learned Basic Medical Skills So They Could Save The Price Of The Doctor.
It Was A Difficult Life, And It Put A Terrible Strain On The Boys” Mother. She Worked Long Hours Over A Hellishly Hot Brick Oven, And One Morning, While Her Husband And Eldest Son Were Away, She Died In A Fire At The Bakery. Because The Family’s Credit Was Bad, The Woman’s Body Was Brought To The Barone Apartment, And Bernardo Had To Sit With It Until His Father Could Be Contacted And Funeral Arrangements Could Be Made And Paid For.
Bernardo Was Nine.
During His Travels With Their Father, Eduardo Had Learned Other Things, As Well. Quite By Chance, In A Small Tavern In San Javier, He Discovered The Marxist Movimiento De Liberacion Nacional Tupamaros. The Guerrilla Group Had Been Founded In 1962 By Raul Antonaccio Sendic, Leader Of The Sugarcane Workers Of Northern Uruguay. The Government Had Been Unable To Control Inflation, Which Went As High As 35 Percent, And Laborers Were Particularly Hard Hit. In The Aggressive Sendic Movement, Eduardo Saw A Means By Which He Could Help Others Like His Father Who Had Lost The Love Of Their Life And The Will To Dream. In Eduardo, The Group Saw Someone Who Could Fight And Administer Medical Treatment. It Was A Good Fit. With His Father’s Blessings, Eduardo Joined The Mln-T. In 1972, The Despotic Juan Maria Bordaberry Arocena Was Elected President. Bordaberry Had The Backing Of The Well-Trained, Well-Armed Military. And One Of The First Orders Of Business Was To Crush The Opposition, Including The Mln-T, Which Eduardo Had Recently Joined. There Was A Bloody Shoot-Out In April; By Year’s End, Members Were In Jail Or In Exile. Eduardo Had Ended Up In Prison, Where He Died Of “Unknown” Causes. Bernardo’s Father Died Less Than Two Years Later. He Had Taken A Severe Beating In The Ring And Never Recovered. Bernardo Always Felt That His Father Wanted To Die. He Had Never Been The Same After The Loss Of Those Who Had Been So Precious To Him.
The Death Of His Family Turned Bernardo Into P Angry Young Firebrand Who Hated The Government Of President Bordaberry. Ironically, The Military Also Became Disenchanted With The New President And Staged Its Own Coup In February 1973. They Established The Consejo De Seguridad Nacional. Bernardo Enlisted In 1979, Hoping To Become Part Of A New Order In Uruguay. But After Twelve Years Of Being Unable To Deal With Economic Hardship, The Military Simply Returned Rule To The People And Literally Faded From The Political Scene. The Economic Situation Hadn’t Changed Markedly.
Once Again, Bernardo Felt Betrayed By A Cause. The Young Man Remained In The Military. As A Tribute To His Father, He Had Become Skilled In All Forms Of Hand-To-Hand Combat; He Was Suited For Nothing Else. But He Never Stopped Hoping That He Would Find A Way To Re-Kindle The Spirit Of The Mln-T.
To Work For The People Of Uruguay, Not The Leaders.
Serving With The United Nations In Cambodia, Barone Found A Way To Do Just That. To Raise Money And Get Attention From The World Press, All At The Same Time.
Barone Finished His Cigarette. He Crushed It On The Sidewalk And Stood Looking At The Traffic On The West Side Highway. That Was One Difference Between Montevideo And New York City. In Montevideo, Except For The Tourist Hotels And The Bars, Everything Shut Down At Sunset. Here, The Roads Were Busy Even At This Hour. It Had To Be Impossible For Authorities To Monitor All Of It, To Keep Track Of Who Was Coming And Going, Of What Was In The Trucks And Vans. Lucky For Us, He Thought.
It Was Also Impossible For The Police To Watch Every Plane That Came Into The Small Airstrips That Surrounded The City. Airports And Even Open Fields In Upstate New York, Connecticut, New Jersey, And Pennsylvania Were Perfect For Small Planes To Slip In And Out Unnoticed.
Waterways In Those States Were Also Ideal Spots. A Deserted Bay Or Riverbank In The Small Hours Of The Morning. Crates Quickly And Quietly Loaded From Boat Or Seaplane To Truck. Easy Entry, And So Close To New York. That, Too, Was Lucky For The Team. An Hour Passed, Then Another.
Barone Had Known This Was Going To Take A While, Since Downer Needed Time To Examine Each Of The Weapons.
Though Arms Dealers Could Usually Get A Client What He Wanted, That Didn’t Necessarily Mean The Weapons Would Be In Perfect Working Order. Like Refugees, A Hot Weapon Never Got To Travel First Class. The Wait Didn’t Bother The Uruguayan.
What Mattered Was That The Weapon Work When He Aimed And Fired. Something To The Left Caught His Eye. He Turned. Near The Mouth Of The River, The Statue Of Liberty Was Just Catching The First Rays Of Dawn.
Barone Hadn’t Realized The Monument Was Out There, And Seeing It At First Surprised And Then Angered Him. He Had No Gripe With The United States And Her Cherished Notions Of Freedom And Equality. But There, In The Harbor, Was A Giant Idol Celebrating A Spiritual Concept. It Seemed Sacrilegious. The Way He Was Raised, These Things Were Very Personal.
They Were Celebrated In The Heart, Not In The Harbor.
Finally, Shortly Before Seven A.M., The Door Behind Him Opened. Downer Leaned Out. “You’re To Come Around Back,” The Australian Said, Then Shut The Door.
Barone Didn’t Feel Like Making Fun Of Downer’s Accent. Since The Incident In The Helicopter Over Paris, He Hadn’t Felt Like Talking To The Unrepentent Mercenary Downer At All. Barone Turned To His Left And Walked Around The Side Of The Building. His New Boots Had Deeply Treaded Rubber Soles That Squeaked On The Asphalt As He Made His Way Along The Driveway. To His Right Was A Tire Shop Surrounded By A High Chain-Link Fence. A Guard Dog Slept In The Shadows. Earlier In The Evening, The Soldier Had Tossed Him Some Of His Hamburger-American Meat Tasted Funny To The Uruguayan-And The Animal Became His Best Friend.
Barone Walked Past A Pair Of Green Trash Bins To Where The Rented Van Was Parked. There Were Seventeen Weapons-Three Guns For Each Man And A Pair Of Rocket Launchers-Plus Ammunition And Bulletproof Vests. Each Weapon Was Swaddled In Bubble Wrap Sazanka And Vandal Were Already Carrying Them From The Body Shop As Barone Hopped Into The Open Side Door Of The Van. As The Men Handed The Weapons Up, Barone Carefully Placed Them In Six Plain Cardboard Boxes. Downer Watched From The Back Door Of The Body Shop, Making Sure None Of The Weapons Were Dropped. It Was The First Time Barone Had Ever Seen The Australian So Quiet And Professional. As He Worked, The Sense Of Loneliness Left The Uruguayan. Not Because He Was With His Teammates But Because He Was Moving Again. They Were Close To Their Goal Now.
Barone Had Always Believed In The Plan, But Now He Believed They Might Actually Pull This Off. Just A Few Small Steps Remained. Months Before, Georgiev Had Obtained A Counterfeit New York State Driver’s License. Since Rental Car Companies Routinely Checked Police Records Before Letting Cars Off The Lot, The Bulgarian Had To Pay Extra To Have It Entered Into The Motor Vehicle Department Computer System. He Even Gave Himself A Traffic Ticket A Year Before, Not Just To Show Residency But Because People Who Drove In Big Cities Usually Got One. A Clean Record Might Arouse Suspicions.
All The Team Had To Do Now Was Make Certain They Didn’t Run Any Lights Or Have An Accident Before Reaching The Hotel. They’d Drawn Straws Earlier, And Vandal Would Be Sleeping In The Van While The Others Went Up To The Room To Rest. Georgiev Didn’t Want To Risk The Van Being Stolen By Ustinoviks.
Then, At Seven P.M., They’d Leave The Hotel Garage And Head To Forty-Second Street. They’d Drive East, Across Town, And At First Avenue They’d Turn North. Once Again, Georgiev Would Drive Carefully.
Then, Suddenly, He Would Speed Up. He Would Approach The Target At Between Sixty And Seventy Miles An Hour, And In Less Than Ten Minutes, The Target Would Fall.