The Cordillera

By Luis Rousset

Jacques Laurent was born in France but brought up by his Argentinian uncle, Ignacio, a bachelor with no children of his own. An estanciero with properties in la Pampa province, closer to Buenos Aires, and in the Santa Cruz province, Patagonia, Ignacio was responsible for instilling in young Jacques his passion for mountains and horses. A graduate from France's most prestigious college, the École Polythecnique, this is Jacque's story of his loves and adventures, a tale of amazing mettle and daring in face of different kinds of dangers and adverse odds. A courage sharpened by the mountain peaks he had to conquer, and the horses he had to tame. From saving missionaries in Central America and rescuing people in the deep Amazon Forest under impossible conditions, the story goes on to fighting a ruthless gang of criminals with activities in France and in Turkey and chasing terrorists in the Middle East. The reader will be fascinated by the tale and will become immersed in the same environments and difficulties faced by Jacques.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665560382

Luis Rousset

El Dr. Luis Rousset se graduó en la Universidad de Stanford en 1971, obteniendo un doctorado en Ingeniería Mineral. Durante su carrera, realizó trabajo de campo a lo largo y ancho de Sudamérica, explorando y ofreciendo asesoría a diversas operaciones mineras. También estuvo en los consejos de dirección de varias empresas de prestigio, como BP Mining Brasil. En la actualidad es miembro del consejo asesor de una empresa minera de cobre en Brasil. El Dr. Rousset y su esposa comparten su tiempo entre su casa en Río de Janeiro y su apartamento en Manhattan. Acostumbrado a los documentos técnicos y científicos, en los últimos años comenzó a escribir obras de ficción, exponiendo a sus lectores a algunos de los entornos más agrestes y de difícil acceso que ha conocido durante su vida profesional. El Alba es su segunda novela, y está ambientada en las alturas de la cordillera de los Andes peruanos.

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© 2022 Lu-is Rousset. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/17/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-6039-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-6037-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-6038-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022909527

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Disclaimers & Clarifications

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1 The Climb

Chapter 2 La Estancia

Chapter 3 The Glacier

Chapter 4 Punta Arenas

Chapter 5 Paris, Four Years Later

Chapter 6 Anne Marie

Chapter 7 The Interview

Chapter 8 Argentina

Chapter 9 The Training

Chapter 10 Buenos Aires

Chapter 11 First Mission

Chapter 12 Nicaragua

Chapter 13 New York

Chapter 14 Encounters

Chapter 15 Irina

Chapter 16 Discussions

Chapter 17 Andrei

Chapter 18 A New Mission

Chapter 19 Amapá

Chapter 20 Tantalite

Chapter 21 The Return

Chapter 22 Back in the Game

Chapter 23 Violette

Chapter 24 Confessions

Chapter 25 Still in Bordeaux

Chapter 26 Paris and Istanbul

Chapter 27 Divine Breath

Chapter 28 The Elektra

Chapter 29 The Auction

Chapter 30 A Time to Fight and a Time to Rest

Chapter 31 Uruguay and Other Places—Days of Calm and Recovery

Chapter 32 The Middle East

Chapter 33 Palestine

Chapter 34 Nablus

Chapter 35 Beirut

Chapter 36 The Search

Chapter 37 Aleppo

Chapter 38 ISIS

Chapter 39 The First Days of January 2019

Chapter 40 The Last Days of March 2019

Chapter 41 Argentina

Epilogue

DISCLAIMERS & CLARIFICATIONS

The Cordillera is a work of fiction, and any similarities to people and stories are only are sheer coincidence.

France’s DGSI as described in this story, is a very secretive organization and very little information. The training of the main character, Jacques Laurent, is a product of my imagination.

Most of the places depicted in the Book, are reflections of places I visited. The same. The same applies to Patagonia, both Argentinian and Chilean, one of the most indescribably beautiful regions on this planet.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to dedicate this story to my wife Mariza, my daughters Adriana and Anna Luiza, and my two grandchildren, Stella and Joao whose unrelenting support and encouragement helped me write this book.

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Chapter 1

THE CLIMB

It was only four in the afternoon, and the sun was already setting behind the high mountains. Darkness came early in the deep valleys and gorges of Mount Fitz Roy. We had stopped to rest for a moment and still couldn’t see the old estancia truck. We had parked it at the trailhead by the Río de las Vueltas a few days earlier, before starting our trek to reach the Fitz Roy summit. I had already climbed other mountains of this range with my uncle Ignacio. They were easier, less demanding climbs, such as the Aguja Guillaumet and Mermoz. But this was different, the granddaddy of them all. I had been pestering my uncle for years; his response was always the same: After you enter École Polytechnique. It was my other dream to study engineering at France’s most prestigious college. I had finally passed the entrance exam, and this was my prize. Prize? I still couldn’t figure out why rock climbing appealed to me as much as it did. Why did I do it? Sure, there was the adrenaline and the feeling of achievement in spite of very difficult odds. But there was also the huge discomfort, the cold, the aching body, and the fear—the ever-present fear. Fear of a misplaced piton that might come loose, a poorly chosen handgrip, falling rocks, and above all, a sudden weather change.

From the trailhead, we trekked twelve miles uphill. We carried our climbing gear on our backs, along with enough food and energy bars for the duration of the climb. We eventually reached our first resting point, the Laguna de los Tres. The landscape of these mountains was breathtaking, with the sharp rock needles, glaciers, and lakes. It was a monochromatic tableau of black, white, and all shades of gray, broken at spots by the vivid blue of the alpine lakes. We crossed a glacier to bivouac the first night at a spot called Passo Superior. From there, a long crossing of the mountain’s southern face brought us to Brecha de los Italianos, our second bivouac point. We stayed there before the final attack on the southeast face of the mountain, to reach Fitz Roy’s summit. My uncle had chosen this route over the difficult alternative of the east face as more appropriate for the still green climber—me. Still, it wasn’t simple. We had to climb an almost vertical rock wall, more than twenty-six hundred feet high, with very few places to stop and rest. It was very difficult to go up and down the French–Argentinian ascent route in the same twelve-hour day, and we had gone up slowly because of my inexperience. My uncle, not wishing to be caught unprepared at dusk on our descent, decided to stop and rest for the night. We bolted our hammocks to the wall in a nearly horizontal crack, driving pitons into the rock. After the exhilarating feeling of having reached the top of the mountain, this was the most harrowing part of the whole climb.

The view from Fitz Roy’s summit was indescribable. I felt like a god on Olympus. Everything was below me, the vast plains, the rivers meandering through them, the lakes, a distant snow-covered range of mountains, and the small village of El Chalten at my feet. It was an experience I will vividly remember for my entire life. By contrast, trying to sleep suspended over the void was something I definitely wished to forget. I could not really sleep, just doze off at intervals, too afraid to move and risk setting lose the pitons securing me to the rock. I just hung there, cold to the bone, waiting for daybreak so I could eat an energy bar, drink some water, and continue our descent. Anyway, it was done. It was all behind me now. I had conquered the Fitz Roy, and I was not yet seventeen.

Penny for your thoughts?

Sorry, Uncle. What did you say?

You have been daydreaming. Enjoyed the experience? Or are you already thinking of the more demanding challenge of college? It’s a wonderful opportunity for you. Dedicate yourself to study and work hard. The years ahead are irreplaceable, and you should take advantage of them.

I will. I promise, Uncle.

Well, enough talk, enough rest. We still have a mile to go to get to the truck. Then we can toss these heavy backpacks and gear in the back and drive to the estancia. We still have to drive eighty miles. Think of what awaits us: a hot shower, real food. Perhaps Maria has baked some carne empanadas, the ones you like.

Let’s go, Uncle.

The prospect of real food, a hot shower, and a soft bed was unbeatable. Looking forward to it gave me the energy to face the last mile on an incredibly steep and uneven trail full of rocks and tree trunks. I overcame all of it while carrying a heavy load on my back and despite being worn out by days in the mountains.

Chapter 2

LA ESTANCIA

The nicest view I had that evening was of the main estancia house’s low silhouette with its outlying buildings. The windmill was turning on its tower, pushed by a soft easterly breeze. This particular windmill is what drove the pump that supplied the buildings with water. The estancia had a total of six such mills spread over the range, providing drinking points for the sheep and the opportunistic foxes and guanacos. The latter—a kind of small version of the Andean llama—was rather unwelcome by the farmhands, as it competed with the sheep for grazing land. The vegetation in this latitude was mostly bushland and widely spaced thickets. Grasses for grazing were scarce.

The house lights were on. A thin column of almost translucent smoke was rising from the chimney, a clear sign that Maria, the housekeeper, had a fire going. As we got closer to the house, we noticed a small silver car parked next to my uncle’s beat-up Citroën. Someone was visiting.

We parked the truck and took out our gear.

Just drop this in the shed, Jacques. We can sort and clean the material tomorrow morning.

Thanks, Uncle. I’m totally bushed.

I guess. Let’s go see who’s visiting.

The shed housed a small mechanical shop and a room where my uncle stored the climbing gear. Everything had to be sorted, cleaned, stored, and pegged in its proper place, but not tonight. Leaving the gear, we went to the main house. My uncle opened the door and went in first.

"Why, Irina, dorogaya plemyannitsa, this is quite a surprise! You are very welcome, of course."

How are you, Uncle? I’m so glad to see you again, Irina answered in Russian.

Please, Irina, dorogaya, we should talk in French or Spanish for Jacques’s benefit. But I’m being impolite. Sit. Has Maria tended to your needs? Have you eaten? Jacques, come meet your cousin.

I went into the house and saw a gorgeous, tall young blonde woman with the bluest eyes I had ever seen.

My uncle’s given name was Igor, which he later changed to Ignacio. His father and my grandfather were both junior officers in the Red Army. They emigrated from Russia to France in the late fifties, escaping one of Stalin’s purges. My grandfather remained in France, while my uncle’s father went on to Argentina. He became the prosperous owner of two estancias in this country. One of them, two hundred fifty miles south of Buenos Aires, was a beautiful property with lush green fields where my uncle raised cattle and criollo horses and grew soybean crops. The other, where we presently were, was in Santa Fe Province, Patagonia, near the city of El Calafate. This was a much larger estancia. But there wasn’t much to do with the semiarid land besides raise sheep for wool. It was a financially profitable operation, but only just so.

I extended my hand to greet Irina, but she surprised me by putting her hands on my shoulders and kissing both my cheeks. Nice to meet you, Jacques.

I stuttered a response. Yes, me too. Glad to meet you. I blushed crimson.

We love to have you, Irina. I’m curious, though. Why did you decide to visit us in this remote place?

You know how difficult it is in Russia to travel abroad, Uncle. I had work to do in Buenos Aires that I finished much earlier than expected. I decided to find you since I hadn’t seen you in so long. I had your Palermo phone number and talked to your maid. She gave me the number of your other farm, and I managed to contact your foreman there. He said you’d be here and gave me the directions to this place. On a whim, I took a plane to Calafate and rented a car at the airport, and here I am. I plan to see the Perito Moreno Glacier and visit some other points of interest in the area.

Great. I’m sure that Jacques would like to show you around. You do intend to stay a few days, don’t you?

Yes, if you don’t mind, Uncle.

No. Absolutely not. Like I said, I’m very glad to have you. You can stay for as long as you wish. Or until you get bored. Ignacio smiled. I’m afraid I won’t be a gracious host this evening. We just returned from a long mountain-climbing expedition. Make yourself at home. I’m going to take a shower. I’ll be back to eat whatever Maria has fixed for us, then we can talk a little bit more. I would like to hear the news from your side of the family.

I woke up early the next morning. My uncle had already left to take care of the estancia’s chores. The wool-shearing season was approaching, and the sheep needed to be collected and taken to sheds that had been provided for the task. Not a trivial job considering the close to two thousand sheep spread over a very large area and that temporary labor had to be hired in Calafate and neighboring villages. All the other properties in the region were doing the same. So, starting early was definitively an advantage.

I took care of the climbing gear right before breakfast. I did not wish for my uncle to return and find that I had neglected my obligations. After tidying the place and making sure that everything was properly stored, I finally went in the main house for my coffee and medialunas. Most of our meals were served in the spacious kitchen. I greeted our maid, Buenos días, Maria. Has our guest shown up?

Not yet, Jacques. However, your uncle has already eaten and left. Come sit down for your coffee. There is cheese today.

Breakfast was a simple meal in Argentina. Just coffee and milk, or café con leche, and croissants, or medialunas, and butter. Sometimes, as today, there would be cheese and honey, or homemade jam, this, most probably, for the benefit of our guest. I had slept a dreamless sleep last night and has awakened recovered from the previous day’s adventure. I was feeling ravenous, having eaten very lightly the preceding night.

Maria baked the medialunas in her charcoal oven, where she also cooked the empanadas Saltenhas that I loved. The medialunas came out of the oven warm and crispy, deliciously fragrant, and melting the butter one spread over them. I didn’t have to be invited twice. I sat down and attacked breakfast in a way only possible when one is young and athletic and when fear of getting fat is not an issue. I was almost finished when Irina arrived.

Good morning, Jacques.

Good morning, I answered, starting to get up as a proper gentleman does when approached at table by a lady.

Oh, don’t get up, Jacques. Irina pushed me down lightly with a hand on my shoulder. She played with my hair when I complied, which made me blush pinker than the apron Maria was wearing. She sat down, looked at me with those blue eyes, and smiled. I had the impression that she was toying with me. I was a little silly around girls, especially if they were older and as nice-looking as Irina. Obviously, to my great embarrassment, she had already sensed this flaw, my discomfort near her.

Did you sleep well? I asked in guise of a conversation.

Well, it took me a very long time to fall asleep. The silence is so complete. That got to me.

Yeah, I know how it is. I live in Paris. When I come here, it also takes a few nights for me to sleep easily. You’ll get used to it; you’ll see.

So, Jacques, what does one do here besides tending to the sheep? What shall we do today?

We could go to see the glacier, Perito Moreno. Or we could go riding. You know how to ride?

Not my strongest attribute, I reckon, but I can manage.

I can get you an easy mount, a docile horse good for beginners. I’ll be riding with you anyway, and I won’t let anything bad happen, I said, feeling important.

Okay, it’s a date then.

We can go to Perito Moreno tomorrow. I’ll go get you my older boots. I have outgrown them. They will be large for you, but they will protect your legs.

I’ll be fine. Don’t worry, Jacques.

Maria, could you make some sandwiches, please? You have some empanadas still?

Yes, and yes, Jacques. I’ll prepare a lunch box for you.

Great. I’ll steal a bottle of Malbec from my uncle, and we’ll be set.

Can you drink wine already, Jacques? Irina said, teasing me again.

What do you think? I am French and no longer a kid. Besides, in Argentina you start drinking wine soon after quitting the baby bottle.

Well, so sorry, Senor Jacques.

I just ignored her last quip and went out to choose and saddle the horses. Our horses were all criollos, tall beasts measuring seventeen hands or more. We did not use the shorter quarter horse, or the even shorter pony-size Mangalarga common in northern countries. I chose an older calm horse for Irina and my usual mount and saddled them myself. Antonio, who doubled as farmhand and stable boy, was out, probably helping my uncle. The stable was almost empty. The other horses had been taken by the farmhands. Aside from Maria, who had her own quarters in the main house, four other families of farmhands lived in the estancia. Daily life on a Patagonia farm started early. People were up before daybreak. Their breakfast was also quite distinct from ours. They did not drink coffee in the morning. They drank mate, an infusion prepared by filling a gourd-like container, or guampa, with dry leaves of yerba mate and very hot, but not boiling, water. Drinking was done through a metal straw, or bombilla, with a strainer at one end and a silver mouthpiece at the other. Normally, they ate only bread and matambre, a very thin strip of beef cut between the skin of the steer and the ribs, or a small portion of grilled lamb. Then, they left the house for their long and hard day’s toil, which ended usually at sunset.

After saddling the horses, I went back to the main house to get Irina and our things.

Don’t be afraid. The horse is tall but tame. Here, let me give you a hand to get up on the saddle, I said, closing my hands with my fingers interlaced to provide a stepping support for Irina. She ignored my hands, stepped on the stirrup, and jumped on the saddle as a real amazon.

I see. You were playing with me, I said, disgusted.

No, dear Jacques, never. I’m sorry if you think I tricked you. Believe me, I like you a lot. I do. When you asked me if I could ride, I knew I could never compare my skill with yours, with you being a person who rides all the time and is a real gaucho. That’s why I said I could manage. Will you excuse me if I gave a false impression?

Sure, I said. No problem. Let’s go then.

I enjoyed the feeling of riding immensely. I also loved the freedom of the wide plains, the crisp, dry air of Patagonia, and the beauty of distant mountains. From the height of our saddles, we saw farther into the flatland, as far as to the distant horizon, which blended with the sky. There were few reference points. If it were not for the mountains, an inexperienced rider could easily lose his way. From time to time, we could see small herds of sheep grazing as a group. I had brought a pair of binoculars in my saddlebag. I used those to spot, and point out to Irina, the eventual eagle soaring high in a cloudless blue sky, looking for a prey. Irina was delighted with the novelty of it all. She expressed this by asking questions, smiling at my elaborate explanations, and patting my arm in recognition.

Oh, look! What is that? It looks like a cross between a rabbit and a kangaroo, she exclaimed.

Where?

There. She pointed.

Ah. That’s a mara, a Patagonian hare.

What a funny-looking animal—ugly.

Yes. It’s a bit strange, I agree.

Are we still far from the place where we will be picnicking?

Not that far. Maybe one or one and a half miles. We’ll see it soon. It’s a copse of trees by the river.

Is there a river?

Yes, quite a big one. But you cannot see it until you get very close.

Ten minutes later we spotted the trees.

Shall we race to them? I dared.

Irina didn’t answer. She just took off at gallop.

That’s unfair! I shouted, galloping after her.

Life is unfair! she cried back.

We settled at a nice spot among the trees, overlooking the river. We had first watered the horses, which were now tied to an area where they could graze the low grass.

This is lovely, Irina said as I opened the food box that Maria had prepared for us. I had brought plastic cups. I opened the bottle and served Irina some wine.

Is this still your uncle’s land?

Yes. The river’s the limit. Across from that, there’s another estancia.

You like your uncle a lot, don’t you?

He never married, and he has no children of his own. He has always treated me as the son he never had. So, yes, I do love him. He’s very clever and an excellent farmer. He’s an accomplished alpinist. He has climbed mountains all over South America and Europe—the Alps, the Dolomites. He’s better than good.

I see.

And he teaches me everything. He has taught me to climb mountains, to ride horses, and to fish.

One day you’ll inherit all this.

I do not contemplate such a distant matter. It’s of no importance to me.

That’s fine.

What do you do in Russia, Irina?

I work for the government.

Yes, but what exactly do you do?

I work for the Foreign Department. You could say I’m a kind of diplomat. Not the kind that goes to parties and cultivates fancy foreign friendships. I take care of other tasks.

Your Spanish is flawless if your accent is not Argentinian. Your French is also perfect and definitely Parisian. How do you speak these languages so well?

We have good schools in Russia, Jacques.

Are you really my cousin? My parents and my uncle have never before mentioned you.

That’s because I’m not your true cousin. My grandfather was a very close friend of your grandfather. They both served in the Red Army. The families used to visit each other frequently. I was born after your grandfather and your uncle’s father had left Russia. The families continued to keep in touch by mail for a while, before the situation became more complicated. A few years back, I was sent to serve at the Russian Embassy in Washington. I took advantage of some holidays to travel to Argentina, where I met Ignacio. That’s why he immediately recognized me last night.

How old are you, Irina?

I’m twenty-six years old. Too old for you? She smiled.

You are teasing me again.

I am being sincere. You ask too many questions, Jacques. Now it’s my turn to ask. How old are you?

I’m seventeen. Well, almost. I’ll be seventeen in two months.

Do you have a girlfriend back in Paris?

No, I have not, I confessed. I am not very good with girls.

I do not believe that. I think you are just shy. She put her hand on my cheek. You are tall and lean with dark hair and gorgeous green eyes. You are very good-looking. Trust me, you are going to be quite the lady-killer.

I was blushing and feeling the heat of Irina’s hand on my face. I couldn’t say anything.

Let’s finish the picnic and head home, Jacques. It’s going to take a long time to ride back. I know that you left a message. Still, I wouldn’t think it wise to arrive later than dinnertime.

And so started my long connection with Irina, by a river deep in Patagonia. Neither one of us could have guessed the direction that our relationship would take in the future.

Chapter 3

THE GLACIER

It was almost lunchtime before I was able to complete the tasks my uncle had left for me. He kept instructing me: Jacques, taking care of an estancia involves a lot more than horse riding and sightseeing. There’s a lot of hard administrative work. Every expense had to be duly registered; every bill, sorted and filed. The sheep herd was kept track of in a computer database. Every ewe birth and all deaths had to be recorded. Anyway, that morning he had left me with a ton of paperwork and computer work. It was a real drag, but it had to be done. After I finished, Irina and I decided to skip lunch and go to Perito Moreno. Otherwise, we would have been too late to properly see the glacier. We took Irina’s car. I was driving. At a reasonable speed, the drive from our place to the outskirts of El Calafate took at least an hour and a half. In our case it took longer. I made several stops along the way to show Irina points with nice views. Irina was a vivacious person, and I didn’t really have to be responsible for the conversation. She was talking the whole time, expressing her appreciation for what she saw and asking lots of questions. I just had to provide answers.

We got to El Calafate around two in the afternoon. It was a charming small village, constructed at the margin of Lago Argentino, the largest lake in Patagonia, which is fed by the melting waters from Perito Moreno and other, smaller glaciers. The village’s main street was a bit of a tourist trap, full of souvenir shops selling all sorts of trinkets, what Ignacio would derogatively classify as shelf shit. This was, however, the main source of income for the community, which thrived because of this commerce and the overall tourist activity. I kind of liked Calafate. I found it quaint. We had to cross it and drive on to the entrance of Perito Moreno National Park. We parked the car and walked the rest of the way to the observation area provided for tourists.

It’s impressive, don’t you think? I asked.

It’s beautiful. I’m glad you brought me here.

Do they have places like this in Russia?

What do you think, Jacques? Sure, we have, in the Arctic and in the Ural Mountains. Russia is a very big and beautiful country.

It was a silly question, I know. The Argentinians say that Perito Moreno is the only glacier in the whole world that is still growing. All the others are decreasing because of global warming. We have a glacier in France, La Mère de Glace, which is rapidly melting. It’s said that in a few more years it will disappear.

That’s terrible and a pity.

Come, there’s a boat trip that gets very close to the glacier. Quick, let’s go. We should leave now if we wish to catch the last boat making the trip to the glacier today.

It was past five in the afternoon when we returned to the car. We were mildly tired of seeing the glacier. I concluded that we should start to go back. I didn’t want to return too late, but Irina had other ideas.

I don’t know about you, Jacques, but I’m hungry. I would like to eat something before driving to the estancia. What do you think?

Yes, I’m hungry too. There’s a place in the village where they make delicious steak sandwiches.

No, Jacques. I want to go to a real restaurant—the best in Calafate, if possible. I wish to sit and be properly served. And I’m dying for a stiff drink, a straight scotch with no water and no ice, what the Americans call cowboy style. Could you get us to such a place?

Sure, I think. It’ll be very expensive, though.

Not to worry, Jacques. I’m paying tonight.

In that case, I’ll take you to the restaurant I went to with my uncle on my birthday. I believe you’ll like it.

Fantastic. Do you think we could make a stop at a drugstore? Better if it’s a place that sells women’s cosmetics and perfumes.

Sure, no problem. What do you need?

I need to buy hair coloring. I would like to change the color of my hair.

Why would you do that? I asked, horrified. The way you are, you look so …"

Yes? Complete what you were saying. Irina smiled.

I … I think you look beautiful the way you are, I stuttered.

It’s a woman thing, Jacques. I’m bored with my blonde hair. I wish to see how I would look as brunette. Variety is the spice of life.

I shook my head. It sounds silly. I would never think of changing my hair color.

Nor should you. You are gorgeous the way you are, she said seriously.

With no response for that, I just stood there blushing. I was beginning to become a hopeless fool near Irina.

We found Irina’s hair coloring and went to the restaurant I had suggested. It was early for dinner. People around here tended to eat later; consequently, the place was empty. The waitress took us to one of the vacant tables and took our orders for drinks. Irina asked for a bottle of scotch to be left on the table. I ordered a soft drink.

No wine tonight, Jacques?

Nah. I still have to drive at night back to the estancia.

I see. Tell me, is there a way to drive to Chile from Calafate?

Yes, sure. A lot of tourists do that. They go to visit Torres del Payne in Chile.

What is that?

Torres del Payne is a group of mountains. They are incredible sharp rock needles. It’s quite a vision to see them. They seem to sprout from the ground. And the area is full of lakes. I have been climbing mountains there with Ignacio as well, but never to the top of the needles. That’s my next project after Fitz Roy, which I was able to climb only just before you arrived.

Was it difficult?

Yes, very difficult. It demanded a lot of my abilities and energy.

You shall have to tell me everything later.

The Fitz Roy massif is impressively stark and rugged. But the Torres del Payne is quite a dramatic tableau of mountains, lakes, rivers, and green hills. The mountains are on the other side of the cordillera and get much more rain and snow than we get here.

I’m learning another of your facets, Jacques: the poet.

There you are playing with me again.

Absolutely not. I truly appreciate your company. I think you are quite an intelligent and sensitive boy. But let’s eat our dinner, shall we?

You are not thinking of going away, are you? I said, alarmed. I still have many things to show to you. You must stay longer, a week at least.

Irina smiled. We shall see. We shall see how things go. Now, eat.

I wasn’t happy with Irina’s answer. It was inevitable that she wouldn’t stay. She had to depart someday. I wished to delay that date as much as possible.

Chapter 4

PUNTA ARENAS

I was glad to return to the estancia. It had been a long and tiring day full of discoveries. Not of the physical sort. I was fed up going to Perito Moreno and Calafate, which I had already visited many times. No, I was finding new experiences and feelings in my contact with Irina. She had said she liked me, for several reasons. This simple observation had created a sense of pleasure and excitement, something I could not properly define with my lack of experience with similar previous episodes. I felt the development of a consciousness of self-importance, an inner happiness that I couldn’t properly define besides saying that I was enjoying Irina’s company, finding that I liked her.

My uncle was waiting for us inside the house. I wasn’t expecting him to still be up. Normally, Ignacio was a strict follower of going early to bed and rising early. Tonight, however, he was standing there with a stern face. His first words were directed at Irina.

Your face was in all the news casts this evening. They say you killed a Russian journalist who was visiting Buenos Aires as a guest at a peace conference. Allegedly, you also dispatched his bodyguard and gravely wounded a policeman. You have not been straight with us, Irina. You did not tell me the real reason for your visit. I’m shocked and worried about our involvement in a matter that doesn’t concern us at all. You are family, Irina, but you must level with us. Enough of the deceit, please.

I’m terribly sorry, Uncle. You are right. I should have told you the true reason for my visit. I was afraid of your reaction. We hadn’t seen each other in so many years. I needed a safe place to hide for a few days. I couldn’t think of any other.

Did it not cross your mind that by coming here you might implicate us? What are you, girl? Why did you do it?

I am an SVR agent, the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service. The person in question was a journalist, Alexander Popovisky, a defector. Normally, we wouldn’t mind his decision to quit his country. But he had to go and continue to write bad things about our government, shameful deceiving lies. He was admonished to stop many times but paid no attention and continued with his campaign of slander. What else could we do? This journalist was a danger to our country. He was passing the secrets of the Rodina to foreign powers. He had to be stopped. It was unlucky that his bodyguard was so observant. It was supposed to be very discreet—a pinprick of a toxic agent applied in the middle of a crowd. But the bodyguard saw it. He tried to bring me down. I was forced to kill him. Then the police came. I ran, and I got away, but not before I had to shoot this policeman.

"When you say ‘our