The Assignment Read Online Free Page A

to arrive and the sunlight that lay over the countryside was already slanting and golden red.
    The plane sank lower over the water, flattened out over a level square island, and swept its broad-winged shadow across a peaceful little harbor with red customs sheds, fishing boats, and a ferry. Only a few moments later the rubber tires bit into the runway and the plane taxied up toward the airport buildings at Kastrup.
    Manuel Ortega let out his breath and unhooked his seat belt. He had never been able to get used to landings, however routine they seemed, and even this time the procedure had claimed all of his attention. For a few minutes everything else had been pushed to one side.
    The waiting room was the same as those in all the other airports he had seen from Dublin to Santa Cruz, and he thought that flying not only robbed the journey of its pleasure but also obliterated the individuality of the countries as well as the traveler’s identity.
    He drank a glass of beer in the bar and went to the men’s room to wash his hands. Then he remembered the woman who was to meet him and went to the waiting room to look for her.
    He saw no one who resembled the picture he had alreadycreated in his mind, and he soon gave up. Common sense told him that the woman could look like almost anyone. Moreover, there was no guarantee that she would be waiting there.
    When he returned to the bar for another glass of beer, he was detained by a middle-aged man wearing a tweed hat and a wind-breaker. The man turned back his jacket and gave him a glimpse of a press card which was fastened to the breast pocket of his blazer with a paper clip.
    “You’re Manuel Ortega, aren’t you? The new Provincial Resident?”
    “Yes.”
    “The man with the suicidal assignment?”
    “Well, there’s no reason to overdramatize it.”
    “It didn’t go all that well last time. Are you used to assignments of this kind?”
    “No. And besides, the situation is a very special one. But is the general public here really interested in our little problems?”
    “Not very. But in you personally. Anyway, it might become more interesting. Would you mind answering a few questions?”
    “As well as I can.”
    Most of the questions were foolish and irrelevant. Such as: “What did your wife say when you left?” and “How many children do you have?”
    He answered in monosyllables or by shrugging his shoulders.
    “Are you yourself from this province?”
    “No. I was brought up in the capital, in the north of the country.”
    “Is your father alive?”
    “No.”
    “What was his profession?”
    “Executive in an export business.”
    “What kind of an education did you have?”
    “A commercial education. I studied economics and law at the university as well. I worked for a while with the Ministry of Finance.”
    “What are your political views?”
    “None.”
    A photographer appeared and took a few shots.
    Manuel Ortega smiled with an effort and said: “May I ask you a question? Aren’t you afraid of losing your press card?”
    The man looked dumfounded. Then he turned back his wind-breaker and said:
    “No, not at all. Look at this. I’ve got a safety pin which goes through the case and is fastened on the inside of the pocket. My wife fixed it for me.”
    He returned his notebook to his pocket and added: “One more question—a little more fundamental than the others. Are you afraid?”
    “No,” said Manuel Ortega.
    He turned toward the bar and tapped on the glass counter with a coin to show that the conversation was at an end. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the two men walk across the floor of the hall, and he saw that the photographer said something to which the other shrugged his shoulders.
    He had been unpleasantly disturbed and felt ill at ease. When he tried to analyze the sheer physical sensation he found that it could be best described as pressure on his chest.
    His flight was called after half an hour’s delay. It was raining, although the