It's just after midnight on July the 13th, 1976, a bitter winter's night in Buenos Aires, Argentina's capital.

Icy winds whip in off the river plate and funneled through empty streets.

Nobody dares go out after dark these days.

In La Florista, a quiet neighborhood in the west of the city,

is an old mechanics garage.

Inside on the small back patio an officer leans against the war.

He strikes a match and quickly cups a trembling hand around the glowing tip of a cigarette.

Around him, the wind tears at the bed linen and boiler suits strung up on washing lines. They criss-cross the patio, casting eerie shadows. His sweater is streaked

with grease and blood.

Inside the workshop, a radio is turned up so loud that the pounding music is damaging the speaker. Machinery words and gears grind.

Occasionally an anguished screen pierces the din and the officer flinches.

This is Automotores Oleti.

Until recently, it was a working garage.

Now it's a makeshift torture center,

run by playing clothes operatives from the Argentine Secret Service,

the State Intelligence Secretariat, or C-Doh,

or C-Day, aiding, aiding

aiding them as a rag-tag band of common criminals and anti-communists.

Anibal Gordon, the chief thug, has a picture of Adolf Hitler, no less, pinned on the wall

in the dirty upstairs room he uses as an office. A radio crackles into life. A new

prisoner has arrived. The officer finishes his cigarette with a long final drag.

He then makes his way to the front of the garage,

...