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It's the evening of May 11th, 1960, in Argentina.

Workers are filing out of the Mercedes-Benz factory in a small industrial town just

north of Buenos Aires. Among them is Ricardo Clement, a BDI balding factory worker in his early 50s.

Ricardo punches his time sheet at the door, then joins the flow of employees shuffling onto a waiting bus.

Ricardo finds an empty seat near the back and turns to face the window.

He runs an oil-stained hand through what little remains of his dark hair.

For pulling out a pair of spectacles and perching them on his beaky nose,

Ricardo gazes through the window as the sun sinks behind the factory chimneys,

gradually turning the sky the color of rust.

Half an hour later, the bus arrives at Ricardo's stop.

He disembarks and sets off on foot for home.

But as he walks, Ricardo becomes aware of the nearby rumble of a carnage.

Turning, he spots a black sedan idling by the curb.

Ricardo grows increasingly uneasy, as a man wearing a fedora and dark sunglasses

emerges from the car and looks directly at Ricardo.

There's something about this stranger that feels out of place.

Then, as the man calls out to him, panic rises in Ricardo's chest.

He spins around and breaks down the street, his heart thumping.

But the sound of footsteps grows louder behind him,

...