SANTIAGO GAUTO drew deeply on his cigarette, making the red end glare fiercely. He held the smoke, then blew it up towards the ceiling. For a moment he paused, then he began to relax, and I was glad I had come here to this modest little house near Buenos Aires to meet a man my comrades and I had been trying to kill almost twelve years before.

He had greeted me at the door with a welcoming smile and a friendly handshake, then showed Diego, my interpreter, and me into his kitchen cum living-room. We sat round the table and he looked me in the eye and said: 'This is my home, Vincent. It is yours, too. Please.' Then he passed me a cool beer from the fridge, saying: 'Let's have a beer together. It's an honour to meet one of my former enemies.'

'Salud!' We raised our bottles of beer and I handed him an English cigarette and together we smoked and drank our beer and began to talk. We had both been a little nervous and, deep down, wary about this meeting. But now the ice was broken, we had overcome the first hurdle, and the chat was flowing, particularly about why I had come to see him. We were both as curious about each other as any soldiers from opposite sides when they meet so long after a battle.

For a moment that great smile flashed again and then he said seriously: 'It is a brave thing you do, brave of you to come here alone, so far, to be surrounded by people who – even though it is all a long time ago now – could still want to harm you because you are English. I appreciate what you have done, what you are doing. Believe me, it is a brave thing and a big thing you do here today. I am proud of being chosen by you, Vincent. Maybe it is one of those beautiful chances in life ... Someone picked me out, gave you my name and now we meet. Yes, it is brave, brave for both of us to meet.'

Watching me with deep, dark, puzzled eyes from behind the curtain which served as a door was Mayra, a classic picture of beauty and childhood innocence, bewildered by the strangers and the language they spoke to her father.

Sensing her confusion, Santiago said: 'Mayra, come to Papa.'

Diego talked quietly and calmly to his seven-year-old daughter and I turned to watch his lips as he translated the conversation. 'Don't be afraid, Mayra,' he said. 'This man Vincent has come from another country, a country many miles away. Many years ago, before you were born, he and I were enemies. We tried to kill each other for what we both believed was right. Don't worry – now we are at peace. Now we are about to become good friends.'

I looked at Diego as I stubbed out another cigarette. His eyes had filled with tears. I turned to the little girl as she moved from her father, came towards me and climbed on to my lap. She, too, was crying, tears rolling down her little face. Then she kissed me on the cheek and hugged me.

'Papa respects you. We are all friends now, yes?'

'Yes,' I said, wiping her tears away in just the same way as I do for my own daughters when they are afraid or upset.

The room was quiet for a while, all of us deep in our own thoughts: me, the intelligent,