The Argentine Triangle: A Craig Page Thriller Page 14

  The sommelier brought over a bottle of wine. As he showed it to Miranda, Craig noticed a man’s picture on the front bearing a striking resemblance to his host.

  “You?” Craig asked, pointing to the bottle, when they each had a glass.

  “My father. He started the winery. Now it’s mine.”

  Craig tasted the wine and said, “This is superb.”

  Miranda smiled. “In Argentina the malbec grapes do best, and it’s what we’re known for. Our cabs are underrated. Some of them are excellent. For all of these wines, order the 1990 or 1995 if you can find them.”

  “Do you produce pinot as well?”

  Miranda made a face. “God bless the Burgundians. They’re the only ones in the world who can make good pinot.”

  “Lots of people in Oregon and Napa Valley would dispute that.”

  “Just a bunch of chauvinistic Americans. I know all about them. I did my paper on the wine business when I studied for an MBA at your school,” Miranda said.

  Craig was about to ask Miranda when he had been at Carnegie Mellon, the only school he had graduated from, but he caught himself. Barry Gorman had a Stanford BA and MBA.

  So Miranda, or someone, had done their homework, looking up Barry Gorman on the Internet. “When were you there?”

  Miranda laughed. “Probably before you were born. Let’s change the subject. This one depresses me.”

  That suited Craig. He had never been to Stanford and would have difficulty talking about it.

  The salads arrived. Craig asked Miranda how his family had come to Argentina.

  “My grandfather came from southern Italy almost a hundred years ago. He was eighteen. He arrived with about ten lira and the clothes on his back. He worked hard and he bought land down south with every cent he could save. He had no idea there was oil underneath.”

  “Sounds like a smart man as well as a lucky one.”

  “Very. Smart’s good. Lucky’s even better. He built the family fortune.” Miranda smiled. “And I’m trying not to lose it … You’ve heard the old joke. How do you get $10 million?”

  “No, how?”

  “Inherit twenty.”

  Craig laughed, then let Miranda talk some more about his family until the waiter brought their steaks. “I assume that Jorge Suarez told you why I’m here.”

  Miranda took a taste of the meat, sipped some wine, then wiped his mouth with the linen napkin. “He said you have money to invest for a private equity fund and you’re considering Argentina.”

  “Precisely. I have $10 billion.”

  The sum didn’t seem to faze Miranda. “What industries are you focusing on?”

  Craig lowered his voice. “I haven’t gotten that far in my thinking. I’m worried about your economy as a whole. In a macro sense.”

  Craig paused and locked eyes with Miranda. “Can I be real blunt? One business man to another.”

  “Sure.”

  “From everything I read and what I hear on the street, your economy is stagnating at best. There’s no real growth.”

  Miranda nodded.

  Craig continued. “President Garcia and his advisors seem to be clueless about what to do. If that’s true, I would be pouring my money down a shithole—to be very crude—and I know that’s not how a Stanford MBA is supposed to talk, but it happens to be true. Also, remember it’s not my money. The Philoctetes Group raised it from investors. I have an obligation to them. So there we are.”

  Miranda rubbed his fingers together, thinking about how to respond. “There is a light at the end of the tunnel,” he finally said.

  “The last time somebody told me that it was a train bearing down on us.”

  Miranda scowled and brushed aside the comment. Though they were too far from the nearest table to be overheard, he was whispering. “Garcia is a fool. He’ll be out as president by the end of the year.”

  “Then what?”

  “General Estrada will take over the government, and our economic misery will be over. The military has saved this country before. It must happen again now, or we’re all doomed.”

  Craig was whispering as well. “You’re talking about a coup?”

  Miranda shook his head. “I’m expecting a special election. Estrada will be swept into power by the voters.”

  That wasn’t the answer Craig had been expecting. “I didn’t think Estrada had that much popular support.”

  “Not yet, but wait a couple of months. Then people will realize that only Alfredo Estrada has the key to what’s needed to get us back on our feet economically.”

  Craig wrinkled up his face and pulled back, pretending to be stunned by what he had just heard. “How about your friends? The other business leaders. What do they think?”

  “We’re all supporting Estrada. We’ve been encouraging him to take charge. There are constant strikes. Our labor unions are out of control. Workers don’t work. They want more money for doing nothing. Discipline is needed to straighten out our economy. Only Estrada can provide it.”

  That’s what the generals always say in these situations, Craig thought. General Videla had used the same rationale for the military seizing power in 1976. He pretended to be thinking out loud. “If what you’re telling me will happen, then this would be the perfect time to invest in Argentina.”

  “That’s precisely what I’m doing with all of my cash,” Miranda said.

  “There’s a big difference between us, however.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I presume you know Estrada reasonably well.”

  “Correct. He has charisma, as well as being smart and tough. That’s important. The psychology of the people is critical to turning the country around.”

  Craig pretended to be evaluating Miranda’s words.

  “The trouble is it all depends on the general, and I know very little about the man.” Craig screwed up his face in doubt. “How can I commit to an investment of this magnitude without having my own personal sense of the man?”

  Craig stopped talking. He leaned back calmly in his chair and waited. He had tossed out the bait. The question was whether Miranda would bite. It took only a couple of seconds for Miranda to say precisely what Craig had hoped to hear.

  “Then I’d like for you to have a chance to meet the general. Once you do and you get to know him, you’ll realize what a difference he can make when he’s in charge of this country.”

  “Maybe so,” Craig said, not trying to sound too eager. He wanted all of the pushing to come from Miranda.

  “I’ll arrange a meeting for you,” Miranda quickly followed up. “I’ll ask the general to spend some time with you.”

  “He’s a busy man. Can you really do that?” Careful, Craig warned himself. Don’t overplay your hand.

  Miranda laughed. “I’m sure even in the United States $10 billion gets you an introduction.”

  Craig laughed easily with him. “Well, as long as you put it that way.”

  Miranda stood up. “Phones aren’t permitted in the dining room. I’ll go outside and call the general. Why don’t you stay here and order coffee?”

  When his host had departed, Craig turned his eyes toward the red clay tennis courts on the other side of the window. Two women, very good players, were pounding the ball back and forth. One of them reminded him of Gina—her shape, her moves, even a similar looking face. The tango with her had been incredible.

  Miranda returned carrying two cigars. He handed one to Craig. “Cubans.”

  They both lit up. “I can’t understand how business interests in your country tolerate that stupid Cuban embargo,” Miranda said.

  Craig nodded in agreement, though at this moment he could care less about Cuba. He wanted to know about his meeting with Estrada. Miranda must have sensed this and was making Craig wait.

  Miranda took a puff, blew smoke into the air, and said, “You’re all set. Today, Estrada is up in the north at a military base.”

  That must be the base Dunn had focused on, the one Nicole h
ad agreed to check out for him. Something important must be going on up there.

  Miranda continued, “The general flies back tonight. I arranged a meeting for you tomorrow morning at ten, at his office in the Ministry of Defense in the Government complex.”

  “Excellent.”

  “And one final thing,” Miranda added. “When he persuades you that the time is right and you consider what to do with your $10 billion, I hope that you will talk to me. Our oil and gas business is poised for expansion. With new investment, we could begin exporting massive quantities to the United States. Our untapped reserves are immense. We would be a much more reliable source of supply than Saudi Arabia and your other so-called friends in the Middle East.”

  “Anybody would be better than they are.”

  Miranda took a pen and piece of paper out of his pocket. He scribbled down the address of the Defense Ministry and handed it to Craig. “Estrada is looking forward to meeting you.”

  I’ll bet he is, Craig thought. After hearing about me from Suarez, Gina, and Miranda.

  Bethesda, Maryland

  Bryce accompanied President Treadwell to Bethesda Naval Hospital, a large US government medical complex on Wisconsin Avenue in the suburb of Bethesda, Maryland. No one in the press had taken any notice when this morning’s handout for President Treadwell’s “schedule for the day” showed a visit by the president to the National Institute of Health to discuss the latest research developments in women’s heart problems, followed by a stop at Bethesda Naval Hospital to visit a wounded pilot whose plane had been shot down over Afghanistan and who had been flown to Bethesda Naval for treatment.

  As they were leaving the White House, Bryce heard one reporter describe the day as “a yawner.” That was precisely what Bryce had intended when he persuaded Treadwell to let him make the arrangements, which he had done with Dr. Lee. Bryce and the doctor were the only ones who knew what was actually planned at Bethesda Naval.

  Dr. Lee and Bryce were at the president’s side when he visited the Navy pilot. Reporters had been restricted to the press room off the ground floor lobby. “This is a working hospital,” the director had told them. From that room, Lee led the way down an inside staircase with one secret service agent behind, then Treadwell and Bryce, followed by two more agents, one of whom was carrying a duffel bag.

  When they reached the cardiac floor below, Treadwell snatched the duffle bag and said to the three agents, “You guys wait outside.”

  They didn’t look pleased, but they kept silent.

  “Edward, you’re coming with me,” Treadwell continued. “This was your idea.”

  The two of them and Dr. Lee disappeared behind the door of the testing room.

  Bryce sat down in a corner trying to be unobtrusive.

  “Change into your exercise clothes, Mr. President,” Dr. Lee said. “We’ll start with an echo stress test.”

  Bryce was impressed that Dr. Lee could work the equipment without a technician.

  An hour later, the tests were over, and the president was dressed again. “Well, what’s the verdict?” he asked anxiously.

  Bryce leaned forward, listening carefully to what the doctor said.

  “I’d like to schedule you for a cardiac catheterization, Mr. President.”

  “You doctors always want more tests. Do you know what I had to go through to have these done without the press being all over us?”

  “I understand, sir. I only mean that …”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you found today?” Treadwell asked.

  Bryce didn’t have to wait for the words to come out of Dr. Lee’s mouth. The grim expression on the doctor’s face told him this wouldn’t be good news.

  “Your stress test was abnormal. You have coronary artery disease. If we do a cardiac catheterization, we will have a better idea of the condition of the blood vessels to your heart. We might be able to do an angioplasty and avoid a long hospital stay, but if your disease is severe, you will need surgery.”

  “Suppose I were to put it off a year or so?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You are likely to have a serious heart attack. You could die.”

  Bryce was cringing. He hoped that Treadwell would follow the doctor’s advice. But the president fired back, “You don’t know for sure that something bad will happen if I don’t have the procedure. Do you?”

  “No. I can’t say for absolute certainty. If it were me or someone I care about, I’d have the procedure and any intervention necessary done right away.”

  “But you’re not facing a difficult election in a little over a year. Are you?”

  “A presidential campaign is a demanding stress test. You might not survive this one.”

  Dr. Lee’s words were met with a hard, cold stare and a rigidly set jaw.

  She continued. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. All I can provide you with is my best medical advice. You’re free to consult another cardiologist. You may want another opinion.”

  Bryce considered interjecting, but decided to hold his support for Dr. Lee until he was alone with Treadwell.

  “I appreciate you giving me your best judgment,” the president said. “But at the end of the day, the decision is mine. Isn’t it?”

  “It’s always up to the patient, Mr. President,” she responded respectfully.

  “Is there anything you can prescribe to help me get through the year? To minimize the symptoms and all that.”

  She pulled out a prescription pad and began writing. “Sublingual nitroglycerin will help. When you get chest pain, place a tablet under your tongue. It will tingle. Your blood pressure is elevated. It’s 160 over 98. I am also prescribing Prinivil to control your blood pressure. Your cholesterol is 260. You’ll need to take Atorvastatin to lower it. Avoid all strenuous physical activity. And be sure you remember to take an aspirin every day. Let me know if your chest pain gets worse or happens more frequently.”

  “Good. I trust you won’t discuss this with anyone else. No one. If they ask, I want you to tell them it would violate your ethical standards, which I think it would.”

  “I had planned to talk only to Dr. Anderson.”

  “Don’t do that. Andy sometimes flaps his mouth when he’s had too much to drink. He might talk to my wife.”

  Treadwell looked up at Bryce. “C’mon, Edward. Let’s get out of here.”

  As they headed for the door, Treadwell suddenly wheeled around and said, “I want you to destroy all the records from this exam today, Dr. Lee.” He pointed to one of the machines Dr. Lee had used. “All of the charts from that gadget. Everything.”

  Looking troubled, Dr. Lee tore the charts from the machine and handed them to Treadwell. “These records are your property, Mr. President.”

  Treadwell snarled, “Humph,” and shoved them into his pocket.

  Treadwell and Bryce didn’t say a word until they were alone in the back of the presidential limousine with a soundproof barrier separating them from the driver. Then Treadwell said, “Do you think I’m being a fool? By not having the procedure she recommended?”

  “You have to decide that for yourself.”

  “Dammit, Edward.” Treadwell sounded exasperated. “I want your honest opinion. That’s why I brought you out here.”

  Bryce hesitated, then said, “Truthfully, I think you should do the procedure.”

  “Thank you for being honest.”

  “We never bullshit each other.”

  “I may end up doing it, but I need a little time to mull it over. I’m not quite there yet.”

  Bryce was now optimistic that Treadwell would make the sensible choice. He just hoped the president wouldn’t take too long to come around.

  Buenos Aires

  The Army officer, with a shaved head and wire framed glasses, who came to meet Craig in the reception area of the Defense Ministry, looked openly hostile and suspicious. “I’m Colonel Schiller,” he said coldly, making no effort to shake Craig’s hand.

  “Barry Gorman.”<
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  “Well, well. At last we get to meet the famous Mr. Gorman. We’ve heard so much about you.”

  And I get to meet the infamous Colonel Schiller, Craig thought.

  “All good things, I hope.”

  “But of course. You’re not suggesting there’s another side to you we don’t know about?”

  Craig forced a laugh. “I’m afraid what you see is what you get.”

  “That’s good to know because I’ve spent twenty years in military intelligence. I don’t like receiving surprises about people.”

  Schiller managed to make his position clear, Craig thought. The colonel had obviously checked out the Philoctetes Group and found out it was on the up and up and Barry Gorman a principal. He cautioned himself against getting too cocky. On the other hand, he wanted Schiller to know he wasn’t frightened. “I have a ten o’clock meeting with General Estrada,” he said curtly.

  “That’s where you’re going.”

  After they exited the elevator on the sixth floor, Schiller led Craig down a long, dimly lit marble corridor. As they walked, Schiller said, “I hope you’ve had a chance to see some of the sights in the city.”

  “Absolutely. Two days ago I did major touring in Buenos Aires. The opera house, museums, parks. As much as I could cram into a day.”

  Looking at the rage on Schiller’s face, his firmly set jaw and clenched mouth, Craig sensed that Schiller was ready to explode. The colonel knew that Craig was toying with him. Only Estrada and the prospect of $10 billion had to be holding him back.

  Schiller knocked twice on a heavily polished wooden door, waited for a booming voice to call out from the other side, “Enter,” then pushed it open.

  The man in a military uniform, heavily decorated with medals, who rose behind the desk, took the measure of Craig with piercing, mocha brown eyes. The general had a commanding presence. His lips parted beneath a thin mustache into a friendly smile. Intimidation gave way to charm and charisma as Estrada moved across the large office to greet his visitor. The light from the ceiling reflected from his shiny coal-black hair parted in the middle. The clearly visible scar above his right eyebrow cautioned Craig that, notwithstanding what he saw, here was a man accustomed to violence.