The Argentine Triangle: A Craig Page Thriller Page 15

  Estrada reached out and shook Craig’s hand firmly. “You made a wonderful impression upon Emilio Miranda,” Estrada said. “And Emilio is a good judge of character.”

  “In that case, I’m flattered.”

  Estrada pointed to a rectangular conference table in a corner of the office. As Craig moved toward a chair on one side, Schiller followed him. To Craig’s delight, Estrada cut off his aide. “I won’t need you for this meeting.”

  Schiller left the room visibly pissed.

  Estrada sat at the head of the table, as Craig expected. “Welcome to Argentina, Mr. Gorman.”

  “Please, it’s Barry.”

  “Is this a first visit?”

  “It is, and I’m very impressed with Buenos Aires.”

  “It’s a fabulous city,” Estrada said with enthusiasm. “I was born here. A porteño, as we say. It easily rivals Milan and Rome as one of the great cities of the world. And we’ll have to get you out into the countryside. This is a huge and beautiful country. With wonderful people. Enormous energy and drive.”

  “That’s all true, but your economy has been a consistent underachiever.”

  Estrada dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “Economic ups and downs repeatedly occur in all great nations. We’re on our way now to our destiny.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Are you a student of history?”

  “I’ve read some.”

  “Then you’re aware that we were the first country in South America to assert our independence from Spain. Once we did, we took the lead with our General José de San Martin out front in freeing other parts of the continent from Spanish rule. Chile, Peru, and Venezuela followed. Now we have a new opportunity for leadership in our region.”

  “To do what?”

  The general smiled. “To lead all of South America in putting together an economic and trading bloc to take its place alongside North America and the EU.” He said it with so much confidence that Craig was convinced he believed it.

  “An ambitious undertaking, isn’t it?”

  “Visionaries are always doubted.”

  “I didn’t mean to express doubt.”

  Estrada shrugged. “That’s alright, my friend. We have to move in stages. The first step is to strengthen our own economy. Powerful economic incentives will be put in place right after the first of the year.”

  This fit with the schedule Miranda had described yesterday, Craig recalled. Estrada would take power early next year.

  Estrada looked squarely at Craig. “Emilio told me why you’ve come to Argentina. Your timing to invest here couldn’t be better. I would expect you easily to quadruple your investment in the next year.”

  Craig gave a long, low whistle. “At home, people would kill for a 400 percent return per annum.”

  Craig had been watching Estrada as he said those words, trying to see if the general flinched at the word kill. He showed no visible reaction. Instead, the general returned the focus to the money. “Emilio also said that you want to get to know me before committing your money.”

  “Precisely. I’ve learned enough to know that you are the future of Argentina.”

  Obviously pleased with the comment, Estrada’s chest expanded. “Nothing I do is for myself. Only for my Argentina.”

  “But of course. That’s what I understand.”

  “I’d like to have you out to my country house for a weekend,” Estrada said.

  Craig held his breath. That would be a perfect way to make inroads on penetrating Estrada’s organization. To get close enough to Estrada to pick up hints of what he was planning.

  “But I’m afraid it won’t work this weekend. It’s already Friday. Tomorrow morning I have meetings. Then tomorrow evening, I’m flying to London for a couple of days. Do you have business in London?”

  Take it slow, Craig thought. Maybe Estrada would invite him to come along. “I have a major investor in London who has been wanting me to come over and meet with him.”

  “Why not do it now? You can fly with me.”

  Craig didn’t want to appear too anxious. He leaned back in the high wooden chair pretending to mull over Estrada’s proposal.

  “My plan,” Estrada added, “is to rest Sunday in London and relax in the evening. I have a Monday morning meeting. After that I intend to return.”

  “Sounds perfect. I’ll make mine a breakfast meeting on Monday.” Craig remembered what Betty’s bio said of Estrada’s interest in women and gambling. “Also, I have friends who can get us access to one of the best upscale dinner and gambling clubs. Lots of interesting people, including some top models, hang out there … if that sort of thing appeals to you.”

  Estrada laughed.

  Craig could read his mind. A night on the town in London with another savvy man would be a pleasant interlude from the pressures of his life in Buenos Aires.

  “You could twist my arm.”

  “Good. I always stay at the St. James Club. If you’d like, I could arrange a suite for you there.”

  “Excellent. I’ll have them cancel my reservation at the Dorchester.”

  Craig was pleased. This was better than he had hoped. “How many in your party?”

  “Just myself.”

  Craig concealed his surprise. This had to be a secret trip.

  “Actually, I was planning to take Colonel Schiller.” Estrada laughed. “But I’m sure you’ll be more fun.”

  Now Schiller will really be out to get me, Craig thought. A deadly enemy had become even more dangerous.

  “I’m going over in an Air Force plane. Be at San Martin Air Force Base tomorrow evening at seven.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Estrada hit the intercom and this brought Schiller marching into the office.

  “Cancel the London plans you made,” Estrada barked to Schiller. “I’m going with my new friend, Barry. You’ll stay here and watch the office.”

  Craig could see that Schiller was engaged in a massive effort at self-control to keep his anger in check. “But …” he stammered.

  Estrada cut him off. “It’s already decided. Now walk Barry down to reception.”

  So now we’re on a first name basis, Craig thought.

  “Yes, sir,” Schiller replied.

  As Schiller led Craig along the corridor, he suddenly stopped at the top of a staircase. Without any warning, he grabbed Craig tightly by the arm. For an instant Craig thought Schiller planned to push him down the stairs. “I’ll find out what you’re game is,” he whispered, “if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

  Craig leaned his face in close to Schiller. “The general wouldn’t like to hear that you’re threatening me.”

  Schiller pulled back. “But you’ll never tell him because he might take that as a sign that you have something to hide.”

  Schiller was right of course. Craig made a pass at softening. “I’m here to invest in Argentina. You and I are on the same side.”

  “Take your lies and get out,” Schiller hissed with saliva bursting out of his mouth. “Before I kill you.”

  “You wouldn’t dare do that,” Craig responded coldly. “General Estrada would never forgive you if you cost him my $10 billion.”

  Schiller locked eyes with Craig. “Accidents happen. If I were you, I’d be careful.” He tightened his mouth into a sadistic sneer. “Real careful.”

  Craig wanted to throw the events of two days ago in Bariloche in Schiller’s face, but he decided that wasn’t wise. He bit his lip and kept silent.

  He took a taxi to Puerto Modero, a trendy area along the river that had once been warehouses and was now filled with restaurants and boutiques. He had read about a good steakhouse called Lilas Cabanos. It had a deck that looked out over the river, perfect for lunch on what had turned out to be a warm, sunny day.

  Craig didn’t care whether he had been followed or not. He was sitting far enough away from the next table that he couldn’t be overheard if he talked softly on his cell phone. Even if Estr
ada had the technology to monitor his calls from the air, Estrada wouldn’t learn anything harmful to Craig.

  When Craig had left the clinic in Switzerland after plastic surgery, he had not only paid his bill but made a generous contribution to the clinic, which as he explained to Hans Wilhelm, the business manager, was to ensure absolute confidentiality. “But of course,” Hans had told Craig. “And if I can ever do anything for you in Europe, Mr. Maura, please let me know.”

  Craig called Hans in Geneva to arrange plans for the London trip. The St. James Club for rooms, the Blue Giraffe for dinner and gambling, and the models, using the name Barry Gorman for everything. Hans understood why a man would want to use a different name for a trip like that.

  Then Craig dialed Tim Fuller’s cell phone with a Washington area code. “Tim,” Craig said. “It’s Barry Gorman.” Tim didn’t miss a beat. “How are you doing with the Philoctetes Group these days?”

  “Still making money.”

  “That’s not easy in this economy.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “What’s up, pal?”

  “I have to be in London on Sunday, and I remember you telling me you’d be there as well.”

  There was a slight pause.

  Craig had no doubt that Tim knew what he wanted. Tim must be glancing at his calendar to see if he could shake loose to make the trip.

  “You have a memory like a steel trap,” Tim said.

  “Good. Can you give me a call at the St. James Club Sunday afternoon? I’ll buy you a drink or two that evening.”

  “You’ve got a deal.”

  Craig put the phone away and looked at the menu resting on the table. A waiter came by. “I’ll have the sirloin, cooked rare.” He said. “And a bottle of Miranda’s cab, 1990 or 1995.”

  “We have the ’95.”

  “Great.”

  Craig settled back and looked over the river. The Rio del Plata was alive. Boats of all types were passing before his eyes, large cargo ships, oil tankers, even small pleasure crafts. He tried to assess where he was, what had happened in his meeting with Estrada.

  What didn’t make sense was why Estrada had agreed so readily to go off to London with a man he had just met. Chances were the $10 billion had been the driver. He wanted to learn the general’s plans and to penetrate his organization at the same time that Estrada was courting him. The cover he was using was brilliant. The models and the gambling had been a further enticement. Craig put his head in his hands and thought about it some more. Estrada had been so eager, even anxious to take Craig to London. Estrada must have an agenda of his own that involved Craig. He could never forget that beneath the cordiality, was a hard, cruel, military mind. Craig would have to be careful in London. He couldn’t drop his guard.

  Middleburg, Virginia

  “I’m glad you could come out to Chesterfield to spend the night with me,” Bryce said to Gina.

  They were sipping champagne and eating caviar in the living room of the manor house of Bryce’s country estate in the Virginia hunt country, just beyond the ever-expanding Washington suburbs. A crackling fire sent flames shooting up in the stone fireplace. Gina’s eyes scanned the room, focusing on the costly antiques and original paintings. There were no pictures of Bryce with his wife or his two daughters, both of whom Gina knew were older than she was. She guessed that Bryce had asked one of the servants to remove them.

  “I hope you don’t mind if we eat in,” he said. “My chef, Jean Pierre, is better than anyone in this part of the world. The rest are country bumpkins.”

  She smiled. “What’s a bumpkin? I never heard that word before.”

  He shrugged and smiled back. “It’s slang for I’m not sure what. It sounds like it fit.”

  Over dinner, a rich country pâté followed by grilled quail, Gina asked Bryce about the house. “Have you had it long?”

  “I bought it about five years ago when it looked like my good friend, Edward, would become president. I wanted a place to entertain important visitors and to provide a refuge for him where he could escape from the pressure of the job in a way that he couldn’t at Camp David. I even put a billiard table downstairs because he and I like to play.”

  She paused to eat some of the pâté. It was wonderful. “What’s billiards?” she asked.

  He smiled. “It’s like pool, but much more of a gentlemen’s game. Later I’ll show you … unless of course we’re busy with other things.”

  He smiled at her and she looked away. Every other time they had been alone together after a dinner, it had been for an hour or so at most. She was sorry she had agreed to spend the whole night with him. It seemed so much more intimate. But she had to do it. Estrada was anxious to know about the surface-to-air missiles and rocket grenade launchers.

  “A place like this must have cost a lot of money,” she said, wide-eyed.

  “It did, but the law practice has been good to me. Other things have held surprises. I expected Claire to be sharing this house with me on weekends. She’s gone. Life sometimes throws you a curve,” he said bitterly. “But then you came along.” His entire face brightened. “If things continue to work so wonderfully between us, maybe you’ll be sharing it with me.”

  She cringed. How could he think she’d ever agree to marry him. She felt as if she were sinking deeper into quicksand. She’d have to persuade Alfredo to let her end this assignment and come home.

  Anxious to change the subject, she said, “Tell me about the horses you have here.”

  For the next half hour they talked about horses, a subject she knew something about. Her grandfather raised them on his farm.

  “I never would have guessed that you knew so much about horses,” she said. “You’re not only wise, but so worldly as well.”

  He responded with a large smile as she fed his ego.

  She waited until dessert, an orange tart, to raise the subject Estrada had been pressing her about.

  “I know you’re busy, Edward, and you have so much on your mind. Also, you’ve been wonderful to me and my people. So I hate to bother you.”

  “You’re never a bother,” Bryce said as he sipped wine.

  “Last night you said you would find out about the shipment of surface-to-air missiles and rocket grenade launchers. What their status is. I wondered if …”

  “I checked first thing this morning.”

  “And?” she held her breath.

  “They’ll be arriving in Buenos Aires in the next twenty-four hours. I had to pull some strings at the Pentagon, but it’ll be done.”

  “We’re so fortunate to have you because there are very few people like you who understand the complexity and importance of my country.”

  “You sound worried.”

  “I am. The Brazilians have given us lots of threats in the last few days. I’ve been so anxious about my friends and family that I haven’t been able to sleep. At least this way, we’ll be able to defend ourselves if they attack.”

  Bryce reached over and put a reassuring hand on her arm. “They’re not going to attack. President Treadwell told the Brazilian president that we wouldn’t tolerate that.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He denied that they had any offensive plans. He said the threats were coming from Argentina.”

  She winced. “Ah, they’re such liars. Those Brazilians. But you, you’re the best.”

  She got up, walked around the table and kissed him on the lips. “Thank you so much for helping us with the arms.”

  He reached for her, to pull her down on his lap, but she slipped away. She picked up a bottle of cognac on a cabinet and poured them each a large glass. She had no intention of taking any more than a tiny taste. It was nothing like the delicious sauterne Craig had ordered after their dinner in Washington. She was hoping Bryce would finish it all. So he wouldn’t bother her later.

  When he had drunk half of it, he said, “C’mon. I’ll teach you to play billiards.”

  She was delighted to fol
low him downstairs. Anything to avoid going to bed with him.

  “Hey, there are no pockets in this table,” Gina said. “I thought that in pool, you shoot the balls into pockets.”

  Bryce laughed. “Pool is a game for lowlifes. Gentlemen play billiards.”

  Gina struggled to suppress a laugh. From the profiles of Bryce she had read in newspapers and magazines, she had learned that he had grown up in very modest surroundings. His father had been a truck driver in Chicago, and here he was trying to act like an aristocrat.

  “But what’s there to do without pockets in the table?” she asked.

  “It’s quite simple, my dear. You use a stick or cue like a pool cue. There are two white balls and a red ball. One of the white balls has a dot, and one player uses it as his cue.”

  “But what do you do with these three balls?” Gina asked, genuinely bewildered. “Since you’re not shooting them into pockets.”

  Bryce was ready for her. “You try to score points, and you score a point each time your cue ball hits one of the other balls and three or more cushions on the table before it hits the third ball.”

  Gina thought about it for a minute. “Okay, that’s a little confusing, but I think I have it. I still don’t know why anyone would rather play this game than pool.”

  “Ah, my dear,” Bryce said. “This is a game of endless sophistication, elegance, and subtlety. I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it,”

  She watched Bryce begin playing. When it was her turn, she held the cue in an odd way and leaned well over the table. Just a beginner, she didn’t play very well, but she had the spark of a competitor in her eyes.

  Fifteen minutes into the game, when Gina had the cue in her hand and was leaning over the table, Bryce came up behind her. He was supposedly helping her to aim, but she knew he had something else in mind when she felt his erection poking her in the rear. He was breathing on the back of her neck as he leaned over her. Then he reached his hands around her body and grabbed her breasts as if they were a couple of melons. “Ouch,” she said pulling away. “I’m just learning the game.”