The Argentine Triangle: A Craig Page Thriller Page 21

  “Did you get my transcripts?” Craig asked.

  “Everything was as you represented. They’re now in my office safe.”

  “What’s your next move in Washington?” Craig asked anxiously.

  One of the men with Betty said, “The choices are paralysis or confusion.”

  On Betty’s end they all laughed.

  “Sorry, Craig,” she said. “Too much pizza out of a box and too little sleep is making us all crazy. We have a meeting of the national security team at the White House in about three hours. My proposal will be that Treadwell send down a high level delegation to visit the area and meet with Estrada and other Argentine leaders. I’d also like them to go to Brazil if the Brazilians will meet with us. As I envision it, the objective of the mission will not only be fact finding, but hopefully to quiet down emotions. What do you think?”

  Craig rubbed his tired eyes while he evaluated Betty’s proposal. “I like the idea,” he said.

  “Good. Before the meeting, I’ll float it with the secretary of state and hope he likes it enough to pass it off as his own.”

  “You don’t want to let Edward Bryce hijack the delegation. Even better, keep him off it altogether.”

  “Though we’re not as smart as you are,” Betty said, “I figured that out. The president will have the final word.”

  With breakfast in his suite at the Alvear, Craig was reading the morning issue of La Nación. The newspaper’s story of the border incident was consistent with what Estrada had said on television. The Argentine stock market was expected to take a nosedive as a result of the war. In a few minutes, he planned to leave for Iguazu. Then the telephone rang. It was Estrada.

  “Sorry to have split from you so abruptly at the airport on Monday,” the general said.

  “You don’t have to apologize. When I heard the news last evening, I understood why you had to rush off.”

  “By the time we landed, our troops had confirmed the movement of a Brazilian unit toward the border. It was a question of making certain we were ready. Our men fought with courage. Though we killed all of them, there were casualties on our side.”

  Craig was wondering why Estrada had decided to call now. As if reading his mind, the general continued. “I’m well aware that investors shy away from unstable situations so I want to reassure you that we have the matter under complete control. If I were you, I would stick with your plan, remain in Buenos Aires, and stay the course. The opportunity we spoke about on the plane is still viable.”

  “Well, that’s good to know,” Craig replied. “I am concerned, but I’m not going anywhere. From my experience, those who panic almost always lose out.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Estrada was obviously pleased.

  Craig decided that the call presented an opportunity. Following the old adage, when you throw rocks into the air, sometimes you get apples, he decided to pump Estrada for information.

  “What prompted Brazil to attack?”

  There was a long pause. Finally, Estrada responded, “Most of my advisers think it’s an effort by the Brazilians to divert attention from their own economic problems. This argument that their land was improperly taken by us at the end of the Paraguayan war is total and utter bullshit.”

  “Is it also possible,” Craig asked gingerly, “that the Brazilians found out about the diamonds we discussed on the plane, and they’re trying to grab the land on which they are located?”

  “That thought occurred to me, but security about the discovery has been super tight.”

  “In my experience, scientists always talk to other scientists.”

  “Perhaps,” Estrada sounded troubled. “But regardless, if they attack again, we’ll be ready for them. Thanks to the arms your country has sent us, those Brazilians won’t get a kilometer of our territory.”

  “Please keep me informed?” Craig said, trying to sound like a concerned investor.

  “Absolutely. I’m personally directing our military movements, and I view you as my business partner.”

  As Craig hung up the phone, an uneasy feeling settled into the pit of his stomach. For openers, he didn’t like being a partner with this man. But more than that, something in Estrada’s version of last evening’s border confrontation and this phone call wasn’t ringing true. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he was bothered.

  One thing was certain. He had to adjust his plans and defer the trip to Iguazu. Estrada was the center of the action. Estrada was not only in Buenos Aires, but willing to talk to him.

  After canceling his airplane reservation he changed into running clothes. While he jogged, his mind often unlocked complex puzzles. Perhaps he’d get some insight into what was really happening in Northern Argentina.

  Washington

  Bryce sat next to Treadwell on one side of the rectangular table in the White House Situation Room. Across the table were the Secretary of Defense, Hugh Tompkins and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Forbes. At one end sat Betty; at the other the Secretary of State, Kent McIntire, and the Assistant Secretary for Inter-American Affairs, Hal West.

  The president looked in the direction of the duo from Foggy Bottom.

  “Kent, where are we on this South American business?” Treadwell asked his secretary of state.

  Kent nodded to West, sitting in front of a laptop.

  The assistant secretary took that as his cue to rev up his PowerPoint presentation. He pushed a switch on the wall lowering the screen and another one closing the curtains.

  Up on the screen flashed a map of the border area between Argentina and Brazil where the battle took place. Then a series of slides showing how the territory had changed hands in the last five hundred years.

  Bryce was watching the president whose eyes looked glazed over, focused away from the screen, and whose mind seemed to be wandering in a distant place.

  The next slide was entitled “Argentina’s version of the events.” Set forth in a series of bullets were the claims made by Estrada on the television last night, followed by a series of photographs, showing dead Brazilian soldiers armed with Chinese weapons lying next to a stone tower at a locale identified by markers as clearly being in Argentine territory.

  The following slide entitled, “The Brazilian Version,” contained the words “A Pack Of Lies.”

  “That,” West said, “was what the Brazilian foreign minister told Kent in a telephone conversation about two hours ago.”

  Kent piped in. “And it was all he would say because he muttered an obscenity about the weapons we’ve shipped to Argentina and hung up the phone.”

  West flashed on his next slide:

  “PROPOSED AMERICAN COURSE OF ACTION.

  SEND HIGH LEVEL AMERICAN DELEGATION TO THE AREA.”

  West explained, “This is a proposal Kent and I jointly developed. We view the delegation as having a dual purpose. First, to gather facts for an understanding of what happened, and second to cool tensions between the two countries.”

  West left the recommendation on the screen, opened the curtains, and sat down.

  All eyes turned toward Treadwell. The buck always stopped at the president. Before Treadwell had a chance to respond, Bryce spoke up. “With all due respect Kent, if the Brazilians won’t talk to us, what’s the point of sending a delegation to the area?”

  “We believe that the Brazilians will change their minds if we come to South America. They won’t let us leave hearing only one side of the story.”

  Bryce shook his head in disbelief. “That’s wishful thinking.”

  Betty interjected, “We can’t sit by and do nothing, Mr. President. This conflict isn’t in the Middle East. It’s in our own backyard.”

  When the secretary of defense and General Forbes weighed in on Betty and Kent’s side, Bryce said, “At least, let’s keep the delegation small and have minimal press coverage. Only take a couple of journalists we can work with. So we don’t end up with egg on our face if this fails to accomplish anything.”


  The secretary of state looked at West, who nodded. “We can live with that,” Kent replied.

  Suddenly, Treadwell tuned back into the discussion. Facing Bryce, he said, “Edward, I want you to head up our delegation.”

  “Perhaps, Mr. President,” Betty said, sounding tactful. “Our delegation might have more clout if Kent headed it.”

  “Kent’s going to Paris to try and improve our relations with Europe,” Treadwell replied. “I don’t want to cancel that trip. Hal West knows the issue. He’ll be part of Edward’s delegation.”

  Bryce shot her a supercilious smile. Take that, bitch, he thought.

  Buenos Aires

  Estrada, in his office, hung up the phone with President Garcia who had told him about the American delegation headed by Edward Bryce that would be visiting. “Since military issues are key,” Garcia had said, “I want you, Alfredo, to take the lead in planning the agenda for our visitors.”

  Estrada was delighted. He already had Bryce in his pocket. He could use this delegation to his advantage. His mind was churning with ideas. Then his cell phone rang. It was Gina.

  “Yes, dear,” he said.

  “Alfredo, I’m flying to Buenos Aires tonight with Edward Bryce’s delegation. They’re taking along two American journalists, and Bryce added me to cover the story for La Nación.”

  He leaned back in the high leather desk chair and told Gina, “I’m very pleased you’re coming.”

  She coughed and cleared her throat. “There’s something I have to ask you.” The anxiety was apparent in her voice.

  “Sure, dear, what is it?”

  “Well, if that banker, Barry Gorman, is still in the country, could I see him?”

  Estrada’s initial reaction was to respond with a sharp rebuke, reminding her that she had better not do anything to upset her relationship with Bryce, because it was critical for Argentina at this time. Then he thought about it some more. Despite being cloistered with her grandparents and at a private girls’ school, Gina was a young, hot-blooded, Argentine woman. He could tell from the sound of her voice that she had passion for Gorman. And he couldn’t blame her, preferring the much younger macho Gorman to the old, tired Bryce. Estrada decided he could use her passion to his advantage.

  In London and on the plane, Estrada had concluded from Gorman’s behavior that he really was a wealthy money man. How he had handled a casino and women. How he had negotiated Estrada’s diamond offer.

  When Estrada had told all of this to Schiller upon his return, he knew the colonel still wasn’t convinced. Now he had a further way of testing Gorman. See how he behaved around the Americans. Gorman’s suite and hotel phones were bugged. All of the other Americans’ would be as well. He’d find out if Gorman made contact with them. Gina had just given Estrada the perfect way to have Gorman around when the Americans were here. A perfect way to see how Gorman behaved.

  “Of course, you’ll be able to see him, my dear,” Estrada said. “I’ll include him in many of the events. I just want you to be happy.”

  Jorge Newbery Park was not far from the Alvear. Dressed in shorts and a tee shirt, Craig jogged along a deserted dirt trail, lined with tall trees. After the long days he had been keeping, his body felt stiff and lethargic, but he pushed himself hard to keep up the pace. Meantime, his mind kept coming back to Estrada’s speech last night on television and the call this morning. Something big was definitely brewing, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.

  Up ahead, a small, rickety wooden bridge crossed a creek. On the other side lay a thick wooded area. Craig cut his speed and watched his footing to avoid stumbling on the bridge. Once he was on the other side, he ran faster. It had rained earlier that morning—a brief, strong spring shower. The ground was soft and muddy.

  Two joggers, a man and a woman, passed him heading the other way. Bright sunlight glinted through the trees. He was approaching a sharp bend on the right. As he reached it, he saw a thick tree branch, too high to hurdle, blocking the path. He slowed down to slip around it. At that moment, two men jumped up in the underbrush. A powerful set of arms grabbed him from behind. Craig tried to fight back, but a sharp punch to the kidneys sapped his strength and left him gasping for air.

  The two men, one tall and one short, pulled him deeper into the woods. After making certain no one could see them, they stood him up with his back against a tree and his arms at his sides. Around his midsection, they fastened a rope that rendered his hands useless and held him tight against the trunk. Bark was cutting into his back. A greasy gray cloth was tied over his mouth.

  As he watched in horror, the tall man reached into a black canvas bag and extracted a pair of boxing gloves. “I hate to damage my hands,” he said sadistically.

  “What do you want?” Craig asked. “I’ll give you money.”

  “Leave Argentina now,” the short man said, “for good.”

  Craig spit on the ground. “Tell Colonel Schiller that’s my answer.”

  The boxer went to work on Craig’s upper body, his abdomen, and genitalia with blow after blow. Craig heard the smack … smack … smack … He felt the pain. First he threw up. Then he passed out.

  When he regained consciousness, Craig found that the rope tying him to the tree was loose. He slipped out of it. His whole body aching, he staggered back to the Alvear.

  “Are you alright?” the alarmed manager asked when he saw Craig pass through the revolving door and enter the lobby.

  Since his clothes covered the bruises, he forced a smile. “Just a little winded from running in the park. I may have pushed myself too hard.”

  The portly manger smiled. “You’ll never catch me running. It’s not healthy.”

  When he reached his suite, he found a message on his voice mail. “Please call General Estrada.”

  Before returning the call, he went into the bathroom and peeled off his clothes. The front of his body was covered with welts and bruises. In a few hours, he’d be every possible shade of black and blue.

  He was tempted to tell Estrada, but he decided that would be a bad move. He had no intention of leaving Argentina. If he told Estrada about the beating and remained in the country, Estrada would doubt that he was here as an investor.

  A secretary put him right through to Estrada.

  “I have an invitation for you,” the general said.

  “What’s that?” Craig tried to squelch the pain and sound natural.

  “Tomorrow morning, an American delegation, headed by Edward Bryce, one of President Treadwell’s advisers, arrives in Buenos Aires on a fact finding mission about the Brazilian attack. During the day, I’m taking them up north to see the area. In the evening, there’ll be a dinner at the Alvear. I’d like you to attend both.”

  This was quite an offer. Craig wondered what prompted it.

  “I’d be delighted to be there. What do I have to know about the meetings?”

  “Very little. My objective is to have the Americans understand what happened.”

  Craig would have liked to know himself. But he wished to hell Bryce wasn’t coming.

  “I’ll let you know where and when to meet us. Oh, and something else you should be aware of.”

  “What’s that?” Craig asked warily.

  “I’ve been informed that your friend Gina Galindo will be with the press group covering the meetings. In fact, she asked me to include you.”

  Well, well, isn’t that nice, Craig thought.

  “So you might have time for a little fun,” Estrada said and laughed. Then he hung up the phone.

  Craig stared at it for several minutes trying to discern what Estrada had in mind for him and Gina. His guess was that Estrada wanted Gina to pick his brain. He’d be extra careful in what he told her.

  He had to find a doctor, and he couldn’t do that in the hotel or word would get back to Estrada. He had only one option.

  Clumsily, he got dressed. Out in the corridor, he hid behind a doorway until the service elevator came. Then he took it to the bas
ement. In the kitchen area he passed men loading a large industrial dishwasher. He looked around until he found what he wanted: a staircase leading to a delivery door in the rear of the hotel. Certain that he wasn’t being watched, he slipped out.

  In the bright sunlight he walked a few blocks down the hill, away from the entrance to the hotel. Then he ducked into an indoor shopping mall lined with luxury boutiques.

  From an isolated corner, he called Nicole. Without identifying himself, he said, “I enjoyed seeing your house last evening. I may be prepared to give you an offer to buy it, but I’d like to take another look first. Can you go out there with me now?”

  She didn’t miss a beat. “Where are you?”

  When he described his location, she said, “I’ll be there in a few minutes, driving a dark green BMW sedan.”

  The instant she pulled up in front of the mall, he stumbled out and collapsed into the front seat of her car.

  “Drive,” he said as he ducked his head down.

  “What’s wrong? You look like hell.”

  He pulled up his shirt.

  She grimaced. “Good God. Schiller’s thugs?”

  “Yeah. Thanks for picking me up. I need a doctor to look at me.”

  “I have a friend who’ll come to the house. We can trust him.”

  Craig woke up in a strange bed. Fluttering in through an open window was a gentle breeze. Outside, it was dark.

  He boosted himself to a sitting position, rubbed his eyes, and looked around. Nicole was sitting in a rocker, dressed in a white terrycloth robe, gently moving back and forth and watching him.

  Anticipating his question, she said, “You’re in my house.”

  “How long did I sleep?”

  “Well it’s almost ten at night. The doctor gave you a powerful painkiller that he expected would knock you out.”

  “What was his diagnosis?”

  “Just bad bruises. No serious damage. He said you might try moving in a different crowd.”

  “Very funny.”

  “You feel like eating?”

  “I’m starving. I haven’t had a bite since breakfast, and I left that in the park.”