The Argentine Triangle: A Craig Page Thriller Page 3

  At the rendezvous point Dunn checked his watch. Ten minutes to eleven. Ten minutes to the meet. Precisely when he wanted to be here. He pulled over to the side of the road and turned off his lights. The clouds were blocking the moon. Small farms lined both sides of the road. Dunn wondered how the farmers eked out a living in the depressed economy where so many had so little money for food.

  Dunn was staring straight ahead through the front windshield, the Beretta on the car seat close by if he had to go for it. His jacket unzipped. He could grab the .38 in an instant.

  At ten fifty-nine, a car turned off the main road, Route 21, and headed toward him. Pascual was right on time. Dunn kept looking straight ahead to see if anyone was following Pascual. Nobody else was on the road. So far, so good.

  Suddenly, the car coming toward him flashed its lights. “Dammit,” Dunn muttered. That was the warning signal he had told Pascual to use.

  Gun in hand, he scrambled out of the Honda. He had developed an escape plan this afternoon. He would cut through the farm on the right side of the dirt road. That would take him to the main highway, a distance of about two miles. He had parked another rental car there that he could pick up and drive out of town before they had a chance to set roadblocks.

  The approaching car now had its high beams on. Dunn moved fast to duck into the bushes before he was caught in the headlights. He just made it. Then, with his body low and close to the ground, he ran.

  Up ahead was a large tree. Dunn stopped and hid behind it, looking back for an instant to see what was happening. Four armed soldiers sprang out of the Lincoln Town Car that he guessed was Pascual’s and approached his Honda. He heard one of them shout, “Remember, don’t kill him. The colonel wants the American alive.”

  Another soldier opened the front door on the driver’s side. “He’s gone,” the soldier shouted.

  They were standing around, puzzled as to what to do. One man took a cell phone from his pocket. Dunn didn’t stick around to hear what he said. He resumed running. The earth was wet and muddy. It was slow going.

  One of the soldiers had a powerful wide-beamed flashlight. He sent its rays flying out in a 360-degree arc. Dunn kept his body low and stayed in tall weeds and heavy brush. He didn’t think they saw him. By the time he had covered about half a mile, he was panting. He was out of shape. Too much time on the golf course and not enough on the treadmill. He vowed to change that if he made it out of here alive.

  Then he heard the dogs racing toward him from the farmhouse. He hated dogs. His shirt was soaked despite the cold.

  Terrified and trembling, he put his head down and willed his body to keep going.

  Sardinia

  Coming out of the tight serpentine turn, Craig Page, calling himself Enrico Marino, gripped the steering wheel hard and slammed down his foot on the accelerator. The powerful V-12, XJS, light blue Jaguar with 510 horsepower responded instantly. The speed rose fast. They were roaring along the coast of Sardinia at sea level. The azure, sparkling Mediterranean was on the right.

  “How long until the next curve?” Craig called to Luigi, his navigator from Rome, who was studying the map as if his life depended on it, which it did. They were communicating through microphones and headsets hooked up to their racing helmets that permitted them to hear over the drone of the engine.

  “Another 4.2 kilometers.”

  “We’ll make up the time we lost on the last curve. I was too timid.”

  “Good. Go for it.”

  Perspiration dotted the back of Craig’s hands. Following the completion of his plastic surgery at a clinic outside of Zurich a year ago, Craig had changed his name to Enrico Marino. Using the proceeds from the sale of his house in the inflated Washington market, he had hired Paolo Fittipaldi, one of the best retired race car drivers, based in Torino, to give him a private tutorial. As Paolo told Craig, the zenzation—or in better English, the sensation—of speed is intoxicating. After four tough months of education and training, Paolo found wealthy sponsors for Craig, and he began driving in rally races, like this one in Sardinia. Cars raced against the clock on rural and town roads that had been blocked off from normal traffic. The drivers used modified standard cars, rather than Formula One or Indy cars. The fastest time wins.

  Craig and Luigi were on the final segment of the Sardinia rally, a grueling one thousand kilometer three-day race, much of it over treacherous, twisting, mountainous terrain as they made a large loop from Porto Cervo and back. It was a difficult and dangerous course, demanding and unforgiving, with switchback turns, blind corners, and vertical drops.

  Craig glanced to the left. With his usual thoroughness, he had spent enough time poring over weather data to know that sudden changes were typical for the northern Mediterranean island sandwiched between France and Italy. So it didn’t surprise him when dark clouds appeared from nowhere in the western sky. Craig cursed. The blinding sun an hour ago had been hard enough. The last thing he wanted now was rain. He had started this final segment fifteen seconds behind Carlucci, an experienced driver from Milan who had run dozens of these rally races around the world. Craig was the new kid on the block. This was only his third world-class race. In Paris and Barcelona he had failed to crack the top ten. Today with Luigi, the experienced navigator Palo had persuaded to join Craig, he had a good chance of pulling a stunning upset. But if the roads became slick, Carlucci’s experience would give him an added advantage.

  Craig had no intention of finishing second. He was pressing hard, pushing to the edge, that optimum point where the driver is at the limit of his skill and the car at the boundary of what it can do. Under good conditions, there is no room for error. With rain the course would be downright diabolical.

  They were nearing the end of a straight stretch. “What now?” Craig asked.

  “The road snakes along the shore for two kilometers. Then we start up a hill.”

  On the left, the Jaguar passed a latticework of vineyards. They began a gradual climb along a twisting hill road. The terrain on both sides was filled with large, dangerous boulders.

  Without any warning, the heavens opened and a pelting rain fell in sheets. Craig kept up his speed. On the right side, the road dropped off sharply. Rock-covered terrain fell down toward the sea.

  “Hairpin turn to the right at the crest,” Luigi barked, “coming up in seconds.”

  Blasting into the turn, Craig clutched the wheel with white knuckles. His body was soaked with perspiration. Luigi grabbed the support on the front dash. The windshield wipers were operating at full tilt, fighting a losing battle with the falling water. Visibility was poor. The road was treacherous.

  He felt the rear wheels spin on the slippery pavement. The Jag was dangerously close to the vertical drop. “Always turn into the spin,” Paolo constantly shouted. The command had been etched into Craig’s brain.

  I hear you, Paolo, he thought, as he eased up for an instant on the accelerator. The car bucked, then responded. It straightened out.

  “Damn good driving,” Luigi said. “You’ve got the reflexes of a twenty year old.”

  “What’s next?”

  “We head down. Sharp turn on the left coming up. Prepare to cut speed.”

  “Roger that.”

  Craig leaned forward, straining his eyes to see through the foggy windshield. There it was, almost an L in the road. On the left was the cliff and the sea below.

  Luigi was right. He needed a little brake to take this turn. Just a gentle tap. But after three long days of driving, his body was weary. His control not as sharp. He was going into the curve too fast. He hit the brake too hard, cutting the corner too sharply.

  Immediately, he knew he was losing traction on the wet asphalt. The car spun out of control and headed toward the precipice. He smashed his foot down on the brake, but this time he had pushed too far and was beyond the limit. On the slick tarmac, the Jaguar couldn’t respond. It spun off the road at the edge of the drop, down toward the sea.

  The car rolled over once.
Craig was sure they would keep rolling over and over until they either reached the sea or the car hit a sharp rock and exploded. Either way, he had lost the race. He and Luigi were dead.

  The car was on its roof on the first rollover. It began turning upright. Then it crashed into the trunk of an olive tree.

  Craig’s head snapped forward against the dash. “I’m sorry, Luigi,” he mumbled. Then he blacked out.

  Gradually Craig’s vision cleared and his senses returned. In front of him he saw a beautiful, nubile young woman sitting on a chair. She was dressed in a pure white uniform, which accentuated her attractive, voluptuous figure. Her chestnut brown hair was tied up in a bun.

  My God, I died and went to heaven.

  She removed a gray instrument from the bag resting on his bed, cuffing one side around his arm and hooking up a stethoscope to her ears. Intent on her work, she didn’t notice that he was watching her. He felt the pressure in his arm as the cuff inflated. As if he weren’t there, she stared silently at the meter, then recorded some numbers on a clipboard chart and removed the device.

  “So how am I?” he asked.

  She was startled. “Oh, you’re awake.” She stared at him. “We didn’t know when you’d come around.”

  “How long was I unconscious?”

  “It’s Sunday morning. Eight thirty. What’s your name?”

  He smiled. “That’s a hard one.”

  “Well?”

  “Enrico Marino.”

  “You were in an auto race yesterday, Mr. Marino. Do you remember that?”

  His vision was cloudy. He blinked his eyes repeatedly until the room came into focus. “All too well. I lost.”

  That comment evoked a stern look. “You’re fortunate to be alive.”

  “What happened to Luigi, my navigator?”

  “Lucky. Alive, but with a broken arm. And some cuts and bruises. We kept him overnight for observation. Later this morning, he’ll fly back to Rome.”

  Craig glanced at the name tag on her white uniform. “Adriana,” he said. “What about me? How bad was the damage?”

  “I’m just a nurse. You’ll have to talk to the doctor.”

  “Oh, c’mon. At least give me a preview.” He gave her that smile of his that usually worked with women.

  “Cuts and bruises on your face and much of your body. Concussion, but no brain damage. Vital signs are all okay.”

  “Now tell me something important. I feel great. When can I get out of here?”

  Actually he was still woozy, but he hated hospitals. They evoked memories of sitting in the hospital room with his wife, Carolyn, in Dubai, while her body spiraled toward death with bacterial meningitis. He had damn near gone crazy with guilt for moving Carolyn and their daughter Francesca from the comfort of the Washington area to the Middle East—ostensibly to give his CIA cover greater authenticity, but in fact because selfishly he didn’t want to be without them.

  “For that, you’ll have to talk to the doctor. He’ll be here in a few minutes. Just remember we’ve given you heavy doses of medication for pain, which is why you aren’t feeling anything at present.”

  As if on cue, the gray-haired doctor, who looked as ancient as one of the forts along the northern coast of the island, walked in. He examined Craig, instructing him to “Call me Professor.” His medical judgment was that Craig should spend another twenty-four hours in the hospital for further observation. No doubt the professor was accustomed to having everyone follow his edicts. Craig’s flat refusal to obey set off a heated argument.

  In the end, the doctor shook his head in resignation. “We can’t keep you here against your will, Mr. Marino. At least rest for a couple more hours.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll stay until noon.”

  That didn’t ameliorate the professor’s anger. He stormed out and slammed the door.

  An hour later, Luigi, his arm in a cast, barged into the room.

  “We almost won, Ricci,” Luigi said.

  “Sorry I couldn’t hold the road.”

  “Nobody could in those conditions. We’ll team up for Paris in April, okay?”

  “That’s a deal.”

  “We’ll win in Paris, no problem. Ciao, Ricci.” Luigi turned and waved a hand over his head as he left the room.

  Craig thought about Adriana. She was really quite beautiful. Focusing on her made him think about his sexual life during the last year since he and Elizabeth had split. They had no contact. Meanwhile, he had no interest in developing a serious relationship with another woman. On the other hand, he was still alive and had strong desires. He was able to satisfy those to some degree with a widow in Milan whom he saw for a couple of days each month, going out to dinner with her and spending time at her house. She was a contemporary of Craig’s with grown children, and like Craig had no interest in emotional involvement.

  What didn’t appeal to Craig were the racing groupies, as he called them, the young women who hung around the tracks and with the drivers, ready to grab any opportunity with them, any time, any place. My God, they were all at least ten years younger than Francesca would have been.

  Everyone assumed Craig was Italian, as his father was, and he certainly spoke the language well enough. As a result his buddies were the Italian drivers, a hard-drinking crowd. It was amazing some of them were sober enough to get behind the wheel the next day. “Ricci,” the other drivers called him. Nobody knew that he was twenty years older than most of them. Nor would they have cared. All that counted was how you drove.

  He heard a knock on the door. Probably the doctor coming back for another round. Or maybe he had sent the beautiful Adriana to reason with his disobedient patient.

  “Who’s there?” he called through the closed door.

  “May I come in?”

  It was a woman’s voice, one he recognized immediately.

  The door opened slowly, and Betty Richards entered, clutching a thin burgundy briefcase he had given her for her fortieth birthday, ten years ago. She closed the door behind her. “Hi Enrico,” she said and smiled. “Or should I call you Ricci?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I happened to be in the neighborhood so I watched some of the race yesterday. Sorry about the accident. I was rooting for you. We have to talk, but not here.”

  She handed him a piece of paper. “It has the name of my hotel. The nurse said the doctor will release you tomorrow. Come to my hotel. We’ll have lunch in my suite and talk.”

  “The nurse was wrong. I’m getting out of here in about an hour. This is a hospital. Not a prison. I decide when to leave.”

  “Happy to see a brush with death hasn’t changed the Enrico Marino I know,” she said smiling. “Then come to lunch today.”

  “Only if you’ll have good wine.”

  “For you, nothing but the best. Lunch will be ready at two.” She turned and left the room.

  Craig rang for the nurse. When Adriana came, he said. “Could you help me pack and get me a cab?”

  “Your clothes are ruined. Would you like me to buy you some in the store across the street?”

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”

  Waiting for her to return, Craig climbed out of bed, clutching the bedpost for a few seconds to steady himself, then walked around the room. Everything seemed to work.

  Looking into the mirror on the back of the closet door, he winced. The deep black eyes, curly black hair, and reconfigured nose, all the result of his plastic surgery, stood out on a face full of cuts and bruises. Fortunately, he healed quickly.

  He walked over to the window and stared off at the sea in the distance. He should tell Betty no. Regardless of what she was planning to ask him to do. Thanks, but no thanks. The powers in Washington had shafted him—not once, but twice. He wouldn’t let her suck him into the Washington morass again.

  Still, he was curious to know why Betty had come all this way to talk to him. And he had to listen to her because of their long friendship.

  Porto Cervo,
Sardinia

  Craig had never been to Cala di Volpe. He had heard about it from Paolo, his high-living driving coach. “A luxurious small hotel on Sardinia’s Esmeralda Coast. One of the poshest watering holes in the world. The newest summer hangout for Europe’s rich and famous.”

  The taxi pulled up to the front entrance of a three-story building constructed of stone and wood in a Moorish style. Walking into the lobby with its heavily polished stone floor, Craig felt as if he had entered an elegant oasis. Classy, not ostentatious.

  As Craig expected for out of season October, the hotel was quiet. Going up to the reception desk, he found a dignified looking man who identified himself as Michele, the front office manager.

  “I’m Enrico Marino, Betty Richards is expecting me.”

  Through the corner of his eye Craig saw a man lounging against a rounded white stone column, a wire hooked to his ear. Part of Betty’s security detail. It always amazed Craig why they, like the president’s Secret Service, were often so easily identified.

  “I’ll take you up,” Michele said.

  In the elevator Michele, exuding experience and self-confidence, told Craig in an Italian-accented English that he should come back during the summer when the weather was glorious and the hotel booming.

  The presidential suite was tucked away in a tower with a private pool overlooking the sea. Exiting the elevator, Craig immediately spotted two more American security agents guarding the entrance to Betty’s suite. As he walked alongside Michele, Craig’s whole body ached. The painkillers were wearing off.

  “Miraculously, no bones were broken,” Adriana had told him, when she helped him dress in the hospital room. “You’ll be very sore for a few days.”

  “And, I look like hell,” he had told her.

  “I’ve seen worse,” she had said in a nurse’s professional voice.

  Betty was waiting for Craig inside the living room of the suite, decorated in pastel colors and furnished with dark wooden tables and large plush chairs. When Michele had gone, she said, “We can talk freely here. I’ve gotten rid of the waiters. I had one of our people sweep the suite for bugs. As you saw, there are two of my agents outside the door and another on the ground below.”