The Argentine Triangle: A Craig Page Thriller Page 33
Bryce hesitated for an instant. He had to find out what was happening so he could decide how to play it. “That’s right,” he said, “but the president can’t come to the phone right now. Tell me what the question is, and I’ll take it to him.”
“Satellite photos confirm that Argentina has attacked. Brazil wants our air support. The president told me this afternoon that’s what he intended to do in this situation. I just want to make sure that’s still his decision.”
Bryce gripped the phone hard. Running through his mind was the indisputable fact that whether Treadwell lived or died, Bryce was finished as a player in Washington. If Worth became the president, Bryce would be faced with a criminal prosecution because the vice president was so close with Betty. Even if Treadwell made it back to the White House, a referral to the attorney general of Bryce’s conduct was possible. But in Argentina he would have a future with Estrada. And with Gina. Beautiful, sensuous Gina.
It was the moment of truth. The golden ring was there. He either had the guts to seize it, or he didn’t.
“Wait a moment,” Bryce told General Forbes. “I’ll go and ask the president.”
Bryce cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, while he watched the sweep second hand of his Rolex make a full revolution. Then he picked up the phone.
“The president asked me to tell you, ‘Do not,’ and he emphasized, ‘underline the word ‘not,’ take any action to assist Brazil against Argentina.’”
“But …” a stunned Forbes stammered. “I don’t understand.”
Bryce knew that Forbes was aware of the close relationship between Bryce and the president. He wouldn’t dare challenge Bryce.
“Treadwell is the boss,” Bryce said.
“I guess so,” Forbes replied in abject resignation. “I’ll tell the president of Brazil we won’t do anything to help them.”
“That’s what President Treadwell wants,” Bryce replied and he hung up.
As he turned away from the phone, Bryce noticed Amy sitting in the middle of the stairs in a bathrobe. She must have been listening to his phone conversation.
Bryce pointed a bony finger in Amy’s direction and narrowed his eyes. Through clenched teeth, he told her, “You better forget that you heard anything I said, or …” He paused for a minute to make certain he had her attention. “Or I’ll go to the Washington Post and New York Times with the story of your relationship with the president. I’ll make sure they drag you through the mud. For the rest of your life, you’ll be known as Treadwell’s little whore. Your life will be ruined. Now get dressed and get the hell out of my house.”
“Screw you,” Amy shouted.
She shot him a look of contempt and walked back up the stairs.
Bryce grabbed his cell phone and called American Airlines. “I want the next flight from Washington to Miami and connecting there to Buenos Aires.”
As he waited for the ticket agent to come back to him with the information, through the corner of his eye he noticed Amy was staring at him from the top of the stairs.
Northern Argentina
Craig had an incoming call from Betty.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“In the air, about thirty minutes from landing in Iguazu, which is on the Argentine border with Brazil. Hell of a sound and light show from up here. Explosions everywhere off in the east. It looks like Argentina’s on the move. In some sectors, the Brazilians must be firing back, but from up here it looks like Argentina’s already deep into Brazilian territory.”
“Things may be changing soon.”
“Why’s that?” he asked, now hopeful.
“Treadwell had a heart attack.”
“Holy shit!”
“He’s at Bethesda Naval for surgery. The doctors are saying it’s fifty-fifty on his survival. Vice President Worth is now the acting president. But there’s one nasty little wrinkle.”
“What’s that?”
“Treadwell was spending the night at Bryce’s Middleburg house. I received a call from Amy, the president’s speechwriter, who was also there. She told me that Treadwell had his heart attack at 3:12 a.m. Dr. Lee, the president’s physician, set in motion the Constitutional transfer of power at 3:35 a.m. Worth was acting president a few minutes later. Then, at 3:55 a.m. General Forbes, who was unaware of the president’s heart attack, received a call from the Brazilian president asking for our help. He learned from the president’s secretary that Treadwell was at Bryce’s Middleburg house. That bastard Bryce, purporting to relay a message from the president, told Forbes to reject the Brazilian’s request for help.”
Craig blew a long, low whistle. “That sounds like a criminal offense to me.”
“Absolutely. We’re moving up on it right now.”
“How about help for Brazil?”
“As soon as I got off the phone with Amy I called Worth. US planes should be in the air momentarily.”
“That’s a relief,” Craig cried.
He was racing against time to get Gina out of Iguazu before Estrada’s world collapsed and he turned on her—if she was still alive.
Iguazu
At Iguazu Airport, Craig told Rodriguez to taxi to a deserted spot on the landing field and park. He borrowed a pair of night vision binoculars and a flashlight from the pilot and offered his pistol to Nicole, but she said she had brought her own.
“Good. Stay in the plane and watch Rodriguez,” he told her. “Keep your cell on. I’ll let you know when I’m coming back with Gina.”
In view of the hour, the airport was deserted. Craig set off in the direction of the terminal with the pistol in his pocket and Uzi in his hand.
Off in the distance, he heard loud blasts as the sounds of war filled the night air. In the deserted Hertz lot he selected a Toyota sports car that would give him speed, hotwired it, and blasted through the wooden exit gate from the lot.
Judging from what Nicole had said in the plane, he had about a twenty-five mile drive to the castle that served as Estrada’s headquarters. She had told him that the two-story castle stood on a small mound and backed up to the river flowing into the Iguazu Falls. It was set back from the highway, about a quarter of a mile. The gatehouse on the road was manned by armed guards. In both directions from the gatehouse, a high, barbed-wire-topped electrified fence paralleled the highway and encircled the property on all sides except in the back where the river ran. A narrow dirt road ran from the gatehouse to the castle. On both sides there was heavy vegetation, trees, high grass, and bushes—everything you would expect from near rain forest conditions. From the road, which was as close as Nicole had gotten, she hadn’t seen much in the way of guards around the castle. Her guess was that with the gatehouse, fence, and river behind the castle, Estrada felt he didn’t need much.
As Craig roared along the highway from the airport to the castle he saw very few vehicles. Not surprising, given that the Argentine army was already on the Brazilian side of the border. Civilians must have already fled westward to escape the war in case the Brazilians beat Estrada’s forces and moved into Argentina, or they were hunkered down hiding in safe places until the fighting was over.
He turned on the radio to get war news, but all he heard was music. Estrada was freezing the public out—at least for now.
As Craig drove, Estrada cursed. Reports were reaching him of American planes entering the fray. His own air force had until now been in complete command of the skies, but was being challenged. And they were no match for the high-tech American electronics or the crews using them.
Argentina had already lost ten planes, and some of their pilots were flying out of the fighting zone to avoid contact with the Americans. Even worse, the Americans were bombing the advancing Argentine troops.
Estrada was on the phone constantly rallying his forces. “You can handle the Americans as well as the Brazilians,” he shouted. “You just have to steel your courage for a tough battle. This doesn’t have to end like the Falklands. This time, we can prevail.”
A hundred yards from the gatehouse in front of Estrada’s headquarters, Craig pulled over to the side of the road in an area of thick vegetation. He opened the hood and trunk, then climbed out and walked around to the front of the car, pretending to examine the engine. Off in the distance where the battle raged, thunderous explosions kept blasting into his ears. The flash of bright lights filled the still dark sky. His guess was that daylight would be breaking in the next hour. He didn’t have much time.
He left the hood open and went around to the back of the car where he could look at the gatehouse through the binoculars without being seen. There were two soldiers inside. As he expected, one of them walked out of the gatehouse. Gripping a machine gun tightly, he walked along the road toward Craig’s car to find out what was going on.
Craig reached into the trunk and grabbed Rodriguez’s flashlight. Then he crossed back to the front of the car. When the sentry was in earshot, Craig began cursing. “Fucking carburetor. That mechanic screwed me over. The new carburetor’s no damn good.”
Cautiously, the sentry approached.
“You know anything about cars?” Craig called over his shoulder.
“A little bit,” the sentry said.
Craig kept his head down, so his face couldn’t be clearly seen in the event that his picture had been circulated. He was shining the flashlight into the engine.
“There’s the problem,” he said to the sentry, while focusing the beam of the flashlight on the carburetor.
When the sentry leaned in to look, Craig pulled his own head and body up. With a single, swift motion he swung his arm and smashed the plastic flashlight into the sentry’s skull with such force that the casing cracked along with the man’s bones. Before the sentry fell to the ground, Craig grabbed him around the waist and pulled him off to the side of the car where they wouldn’t be visible from the road.
In the heavy vegetation Craig stripped off his own clothes, then the sentry’s. In seconds, he put on the Argentine army uniform and cap. The man was four inches taller and ten pounds heavier. The clothes were baggy, but didn’t look ridiculous. The man’s army boots were much too large. Craig would have to cover a lot of ground. He decided to stick with his own shoes.
The sentry’s Uzi was similar to the one Craig had taken from the guard at the defense building, so he kept the one he had. He shoved his pistol into a jacket pocket and the knife in another one.
Then he set off on foot down the road toward the gatehouse. At a distance of twenty yards, the other soldier came out and stared at Craig. It was still dark. He was hoping the soldier couldn’t tell it wasn’t his comrade until Craig was much closer.
“It’s nothing,” he said in Spanish. ”Damn fool’s car broke down.”
There must have been something about his appearance or the sound of his voice, or perhaps the other soldier had sharp eyes. Without any warning, he went back into the gatehouse. Craig was convinced he was going for his weapon. The last thing Craig wanted right now was a burst of automatic fire that Schiller and Estrada might hear.
He raced across the road and dove into the bushes, grabbing for his knife as he ran. When the soldier came out of the gatehouse with his Uzi in hand, and looked around, he didn’t see the imposter. He turned toward the bushes on the same side of the road as the gatehouse and searched.
Craig now had a clear line on the man from behind, but he didn’t want to risk the sound of even a single shot from the pistol. So he snuck up behind the soldier, the knife in his right hand. Before the man could react, he looped his left arm around the man’s neck and plunged the knife into his chest with precision. He wanted a clean kill so his own uniform wouldn’t be bloody. The man’s head snapped back, but he had no strength to resist. Craig heard a gurgling noise from his mouth. He pulled the sentry into the bushes and left him there.
From inside the gatehouse he looked at the castle through the binoculars. There were no guards in front of the building. Lights were on in two first floor rooms. On the second floor, he saw three windows with bars. That must be where they’re holding Gina, he decided.
Before he moved, he reached for his cell phone and called Betty. “What’s happening with the battle?” he asked.
“The tide’s turned. Once we came in, Brazilian troops decided to fight. Our planes are blasting away at the Argentine ground forces. They’ve taken their planes out of the sky. What about you?”
He told her where he was and what he was doing. “We’re down to the short strokes now,” he said. “If our forces can spare a chopper, tell them to keep it ready. I may need help on the next part. Could get real dicey.”
“I’ll do my best to get you a chopper.”
He hung up and turned toward the castle. Though it would take longer, he rejected the dirt road and ran through the high, heavy grass and bushes. In spots, the ground was soft and muddy. It was slow going. The vegetation gave him good cover. He thought about Ted Dunn. He hoped that Schiller and Estrada didn’t have dogs.
Northern Virginia
As he drove to Dulles Airport in the darkness, Bryce was perspiring heavily behind the wheel of his car. He was dressed in a suit and tie, but his starched white shirt was soaked under the arms.
He turned on the car radio to an all-news station and heard: “This is a CBS newsflash: President Treadwell has had a heart attack. He is en route to Bethesda Naval Hospital but we do not have any word about his condition. In the meantime, Vice President Worth has assumed the presidency.”
Bryce’s whole body shook as the enormity of what he had done struck him. He steadied himself and continued listening to the radio. He didn’t hear anything about the war between Argentina and Brazil.
He was worrying needlessly, he told himself. Neither General Forbes nor Betty would be able to piece together what he had done. Even if they did, by that time the battle would be over and he’d be safely in Argentina. Estrada would never grant a United States request to extradite him. Not Edward Bryce, who had provided Estrada with the arms needed to defeat Brazil.
As for Amy, Bryce was convinced she would heed his warning. Speaking up would mean the end of her life as a practical matter. No one would risk seeing their picture on supermarket tabloids and being known as the president’s little whore.
No, he was safe. He should stop worrying and act calm.
At Dulles Airport, he parked in the short term lot. It didn’t matter. He had no intention of returning to the United States to pick up his car.
Without baggage, check-in was a cinch. At a kiosk, he got a boarding pass for his flight to Miami; then to Buenos Aires. By the time he reached the gate, boarding had begun.
Perfect.
He took his seat on the aisle in the second row of the first class cabin. The man on the window seat was engaged in a tense conversation about a business deal. Bryce would be glad to leave all that business stuff behind.
When a flight attendant asked Bryce if he wanted something to drink, he told her, “Scotch on the rocks.” That prompted her to raise her eyebrows. Bryce pointed to the sunrise through the window and said, “It’s almost daylight.”
She smiled. When she brought the drink, he took a sip, closed his eyes, and leaned back. He felt great. He was safe, getting out of Washington in the nick of time.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. Assuming it was the flight attendant picking up his drink, he said, “It’s all yours.”
He expected her to say, “Thank you.”
Instead, he heard a man’s booming voice, “Mr. Bryce, you’re under arrest.”
With a start, Bryce opened his eyes and shot forward in his seat. He saw two burly Virginia state troopers. One was holding handcuffs. He clamped them on Bryce’s wrists.
Iguazu
Once he reached the driveway in front of the castle, Craig stopped running. Dressed in his Argentine army uniform, he calmly walked inside the stone building. As he cut across the entrance foyer toward the highly polished wooden staircase leading to the second floor, he
could hear the sound of men’s voices. It was Estrada and Schiller. They were having a loud, acrimonious discussion with Estrada doing most of the shouting. Betty was right, Craig decided. Things were not going well for the Argentine army.
Climbing the stairs, Craig walked softly, as a soldier might, his head held high.
At the top of the staircase, he quickly looked in both directions, trying to size up what he was facing. On the right side, halfway down the corridor, he saw a single soldier standing in the dim light in front of a cell. From behind the bars, he heard Gina softly singing a hymn.
As he turned in that direction, the soldier moved forward to cut him off. The man was gripping his gun hard.
“They sent me to relieve you,” Craig said.
“That’s good,” the man said. “Because she’s driving me crazy with her singing, but Estrada said ‘don’t lay a hand on her.’ So you can have the job.”
The soldier was so anxious to depart that he never bothered to study Craig’s face. He reached into his pocket and tossed Craig a set of keys. As he passed Craig on the way to the stairs, Craig suddenly lashed out and plastered one hand over the man’s mouth to keep him from screaming. With the other, he punched the man hard in the kidneys. He felt the soldier go limp.
Quickly, he pulled him toward an empty cell with an open door. Once he had the man inside, he laid him down on the floor. He peeled the sheets off the bed and cut them into strips with his knife. He bound the man’s hands and feet and tied some material over his mouth. Using the handle of the knife, he hit the soldier hard enough in the head to knock him out, but not kill him. Then he kicked his body under the bed—out of sight.
Before proceeding to Gina’s cell, he paused for a minute to look out of one of the windows facing the river in the back of the castle. Daylight was just beginning to break. They were about a mile upstream from the Falls that were on the left. Directly behind the castle was a dock with a sleek white motorboat. On the deck were half a dozen sailors. Estrada’s insurance policy, Craig decided. If the battle went badly and escape by land was difficult, Estrada could leave the area by boat. There was a second dock about fifty yards upstream from the motorboat to which two empty pontoon boats were tied.