The Argentine Triangle: A Craig Page Thriller Page 5

  “You think Estrada’s planning a military coup to take over the government? That could lead to coups in other countries in South America and would destabilize the continent? Or is he planning to attack a neighboring country?”

  “You hit on the key point. I don’t know what Estrada’s planning to do, but I want to find out. The man’s evil. As a young officer, he was part of the military group that ruled the country during the Dirty War. They arrested, tortured, and murdered thousands who were enemies of the regime, claiming they were Communists. We can’t let him take over the country. He and his cohorts are likely to behave the same way.”

  “What’s Bryce’s game? You think Estrada’s paying him?”

  “So far, I haven’t seen any evidence of that, but let me show you something.”

  She reached into her briefcase resting on the floor and extracted a color photograph depicting a couple sitting at a table against a wall in a restaurant. The picture must have been a candid shot. The man was Bryce. He was smiling, looking like a cat who had just swallowed a canary. And it was easy to see why.

  In one hand, he held a drink, dark with ice cubes. Scotch or bourbon, Craig guessed. His other hand was extended across the table and clasped around a young woman’s arm.

  She looked to be in her mid-twenties. He was undoubtedly screwing her, which explained the look on his face. Hers was something different. She had a lovely face, without makeup. She had naturally beautiful features with perfectly sculpted lines. Her dark hair, parted in the middle, framed her face. Her sensuous dark eyes revealed a hint of sadness. Clearly she wasn’t enjoying herself like the man was. She had a smile that looked forced. Her expression told Craig she was uncomfortable being with Bryce and maybe felt awkward in this particular situation. Below her enticingly long neck hung a small gold cross, resting against the dark material of her blouse that rose to the bottom of her neck.

  “Who’s the woman with Bryce?” Craig asked.

  “Gina Galindo, a reporter for La Nación, a Buenos Aires daily. The picture was taken surreptitiously three days ago at the Grill Room, a fashionable restaurant in Washington.”

  Craig continued to study the picture. “Who said: get control of their dicks and their minds will follow?”

  “That pretty well describes it.”

  “Is there a Mrs. Bryce?”

  “Claire is her name. She left him about a year ago. Before he met this Gina.”

  “He must have been lonely.”

  Betty ignored his comment and pressed on. “At any rate, Claire went to Florence to live and study art.”

  “Do you know whether Gina is working for Estrada?”

  Betty held out her hands. “I don’t have any proof. If not, it’s damn coincidental.”

  “Have you bugged her?”

  Betty smiled. “Obviously, you’ve forgotten. We have an agreement with the FBI. We don’t do domestic surveillance.”

  He shot back: “Amazing how quickly these things fly out of my mind.”

  Betty picked up a basket of rolls, selected one, and spread it thickly with orange marmalade. Craig refilled their coffee cups. After they ate in silence for a few moments, Betty resumed talking.

  “I wasn’t about to walk away from this, so I hired Ted Dunn off the books to go down to Argentina and find out everything he could about Estrada and what the good general is planning.”

  She pulled a blue folder from her briefcase and slid it across the table. “Inside is a compilation of the info I received from Ted about Estrada as well as materials our research department assembled. You’ll see that Estrada’s been quietly expanding the army and developing a power base with right-wing business interests.”

  “How strong is Estrada’s organization?”

  “Several other generals are close with him. Colonel Kurt Schiller, head of military intelligence, does his dirty work. He’s the grandson of Carl Schiller, the high level Gestapo official who escaped with Adolph Eichmann to Argentina after the war and eluded capture. He died about ten years ago. No doubt it was after he had a chance to tutor young Kurt.”

  She paused to take a breath. “In Ted’s last message, he said he was getting close to the answer of what Estrada was planning. He had a critical meeting scheduled that evening. Then he went silent. Complete blackout.”

  “What was his cover?”

  “Tourist.”

  “Couldn’t you do better than that?”

  She reddened, opened her mouth to reply, and closed it.

  “One advantage of you going is that between your recent complete change in appearance and your having never been there, no one will recognize you. I’ll e-mail you some background info on Argentina. The country’s 50 percent ethnically Italian. They came in waves. Many were from Sicily and Calabria. Almost all the rest are Spanish or of other European descent. The Spaniards who came first systematically killed off the natives who inhabited the place when they arrived. So unlike Peru or Venezuela, you feel as if you’re in Europe. The language is an Italianized Spanish, but most of the top people, including Estrada, speak English well.”

  “With my Italian, I’m sure I’ll be able to get by.”

  “I agree. You also should know that the Argentine economy goes up and down like a bungee jumper. This explains in part why military takeovers alternate with democratic rule like clockwork in Argentina.”

  Craig stood up and stretched his arms. Betty looked alarmed. “You’re not planning to pass out on me again?”

  He laughed. “Not a chance. Just stiff from sitting.” He did a couple of knee bends and sat back down. “This will only work if I can find a way to get close to Estrada.”

  She gave a long, low whistle. “You want to play a high-stakes game?”

  “It’s the only way.”

  “And how do you intend to get close to Estrada?”

  “He must need money for whatever he’s planning.”

  She nodded.

  “And he doesn’t yet control the government so he can’t tap international credit markets.”

  “Agreed. Where are you going with this?”

  “Suppose I were to go into Argentina pretending to be the head of a private equity firm in the United States. I have ten billion dollars to invest—money raised from wealthy investors looking for a huge return. I would consider investing some or all of it in Argentina if I thought it was justified. That should gain me access to Estrada.”

  She was smiling. “I like it.”

  “From now on, I’m Barry Gorman. President and CEO of the Philoctetes Group.”

  “Philoctetes?”

  “The name of the celebrated hero of the Trojan War who was memorialized in one of Sophocles’ seven extant plays. Don’t think engineers aren’t educated. Carnegie Mellon has a great English department. And the best drama school in the country.”

  “So do I call you Craig, Enrico, Ricci, or Barry?”

  “Craig will be fine for now.”

  “What can I do to help you protect that cover?”

  “Create a website for the Philoctetes Group with Barry Gorman as president and CEO. Base it in San Francisco. Give Gorman his own phone line with a 415 area code. Calls to that number should automatically be routed to a special operator at CIA headquarters without the caller having any idea this happened. While the caller’s telephone number is recorded, the caller should be told: ‘Mr. Gorman is out of the country on business. I can take a message and transmit it to him.’ In the shadowy and secretive world of private equity firms, none of this will stand out. But I need an emergency contact in Buenos Aires.”

  “If you’re in trouble or have to get inside our embassy to reach me on a secure phone, call B. J. Walker, the cultural attaché. Tell him that Jimmy Carr wants to go home. B. J. will know what to do.”

  “He’s one of yours?”

  “Uh-huh. And I assume you haven’t forgotten my cell phone number.”

  “Indelibly etched on my brain.”

  “Call me anytime, twenty-four hours a
day. But I’m sure you would have done that if I hadn’t said it.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You’re doing this yourself.”

  “It’s too sensitive with the president and Bryce involved, and …” she hesitated, then completed her thought, “some of the top people in the agency didn’t like the idea of a woman being placed in the director’s chair.”

  “Big surprise.”

  “So I’m not exactly sure who I can trust.”

  “Any locals who would be useful?”

  Betty sighed. “As always, you’re impatient. I was getting to that.”

  “Sorry.”

  “A woman by the name of Nicole who operates a shoe boutique in La Recoleta, a fashionable area in Buenos Aires, or BA, as it is often called by residents, at Number 14 Avenue Quintana.”

  Craig committed the information to memory.

  Betty continued. “Nicole is well connected socially on both sides of the political spectrum. She has excellent relationships with right-wing business and military types, while her sympathies are with the prodemocracy groups. Dunn paid her plenty, which she claimed to be funneling to anti-Estrada forces. In return, she gave him lots of help.”

  Maybe Nicole got a better offer from Estrada’s people and sold Dunn out, Craig thought. He decided not to share that with Betty.

  “As long as we’re talking about money,” she added, “we have to address the matter of your compensation for this job. I was thinking …”

  “I’m doing this for free. You’re giving me a chance to destroy Bryce. I would be willing to pay you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, but I’ll want you to cover my expenses.”

  “I know you like to live well. How much?”

  “With the cover I’ll be using and the need to pay for information, I better take a million dollars to Argentina with me. All hundreds. Old bills. Not consecutively numbered. Pack them in a duffel, as small as possible. I’ll need a Barry Gorman passport, California driver’s license, a couple of credit cards with no limits, and business cards.”

  Craig saw her blench at the amount and squeeze her lips together. “C’mon Betty. Even in the three weeks I was in the job, I learned about the huge discretionary fund the director has. It can be spent without accountability and I loved tapping into it. For trips to Pakistan and Prague. Stuff like that.”

  “Okay. Okay. Stop in Washington before you go to BA. I’ll have it all for you, as well as a couple of handguns. I’ll arrange with American Airlines to let your stuff go through without a fuss.”

  He sat up in his chair. “Sorry, the head of a ten billion dollar fund doesn’t fly commercial. Once I hit Washington, I’ll hire a private jet with one of your credit cards to take me to Argentina.”

  He watched her squirming. “And when will that be?”

  “In two days. I have to stop in Milan and buy a whole new wardrobe. My current stuff’s a little casual. After that, I’ll spend a day or two in Washington before going down to BA.”

  She looked anxious. “We have to move up on this. Dunn’s life may be hanging in the balance.”

  “Let’s be realistic. Enough time has gone by that if Estrada wanted to kill Ted, he’d be dead. If Ted’s still alive, chances are Estrada wants to use him as a bargaining chip. If this is the case, a few more days won’t matter.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t be wasting time in Washington. I’ll move as quickly as I can. But if I don’t do it the right way, you’ll have two dead agents.”

  Washington

  “Do you have time for another set?” President Treadwell called to Bryce across the tennis net.

  They had just finished their first set in the basement of the White House. Bryce won 6-1 while barely breaking a sweat. Treadwell, on the other hand, was perspiring profusely.

  Bryce was surprised he had won so easily. Generally, their matches were very close. They’d been playing singles for forty-two years, ever since they had been thrown together as roommates by the Yale freshman dorm lottery. That chance event and the relationship it fostered proved more important to both men then any course they took in their four years at Yale.

  In the early days Treadwell, who had been on the junior team at a posh country club in Westchester County, New York, almost always defeated the scrappy Bryce, who learned the sport on the public courts on the west side of Chicago without lessons.

  But after he became a successful Washington lawyer and joined the prestigious Kenwood Country Club, Bryce took lessons with Chris, the top pro, who perfected his game. Gradually he had drawn closer to Treadwell, winning some in close sets, but nothing like today. Must be the enormous tension and stress the president was facing.

  “I’ve got time,” Bryce shouted back.

  “Good. Let’s get some water and switch sides.”

  They went to the side of the court where Treadwell gulped water. Bryce thought the president’s face was flushed.

  “You okay?” Bryce asked.

  “Sure. Just a little humiliated from losing so badly. But I’ll turn the tables on you.”

  Bryce glanced up into the gallery above the court. Dr. Andrews, the president’s physician, a urologist from Westchester and Treadwell’s longtime golfing buddy called “Andy” by the president, was preoccupied with his Blackberry and apparently unconcerned. Next to Andrews sat the ubiquitous military aide with his briefcase. A secret service man was on each end of the court.

  In the second set Bryce decided to take a little off his game, but he’d have to be careful. If the competitive Treadwell sensed it, he’d rip into Bryce.

  During the first game, with Treadwell serving, Bryce returned one ball a little long and another just a tad wide. Bryce won the next two points. Then Treadwell prevailed in the next two after long rallies. Game for Treadwell.

  Bryce was picking up balls, getting ready to serve when he noticed a commotion in the gallery. Dr. Andrews was leaving and being replaced by Dr. Deborah Lee, his thirty-one-year-old assistant who had done a fellowship in cardiology at Johns Hopkins.

  On the first two points, Bryce eased up on his serve. Treadwell returned them deep, setting up baseline rallies, which they split. At 15-15, Bryce decided he’d better hit his normal serve to avoid suspicion. He blasted it, nicking the service line. Treadwell could only manage a weak return to Bryce’s forehand. Bryce moved up on the ball and smashed a hard shot down the line. Treadwell was racing toward the ball. Bryce moved to the net, ready to catch the return in the air and put it away—if Treadwell managed one.

  Before Treadwell reached the ball, he suddenly stopped, the racket slipping out of his hand. He collapsed to his knees and sat down on the court.

  Bryce raced around the net to see what was wrong.

  The president looked pale. He was gasping for breath.

  “I better get the doctor,” Bryce shouted.

  “No. No,” Treadwell protested. “Just get me something to drink. Some Gatorade.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Do it now.”

  Bryce ran toward the cooler on the side of the court. Through the corner of his eye, Bryce saw Dr. Lee charging across the court, black doctor’s bag in hand. Thank God for that.

  Bryce returned with Gatorade as Dr. Lee was pulling a stethoscope out of her bag. Treadwell waved the doctor away. “No need for all that gear,” he said. “I’m fine. Just gimme the Gatorade.”

  Bryce handed him the bottle and Treadwell chugged it down.

  “With all due respect, Mr. President,” Dr. Lee said, “I think that …”

  Treadwell cut her off. “I’m alright. Andy tells me I get electrolyte depletion. I have to remember to drink more of this stuff.”

  Bryce saw Dr. Lee looking at him for assistance, but he turned away. When Treadwell sounded this firm, Bryce had learned long ago that challenging him could be risky. Even for a close friend.

  “Let’s call it a day,” Treadwell said. “I want to shower. I have t
he treasury secretary coming over in an hour for a meeting about the budget.”

  With that, Treadwell turned and trudged toward the locker room. Bryce was at his side.

  Dr. Lee followed two steps behind.

  By the time he was dressed, the president’s color had returned and he was walking normally.

  Treadwell and Bryce split at the door to the Oval Office, with Bryce planning to head back to his office at the law firm, four blocks away.

  The instant the president disappeared behind the door Bryce heard Dr. Lee’s voice. “May I talk to you for a minute, Mr. Bryce?”

  Bryce led her into a small, deserted conference room. “I know what you’re going to say. The president needs to get his heart examined.”

  Dr. Lee nodded.

  “How long until his next regular physical?” Bryce asked.

  “Six months.”

  “Shit. He can’t wait that long.”

  “You have to convince him to go out to Bethesda Naval for a cardio workup. I’ll make the arrangements.”

  “I know him. It won’t be easy. He’s stubborn.”

  Dr. Lee shook her head. “We see that all the time. Many people are reluctant to do it. They’re afraid of what they’ll learn. They figure what they don’t know won’t hurt them. This is precisely the opposite of the truth. If there is something wrong with his heart, it can likely be fixed. If not, he will continue to deteriorate.”

  Bryce liked this young woman. “We have another problem here. The president’s up for reelection next November. The country has major economic problems. The last thing he wants in the next thirteen months is a medical issue.”

  “He can’t possibly wait a year to be tested. You know that. He could be dead before then if he doesn’t get evaluated and treated.”

  Bryce nodded grimly. “Yeah, you’re right. Let me work on it. It may take a while.”

  “You can’t take too long or he’ll have a heart attack.”

  “I understand. I’ll come up with a way to get it done. I’ll tell him that you’ll keep the results quiet. I assume that’s acceptable to you.”

  “I never disclose any patient’s medical information.”