The Argentine Triangle: A Craig Page Thriller Read online

  “Even the president of the United States?”

  “For me, the rules are the same.”

  Dr. Lee extracted a card from her pocket and handed it to Bryce. “My cell phone number. At the very least, please tell him to take an aspirin a day if he isn’t already doing that.”

  “Okay, I will.”

  “And tell him to ease up on the physical activity.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “One other thing. I’d appreciate it if you kept our conversation to yourself. Though my field is cardiology, Dr. Andrews is in charge of the president’s health. He would think I’m overstepping my bounds.”

  Bryce smiled. “Which you are.”

  As the Washington lawyer left the White House, the skies were gloomy and gray. Bryce rejected the waiting White House limousine in favor of walking back to his office at Eighth and Pennsylvania, confident that the rain would hold off for a man as important as he was.

  When Bryce had entered the White House a couple of hours previously to meet the president for their tennis match, it had been a gorgeous fall day and this seemed quite appropriate for Bryce—a man in the beautiful autumn of his life. But like the weather, life was in flux and surprises kept flying at him from left field. “Zingers” was what his Uncle Charlie called those unanticipated events that suddenly appear and turn one’s life in a different direction. Plot points, they call them in Hollywood.

  Bryce exited the White House grounds and turned eastward, walking at a slow, contemplative pace—not his usual long, purposeful strides. A year ago when Treadwell had been elected president, Bryce felt like he was on top of the world.

  After Yale their professional paths had diverged, with Bryce going to Harvard Law, then coming to Washington for a clerkship on the Supreme Court before joining a prestigious Washington law firm; and Treadwell getting an MBA at Harvard before making a bundle on Wall Street, which he used to catapult himself into the national political sphere. They had remained close friends with Bryce playing the role of consigliore as well as tennis partner to the rising Treadwell. Bryce could have had any position he wanted in the Treadwell administration, but he declined an official post, preferring to stay at his law firm and cash in on his relationship with Treadwell, who had built the court in the White House basement so he could play with Bryce.

  It was well known that Bryce was the closest advisor to the most powerful man in the world. Treadwell needed him. Bryce, always top of the class, was much smarter and quicker than Treadwell, who had been a mediocre student.

  Bryce was benefitting enormously from his relationship with the president. So many clients flocked to Bryce’s law firm that he had to hire fifty additional lawyers. He was working sixteen-hour days shuttling between the White House and the law firm, loving every minute of it, particularly his personal profiles in the New York Times and Washington Post describing how much Treadwell relied on him.

  About six months ago, zinger number one hit. Claire, his wife of thirty-five years and mother of his two children, announced on her sixtieth birthday that this wasn’t what she had bargained for at this point in her life—a husband who was never home. It was late in the game, but not too late to do something she wanted to do. So she had set off to Florence to study art and to paint. “And there’s nothing you can say to stop me,” she snapped at him in a tone he had often heard from judges who wanted to make it clear to a lawyer that the argument was over.

  Six months later, zinger number two flew in when a young reporter for La Nación in Buenos Aires showed up in the reception area at his law firm without an appointment and camped out until he would give her an interview. Bryce had planned to tell the reporter he was too busy, until he saw her sitting patiently with pen and notebook in hand, a beautiful, demure, virginal-looking, sensuous woman in a smartly tailored gray suit. Perhaps it was the fact that since Claire’s departure he had little time or occasion to be with women other than in meetings, or perhaps he was just tired of working and wanted a change. Who knows why he said to Gina Galindo, “C’mon. I’ll take you out to lunch. We can do the interview there.”

  He never expected they would hit it off so well. Bryce had no doubt that she liked him as much as he did her. By the fourth date they were sleeping together. With her, he was young again, aroused in ways he had thought were finished. Initially, Gina had been reluctant, but he had chalked this up to her inexperience. Now he was seriously thinking of asking her to marry him. That would set old Claire back a step or two. And he was confident Gina would agree. Why wouldn’t she want to be married to the second most powerful man in the world? Well, Claire obviously didn’t, but she didn’t count. He was concerned that acquaintances would think she had married him for his position. That bothered him a little, but after they met Gina they would realize she and Bryce were in love.

  Bryce crossed Pennsylvania Avenue without waiting for the light to change. A driver honked and swerved, narrowly missing Bryce, obviously unaware that Bryce was too important to stop for red lights. As he entered his office building he remembered that Uncle Charlie had also said, “Zingers show up in threes.” He hoped to hell that a serious heart attack for Treadwell wasn’t the final one in his little trilogy. If that happened, he’d lose his meal ticket. He’d no longer find his name in the newspapers on an almost daily basis. He’d have to lay off those fifty lawyers. But he was confident that Gina would stick with him because she really did love him.

  Still, he couldn’t let any of that happen. He had to persuade Treadwell to schedule that cardio workup.

  By the time Craig’s plane touched down at Dulles at ten in the morning, he had read and reread all of the materials Betty had left with him or e-mailed. He had developed in his mind a bio for Barry Gorman, even the courses and professors he had taken en route to a Stanford degree in economics and an MBA. He had mastered many of the nuances of the shadowy and secretive world of private equity funds. He felt that he knew General Alfredo Estrada as well as it was possible to know someone from written materials without a personal meeting.

  One thing was clear: Estrada would be a tough nut to crack. The general was revered by his troops for the way in which he had rebuilt the army, taking poor and embittered men and women from the streets and giving them a reason to live, a source of pride. His accomplishment was all the more impressive because he had done it quietly. Many Argentineans continued to believe that the army, after the disasters of the Dirty War and the Falklands’ battle with England, was no longer a factor in the political life of the country.

  Others, more perceptive, saw what was happening. The editor of one BA daily, La Opinion, had described Estrada as “part visionary, part megalomaniac, and part thug.”

  Somewhere, Estrada had a wife and two children who were never mentioned in the media. Nor seen with him. He loved high living. Gambling and good-looking women. He made periodic trips to casinos in Europe and Vegas. Craig wondered whether Gina had been or was still sleeping with him when she was in Argentina.

  As he stepped off the plane, his cell rang. He picked it up.

  “Did you have a good flight, Barry Gorman?” He recognized Betty’s voice.

  “Very good. Thanks.”

  “Waiting for you upstairs in front of the terminal, at the curb, last door on the right, is a black Lincoln Town Car, Virginia plates, CCK220. The driver will take you to the Four Seasons in Georgetown. A duffel with everything you wanted is in the trunk.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  “The car will leave you at the Four Seasons. You’ll be on your own from there.”

  After checking into the Four Seasons, Craig called Tim Fuller to arrange a meeting. He and Tim had met when they were both trainees at the Farm. They had seen each other from time to time over the years. Fuller began in the economic espionage section, working at Langley. Later, he was stationed in Shanghai. Appalled at the Chinese wholesale theft of American technology, he repeatedly railed for Washington to take countermeasures. When his pleas fell on dea
f ears, Tim quit the agency and ten years ago started a private security firm based in Washington.

  Craig hadn’t seen Tim in eight years, since the time he was in Washington for a conference about Middle Eastern terrorism.

  One night over cheeseburgers and beers at Clyde’s in Georgetown, Tim had told him, “My country didn’t appreciate my talents so I decided to make a killing from people who do.”

  Tim’s offices were on the top floor of one of the nondescript glass and steel eight-floor boxes that line K Street, known as Gucci gulch, because it houses the offices of many of Washington’s highest paid lobbyists.

  Once Craig stepped inside the reception area he knew that Tim was doing well. This was a far cry from the office of J. J. Gittes. Heavily polished dark wood floors were lined with oriental carpets. An antique grandfather clock stood in the corner. Sitting at a Queen Ann desk was a young receptionist smartly dressed in a tailored navy woolen suit. Ansel Adams photographs dotted the walls.

  “I’ll take you back to Mr. Fuller’s office,” the receptionist said.

  Craig watched the receptionist swaying her shapely rear as if it were a pendulum as he followed her. Walking behind her, he swung his black leather briefcase, purchased on Via Monte Napoleone in Milan, keeping in rhythm with her.

  As soon as he saw Craig, Tim, suntanned and dressed in a starched white shirt and Hermes tie, hung up on a call. The surprise was visible on his face. This wasn’t the Craig Page he knew.

  “Hello Tim,” Craig said.

  Tim told the receptionist to leave and close the door behind her.

  “What the hell did you do to yourself, pal?”

  “I went for a nip and tuck. My plastic surgeon got carried away.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Some people want to kill Craig Page, and I figured …”

  “Smart move. But I see the scratches on your face. Did they get to you anyhow?”

  “I was doing a little car racing.”

  “A dangerous sport.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  Tim laughed. “When I heard you were CIA director a year ago, I was plenty pissed that you didn’t call me. Then I read you’d been sacked. So I relented. You weren’t in the job long enough to call anyone.”

  “Ouch. That stung.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “Some people at 1600 decided to throw me under a bus.”

  Tim laughed again.

  As they sat at a table in the corner, Craig glanced at Tim. His old friend’s appearance, Craig thought, was at variance with his clothes and the office. He had the aura of a street fighter and was short and pudgy. His nose had been broken playing football in a coal town in West Virginia where he had won a scholarship to Dartmouth. And his thick brown crew cut was so flat on top that he could walk with a cup of coffee in a saucer on his head without spilling it.

  “You’ve got nice digs,” Craig said. “The security business must be good.”

  “It is, pal. Every company in America is worried about their records being stolen by terrorists or a desperate competitor in this economy. Those who do business abroad are scared shitless that one of their execs will be kidnapped and held for ransom. It’s a tough world to do business in. One man’s nightmare is another man’s dream. Clients are flying in through the door.”

  Tim pulled back and studied Craig, dressed suavely in a double-breasted charcoal Brioni suit with a muted stripe he had bought in Milan. “Look who’s talking. The new Craig Page, whoever that is …”

  “Barry Gorman.”

  “Okay. Barry Gorman is obviously doing well.”

  Craig smiled, pleased that he had taken on the aura of a wealthy businessman.

  “I need your help,” Craig said.

  “Anything for you.”

  “Betty Richards sucked me back in for a special assignment. I’m on my way to Argentina.”

  Tim’s eyes sparkled with intensity. “Trying to penetrate Estrada’s organization.”

  Craig pulled back in surprise. “How’d you get there so fast?”

  “I do work for a multinational pharma company with a large plant outside of Buenos Aires. They’re afraid they might be nationalized if Estrada takes over the government.”

  “Does that pose a conflict for you? Working with me.”

  Tim shrugged. “I doubt it. Ms. Richards has to be against Estrada as well. Too much instability if he takes over the government. Besides, we build Chinese walls all the time. No other client will ever know what I learn for you.”

  Craig was satisfied. “I want you for a limited assignment. For now. It may grow later.”

  “Tell me about it, pal.”

  Craig reached into his briefcase, pulled out the picture of Gina and Bryce at the restaurant that Betty had given him and put it on the table.

  “Who’s the beauty with Edward Bryce?”

  “Gina Galindo. A journalist with La Nación, a BA daily. I want you to find out where she lives. Then plant a bug on her phone and in the bedroom. Tape every word that both bugs yield. Do transcripts. I’ll let you know where and when to deliver them to me.”

  “Is this all business, pal? Or are you trying to make the broad?”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Come on. Give me a break. When we were at the Farm, women threw themselves at you. Other trainees, waitresses, even an instructor—what the hell was her name?—it didn’t matter. Every night my biggest goal in life was to get laid. Yours was to get a good night’s sleep and rest your dick.”

  Craig laughed. “So how are you doing now?”

  “I got married last year. I’m still trying to figure out how to get laid every night. Although I have to admit that having money sure helps with women in this town.”

  “Can we be serious?”

  “I was. Painfully so.”

  “Do you want the job I’m offering?”

  Tim pulled back and fiddled with a diamond-studded cufflink. Deep furrows appeared on his forehead as he pondered the request. Craig knew what he was thinking. Tim was probably at the point now where he made a good living operating within the law. Why jeopardize it?

  Craig reached into his briefcase and pulled out a brown envelope. “A hundred K in cash. All hundreds. Old bills. Serial numbers are all over the place. They can’t be traced.”

  Craig pushed the envelope across the table. Tim didn’t reach for it, but tapped his fingers on the marble top. Craig’s guess was that Tim would never pay taxes on the money. He’d plunk it down on a second home or a boat he’d been eyeing. In Washington, everyone had his price.

  “How long do you want me to do this?” Tim asked.

  “Two weeks max. Probably less.”

  “If I get caught, will Madame CIA Director step in and tell the FBI or local police to back off?”

  “Don’t get caught.”

  “I’m not planning to, but that’s not the question.”

  Craig sighed deeply. This was a tough one. He didn’t dare tell Betty what he was doing. She’d have a cow in view of her deal with the FBI not to do domestic surveillance. “I’ll do my best to get her help after the fact. That’s the most I can promise.”

  “That’s not very much. If Bryce finds out somebody’s been listening to him banging his girlfriend and the pillow talk afterwards, he’ll throw a shit fit. Probably mobilize the president to make sure DOJ tosses the book at me.”

  Craig held out his hands, palms up. “Sorry. That’s the best I can do.”

  “I’ll have to think about it, pal.”

  Craig decided to ratchet up the pressure. “We don’t have time for that. You’re my first choice, but I have three other names on my list.”

  It was a total bluff. Craig had no other choices if Tim turned him down.

  Craig glanced at the sweep second hand on his Franck Mueller watch. When thirty seconds had passed and Tim was still squirming in his chair, trying to decide, Craig changed the deal in order to sway him.

  “We’l
l cut back your role. You get me the bugs, and I’ll plant them. You’ll still have to do the rest. And you arrange a car and driver for me for the next couple of days in Washington.”

  That was enough to do the trick.

  “I’m in,” Tim said. He walked over to his desk and picked up a business card he handed to Craig. Then he made arrangements for the car and driver. “Vince will be here in half an hour. Here are all my numbers. How do I get to you?”

  Craig reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a Barry Gorman business card. He added another phone number with a 415 area code. “It’s my cell phone,” he said, handing it to Tim. “I’ll keep it on twenty-four hours a day.”

  Tim studied the card. “Barry Gorman, The Philoctetes Group, San Fran. Sounds like a money man.”

  “That’s what I am. I manage a ten billion dollar private equity fund. We’re investing in Argentina. We’re open to investors with $100K minimum.” Craig smiled and reached across for the envelope. “You want to make a killing? I can give you one share for what you’ve got there.”

  Tim broke into a laugh. “Keep your fuckin’ hands off my money. I might need it for bail by the time I finish your job.”

  Craig was alone in the back seat of the dark blue Cadillac sedan. Tim’s driver, Vince, was behind the wheel, heading north on Connecticut Avenue past small, trendy restaurants and cafés. The Argentine Embassy was on New Hampshire Avenue, one block east of DuPont circle. A light rain had begun to fall.

  As they drove around the circle, Craig looked out of the car window and admired the memorial fountain in the center created by Daniel Chester French, the sculptor of the Lincoln Memorial, and commemorated to Admiral DuPont, a union Naval officer in the Civil War. Even on a grim day this is a beautiful city, he thought, laid out with a real plan and chock-full of statues, parks, and memorials.

  Craig waited until Vince came around to open the back door with an umbrella in hand before climbing out. He had to behave like a powerful financial figure. He glanced up at the stately, tan, four-story brick building with the Argentine flag flying above the entrance, with its blue and white stripes and a gold sun in the center.