The Argentine Triangle: A Craig Page Thriller (19 page)

The phone interrupted Craig. He pounced. It was Tim. “Subject left DeBeers. He’s in a cab, heading in a westerly direction. I’m in a car following behind.”

“Stay on the phone with me. Give me a running report where you’re going.”

Craig was trying to piece together what this all meant. He felt as if he now had a complex jigsaw puzzle on the table in front of him. Estrada. Gina. Arms. Money. Argentina. Brazil. Now diamonds. He pushed the pieces around in his mind.

“We’re leaving Piccadilly Circus,” Tim said. “Heading south on Regent Street.”

“He’s probably coming back to the St. James Club.”

“That’s what I figure.”

“If he returns here and goes inside, you hang back at the corner and watch the entrance. When the two of us leave in a car and my window’s rolled down, you’ll know we’re on our way back to the airport. Then you can close up shop and go home.”

Twenty minutes later, Craig received a call from Estrada. “I’m ready to fly back whenever you are.”

Over the Atlantic

O
nce the plane took off for Buenos Aires, Craig leaned back in his seat with copies of the morning
Financial Times
and
London Times
. He wondered if the general, now dressed in his military uniform, would say anything about his visit to DeBeers.

“I want to thank you for arranging a great evening last night,” Estrada said. “Those two girls were a treat. I owe you for them.”

Craig smiled. “Happy to help a friend.”

“I like coming to London, Barry, although not many of my countrymen agree with me on that. And we’re not exactly popular here.”

“C’mon, Alfredo,” Craig said laughing. “After the Falklands War, you can’t blame them.”

Estrada shrugged. “The Falklands have no economic, military, or strategic significance. The British can have them. I prefer to concentrate on more pragmatic objectives.”

Finally, Craig felt as if he were getting somewhere. “Such as?”

The plane hit an air pocket and bounced. Estrada waited until they leveled off to answer. “Resuscitating our economy. Rebuilding the military.”

“Where do you intend to use it?”

Estrada narrowed his eyes and stared hard at Craig, who met his gaze. He’s a smart man, Craig thought. Better not push so hard that I arouse his suspicions.

“Our neighbors have powerful armies,” Estrada said. “Who knows when they may wish to embark on an adventure. We have to be vigilant.”

“Are you worried about Brazil, Paraguay, or Chile?”

Estrada ducked the question. “Besides, a powerful military is a source of pride for a country. A Japanese leader wrote a hundred years ago: ‘Strong army, strong nation. Weak army. Weak nation.’ Our young people have to realize that Argentina can be a great nation if we have the will to make it so. We have everything. Land. Resources. Wonderful people. We should be to South America what the United States is to the North. Yet, we have become a joke in the world community. It’s time to restore our nation to its rightful place—as the aristocrat of South America. Once we believe we can succeed, then we will.”

Estrada was speaking with conviction from the heart, his eyes burning with determination. To Craig, he seemed part visionary, part dreamer, and part lunatic. “We’ve been hurt for years by corrupt leaders and by a feeling of helplessness. We don’t have millions of uneducated people like Brazil. General Peron understood this.”

“Would you call yourself a Peronist?” Craig asked with curiosity.

Estrada nodded vigorously. “But of course. Like Peron, I believe it is critical to unite the military, the labor unions, and the industrialists. The entire society. We simply have to do more with what we have. With our talented people. With our magnificent resources. Our destiny is in our hands. As Shakespeare expressed it so well in
Julius Caesar
, ‘The fault … is not in our stars, but in ourselves that we are underlings.’”

Craig had no doubt that Estrada meant what he was saying. “Before coming to Argentina, I stopped in Washington to obtain some background information about your country. There I met with Jorge Suarez, the economic attaché at the Argentine Embassy, and also with a reporter for
La Nación
by the name of Gina Galindo.”

Estrada was watching Craig carefully, but not displaying any visible reaction. Craig continued, “Miss Galindo’s statements about Argentina’s potential were similar in substance to what you just said.”

Estrada nodded. “I’m not surprised. I know the young woman. Her father was a great man. A military hero in the war against the Communists.”

“Did you serve under him?”

Estrada shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then changed the subject away from Gina’s father. “What did you think of her?”

Estrada’s boldness surprised him. “She’s extremely intelligent, and—”

Estrada cut him off. “Beautiful as well.”

“I noticed that.”

Estrada laughed and punched Craig playfully in the ribs. “From the look on your face and the sound of your voice, I think that you’re not just interested in Gina for her great brain.”

Craig pretended to blush, then hesitated, uncertain how to respond. He didn’t want to put Gina into play in the dangerous game he was conducting with Estrada. Finally, he decided that she was already a participant so he said, “You’re very perceptive.”

Craig was trying to decide how to raise the subject of diamonds, when Estrada abruptly said, “I’m tired. I’m going in the back for a nap.”

The plane was outfitted with four beds in the rear, but Craig was too wired to consider sleeping.

A couple of hours later, Estrada was awake, and they were seated across from each other at a table eating pasta with seafood that the crew had cooked. Craig decided to wade in slowly. “I hope your meeting was successful this morning. Worth the long trip.”

Estrada nodded. Craig kept still, not pressing it.

After several minutes, Estrada said, “I’ve given thought to where you might invest some of your money.”

Craig leaned forward in his chair. “You have my attention.”

Estrada took a forkful of pasta and chewed while he studied Craig carefully. “Do you know anything about diamonds, my friend?”

Bingo, Craig thought. He masked his enthusiasm and replied deadpan. “A little bit. The Philoctetes Group was consulted a couple of years ago about a possible investment in a new Canadian field. Nothing came of it.”

“You mean the diamond discovery didn’t materialize?”

“No. A huge quantity of diamonds was found. We were unable to work out the terms for the deal. Why do you ask?”

“Well suppose …” Though the air force officers who made up the crew were out of sight, Estrada lowered his voice to a whisper. “Suppose we discovered a huge new source of diamonds, gem quality. Would you consider investing in that operation?”

Craig squeezed his hands together, looking very interested. “Where is the diamond field?”

Estrada waved his right hand and pointed to the ceiling of the plane. “Up in the north,” he responded vaguely.

“That doesn’t surprise me. From what I’ve read, Argentina is rich in minerals. You have oil and iron ore as well.”

Estrada nodded.

Craig continued, “I’d have to satisfy myself that the diamonds are gem quality. You’ll have to get me a report by a qualified geologist that I can forward back to California to our expert there.”

Craig had no idea what he was talking about. He was totally winging it, so he was relieved to hear Estrada say, “That makes sense. But you should know for openers that my experts are predicting this field, when fully up and running, could be 15 percent of the world supply. They estimate a gross per year of $1 billion in rough cut at current market values.”

Craig gave a long, low whistle. “That puts it on a par with the Canadian discovery. Perhaps a little more.”

“Have you continued to follow developments in the diamond market?”

“Not since our Canadian deal fell through. What’s happened?”

“Within the last year, diamonds have been rising sharply in price. Outpacing gold by a large percentage.”

“What’s causing it?”

“Sharply increased luxury spending in China, India, and the Middle East. And an expanding middle class throughout the world. Experts are predicting a 9 percent rise to $145 a carat next year and at least 5 percent a year after that. They forecast a global supply shortage of seven million carats.”

“I had no idea.”

Estrada reached into his bag and pulled out a spiral bound report. “Wait, there’s more,” he said while looking at the document. “The price of rough diamonds advanced by 24 percent in 2011. Buyer demand in China and India will be 40 percent of global demand by 2015. Up from 8 percent in 2005. Meanwhile, mature mines are being depleted. So while global demand is expected to grow by 6.4 percent to 247 million carats by 2020, the output that was 133 million carats last year, will be up to only 175 million carats. None of these numbers, of course, takes into account a new Argentine diamond field.”

“So if you did have a new diamond field, you would have an incredible source of wealth.”

“Exactly.”

“Who prepared the report?”

“A consultant I hired.”

“Can I read it?” Craig asked, hoping it disclosed the location of the diamond field.

Estrada shook his head. “Not now. Perhaps in the future.”

“You have to remember it’s not easy to get those shiny little suckers out of the ground. The material is extremely hard and the drilling tough work. It’ll take big money to get them into commerce.”

Estrada smiled. “That’s where you come into it.” He walked over to the briefcase, took out two Montecristos, and tossed one to Craig.

When they both lit up, Estrada said, “My proposal is that you invest a billion dollars in the project in return for 10 percent of the gross from the mine for the next thirty years. That means you can earn back your investment in ten years. After that it’s pure profit for you.”

Craig shook his head. “I like the idea of the investment, but the terms you propose are a terrible deal for me. There’ll be a delay until diamonds are sold. Also, this projection, that you expect a gross of one billion a year, is little more than a guess. I know how these things are done.”

Estrada leaned back in the chair and puffed on his cigar while he evaluated Craig’s words. “Then what do you want?”

“A third of the gross, and I put my money in $100 million at a time as construction proceeds. The first installment would be due when you break ground.”

Estrada looked incredulous. “A third? You’re insane.”

Craig didn’t appear too anxious. “My money comes from other individuals. I have a duty to them.”

“I’ll give you 20 percent. That’s the most. We expect to discover iron ore, petroleum, and other minerals in the area. If we decide to develop those, I’ll offer you the same deal.”

Craig nodded in approval. “That’s worth taking back to my investors. I’ll recommend it. They’re likely to accept my recommendation.”

He held out his hand and Estrada shook it.

The general seemed pleased. “When we get further down the road,” Estrada said, “I’ll have the attorney general’s office draft the papers for the deal with you. We’ll also need an agreement with DeBeers to purchase our output. They’ll be the ones selling the stones on the world market.”

So that explained Estrada’s meeting this morning at DeBeers. Craig twisted up his face in a grimace. “Don’t sign any agreements with DeBeers. We’ll revisit their participation when our operation is up and running.”

Estrada was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll bet they’ll want a 50 percent cut, or some other ridiculously large percentage, for marketing your diamonds.”

Estrada nodded.

“It’s bullshit,” Craig said. “We don’t need them. Why give away half our profit. We’ll do a lot better marketing the diamonds on our own the way the Canadians did, or even teaming up with the Canadians in an American cartel. The key to getting a high price is to carefully control supply. Alternatively, we may decide to play ball with DeBeers and threaten to dump large quantities on the world market unless they secretly take a very low cut. We’ll have a number of options.”

Estrada seemed impressed. He picked up a pad and pencil and wrote down a phone number. “It’s my private phone. Very few people have it.”

Craig responded by giving Estrada a card with his number in San Francisco at the Philoctetes Group and a cell number with a San Francisco area code. As he handed it to Estrada, one thought kept running through Craig’s mind: I hope this man never finds out that I’m not Barry Gorman and I don’t have $10 billion to invest.

For the last two hours of the flight, Estrada was in the back of the plane on the phone. Though Craig strained to eavesdrop, over the roar of the engines it was impossible to pick up more than an isolated word. He heard, “troops … arms … border,” but he couldn’t make sense out of it.

Ten minutes before touchdown when Estrada came to the front cabin, he seemed determined, but self-confident. “Is everything okay?” Craig asked.

“Couldn’t be any better,” Estrada replied. Then he changed the subject. “I’ve arranged to have a car meet you and take you to the Alvear.”

Craig sensed that Estrada had erected a wall between them. His buddy from last evening was operating in his own world now with Craig on the outside. The spontaneous confidences they had exchanged about diamonds a few hours ago were ended. But as Craig thought about it, he wondered if there had been anything at all spontaneous about their discussion. Estrada must have planned to present his proposal to Craig on the way back to Buenos Aires after the meeting at DeBeers. That was why he had jumped so quickly at the idea of taking Craig to London.

It was clear to Craig that Estrada was now preoccupied with other matters. Something big would be happening. Craig expected to find out what it was very soon after they arrived in Buenos Aires.

Buenos Aires

C
raig spent the morning working out in the hotel gym and then visiting the National Museum of Fine Arts to view its collection of Impressionist paintings. For Craig, the most interesting rooms were those with Argentine art and particularly war scenes from the nineteenth century war with Paraguay painted by an Argentine soldier. He was aware that he was being watched and tailed the whole time. He made no effort to do anything about it.

As he exited the museum and crossed the wide Avenue de Libertador, he glanced over his shoulder. The surveillance was still there.

Back at the hotel, he hooked up his computer and went online, delving deeper into the diamond business. For their next discussion Estrada might include an expert on mining and marketing the gems. The superficial information Craig had learned in London wouldn’t be enough.

When the telephone rang in the late afternoon, he grabbed it immediately. “This is Fiona. Your briefcase has arrived,” a woman said. Though the voice was tense and strained, it was unmistakably Nicole’s. That distinctive, throaty sound, giving him a coded message that she had obtained information about Estrada’s activities in the north and she wanted to meet with him at the place she had designated.

“Thank you,” he replied tersely.

She hung up.

He had no doubt that the people Schiller had following him now would be more experienced than the men he had given the slip on Calle Florida the day he arrived. Losing them this time wouldn’t be easy. Craig studied a map of the Buenos Aires area and found the intersection of highways twelve and eight. He zeroed in on the location of the overlook that Nicole had fixed for their meeting place. It would be dark. Gradually, a plan formed in his mind. It meant trusting Peppone, which was risky, but his instincts told him it was the right thing to do. Besides, the alternative of driving himself was a nonstarter. He didn’t know the roads.

He called Peppone’s cell. “Can you pick me up at eight thirty this evening at the Alvear?”

“Sure. Where are we going?”

“I’ll let you know that when I get into the car.”

“The Metropolitan Cathedral,” Craig told Peppone once he was seated in the back of the Mercedes.

“You want to pray?” the driver asked with a grin on his face.

“Something like that.”

“You don’t seem like the type.”

As they drove, Craig’s eyes were darting out of the car window. From the moment they left the Alvear, a midnight blue Ford had been following. It was a loose tail, but the Ford was always there.

About ten blocks from the Cathedral, they were driving on a wide boulevard with an inside service road where a car could park. “Pull into the right and stop the car,” Craig said.

As Peppone followed the instruction, the blue Ford pulled over as well, about twenty yards back. In the bright lights of the boulevard, Craig saw two men in the front of the Ford and one in the back. None of them made a move to get out of the car.

Worried about a bug in Peppone’s car, Craig said to the driver, “I heard a strange sound coming from the engine. Let’s look under the hood.”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“I might be wrong, but to be safe, let’s take a look.”

With Craig standing beside him, Peppone lifted the hood and shielded them from the eyes of the men in the Ford.

“I have a proposal for you,” he told Peppone.

The driver turned his head toward Craig.

“Keep your eyes on the engine,” Craig snapped. “I’ll give you $20,000 if you do what I tell you.”

“What’s that?”

“I have a plan to lose the people following me in the dark blue Ford.”

Peppone began twitching. “I don’t know about dangerous stuff like this.”

Craig detected the fear in his voice. “Look here, I know they’re working for Colonel Schiller, the same as you.”

Peppone made a feeble effort to protest. “Who is Colonel Schiller?”

“I’ll fix it so you’ll be able to say I coerced you. Nobody will be able to prove otherwise.”

“I’m not sure … I …”

“Stop stalling. There won’t be any risk to you. Are you in or out?”

“Cash?”

“US currency. All hundreds.”

“You have it all with you?”

“In the car.”

The duffel he had brought contained cash, his two guns, and a liter of olive oil he had purchased at a market a couple of blocks from the Alvear after Nicole had called.

Peppone reached into the engine and fiddled with something. He’s considering my offer, Craig decided. Finally, Peppone said, “I’m in.”

“Good. Drive to the Metropolitan Cathedral and park in front. I’ll go inside. You keep the engine running. Be ready to drive fast when I get back in. I’ll have a gun aimed on you to give your story credibility.”

“I have a wife and kids,” Peppone stammered.

“That’s why I want to do this in a way that you or they won’t get hurt.”

Peppone slammed the hood and they climbed back into the car.

The cathedral was in an area of government buildings, deserted at night, which was what Craig wanted. When Peppone stopped the car and turned off the lights, Craig got out with the duffel in his hand and walked toward the main front entrance. The Ford parked about twenty yards back under a large tree. They’ll be convinced that he had come here to meet someone, Craig told himself. His guess was that two of the men would follow him inside and leave one in the car.

The interior of the cathedral was dimly lit with candles. Blinking his eyes, Craig saw only a couple of old women on their knees in front of the altar. From the doorway, which opened in the back of the cathedral, he raced for the right side and the marble mausoleum holding the remains of General Jose de San Martin. His vantage point behind the mausoleum enabled him to watch the entrance.

As he expected, two men burst through the door. Each one ran up one of the two long aisles searching the rows of pews.

He watched them carefully. When they were almost at the altar, he ran back toward the door. At the same time, he yanked the bottle of oil out of his duffel. In front of the door, he poured it on the stone floor. When they chased him, they would lose their footing. Opening the door, he heard a shout behind him, “Hey you. Stop.” Then the sound of a gun firing. Bullets flew over his head. An old woman screamed. Craig slammed the door behind him.

Outside on the street, he grabbed his own gun from a shoulder holster. He took three steps toward the blue Ford and fired, blowing out one of the front tires.

Then he turned and jumped into the back seat of Peppone’s Mercedes. He pressed the barrel of the gun against the driver’s neck. “Step on it,” he shouted. “Or I’ll kill you.”

Peppone floored the accelerator. The wheels spun on gravel as the car lurched forward.

“Get to Highway Twelve and drive north,” Craig barked. “Toward the intersection with Highway Eight.”

Once they were out of the city, traffic became light. Peppone drove fast. They were making good time.

Craig was constantly looking around. After several minutes, he was convinced they weren’t being followed.

They were gradually rising into the hills. He saw signs for the approaching intersection of Highways Twelve and Eight. “Slow down and go straight.”

Craig leaned forward, looking over Peppone’s shoulder at the odometer. The road continued moving upward. Two kilometers later, he saw a small restaurant and gas station, exactly as Nicole had described it.

“There’s an overlook just ahead on the right,” he told the driver. “Pull in there.”

When Peppone came to a stop in the parking area of the overlook, Craig rolled down the car window and scanned the area anxiously. It was deserted. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes until ten. Perfect. He wanted to be here when Nicole arrived to make certain no one was following her. “I’m getting out. I want you to go back to the restaurant with the gas station down the road and wait there. I’ll come in about an hour.”

“What about my money?”

“You’ll get all of it then.”

Before the driver had a chance to protest, Craig climbed out of the car. He watched Peppone drive slowly down the hill. In front of Craig was a magnificent view of Buenos Aires with millions of lights glowing in a clear sky.

No wall or other structure separated the overlook from the road. On the far side of the overlook, a small stone wall, waist high, ran along the perimeter. It was a barrier that would stop anyone who got too close to the precipice from slipping down the steep hill. In places, the wall was crumbling and in need of repair.

Using the light of passing cars and careful to maintain his footing, he climbed over the stone wall. He squatted down in order to have a clear view of the overlook, while not being seen.

Promptly at ten o’clock, a white BMW convertible with the top up pulled into the overlook. He watched Nicole get out and look around. She was wearing tight black leather pants that looked as if they were painted on and a matching jacket over a powder blue sweater. He waited a full minute to make sure she hadn’t been followed before he rose and climbed over the wall.

Nicole was facing the road. The sudden movement from behind startled her. She reached into her purse, grabbed a .22 caliber pistol, and pivoted in his direction.

Once she recognized him, she put the gun away. “I wasn’t expecting you to come from that direction.”

A chilly wind blew through the hills. She shivered and said, “Can we go in my car and talk.”

Craig shook his head. “We’re too exposed that way. I pissed off some important people on the way here. Let’s climb over the wall. We can sit behind it and talk. Assuming you can sit in those pants.”

“Are you coming on to me?” she said, laughing to ease the tension.

“Right now the only thing on my mind is staying alive.”

Craig positioned them so they were squatting on the ground, behind the wall, facing each other, while they still had a view of the overlook. The duffel with his guns was beside him.

“What information do you have for me?” Craig asked.

“Later in the day, after you left my shop, I went out of town. I …”

Before she finished her sentence, Craig saw a midnight blue Ford race into the overlook parking area. The car slammed to a halt. A side window in the back was rolled down and the barrel of an AK-47 shoved out. The man holding it raked the white car and the entire overlook area with automatic fire.

Craig pushed Nicole down flat on the ground and covered her body with his. He heard the sound of bullets ricocheting off the sides of stones, not far from his head.

The automatic fire stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Through a crack in the stones, Craig watched the gunman yank the pin out of a grenade and roll it under the BMW. As he did, the blue Ford roared away.

Craig sprang to his feet and pulled Nicole by the arm down the hill, wanting to get as far away as he could before the explosion. They stumbled in the dirt until he spotted a large tree with a thick trunk. He pulled them both behind it.

“Close your eyes and hold your ears,” he shouted.

The explosion was deafening. Fire and shards of metal shot into the air. That bastard Peppone must have double-crossed me, Craig decided. He must have used his cell phone to tell the people in the Ford their location.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

With Craig in the lead and Nicole following, they ran through the dirt parallel to the road toward the restaurant and the gas station. Hiding in a row of trees, he saw Peppone’s Mercedes parked ten yards away. Strange that the driver had remained there after the double-cross, Craig thought. He had to settle the score with Peppone and, more important, commandeer the Mercedes to get out of the area.

“Wait here until I call you,” he told Nicole. He grabbed the Beretta and dropped the duffel at her feet.

On tiptoe, he approached the front of the Mercedes from the passenger side. In the dim light coming from the restaurant, he looked through the front side window of the car and saw Peppone sitting up behind the steering wheel.

Craig opened the passenger side door and cried out, “You bastard!”

When Peppone didn’t respond, Craig got into the car and pulled him by the arm. Peppone fell toward him. Craig tossed his gun on the floor of the car and felt for a pulse. There wasn’t one. In the interior light of the car, he saw that the driver’s neck was heavily bruised. Someone had strangled him.