The Argentine Triangle: A Craig Page Thriller (6 page)

Porto Cervo, Sardinia

W
ith his head still on the pillow, Craig opened his eyes. Looking through the window of one of the bedrooms in Betty’s suite he saw a gorgeous fireball of a sun rising straight ahead over the Gulf of Olbia. His whole body ached. His mind was fuzzy. He remembered fainting at lunch on the balcony, and he was embarrassed. He dressed quietly, then slipped out of the suite for a walk along the beach. He had to focus his thinking before he met with Betty again.

He took the path through the trees that followed the shoreline and lead to the beach. The emerald green waters were gently lapping against the sand.

At the edge of the water, clearer than he had ever seen in the Mediterranean, he reached down and scooped up a handful of pebbles. After rolling up his pants legs he waded in and began skipping them.

In the cool light of the morning, he had to decide if he wanted to take Betty’s assignment.

Trying to help Ted Dunn was a powerful factor. The possibility of settling his score with Edward Bryce was even more compelling.

And weighed against those was how shabbily he’d been treated twice by the powers in Washington. Regardless of what she said, he’d be dealing with more than Betty. Was he willing to endure all that political crap again?

Yes, dammit. It will be worthwhile if I can destroy Edward Bryce.

Still, he knew there was something else that made him agree—his feelings toward the United States. His father, who owed his life to the US Army, having been rescued as a small boy from Nazi carnage on a farm in Northern Italy, had instilled that love for the United States into Craig.

“Never forget,” his father had told Craig, in a hospital room hours before he died, “This is a great country.”

He had learned long ago that working for the United States in espionage meant accepting all the political stuff that went with any organization. It meant working with people like Betty, who were good, but often restricted in what they could do by those above them. It also meant dealing with some despicable people like Edward Bryce. And there were others like him. Craig would have to remind himself constantly that he’d be serving the American people.

With determination, Craig turned and headed back toward the hotel.

As he entered the suite he saw Betty sitting on the patio sipping coffee and staring out to sea. He poured himself a cup from the silver thermos on the table and sat down next to her.

This was awkward. “I’m sorry about yesterday … I don’t know what happened. I …”

She stared at him sympathetically. “You don’t have to apologize. I had your nurse and doctor from the hospital come out here to examine you.”

“What’d the old geezer say?”

She cracked a smile. “That you had been a damn fool not to follow his advice and rest longer at the hospital. The nurse was sure the wine did you in. Then when you stood up abruptly, your blood pressure dropped precipitously.”

“And you didn’t tell them it was really the memories of my encounter with Edward Bryce.”

She laughed. “What I’m sitting here wondering,” she said, “is whether I’m being fair asking you to do to this. It involves going to Argentina to find out what happened to Ted and to complete the job I sent him to do. You’ve never even been to Argentina. And you have already done so much for our country.”

“Yeah, I know that. I took a walk along the beach this morning. I sorted some things out for myself.”

“And?” she asked expectantly.

“I’m prepared to do it.”

“Are you certain?”

“Absolutely. Now, tell me what I’ll need to know.”

“Breakfast is inside. We’ll eat while we talk.”

He followed her to the suite’s dining room. While Craig, starving, devoured pieces of an incredibly sweet green melon, she began talking.

“This all began about six months ago. I received a report from our station chief in Beijing that General Alfredo Estrada, head of the Argentine Armed Forces, had made a secret trip to Beijing, where he met with the top Chinese civilian and military leadership. Estrada didn’t meet with President Mei Ling, but we’re seeing increasing signs that she can’t control her top military people. Perhaps not even the top civilians.

“Anyhow, there weren’t any press announcements of Estrada’s visit. Nothing public. As you might imagine, it rang alarms for me. As it would have for you.”

Craig nodded.

Betty continued, “The Chinese already have a foothold in South America … in Venezuela. That continent is too close to the United States to risk it falling under Chinese influence. We’re not talking some remote place like Afghanistan. This is our own backyard. Besides, the place is rich in natural resources, which we need.”

Craig stopped chewing and interjected, “There’s plenty of oil under the Atlantic off the coast of Argentina and Brazil.”

“Exactly. And on top of all that, we can’t afford instability in Argentina because it will lead to instability elsewhere in Latin America. That in turn will inevitably produce new waves of immigrants heading north and creating a major problem for us. So in a morning briefing with President Treadwell, I told him what our station chief had reported from Beijing about Estrada’s visit, and that I planned to set up a special task force in the agency to find out what Estrada had in mind.”

Craig put his fork down. He was listening intently. “And?”

“Treadwell told me, ‘Lay off Argentina. Edward Bryce has the point for that.’ Those were his exact words. I was so stunned I nearly fell off my chair.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were.”

“I did some investigations of Bryce. As you know, he’s a powerful Washington lawyer and close friend and confidant of Treadwell. What I learned is that they’ve been close since they were roommates at Yale. Bryce started his own Washington law firm. It grew into a mega international organization with offices around the world. He began as a successful trial lawyer. Now he’s a power broker and an influence peddler. Apparently Treadwell has blinders on when it comes to Bryce.”

“I’ll testify to that.”

“I did a little more quiet checking and found, again to my surprise, that we were supplying arms to Argentina. Large quantities and sophisticated stuff, including advanced fighter jets, surface-to-air missiles, and tanks. I learned from a source in DOD that Treadwell told them to ship whatever Bryce put on a shopping list.”

“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.”