The Argentine Triangle: A Craig Page Thriller (9 page)

A smartly dressed young woman with a noticeably lovely figure identified herself as Suarez’s assistant and escorted him via an elevator to the top floor where the economic attaché, a tall, thin, gaunt, gray-haired man, was waiting in his office. Craig had pulled up his bio on the Internet. Suarez wasn’t a career diplomat. This was his first post abroad. He was here because of his contacts. Suarez’s father was a large landowner, winemaker, and cattle baron. Jorge himself was a prominent figure in banking. Craig’s guess was that he was well connected with the top business interests in the country and that he was closely tied in to Estrada. That’s what he was hoping. Craig wanted Suarez to file a report on their visit—one that would find its way back to BA and perhaps even to General Estrada.

Preferring the element of surprise, Craig had provided very little information about what he wanted when he had called Suarez’s assistant to arrange the meeting. All he had said was, “My private equity fund is considering a substantial investment in Argentina.” That was enough for her to return to the phone and to offer Craig any time today he wanted.

Admitted to the inner sanctum, Craig sat down across a round wooden table from Suarez and waited for the secretary to deposit two cups of espresso, then depart.

He slipped another business card out of his pocket, handed it to Suarez, and watched his host do the same.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of the Philoctetes Group,” Craig said.

Craig knew he couldn’t possibly because the Group didn’t exist. Suarez nodded eagerly. The economic attaché wouldn’t want to display his ignorance.

Craig glanced at his watch anxiously. His message was subtle but clear: I’m an important man. My time is limited.

“Let me get right to the point, Mr. Suarez …”

“Please, you can call me Jorge.”

“Jorge … I currently have a fund of ten billion dollars raised from wealthy individuals and companies around the world. These are people seeking a good return on their money. I’m focusing on Latin America because I see that as a relatively untapped market.”

Suarez sat up ramrod straight in his chair. Craig had his attention.

Speaking rapidly, Craig continued, “One of my research people thinks Argentina merits a careful look. Frankly, I laughed at her when she said it, but she’s never been wrong yet. So I decided to schedule a trip to Buenos Aires and have a look for myself. Before going down, I figured I’d stop in Washington and talk to you. Maybe you can give me a name or two I can start with in BA.”

Suarez was bubbling over with enthusiasm. “That’s an excellent idea. Emilio Miranda is the man you should talk to. He’s the head of the National Business Alliance. My assistant will give you his phone number before you leave. I’ll e-mail him and let him know you’re coming.”

“Don’t raise his expectations too high. From everything I’ve read in the last couple of days, your economic recovery is stalled. Chile may be a much better place for me to invest.”

Suarez frowned. “The economic numbers coming out of Santiago are phony. Made up out of whole cloth. I’m sure an intelligent man like you will realize that when you have an opportunity to study them carefully.”

“In Argentina, your political system is killing the economy. Let’s face it. Menem was corrupt and a playboy. But at least when he was president in the nineties, the country was booming. His privatization program stimulated the economy. Garcia is one more in a series of disasters you’ve had in that office.”

“We have an election in January. That could …”

Craig scowled. “Another political hack with promises of pie in the sky won’t make a difference. Unless the Argentine government is run in a radically different manner, you’ll never achieve your economic potential. It’s as simple as that. You need someone like General Estrada to take charge. Somebody who can get things done. Bring stability. Stop catering to the unions. Make the trains run on time … so to speak.”

Suarez leaned back and studied Craig’s face. Be careful, Craig cautioned himself. Don’t overplay your hand.

“We have a democratic government with civilian rule,” Suarez said defensively. “The military coup is a thing of the past.”

Yeah right, Craig thought. You’ve had one every thirty or so years since becoming independent. Craig had no intention of being more candid than Suarez was being.

“I wasn’t suggesting otherwise. Perhaps Estrada can become a candidate. We’ve elected generals in the United States as president. From Washington to Eisenhower.”

“Perhaps …” Suarez said weakly. His lack of conviction confirmed what Craig had deduced: bitter recollections of the Dirty War in the last rule of the generals from 1976 to 1983 were still too vivid. Argentines would be reluctant to vote for a military man.

Having planted his seed about Estrada and his interest in the general, Craig decided to move on. “One other thing I want to do in Washington before I leave for Buenos Aires is to meet with an Argentine journalist.”

Suarez looked puzzled. “For what reason?”

“It’ll give me another perspective. Also …” Craig paused. “No offense intended, but journalists have independence from the government that you don’t. Do you know which BA newspapers have someone stationed in Washington?”

“There are two of them. Gina Galindo from
La Nación
and Juan Leonardo from
La Opinion
.”

“You have contact info for them?”

“They both have offices in the National Press Building. My secretary will give you their contact information on your way out.”

Craig rose. “I have another appointment across town.”

“When will you be flying to Buenos Aires? I can have someone meet you.”

“That won’t be necessary. I have a private plane on standby. My pilot will arrange ground transportation from the air.”

Northern Argentina

G
eneral Estrada was with Colonel Schiller at a base in the northern part of the country inspecting troop readiness when his cell phone rang.

He saw it was Jorge Suarez in Washington. With the phone at his ear, Estrada moved away from the officers to an open area in the field. “Yes, Jorge,” he said.

“Something occurred today that I thought you would want to know about.”

“What’s that?”

“I hate to bother you, but you said to err on the side of calling if anything …”

“For God’s sake, Jorge, tell me already,” Estrada said irritably. “I’m a busy man.”

“I know. That’s why I hesitated.”

“Dammit, tell me now.”

“I’ve just had a visit from an American, Barry Gorman, who runs a private equity fund. The Philoctetes Group. A big outfit based in San Francisco. He has ten billion dollars to invest and he wants to look at Argentina.”

“You think he’s legit?”

“Absolutely. Before I called you, I checked out his organization. It is authentic.”

Estrada felt a surge of excitement. He thought about his recent meeting with Dr. Barker from England and the diamond discovery the British expert had made, not far from where Estrada was standing now. From Barker’s report, Estrada realized that he needed money, lots of money, to get his hands on those diamonds. Barry Gorman could be the answer to Estrada’s prayers.

“I hope you told him to come down here and see things for himself.”

“Absolutely. I gave him Emilio Miranda’s contact info, and I’ll e-mail Emilio as soon as I get off the call with you.”

“When will Gorman be in Argentina?”

“I don’t know exactly, but soon.”

“Good. Stay in contact with him. Anything else?”

Jorge coughed and cleared his throat. Estrada sensed there was something else. That Jorge was hesitating. “Tell me,” Estrada demanded.

“Gorman said he was concerned about the political situation in the country. He wants to talk with a journalist in Washington to gain an independent perspective before he flies down.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I gave him names and contact info for Gina Galindo and Juan Leonardo. I hope that was okay.”

Estrada scowled. Jorge should only have given him Gina’s name. Juan Leonardo wasn’t one of Estrada’s supporters. Jorge should have realized that. “Did he say who he’ll call?”

“Barry Gorman’s a healthy looking man in his forties.” Jorge gave a short laugh. “I know who I’d call.”

Estrada hung up with Suarez and called Gina. “You may be getting a call from an American financier by the name of Barry Gorman. He has a significant amount of money to invest in Argentina. I need you to be nice to him and give him positive information about Argentina.”

“Of course. Don’t worry.”

He was confident in Gina. She loved her country, and she always did what he told her. “Oh, and if you talk to him, call and tell me what he said.”

“I’ll do that.”

Estrada pulled Colonel Schiller away from a group of officers. “We may have caught a break,” Estrada said in an excited voice. “The solution to our money problem.”

Estrada relayed to Schiller what Suarez had told him. To Estrada’s surprise, Schiller didn’t share his enthusiasm. In fact, quite the opposite. As Estrada spoke, he noticed a cloud of suspicion and doubt descending over Schiller’s face.

“What’s bothering you?” Estrada said.

“We don’t know anything about Barry Gorman or the Philoctetes Group.”

“Jorge said they’re legit.”

“Jorge is naive and can be a fool.”

Estrada was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“First, the American in Bariloche. Now this.”

“Why do you believe they’re related?”

“If red comes up twenty straight times on a roulette wheel, would you say coincidence or a crooked wheel?”

“For twenty you would be right. Certainly not two.”

Schiller was frowning. “We can’t let the money blind us.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not.”

“When this Barry Gorman comes to Argentina, I’ll be waiting for him. I’ll find out whether he’s what he says he is.”

Estrada was tired of Schiller’s constant negative thinking. The colonel had even argued against Dr. Barker’s diamond discovery. Estrada had enough of it. He raised his right arm. “Don’t do anything to jeopardize my shot at that ten billion dollars …”

Washington

C
raig waited until four in the afternoon to call Gina. When she said, “Hello, Mr. Gorman,” she sounded as if she knew who he was and had been expecting the call. Suarez must have tipped her off, he decided. Or maybe Suarez called Estrada, who gave Gina the heads-up.

“Jorge Suarez gave me your name,” Craig said. “I assume he called to tell you that.”

There was an awkward pause. Gina coughed.

“I’d like to meet with you this evening. Any chance we can talk over dinner?”

“I have other plans for this evening. Perhaps tomorrow morning.”

“That’s too bad. My schedule’s tight. This evening’s the only opening I have.”

Another awkward pause. “Then I’ll be happy to rearrange my appointments.”

He hoped she would be breaking a date with Bryce. “Good. I’ll reserve a table for two at Marcel’s on Pennsylvania at eight. I’ll send a car and driver around to get you. Tell me when and where.”

“My apartment at the Watergate East, 2500 Virginia Avenue, at seven forty-five.”

“He’ll be there. I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”

Craig smiled. Amazing what you can do with a ten billion dollar checkbook.

Craig was seated at a corner table in Marcel’s facing the front with a side view of Chef Robert Wiedmaier in the open kitchen. He spotted Gina, following the tuxedo-clad maître d’. She was wearing a simple high-necked black sheath. Over her shoulders, she had a print Hermes scarf. A small gold cross dangled from a chain and stopped inches below her full bosom, which the sheath failed to hide. Its simplicity was a stark contrast to the heavy ruby and diamond bracelet on her wrist and her square cut emerald ring. In high stiletto heels, she was about five foot ten.

Her hair was black, worn the same as he had seen in the picture, parted in the middle. None of that surprised Craig. What did astonish him when she approached the table was her face and expression.

He saw a sweet young woman with an aura of class. She carried herself with dignity. What struck him most was the innocence and naïveté he saw in those sparkling dark brown eyes and the fresh-faced schoolgirl expression that marked her features with sincerity.

Craig cautioned himself to proceed carefully. Appearances could be deceptive.

When she introduced herself, she shook hands with him firmly, as if someone had told her that’s what a reporter did when she was out on a business dinner, rather than having the man kiss the woman’s cheeks.

After she was seated across from him, Craig pointed to a bottle of Krug he had ordered resting in an ice bucket. “Champagne to start?” he asked.

She nodded “Yes. Thank you.”

He signaled to a waiter who came over and poured for both of them. Then he raised his glass and said, “To making new friends.” She took a tiny sip and smiled warmly. “This is very good.”

“What did Jorge tell you?”

“That you have a lot of money to invest. Perhaps in Argentina. That you want to learn something about what’s happening in our country now.”

“That pretty well sums it up. To be more precise, I have control of ten billion dollars.”

She looked shocked. “That much?”

He nodded. “Before I go to Argentina, I want to pick your brain a little.”

“Why mine?” There was a suspicious edge in her voice.

She may be smart, he thought. Don’t underestimate her. “Well, I figure that journalists know everything. Jorge gave me the names of two Argentine reporters. Yours and …”

“Juan Leonardo.”

“Yeah. And that was no choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d rather have dinner with a woman any day of the week. I never dreamt she’d be so beautiful.”

Gina blushed. She pointed to his face. “Were you in an accident?”

“The motorcycle didn’t turn the way I wanted it to.”

“I never rode on one of those.”

“Would you like to?”

“Sure. I like to try new things.”

They both sipped the champagne.

A waiter approached with two menus. “Let’s order first,” Craig said. “Then we can talk.”

She closed her menu and looked across the table at him. “You’ve obviously traveled and eaten at great restaurants, but I haven’t. You order for me.”

Was she for real, or was this all an act, he wondered. Gee, I’m just a simple girl from a third world country. Regardless, he’d play along. “Do you like fish or meat?”

“Meat please. I’m from Argentina,” she smiled.

He ordered them both seared foie gras followed by roast venison and a bottle of 2005 Echezeaux from Mongeard Mugneret.

“Before we talk about Argentina,” he said, “tell me a little about yourself. How’d you end up being a journalist in Washington?”

Her eyes looked sad. “There’s not much to tell. My parents both died when I was young. My grandparents, who have a cattle ranch, sent me to a Catholic girls’ boarding school in the countryside outside of Mendoza. After I graduated from university in Buenos Aires, I wanted to come to the United States and get a job, but my grandparents insisted that I go back to the girls’ school in Mendoza to teach history. It’s a wonderful, beautiful place. Peaceful and tranquil.” She took a deep breath. “My father had been a famous general in the army.”

Her whole face lit up with pride when she mentioned her father. “He was a great man. A hero of the Republic. A young officer who had served under my father and had revered him took an interest in me like a surrogate father. One day he told me that he had arranged a job at
La Nación
in Buenos Aires. He convinced my grandparents to let me take it.”

Craig was dying to ask if the officer was Estrada, but he decided to take it slowly, not wanting to arouse her suspicions.

“So I worked for the newspaper in Buenos Aires for about three months. In June they transferred me up here.”

And was that Estrada’s doing as well? he wondered. “Do you like Washington?”

She fiddled with her hands. Her nails had been freshly manicured. “It’s a totally different world from the school in Mendoza. And not at all like Buenos Aires. I do a lot of exciting things here. Things I never imagined.”

He was tempted to ask, “With Edward Bryce?” but he bit his lip and kept his silence.

“I view it as an adventure,” she added. “As long as it lasts, I’ll enjoy it.”

She smoothed down the tablecloth with her hand. The sommelier arrived with the wine. Their first courses followed a moment later.

After Craig tasted the Burgundy, he told her to try it.

“This is really lovely,” she said with exuberance. “Is it French also?”

He nodded, waiting for her to taste the foie gras.

“Fabulous,” she said.

Now, beginning to believe that her enthusiasm might be genuine, he smiled.

“I’ve never been to Argentina. Tell me about it.”

His request launched her into a description of how beautiful and exciting Buenos Aires was. She spoke for several minutes with passion about her wonderful country and its capital city. As she spoke, she took generous sips of the wine. He could tell she was enjoying herself.

“Buenos Aires sounds like Milan,” he said. “The wide boulevards and all that.”

“You’re right. That’s what all the books say. I’ve never been to Europe, but I’ve always wanted to go. And the Andes mountains in the west are magnificent. We have beaches in the east and the greatest waterfall in the world at Iguazu in the north on the Brazilian border.”

“Better than Niagara and Victoria Falls?”

Earnestly, she nodded. “I’ve never seen those, but from what I’ve read, it’s not even close. When you go to Argentina, you have to travel to Iguazu and decide for yourself.”

He laughed. She was a refreshing change from the hardboiled cynics he was used to dealing with.

“When exactly are you going to Argentina?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Next couple of days.”

“I find that American Airlines via Miami is the best way to go.”

Craig smiled. “I have a private plane on standby.”

His words made her start. Perhaps she couldn’t imagine having enough money to do that.

By now their venison had arrived. As the waiter placed it on the table, a cell phone rang in her purse. “Darn. I always forget to turn that thing off.”

Other patrons were staring at her. “Oh I’m so sorry,” she said, fumbling to pull it out and stop the noise. “I’ll tell them I’ll call back. I won’t talk.”

He watched her as she held the phone up to her ear. She listened for a minute, then whispered, “No, Edward, I can’t see you tonight. I’m sorry … I told you I’m working on a story.”

She hung up and turned off the phone. “It’s gone for the rest of the night.”

That had to be Bryce, Craig decided. “Hope I didn’t keep you from your boyfriend.”

Her face reddened. “No, no. Just an acquaintance. I’m not married, and I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Alright, Craig thought. That’s a clear signal she likes me. A green light if there ever was one.

But a green light for what?

Craig had made up his mind that he couldn’t possibly sleep with Gina. It wasn’t merely her age and immaturity, but the fact that he was deceiving her. He had to achieve his objective of planting those bugs in her apartment without ending up in bed with her.

“What about you?” she asked.

“Me for what?”

“Are you married?

He recalled the fictitious Barry Gorman bio. Barry had been married once and divorced. Had to stick with the cover.

“I was married for a couple of years,” he said. “It didn’t work out.”

“Any children?”

“Happily not.”

She smiled at him. That genuine smile. “Jorge said you live in California.”

“The San Francisco area.”

“I’ve never been to California. I’d like to go.”

Craig brought the subject back to Argentina. For the rest of dinner, he let her rattle on about how great the country was and how it made sense for him to invest. All of this chatter made him wonder whether she was following a script given to her by Suarez or Estrada.

With dessert, Craig ordered a half bottle of Sauterne. She put up a mild protest. “Oh my. I’m not sure I can drink more wine. I’m not used to drinking so much.”

“Wait until you taste this Chateau d’Yquem,” he told her. “It’s called the nectar of the Gods. There’s nothing like it in the world.”

By the time she had sipped a little, she was agreeing with him completely.

While Craig signed the check, she finished the golden liquid in her glass.

“My driver’s waiting outside,” he said. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

“That would be great.”

As they left the dining room, she was wobbling and reached out for his arm for support. “Oh my, I’ve had a lot to drink,” she said.

“You’ll be fine when you hit the air.”

Ten minutes later, the blue Cadillac ground to a stop in front of the Watergate building. She said, “This has been the best business dinner I’ve ever had. The best evening.”

He rested his hand on her shoulder. “It doesn’t have to be over quite yet. I’d love to see the view from your apartment. I’ll bet you face the river.”

“I do,” she said. “I’m on the top floor. And I have a balcony. You want to come up?”

He smiled. “If you’re not too tired.”

In the glow of the streetlights, she nodded her head. “I’m from Argentina. We’re night people.”

Her apartment was a huge two-bedroom. Craig knew that she didn’t get this on a journalist’s salary, and newspapers didn’t fund expenses lavishly. That meant somebody was bankrolling her. He doubted it was grandma and grandpa. A more likely guess was Bryce or Estrada. Was she really the sweet innocent she seemed to be? Or was this all a great snow job on her part?

“The apartment is a sublease,” Gina said, as she took off her bracelet, “so don’t think this type of furniture is my taste.”

Looking around, he saw why she made the comment. The furnishings were starkly modern. All done in whites. White carpet. White sofa and chairs. Glass topped coffee table.

“I like Italian provincial furniture,” she said.

As she opened the sliding glass doors that led to the balcony, she said, “Fabulous view from up here.” Craig followed her outside. The clouds from earlier in the day had passed. It was crystal clear with a sky full of stars shining over the Potomac River. He pointed his hand to the right. “Georgetown.”