The Argentine Triangle: A Craig Page Thriller (3 page)

“That’s true. I stopped laughing when Zhou murdered Francesca. I loved your daughter as if she were my own. You know that.”

Craig nodded, saying “Yes, I understand and appreciate this. But the United States needs you. No one else has your wealth of information about the CIA. I don’t want you to leave. Whatever I think of Treadwell and Bryce, I still love this country.”

Craig decided not to say to Betty that the CIA had been her whole life. An orphan, she never married and never had children. She had nothing else. Although his wife and only child had died, he still had Elizabeth.

“What will you do?” she asked.

“Does that mean you’ll stay?”

“Until the assholes across the river become too much for me to bear. Now tell me what you’ll do.”

“I’ll have to sit down with Elizabeth and talk. Maybe we’ll travel for a while if she can get time off from the paper. Perhaps we’ll resume a vacation we were having in Corsica when we learned President Li had been assassinated. We’ll have to sort it out together.”

When Betty left, Craig remembered that he had turned off his cell phone when he entered the Oval Office and forgot to turn it back on. When he did, he saw that he had a voice mail from Elizabeth.

“I have news. We have to talk. I’m working on a story now. How about meeting me at Tosca for dinner at eight.”

He wondered what news she had. Was she pregnant?

That would be something. He’d want to get married. Stay in Washington. Maybe open a private security firm here.

Buoyed by the possibility of being a father again, Craig was looking forward to hearing what Elizabeth had to say.

When he arrived at Tosca, Massimo, in his white chef’s uniform, came out of the kitchen to greet him. He noticed that Elizabeth was already at the table, halfway back, next to the railing, far enough from other tables that they could easily talk. As he headed toward the table, he saw that she had a cosmo and was sipping it. He asked the waiter to bring him a glass of white wine, “And please open that Barolo from Bruno Giacosa that I had the last time.”

“Absolutely, Mr. Page.”

At the table, Craig leaned over and kissed her. Then he sat down across from her. While he was anxious to tell her what happened at the White House, he wanted to hear her news before he announced, “I’ve been fired!”

She definitely wasn’t pregnant, he decided. If she were, she’d be drinking champagne or more likely just sparkling water.

“What’s your news?” he asked.

“Henrie Morey called me from Paris.”

“The publisher of your paper?”

“Yeah. That one.”

She sounded nervous, he thought.

“And?”

“Rob decided to retire as foreign news editor and Henrie offered me the job.”

“Great. Congratulations.”

“There’s a kicker, though.”

“What’s that?”

The waiter arrived with Craig’s glass of wine. She waited until he left to respond to Craig’s question.

“I have to live in Paris.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“I’d take it.” Sounding sheepish, she continued, “It’s my dream job.”

Craig was pissed. He couldn’t believe that she didn’t ask Henrie for twenty-four hours to think about it, so they could discuss what it meant for their lives. Of course they weren’t married, but they had a life together, or so he had thought.

As if reading his mind, Elizabeth added, “We’ll commute back and forth between Paris and Washington. Lots of couples do that.”

It was clear to Craig that her job meant more to her than her relationship with him. He thought back to when they were living together in Paris and he had been offered the CIA director’s job. He had discussed it with her before he took the job.

“You’re upset,” she said.

“I’m having one shitty day.”

“What happened?”

The waiter returned with plates of ravioli stuffed with lobster. “Compliments of the chef.” Craig thanked him and then told her about his meeting in the Oval Office.

“Oh Craig, that’s outrageous. What a couple of crumbs. I was there when you laid out your Russian endgame. Neither Treadwell nor Bryce raised a single objection. Now you can move back to Paris with me.”

“And do what?”

“Take back your old job as EU head of counterterrorism.”

“I couldn’t do that to Giuseppe. He was my deputy and my friend. I put him into the job.”

Suddenly it struck Craig that he had another problem. “I have to worry about Zhou Yun.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know Zhou Yun and how close he was with his brother. If he’s blaming me for his brother’s murder, he’ll be coming after me with his thugs, and I won’t have the protection of any government.” He paused and thought about what that meant.

“I’ll have to go somewhere, and damn soon, to arrange plastic surgery to change my face. Probably in Switzerland.”

“When you’re finished there, you can come live with me in Paris.”

Craig shook his head. “Too dangerous. Some things can’t be changed even with plastic surgery. Like how a person walks. Zhou Yun will be able locate you easily through your newspaper. When I drop out of sight, the first thing he’ll do is have someone watch your apartment in Paris.”

“I better get a gun myself.”

“That’s smart. I’ll give you one of mine in the house.”

“So how will we see each other?” she asked. “Separately sneak off to some place like Corsica and meet there?”

Craig had learned long ago that if he wanted to stay alive, he had to think the way his pursuers did. “That’s exactly what Zhou Yun will be expecting.”

“So what do we do?”

“We separate for a year or two. When I think it’s clear, I’ll contact you.”

The waiter dropped menus on the table. Elizabeth looked miserable. “Don’t you think you’re being a little extreme?”

“Zhou Yun can’t be underestimated. We’re talking about a man who arranged the death of the Chinese president on an operating table during surgery. And he has unlimited money.”

“I guess you’re right,” she said glumly.

From her face, he saw that even though Elizabeth had wanted the job first, she had wanted him, too. Now she was only getting the job. She never imagined that she would have to give him up, but there was no other way. With his life on the line, Craig had no emotions. He was hard, cold, and pragmatic. In his business, there was no other way to stay alive.

After dinner, they went home. Their lovemaking had none of its usual passion. They went through the motions, but the reality was that a chapter of their lives was closing, and they were moving on to the next.

In the morning while it was still dark, after a quick coffee together, Elizabeth left in a cab for the airport. She was flying to New York to meet her book editor. From there, she’d fly to Paris.

When they kissed at the door, her closing words to Craig were, “Be careful.”

Craig took his cup out onto the verandah in the back, where he watched the sun rise.

He felt very much alone. His wife and only child were dead. Elizabeth was gone.

He felt as if he was starting a new life. What would he do with it after having the facial surgery?

“Something I always wanted to do,” he said aloud. “Something just for me.”

One Year Later

Bariloche, Argentina

“The goddamned market,” Ted Dunn cursed as he looked in the mirror of his room at Hosteria La Balsas. He touched the strawberry mark on the side of his face and pulled a black ski cap over what was left of his thinning brown hair. It was all because of the stock market that he was down here in this mess.

After twenty-five years with the CIA, Dunn had retired last year. Despite being apart for so much of the time, he and his wife Alice still had a great marriage. The plan was to buy a place in Sarasota, then sell the McLean house outside of Washington and move to Florida. At long last, he was looking forward to spending time with Alice, playing golf together and walking on the beach. He didn’t want to take a security job in private industry as so many of his colleagues had done. Even with the allowances for living abroad, his CIA salary had been meager by industry standards, but he figured he had enough from his pension and savings to live out the rest of his life without working.

Everything was on schedule. With a bridge loan, they bought a great three-bedroom along the beach on Longboat Key, with the extra room for Marion, her husband, and their grandchildren to use when they came. He was getting ready to sell the McLean house when—bam! The market took a nose dive. Dunn lost half his savings in three months. Unable to sell the house, he couldn’t cover the bridge loan. He was facing financial ruin.

That was when Betty Richards, like a shark moving in on a bleeding seaman, called him in for a meeting. In her director’s office on the seventh floor of the Langley headquarters, she told him, “One small contract job in Argentina. Off the books. $500K. You operate on your own. No contacts with agency or embassy personnel.”

“Why not use Bill, who replaced me in Santiago, or one of the other agency people in Buenos Aires?” he had asked.

“I can’t tell you. Are you in or out?”

Good old Betty. Always mysterious. Plays everything close to the chest. “You know I need the money, don’t you?”

“We’re in the intelligence business. Never forget that.”

“What’s the job?”

“Spend a week or two in Argentina. Pretend to be a tourist. Find out what General Estrada is up to.”

Dunn knew Betty wanted the information badly because he bargained her up to $750K plus expenses.

“Reports are for my eyes only,” she had told him.

That was ten days ago. Now he placed a .38 caliber pistol in a holster strapped around his shirt, zipped up his jacket, and stuffed a Beretta in the right side pocket. At ten thirty in the evening he left his second floor room and headed downstairs toward the entrance to the inn.

He hadn’t heard from Pascual all day, which was good. Dunn had told the young driver, “Don’t call or text me unless it’s an emergency.” Dunn was from the old school. He communicated only when essential. He didn’t trust technology. With electronic equipment you could never be certain if someone was eavesdropping.

Since Dunn’s arrival in Argentina, he had collected a significant amount of information about Estrada, and this had been relayed to Betty via a special diplomatic courier she had arranged. He expected Pascual to supply the most critical information about General Estrada tonight. Once Dunn received Pascual’s report, he planned to wrap it up and go home. Betty would have gotten her money’s worth. The weather was nice in Florida. It was time to get on the golf course with Alice.

Before leaving the inn through the back door, Dunn glanced around carefully. Everything looked normal. It was bitter cold in the October night air, the sky filled with clouds. Dunn guessed another spring snowstorm was coming over the Andes from Chile. Cautiously, he walked across the parking lot toward his rented gray Honda. He had left it at a remote spot and installed a motion sensor that would have alerted him in his room if anyone had approached the car. The sensor hadn’t beeped.

He climbed into the car, kicked it into gear, and set off down the dirt road, wanting to be in place a little before Pascual arrived, but not so long as to raise suspicions if someone passed along the rarely used road.

At the rendezvous point Dunn checked his watch. Ten minutes to eleven. Ten minutes to the meet. Precisely when he wanted to be here. He pulled over to the side of the road and turned off his lights. The clouds were blocking the moon. Small farms lined both sides of the road. Dunn wondered how the farmers eked out a living in the depressed economy where so many had so little money for food.

Dunn was staring straight ahead through the front windshield, the Beretta on the car seat close by if he had to go for it. His jacket unzipped. He could grab the .38 in an instant.

At ten fifty-nine, a car turned off the main road, Route 21, and headed toward him. Pascual was right on time. Dunn kept looking straight ahead to see if anyone was following Pascual. Nobody else was on the road. So far, so good.

Suddenly, the car coming toward him flashed its lights. “Dammit,” Dunn muttered. That was the warning signal he had told Pascual to use.

Gun in hand, he scrambled out of the Honda. He had developed an escape plan this afternoon. He would cut through the farm on the right side of the dirt road. That would take him to the main highway, a distance of about two miles. He had parked another rental car there that he could pick up and drive out of town before they had a chance to set roadblocks.

The approaching car now had its high beams on. Dunn moved fast to duck into the bushes before he was caught in the headlights. He just made it. Then, with his body low and close to the ground, he ran.

Up ahead was a large tree. Dunn stopped and hid behind it, looking back for an instant to see what was happening. Four armed soldiers sprang out of the Lincoln Town Car that he guessed was Pascual’s and approached his Honda. He heard one of them shout, “Remember, don’t kill him. The colonel wants the American alive.”

Another soldier opened the front door on the driver’s side. “He’s gone,” the soldier shouted.

They were standing around, puzzled as to what to do. One man took a cell phone from his pocket. Dunn didn’t stick around to hear what he said. He resumed running. The earth was wet and muddy. It was slow going.

One of the soldiers had a powerful wide-beamed flashlight. He sent its rays flying out in a 360-degree arc. Dunn kept his body low and stayed in tall weeds and heavy brush. He didn’t think they saw him. By the time he had covered about half a mile, he was panting. He was out of shape. Too much time on the golf course and not enough on the treadmill. He vowed to change that if he made it out of here alive.

Then he heard the dogs racing toward him from the farmhouse. He hated dogs. His shirt was soaked despite the cold.

Terrified and trembling, he put his head down and willed his body to keep going.