The Argentine Triangle: A Craig Page Thriller (7 page)

“Call me anytime, twenty-four hours a day. But I’m sure you would have done that if I hadn’t said it.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re doing this yourself.”

“It’s too sensitive with the president and Bryce involved, and …” she hesitated, then completed her thought, “some of the top people in the agency didn’t like the idea of a woman being placed in the director’s chair.”

“Big surprise.”

“So I’m not exactly sure who I can trust.”

“Any locals who would be useful?”

Betty sighed. “As always, you’re impatient. I was getting to that.”

“Sorry.”

“A woman by the name of Nicole who operates a shoe boutique in La Recoleta, a fashionable area in Buenos Aires, or BA, as it is often called by residents, at Number 14 Avenue Quintana.”

Craig committed the information to memory.

Betty continued. “Nicole is well connected socially on both sides of the political spectrum. She has excellent relationships with right-wing business and military types, while her sympathies are with the prodemocracy groups. Dunn paid her plenty, which she claimed to be funneling to anti-Estrada forces. In return, she gave him lots of help.”

Maybe Nicole got a better offer from Estrada’s people and sold Dunn out, Craig thought. He decided not to share that with Betty.

“As long as we’re talking about money,” she added, “we have to address the matter of your compensation for this job. I was thinking …”

“I’m doing this for free. You’re giving me a chance to destroy Bryce. I would be willing to pay you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but I’ll want you to cover my expenses.”

“I know you like to live well. How much?”

“With the cover I’ll be using and the need to pay for information, I better take a million dollars to Argentina with me. All hundreds. Old bills. Not consecutively numbered. Pack them in a duffel, as small as possible. I’ll need a Barry Gorman passport, California driver’s license, a couple of credit cards with no limits, and business cards.”

Craig saw her blench at the amount and squeeze her lips together. “C’mon Betty. Even in the three weeks I was in the job, I learned about the huge discretionary fund the director has. It can be spent without accountability and I loved tapping into it. For trips to Pakistan and Prague. Stuff like that.”

“Okay. Okay. Stop in Washington before you go to BA. I’ll have it all for you, as well as a couple of handguns. I’ll arrange with American Airlines to let your stuff go through without a fuss.”

He sat up in his chair. “Sorry, the head of a ten billion dollar fund doesn’t fly commercial. Once I hit Washington, I’ll hire a private jet with one of your credit cards to take me to Argentina.”

He watched her squirming. “And when will that be?”

“In two days. I have to stop in Milan and buy a whole new wardrobe. My current stuff’s a little casual. After that, I’ll spend a day or two in Washington before going down to BA.”

She looked anxious. “We have to move up on this. Dunn’s life may be hanging in the balance.”

“Let’s be realistic. Enough time has gone by that if Estrada wanted to kill Ted, he’d be dead. If Ted’s still alive, chances are Estrada wants to use him as a bargaining chip. If this is the case, a few more days won’t matter.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t be wasting time in Washington. I’ll move as quickly as I can. But if I don’t do it the right way, you’ll have two dead agents.”

Washington

“Do you have time for another set?” President Treadwell called to Bryce across the tennis net.

They had just finished their first set in the basement of the White House. Bryce won 6-1 while barely breaking a sweat. Treadwell, on the other hand, was perspiring profusely.

Bryce was surprised he had won so easily. Generally, their matches were very close. They’d been playing singles for forty-two years, ever since they had been thrown together as roommates by the Yale freshman dorm lottery. That chance event and the relationship it fostered proved more important to both men then any course they took in their four years at Yale.

In the early days Treadwell, who had been on the junior team at a posh country club in Westchester County, New York, almost always defeated the scrappy Bryce, who learned the sport on the public courts on the west side of Chicago without lessons.

But after he became a successful Washington lawyer and joined the prestigious Kenwood Country Club, Bryce took lessons with Chris, the top pro, who perfected his game. Gradually he had drawn closer to Treadwell, winning some in close sets, but nothing like today. Must be the enormous tension and stress the president was facing.

“I’ve got time,” Bryce shouted back.

“Good. Let’s get some water and switch sides.”

They went to the side of the court where Treadwell gulped water. Bryce thought the president’s face was flushed.

“You okay?” Bryce asked.

“Sure. Just a little humiliated from losing so badly. But I’ll turn the tables on you.”

Bryce glanced up into the gallery above the court. Dr. Andrews, the president’s physician, a urologist from Westchester and Treadwell’s longtime golfing buddy called “Andy” by the president, was preoccupied with his Blackberry and apparently unconcerned. Next to Andrews sat the ubiquitous military aide with his briefcase. A secret service man was on each end of the court.

In the second set Bryce decided to take a little off his game, but he’d have to be careful. If the competitive Treadwell sensed it, he’d rip into Bryce.

During the first game, with Treadwell serving, Bryce returned one ball a little long and another just a tad wide. Bryce won the next two points. Then Treadwell prevailed in the next two after long rallies. Game for Treadwell.

Bryce was picking up balls, getting ready to serve when he noticed a commotion in the gallery. Dr. Andrews was leaving and being replaced by Dr. Deborah Lee, his thirty-one-year-old assistant who had done a fellowship in cardiology at Johns Hopkins.

On the first two points, Bryce eased up on his serve. Treadwell returned them deep, setting up baseline rallies, which they split. At 15-15, Bryce decided he’d better hit his normal serve to avoid suspicion. He blasted it, nicking the service line. Treadwell could only manage a weak return to Bryce’s forehand. Bryce moved up on the ball and smashed a hard shot down the line. Treadwell was racing toward the ball. Bryce moved to the net, ready to catch the return in the air and put it away—if Treadwell managed one.

Before Treadwell reached the ball, he suddenly stopped, the racket slipping out of his hand. He collapsed to his knees and sat down on the court.

Bryce raced around the net to see what was wrong.

The president looked pale. He was gasping for breath.

“I better get the doctor,” Bryce shouted.

“No. No,” Treadwell protested. “Just get me something to drink. Some Gatorade.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Do it now.”

Bryce ran toward the cooler on the side of the court. Through the corner of his eye, Bryce saw Dr. Lee charging across the court, black doctor’s bag in hand. Thank God for that.

Bryce returned with Gatorade as Dr. Lee was pulling a stethoscope out of her bag. Treadwell waved the doctor away. “No need for all that gear,” he said. “I’m fine. Just gimme the Gatorade.”

Bryce handed him the bottle and Treadwell chugged it down.

“With all due respect, Mr. President,” Dr. Lee said, “I think that …”

Treadwell cut her off. “I’m alright. Andy tells me I get electrolyte depletion. I have to remember to drink more of this stuff.”

Bryce saw Dr. Lee looking at him for assistance, but he turned away. When Treadwell sounded this firm, Bryce had learned long ago that challenging him could be risky. Even for a close friend.

“Let’s call it a day,” Treadwell said. “I want to shower. I have the treasury secretary coming over in an hour for a meeting about the budget.”

With that, Treadwell turned and trudged toward the locker room. Bryce was at his side.

Dr. Lee followed two steps behind.

By the time he was dressed, the president’s color had returned and he was walking normally.

Treadwell and Bryce split at the door to the Oval Office, with Bryce planning to head back to his office at the law firm, four blocks away.

The instant the president disappeared behind the door Bryce heard Dr. Lee’s voice. “May I talk to you for a minute, Mr. Bryce?”

Bryce led her into a small, deserted conference room. “I know what you’re going to say. The president needs to get his heart examined.”

Dr. Lee nodded.

“How long until his next regular physical?” Bryce asked.

“Six months.”

“Shit. He can’t wait that long.”

“You have to convince him to go out to Bethesda Naval for a cardio workup. I’ll make the arrangements.”

“I know him. It won’t be easy. He’s stubborn.”

Dr. Lee shook her head. “We see that all the time. Many people are reluctant to do it. They’re afraid of what they’ll learn. They figure what they don’t know won’t hurt them. This is precisely the opposite of the truth. If there is something wrong with his heart, it can likely be fixed. If not, he will continue to deteriorate.”

Bryce liked this young woman. “We have another problem here. The president’s up for reelection next November. The country has major economic problems. The last thing he wants in the next thirteen months is a medical issue.”

“He can’t possibly wait a year to be tested. You know that. He could be dead before then if he doesn’t get evaluated and treated.”

Bryce nodded grimly. “Yeah, you’re right. Let me work on it. It may take a while.”

“You can’t take too long or he’ll have a heart attack.”

“I understand. I’ll come up with a way to get it done. I’ll tell him that you’ll keep the results quiet. I assume that’s acceptable to you.”

“I never disclose any patient’s medical information.”

“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.