The Argentine Triangle: A Craig Page Thriller (8 page)

Others, more perceptive, saw what was happening. The editor of one BA daily,
La Opinion
, had described Estrada as “part visionary, part megalomaniac, and part thug.”

Somewhere, Estrada had a wife and two children who were never mentioned in the media. Nor seen with him. He loved high living. Gambling and good-looking women. He made periodic trips to casinos in Europe and Vegas. Craig wondered whether Gina had been or was still sleeping with him when she was in Argentina.

As he stepped off the plane, his cell rang. He picked it up.

“Did you have a good flight, Barry Gorman?” He recognized Betty’s voice.

“Very good. Thanks.”

“Waiting for you upstairs in front of the terminal, at the curb, last door on the right, is a black Lincoln Town Car, Virginia plates, CCK220. The driver will take you to the Four Seasons in Georgetown. A duffel with everything you wanted is in the trunk.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“The car will leave you at the Four Seasons. You’ll be on your own from there.”

After checking into the Four Seasons, Craig called Tim Fuller to arrange a meeting. He and Tim had met when they were both trainees at the Farm. They had seen each other from time to time over the years. Fuller began in the economic espionage section, working at Langley. Later, he was stationed in Shanghai. Appalled at the Chinese wholesale theft of American technology, he repeatedly railed for Washington to take countermeasures. When his pleas fell on deaf ears, Tim quit the agency and ten years ago started a private security firm based in Washington.

Craig hadn’t seen Tim in eight years, since the time he was in Washington for a conference about Middle Eastern terrorism.

One night over cheeseburgers and beers at Clyde’s in Georgetown, Tim had told him, “My country didn’t appreciate my talents so I decided to make a killing from people who do.”

Tim’s offices were on the top floor of one of the nondescript glass and steel eight-floor boxes that line K Street, known as Gucci gulch, because it houses the offices of many of Washington’s highest paid lobbyists.

Once Craig stepped inside the reception area he knew that Tim was doing well. This was a far cry from the office of J. J. Gittes. Heavily polished dark wood floors were lined with oriental carpets. An antique grandfather clock stood in the corner. Sitting at a Queen Ann desk was a young receptionist smartly dressed in a tailored navy woolen suit. Ansel Adams photographs dotted the walls.

“I’ll take you back to Mr. Fuller’s office,” the receptionist said.

Craig watched the receptionist swaying her shapely rear as if it were a pendulum as he followed her. Walking behind her, he swung his black leather briefcase, purchased on Via Monte Napoleone in Milan, keeping in rhythm with her.

As soon as he saw Craig, Tim, suntanned and dressed in a starched white shirt and Hermes tie, hung up on a call. The surprise was visible on his face. This wasn’t the Craig Page he knew.

“Hello Tim,” Craig said.

Tim told the receptionist to leave and close the door behind her.

“What the hell did you do to yourself, pal?”

“I went for a nip and tuck. My plastic surgeon got carried away.”

“Seriously.”

“Some people want to kill Craig Page, and I figured …”

“Smart move. But I see the scratches on your face. Did they get to you anyhow?”

“I was doing a little car racing.”

“A dangerous sport.”

“Now you tell me.”

Tim laughed. “When I heard you were CIA director a year ago, I was plenty pissed that you didn’t call me. Then I read you’d been sacked. So I relented. You weren’t in the job long enough to call anyone.”

“Ouch. That stung.”

“What the hell happened?”

“Some people at 1600 decided to throw me under a bus.”

Tim laughed again.

As they sat at a table in the corner, Craig glanced at Tim. His old friend’s appearance, Craig thought, was at variance with his clothes and the office. He had the aura of a street fighter and was short and pudgy. His nose had been broken playing football in a coal town in West Virginia where he had won a scholarship to Dartmouth. And his thick brown crew cut was so flat on top that he could walk with a cup of coffee in a saucer on his head without spilling it.

“You’ve got nice digs,” Craig said. “The security business must be good.”

“It is, pal. Every company in America is worried about their records being stolen by terrorists or a desperate competitor in this economy. Those who do business abroad are scared shitless that one of their execs will be kidnapped and held for ransom. It’s a tough world to do business in. One man’s nightmare is another man’s dream. Clients are flying in through the door.”

Tim pulled back and studied Craig, dressed suavely in a double-breasted charcoal Brioni suit with a muted stripe he had bought in Milan. “Look who’s talking. The new Craig Page, whoever that is …”

“Barry Gorman.”

“Okay. Barry Gorman is obviously doing well.”

Craig smiled, pleased that he had taken on the aura of a wealthy businessman.

“I need your help,” Craig said.

“Anything for you.”

“Betty Richards sucked me back in for a special assignment. I’m on my way to Argentina.”

Tim’s eyes sparkled with intensity. “Trying to penetrate Estrada’s organization.”

Craig pulled back in surprise. “How’d you get there so fast?”

“I do work for a multinational pharma company with a large plant outside of Buenos Aires. They’re afraid they might be nationalized if Estrada takes over the government.”

“Does that pose a conflict for you? Working with me.”

Tim shrugged. “I doubt it. Ms. Richards has to be against Estrada as well. Too much instability if he takes over the government. Besides, we build Chinese walls all the time. No other client will ever know what I learn for you.”

Craig was satisfied. “I want you for a limited assignment. For now. It may grow later.”

“Tell me about it, pal.”

Craig reached into his briefcase, pulled out the picture of Gina and Bryce at the restaurant that Betty had given him and put it on the table.

“Who’s the beauty with Edward Bryce?”

“Gina Galindo. A journalist with
La Nación
, a BA daily. I want you to find out where she lives. Then plant a bug on her phone and in the bedroom. Tape every word that both bugs yield. Do transcripts. I’ll let you know where and when to deliver them to me.”

“Is this all business, pal? Or are you trying to make the broad?”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Come on. Give me a break. When we were at the Farm, women threw themselves at you. Other trainees, waitresses, even an instructor—what the hell was her name?—it didn’t matter. Every night my biggest goal in life was to get laid. Yours was to get a good night’s sleep and rest your dick.”

Craig laughed. “So how are you doing now?”

“I got married last year. I’m still trying to figure out how to get laid every night. Although I have to admit that having money sure helps with women in this town.”

“Can we be serious?”

“I was. Painfully so.”

“Do you want the job I’m offering?”

Tim pulled back and fiddled with a diamond-studded cufflink. Deep furrows appeared on his forehead as he pondered the request. Craig knew what he was thinking. Tim was probably at the point now where he made a good living operating within the law. Why jeopardize it?

Craig reached into his briefcase and pulled out a brown envelope. “A hundred K in cash. All hundreds. Old bills. Serial numbers are all over the place. They can’t be traced.”

Craig pushed the envelope across the table. Tim didn’t reach for it, but tapped his fingers on the marble top. Craig’s guess was that Tim would never pay taxes on the money. He’d plunk it down on a second home or a boat he’d been eyeing. In Washington, everyone had his price.

“How long do you want me to do this?” Tim asked.

“Two weeks max. Probably less.”

“If I get caught, will Madame CIA Director step in and tell the FBI or local police to back off?”

“Don’t get caught.”

“I’m not planning to, but that’s not the question.”

Craig sighed deeply. This was a tough one. He didn’t dare tell Betty what he was doing. She’d have a cow in view of her deal with the FBI not to do domestic surveillance. “I’ll do my best to get her help after the fact. That’s the most I can promise.”

“That’s not very much. If Bryce finds out somebody’s been listening to him banging his girlfriend and the pillow talk afterwards, he’ll throw a shit fit. Probably mobilize the president to make sure DOJ tosses the book at me.”

Craig held out his hands, palms up. “Sorry. That’s the best I can do.”

“I’ll have to think about it, pal.”

Craig decided to ratchet up the pressure. “We don’t have time for that. You’re my first choice, but I have three other names on my list.”

It was a total bluff. Craig had no other choices if Tim turned him down.

Craig glanced at the sweep second hand on his Franck Mueller watch. When thirty seconds had passed and Tim was still squirming in his chair, trying to decide, Craig changed the deal in order to sway him.

“We’ll cut back your role. You get me the bugs, and I’ll plant them. You’ll still have to do the rest. And you arrange a car and driver for me for the next couple of days in Washington.”

That was enough to do the trick.

“I’m in,” Tim said. He walked over to his desk and picked up a business card he handed to Craig. Then he made arrangements for the car and driver. “Vince will be here in half an hour. Here are all my numbers. How do I get to you?”

Craig reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a Barry Gorman business card. He added another phone number with a 415 area code. “It’s my cell phone,” he said, handing it to Tim. “I’ll keep it on twenty-four hours a day.”

Tim studied the card. “Barry Gorman, The Philoctetes Group, San Fran. Sounds like a money man.”

“That’s what I am. I manage a ten billion dollar private equity fund. We’re investing in Argentina. We’re open to investors with $100K minimum.” Craig smiled and reached across for the envelope. “You want to make a killing? I can give you one share for what you’ve got there.”

Tim broke into a laugh. “Keep your fuckin’ hands off my money. I might need it for bail by the time I finish your job.”

Craig was alone in the back seat of the dark blue Cadillac sedan. Tim’s driver, Vince, was behind the wheel, heading north on Connecticut Avenue past small, trendy restaurants and cafés. The Argentine Embassy was on New Hampshire Avenue, one block east of DuPont circle. A light rain had begun to fall.

As they drove around the circle, Craig looked out of the car window and admired the memorial fountain in the center created by Daniel Chester French, the sculptor of the Lincoln Memorial, and commemorated to Admiral DuPont, a union Naval officer in the Civil War. Even on a grim day this is a beautiful city, he thought, laid out with a real plan and chock-full of statues, parks, and memorials.

Craig waited until Vince came around to open the back door with an umbrella in hand before climbing out. He had to behave like a powerful financial figure. He glanced up at the stately, tan, four-story brick building with the Argentine flag flying above the entrance, with its blue and white stripes and a gold sun in the center.

As he approached the black wrought-iron gate in front, a member of the US diplomatic protection force stopped him to see ID. “I have an appointment with Jorge Suarez, the economic attaché,” Craig said. That and a California driver’s license were enough to get Craig up the stairs and through the heavy wood and glass door where he repeated his words to the receptionist sitting behind a bulletproof glass window just inside the front door. Two armed soldiers standing in the reception area eyed him suspiciously.

“Your name?” the receptionist said into a microphone.

“Barry Gorman.”

He slid a passport and one of his business cards through the opening beneath the heavy plate glass.

After perusing the items, she picked up the phone. Craig couldn’t hear what she was saying. When she hung up, she activated the microphone. “Mr. Suarez is expecting you.”