The Argentine Triangle: A Craig Page Thriller

by Allan Topol

  Craig shifted his feet, coughed, and feigned embarrassment. “It’s a little complicated. I’ve been up here seeing a woman. There could be a messy divorce. I was hoping that if I chartered a plane you might be willing to omit it from the daily log of flights in and out of here. I can’t afford to leave evidence behind.”

  Ferraro winked and smiled. He undoubtedly fooled around himself. “The conspiracy of men. I know what that’s like. But the Airport Authority has rules.” For emphasis he repeated the last word. “Rules.”

  “I was hoping you could bend them a little.”

  As Ferraro studied him, Craig knew that Ferraro realized where this was going. Craig would have to make the first move.

  “Suppose I were to make a contribution to the Airport Authority?”

  Ferraro was watching his visitor carefully. If Craig was right that the man had been on the take, then he had to be worried about a possible sting. Since he wanted the money, he’d be willing to rationalize that they’d never use a foreigner, certainly not an American, for a task like this.

  “How much of a contribution are we talking about?” Ferraro asked.

  The fish had bit down hard on the bloodworm. “Five thousand US.”

  Ferraro’s face lit up. “In cash.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You have it here?”

  Craig patted his briefcase.

  “I think I can arrange what you want,” Ferraro said.

  Craig reached into his briefcase and pulled out a bundle of hundreds. Five thousand dollars in a rubber band.

  Ferraro snatched the money and quickly put it in his desk drawer.

  “There is one other thing,” Craig said.

  He was met with a cold, blank stare. “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “When I flew in here, I was promised there wouldn’t be a record of that flight. I’d like to get a look at the log and make sure that was done.”

  Ferraro eyed him suspiciously. Craig’s guess was that Ferraro had figured that the story about the divorce had been fiction. That what Craig really wanted was a look at the log. “I know that you have rules, but I was hoping that …”

  Ferraro cut him off. “What date are you interested in?”

  Craig swallowed hard. Ferraro might be a cheat, but he was no dummy. Once he mentioned the date, Ferraro would realize this was aimed at Estrada. Too much had happened on that day. He had to assume that Ferraro would make the connection. Craig was now exposed. He had to gamble that Ferraro wanted the money enough that he was willing to cross Estrada and his henchmen.

  “October the twelfth,” Craig said. “This year.”

  Ferraro’s upper lip twitched. He fidgeted in his seat, confirming that he knew. Craig didn’t want him to agonize over the decision for fear the answer would be no. He extracted another five thousand from his briefcase and placed it on the desk. Ferraro stared at it without saying a word. Craig realized he had Ferraro in a bind. It was no longer merely the man’s desire for the money. If he blew the whistle on Craig now, how would he explain the five thousand he had already taken?

  Finally, Ferraro reached across the desk, snatched the money, and placed it in his desk drawer and locked it. He got up, walked over to a bookshelf and removed one of several heavy, dark green leather volumes. With reluctance, he put it down on the desk. “The log is arranged chronologically,” he said. “The date you want is in here … Now you’ll have to excuse me. I have to go to the bathroom.”

  Before Craig could respond, Ferraro turned and walked smartly from the room. Was he going to get one of the soldiers, Craig wondered, or trying to create an excuse for himself so he could later say, “The American must have gotten the log down and looked at it when I left the office for a minute to pee.”

  Craig didn’t waste any time considering that question. The minute Ferraro closed the frosted glass door, he opened the log and turned pages until he reached October twelfth. Antonia had told him that her brother was supposed to meet a private jet arriving at 1:00 p.m. He ran his eyes down the rows of handwritten entries for arrivals on that day until he found the one he was looking for. The entry read:

  Craig turned more pages until he located departures for that date. A private jet left Bariloche at five-fifty that evening. The destination was Porto Alegre. The passengers weren’t specified.

  Craig closed the log and swiftly returned it to its place on the bookshelf. Once he did, he mulled over the words “Porto Alegre.” He had no idea where in Brazil that was. Craig spotted a map of South America taped to the wall. He crossed the room and began searching. Finally he found Porto Alegre in heavy black letters. It was the capital of the state of Rio Grande do Sul in southeast Brazil, the state in Brazil that has a western border with northeast Argentina.

  For a full minute, he stood facing the wall, trying to decide what was so important about Estrada’s meeting with people who came from Porto Alegre that Estrada killed Dunn and Pascual to preserve its secrecy. Forget it for now, he told himself. You have more urgent things to worry about. Like getting out of this place alive.

  Behind him was the frosted glass door. In a few seconds Ferraro would return, perhaps accompanied by soldiers. Craig grabbed his briefcase with the Beretta. Moving quickly, he positioned himself behind Ferraro’s high-backed leather chair. He now had some cover as well as the element of surprise if he had to shoot his way out. He had blasted his way out of a similar situation in Iran.

  But how the hell would he get out of Bariloche? Coercing the pilot of a private plane to fly him over the Andes into Chile was the best scenario he could develop. And then what? He’d worry about that later. One step at a time.

  Gripping the gun hard, Craig held his breath when the frosted glass door opened. It was Ferraro. If he brought the troops, I’ll kill that bastard, Craig vowed.

  Sheepishly, Ferraro slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. There were no soldiers. The man was alone.

  Craig let his breath out as he slipped the Beretta back into his briefcase and stepped away from the chair.

  “I arranged a plane for you,” Ferraro said curtly. “Gate 2. You can pay the pilot once you’re on board. Go now and hurry.”

  Craig opened his mouth. Ferraro cut him off. “Don’t thank me. Just go before you get both of us killed.”

  Buenos Aires

  It was almost midnight when Craig stuffed the blue ski jacket into a trash bin at Jorge Newberry airport in Buenos Aires and climbed into a taxi outside of the terminal. At this hour, any city in the United States would be silent and deserted. Buenos Aires was alive.

  He realized that he hadn’t eaten much all day, and was suddenly starving. He decided to go to Lola’s, about four blocks from the Alvear. It was one of the more fashionable restaurants in town, frequented by the rich and powerful as well as movie and television people. He knew he would stand out the way he was dressed, but that was what he wanted. He would say that he was topping off a great day by seeing the sights of Buenos Aires.

  The radio in the cab was blasting a tango. He thought about his evening with Gina, closed his eyes imagining her in his mind, and smiled. Then he heard the words, “We’ll interrupt for another update on the hour’s top story.”

  He leaned forward in the seat, not wanting to miss a word.

  To his horror, he heard the newscaster say, “Police have now confirmed that twenty people have died in the explosion and fire that hit the headquarters of the newspaper La Opinion this evening. Police have attributed the cause of the accident to a gas leak in the boiler room. The fire is still raging out of control. No one knows how long it will be until the paper is up and running again. Among the dead are Carlos Cantina, the editor-in-chief.”

  That’s terrible, Craig thought. Estrada didn’t wait long to get even for this morning’s editorial. He was sending a frightening message to the rest of the country.

  The maître d’ at Lola’s insisted that Craig wear a navy blue sport jacket from the restaurant’s cloak room so he didn’t lo
ok totally out of place in the dining room that was still only half full. “The steak here is incredible,” the tuxedo-clad waiter told Craig with pride. “We permit our cattle to graze on grass. Not like in the US where you feed them chemicals.”

  Craig had no idea whether that was true, and he didn’t care to discuss it. He felt like Alice in Wonderland with everything swirling around him. His mind was focused on the danger confronting him, and what to do about it. Instead of the loud conversation he would have expected at this hour as patrons were lubricated with free-flowing wine, he heard a low murmur. In people’s voices he detected concern as they spoke about what happened at La Opinion. Perhaps Estrada and Schiller had gone too far. At some point, fear creates opposition, but most people are cowed.

  His own situation was devoid of choices. I’m not going to cut and run. I’ll have to tough it out. He knew that he had to tell Betty and Alice what had happened to Dunn as soon as possible, but he couldn’t risk using a phone, even one of the company’s cells in case his conversation was picked up. He didn’t want to risk going to the American Embassy to make the call in the event he was being followed.

  After dinner, walking along the pedestrian mall that led to the Alvear, he was approached by a woman with a heavily made-up face, framed by long blond hair and wearing a short skirt. “You want some company?” she asked, smiling, and showing crooked teeth.

  Craig smiled back. “I’m too tired to be any good tonight.”

  “We could try,” she said hopefully.

  Desperation and despair were written on her face. Craig reached into his pocket and handed her two one-hundred-dollar bills.

  “God bless you,” she said.

  “Thanks. I need all the help I can get,” he mumbled back.

  Crossing the wide boulevard to his hotel, Craig saw Peppone standing on the sidewalk next to his Mercedes, smoking a cigarette. He felt relief when Peppone gave him a broad smile. To Craig it said, “You managed to outsmart my masters. Good for you.”

  Fernandez, the manager of the Alvear, wasn’t smiling when Craig sauntered through the revolving glass door into the lobby. He looked distraught and harried. Contrary to instructions, he had lost track of his guest for an entire day and evening.

  “You certainly put in a long day,” Craig quipped.

  “Mr. Gorman, I was worried about you,” the manager said as he stared at Craig, demanding some explanation.

  “You have a great city. I had a fabulous day seeing many of the sites.”

  “But you were gone so long. We were afraid you were kidnapped.”

  Craig was tempted to ask who the “we” was, but he overcame that and joyfully slapped Fernandez on the back. “You worry too much, my friend.”

  Fernandez retorted, “I worry about all of my guests. Is there anything I can do now?”

  “You bet. Make sure nobody disturbs me until ten. I’m exhausted. And call Señor Miranda in the morning. See if he’ll meet me for lunch.”

  “I’ll be happy to.”

  “One other thing …”

  “Anything.”

  “Arrange for Peppone, who’s outside now, to drive me tomorrow.”

  Once he was in his suite, Craig checked the papers he had brought with him to Argentina—all copies of public materials about the Argentine economy. Before leaving the hotel that morning, he had arranged them in a very precise manner in the center desk drawer. They had been moved. Bastards must have searched the room, he decided. He had expected it. He hadn’t left anything behind that undercut his cover. He had to assume that the room and phones were bugged, and there were probably hidden cameras placed strategically. He made no effort to find and disarm them. Barry Gorman wouldn’t do that. Barry Gorman would take a long hot bath, soaking his weary body, and then collapse into bed. That’s precisely what Craig did.

  At 6:00 a.m. Estrada was pedaling furiously on the stationary bike he had in a gym he had installed off his office. He had loved jogging every morning rain or shine for decades, but that ended a couple of years ago when his knees cried out, “No more!”

  One advantage of the bike was that he could read. His eyes were focused on Dr. Jeremy Barker’s report about the diamonds. Perspiration was dripping from his forehead onto the pages.

  Through the corner of his eye, he saw Colonel Schiller burst into the room, “I was right about Barry Gorman,” he said in an excited voice. “The CIA sent Gorman to find out what happened to Dunn.”

  “How do you know that?” Estrada asked while he continued pedaling.

  “Yesterday in Buenos Aires he eluded the two men I had following him as only a professional could have done.”

  “Your men must have been incompetent.”

  “Then he flew to Bariloche yesterday afternoon.”

  “So what? Plenty of people go there the first time they visit Argentina.”

  “In Bariloche he did something to the man I had following him. I can’t reach him and he was very experienced.”

  Estrada stopped pedaling and put his head into his hands thinking.

  Schiller continued talking, “Suppose Gorman doesn’t have $10 billion to invest. Suppose it’s all a cover for a CIA agent.”

  “Jorge Suarez checked him out and said he was legitimate. I’m accepting that.”

  “But is it wise?”

  Estrada could barely contain his anger. He didn’t like being challenged. And Schiller was being disrespectful. If he kept at this, Estrada might replace Schiller with someone who would follow his orders. “That’s the way I intend to play it. As long as there’s a chance of getting the $10 billion, I don’t want to lose it.”

  “But …”

  “Don’t you interrupt me.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Did Gorman come back to BA yet?”

  “Very late last night. Peppone, the driver I hired for Gorman, saw him going into the Alvear.”

  “Good. You can keep track of him with Peppone. But don’t do anything to harm Gorman.”

  After Schiller left, Estrada resumed peddling. He resented the insulting way Schiller had spoken to him and that might have caused his reaction to dig in and dismiss what Schiller had said. With Schiller gone, Estrada was thinking more clearly. Schiller was savvy about security matters. If he smelled a rat, his fears had to be taken seriously.

  Estrada couldn’t let the possibility of $10 billion blind him. Estrada believed he was a good judge of character. If he got close enough to Barry Gorman, spending time one-on-one, he’d test Gorman, cutting to the core of the man to determine whether he was genuine or a fraud.

  But he didn’t have much time to do that.

  He had the London trip coming up. That was critical and couldn’t be postponed.

  London. Of course. That was it. London presented a unique opportunity for Estrada to deal with Gorman. It was not only an opportunity to get to know the man, but if he was convinced he was genuine, he would then have a chance to separate him from some of that $10 billion. In London he’d find out whether Gorman was really a wealthy money man or just a spy like Dunn, which was what Schiller thought. And if he concluded Schiller was right, then the man calling himself Barry Gorman would drop out of an airplane over the Atlantic without a parachute.

  “Morning, Peppone,” Craig said to the driver as he approached the Mercedes in front of the Alvear.

  “Morning, Mr. Gorman, Where are we going?”

  “The Buenos Aires Racket Club. The hotel manager told me that I should be there at 1400 for a luncheon with Mr. Miranda.”

  Peppone drove in a northerly direction through San Isidro and the other wealthy residential suburbs with large houses and estates. Craig asked the question of any first time visitor. “What do the people do who live here?”

  Peppone provided the stock answer: “Business executives, bankers, and professionals.”

  Miranda was waiting for Craig in the entrance hall of the posh club. Aristocratic was the adjective that came to Craig’s mind when he saw the man. Miranda was in
his mid-sixties, tall, and well-conditioned. His complexion was ruddy, no doubt from lots of time on the tennis courts. His brown hair was graying at the temples. He had soft gray eyes. Beneath his double-breasted navy blue blazer, he wore a powder-blue shirt and a tie with tennis rackets and the crest of the club.

  He came forward and shook Craig’s hand, then led his visitor across the thickly carpeted corridor to the dining room where a large picture window faced perfectly maintained red clay courts—twelve that Craig could see from his vantage point.

  The dining room was only half full, but practically everyone nodded to Miranda and stared at his visitor as they made their way to a table along the window. Miranda stopped to shake a couple of hands. He introduced Craig as an American investment banker.

  “You’re obviously well known here,” Craig said, when they sat down.

  “I’ve been a member a long time. They talked me into taking the club presidency a couple of times, and I won the singles and doubles championship for seniors last year. Are you a tennis player?”

  Craig remembered from the bio that tennis wasn’t Barry Gorman’s sport. “I tried it for a few years, but developed a rotator cuff problem. I decided the sport didn’t like me.”

  “A pity. I’ve had my share of injuries over the years. My wife says I’m not fit to live with when I can’t play.” He laughed. “I guess that means I am fit to live with the rest of the time.”

  A waiter came over with two menus. “What do you recommend?” Craig asked.

  “A mixed salad. Then the grilled sirloin. Cooked rare.”

  “Sounds good.”

  After Miranda placed the order, Craig asked, “Does anyone here worry about their cholesterol?”

  His host laughed. “We have a solution.” He signaled to the sommelier. “We’ll have a bottle of my 1990 malbec.” He turned back to Craig. “You Americans are ridiculous. You should realize that with enough olive oil and red wine you can eat whatever you want.”

  “I understand from Jorge Suarez that you’re a business leader. What sectors are you involved in?”

  “My winery is in Mendoza. I have a cattle ranch not far from that city. And I have an oil and gas business in Patagonia and other businesses as well. Fortunately, I have good managers for all of them. I don’t have to spend much of my time in the operation.”