The Convert's Song (10 page)

“So you are pretty sure it was him?”

“Hard to say. The dark, the reflection, the rain. If it was Raymond, I think he would have acknowledged me.”

Pescatore tried to pin down the date. He asked Bocha to remember gigs, travel, holidays. The conclusion: the possible sighting of Raymond had happened between six weeks and three months ago.

After another round, the musicians thanked him and returned to the stage. Pescatore had been expecting them to tell him about hustles, drug deals, seductions. But Raymond had been a model citizen at the club. He had shown his good side, had even kept his mitts off the waitresses. At least for a while, he had done what Pescatore had always urged him to do: stick to the music. Maybe Raymond wasn’t good enough to get rich, but he certainly could have made a living.

If I could sing,
Pescatore told himself,
I’d be happy in joints like this.

He had no doubt that the man whom the pianist had seen in the car was Raymond. The timing matched Florencia’s story. Pescatore could see the scene: Raymond comes back to Buenos Aires. He’s operational, deep into a terrorist plot, whether as an accomplice or an agent for somebody. But he can’t resist passing by the club one night. Raymond sits in the car. He thinks about going inside, looking for old friends, listening for a while. He sees Bocha, which brings back memories. Bocha spots him. Raymond panics and drives away.

Pescatore was now more inclined to believe that Raymond might not have wanted to go through with the plot. Maybe he had been wrestling with doubt and guilt.

Pescatore gulped rum and Coke. He was drinking too much these days.

His cell phone buzzed on his hip. A text message. Furukawa.

The FBI agent wanted to see him right away. He named a location. It was urgent.

Pescatore doubted that a sudden street meeting at eleven p.m. could involve good news.

T
he night had turned cold.

Closing the door of the taxi, he shivered. The air was clearing the rum out of his head.

Furukawa was waiting for him at a downtown corner next to an illegally parked Chevrolet Suburban with diplomatic plates. The FBI agent wore a belted coat over a turtleneck. He greeted Pescatore, jerked his head, and started walking. He didn’t say anything for three blocks. He walked fast, turning left onto Nueve de Julio Avenue. His driver, a crew-cut Special Forces–looking guy, followed them on foot at a distance.

Furukawa stopped to light a cigarette, eyes narrow. He headed south toward the Obelisk, back toward where they had started.

The whole deal was weird. The hour. Furukawa’s silence. Belhaj’s absence.

“I got your passport back,” Furukawa said. Without breaking stride, he handed over an envelope.

“Thanks, Tony.”

Pescatore stuck the envelope in an inside pocket of his jacket. With profound relief, he zipped shut the pocket. He was no longer, as Belhaj had put it, an orphan in the modern world.

“Think seriously about using it.” The agent’s voice was dry.

“Like leave the country?”

Furukawa kept walking, smoking, staring straight ahead.

“Yep. Things are getting complicated. The local level and the Washington level. D.C. headquarters is going to take over the Ray Mercer aspect. I’m going to restrict myself to liaison duties. That’s what leeg-atts are supposed to do. That ends your involvement.”

“Why?”

Furukawa took a fierce drag on the cigarette. “I need to spell it out?”

“Um…I guess I have a theory.”

“Which is?”

“I figure the more you guys find out about Raymond, the more sensitive it gets. Because he used to work for the U.S. government.”

“I’ve dealt with guys like him.” Furukawa sighed in disgust. “A disaster waiting to happen. The better an informant is, the more he gets into the shit. The more you worry. If he was my snitch, I’d have his deactivation papers all written up. He gets arrested for some outrageous nonsense at midnight, I’m good to go: I type in he was deactivated at noon.”

“So am I right?”

“Mercer’s narcotics cooperation evolved. Several agencies had contact.”

“Maybe he still has connections now.”

“If he does, why did he call you?”

“Good point.”

“His whole file is under review. Multiagency. Who knew what when, who signed what agreement, all those career-killer-type questions.”

They neared the circular plaza where the Obelisk rose above the epic urban event that was the convergence of Corrientes and Nueve de Julio Avenues. Light emanated from the stores, the giant video screens, and the neon brand names scrawled across facades and roofs. The sidewalk was almost as bright as day. Traffic roared in the roundabout; crowds filled the sidewalks; music spilled out of doorways.

Pescatore heard distant guitar chords from a store. It sounded like “Heart Won’t Tell a Lie,” by Los Lonely Boys. He had discovered the Texican band after joining the Border Patrol. Los Lonely Boys made him homesick for San Diego. Where he had been homesick for Chicago. Apparently, another city was about to join the list of former places of residence.

Take a good look around,
he thought with disbelief.
Say good-bye. The man just delivered the news. Buenos Aires is over.

Pescatore asked: “Do they know where Raymond is?”

“Nope.”

“We should keep working this. We’re a great team. Just tonight I—”

“Se acabó.
No more Three Amigos.”

“What if he reaches out again?”

Furukawa fired a sidelong look at him.

Of course they’ll know, and fast,
Pescatore thought, chiding himself.
No doubt they’ve opened up on me. Monitoring my phones, e-mails. I thought I was paranoid before.

“If they need you, they’ll find you,” Furukawa said. “I put my contact info in that envelope. You hear from Raymond, call me right away.”

The agent turned left, back onto Roque Sáenz Peña, which ran on a diagonal toward the Plaza de Mayo, the site of the presidential palace. They left the lights and noise behind. Pescatore checked to make sure no one was within earshot.

“You mind explaining why I need to leave town all of a sudden?” He hated the tremor he heard in his own voice. “I can understand you want me to back off, but this is kinda drastic.”

“It’s getting ugly. Political. The SIDE wants to take over the case. The police want to shut it down, squash the Raymond and Florencia angle. It might end up with two judges fighting over the investigation. The government is shaky. You’d be in the middle of a political war.”

“I could help the intel guys. Testify about Raymond.”

“Chances are you’ll get stomped.”

“I don’t like the idea of running.”

“Did you like getting locked up?” Furukawa snapped. “You clocked an investigator, remember that bright little move? They’re still looking for an excuse to charge you. Nothing has changed that.”

“But I explained the French phone calls. There’s no evidence—”

“Yeah, uh-huh. Big obstacle if they need a fall guy. Especially an American. We’re losing popularity in this part of the world, case you hadn’t noticed.”

They had reached the parked Suburban. The driver slid behind the wheel. Furukawa opened a door.

“And my job?” Pescatore asked. “I got responsibilities. A life here.”

“Facundo will understand.”

“What does Fatima say?”

Furukawa rolled his eyes. His oval face shimmered in the glow of the streetlights. “She’s disappointed. She thinks you’re our best shot at Raymond Mercer, we should stick close to you. I don’t disagree. But I have orders.”

“Where is she?”

“Bolivia. As far as I know.”

“Bolivia?”

“Chasing a lead.”

“I’d like to talk—”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice the vibe between you two.”

Pescatore’s eyes widened. He was surprised, a bit offended, and ultimately pleased that Furukawa perceived a vibe from Belhaj directed at him. Pescatore thought she must have left for Bolivia right after the interview with the cousin. She hadn’t given any hint. Her manner had led him to think there was a trust, a friendship, an attraction—something—between them.

“You’re adults,” Furukawa continued. “It’s your business. But I think you should let it go. Your life is complicated enough right now. Go home,
vato.
”

The FBI agent tossed away his cigarette. Pescatore had the premonition that he would never see him again. He was being abandoned on a cold, dark street to fend for himself.

“Listen, I’m sorry I had to drop a bomb on you like this, Valentine,” Furukawa said. “You’re a nice kid. But your boy has pulled you down into the shit. I need to step back. I suggest you do the same.”

Furukawa shook his hand, got in the Suburban, and left.

Back at his apartment, Pescatore paced. He looked at airline schedules on his iPhone. Flights to Miami, to Los Angeles via Lima. His clothes would fit in a couple of suitcases. His mind spun through scenarios. If the federal police had issued an immigration lookout for him, he would walk into their clutches at the airport. He thought about asking Furukawa to ensure safe passage. Or maybe better just to slip out another way: take a hydrofoil ferry across the river to Uruguay, or leave overland to Chile.

He started getting mad. At the cops, Furukawa, Raymond, himself. He felt a responsibility to help. His work history for the federal government and Facundo qualified him as a trusted operative, a known player to U.S. authorities. His information had helped Furukawa and Belhaj. They needed him. He thought about how determined—in his grumpy way—Furukawa had been during the investigation. He had reversed direction fast. His D.C. bosses must have dropped a bomb of their own on him.

Pescatore decided to go to bed. To make up for the loss of his gun, he had bought a hunting knife and a baseball bat. He checked his home-defense arsenal. The knife was on the night table. The bat lay within arm’s reach under the bed. Not that the weapons would be much use in another raid. Except to give the raiders an excuse to shoot him.

He lay awake, imagining a reunion with Inspector Neanderthal. Who could help if he got arrested again? Facundo’s best connections were with the SIDE, the Israelis, and the Americans. Biondani’s group in the SIDE would back Pescatore, but they were busy feuding with the police. Even if the Israelis stuck their necks out for him, they didn’t have much clout. Worst of all, Furukawa had implied that he shouldn’t count on the U.S. embassy.

For the first time in days, Pescatore thought about Isabel Puente. His ex-fiancée was probably the most powerful person he knew. She had a high-up job at Homeland Security. Probably enough juice to spring him from an Argentine prison. Isabel knew about his wild Chicago days, but he had never mentioned Raymond specifically. He could not imagine swallowing his pride and going to her for help.

As he drifted off, he told himself:
Face it. You’re on your own, bro. If you stick around, you aren’t going to help anybody. You’ll make it worse. You’ll end up where Uncle Rocco always worried you’d end up: the joint.

He had intended to reserve a flight before visiting Facundo, but he overslept. He hadn’t done that for a long time. Shortly before noon, he hurried to the hospital. Sawhorses blocked streets; police lined up on foot and in cars. Something was going on. As he crossed a plaza, a polite young couple handed him a flyer. The guy wore a Star of David on a gold chain; the woman wore little designer glasses and called him
compañero.
They urged him to attend a combined memorial and protest for the one-week anniversary of the attacks. He explained that he was going to visit one of the victims in the hospital.

Esther met him outside her father’s room, dressed for work.

“I know you two will talk about business, even though he’s not supposed to,” she said. “Please remember he remains in a delicate state. He shouldn’t get agitated. He’s going to have surgery in a few days.”

“Of course.”

When talking about Facundo to his grandson, Pescatore had compared him to a bear. The resemblance—to a graying, bedraggled, Sephardic bear—had intensified. Facundo sat in bed propped against pillows, sniping at the television with a remote control. A new salt-and-pepper beard complemented his unkempt hair. His sleeveless green gown revealed the forest on his chest and arms.

“Valentín,” Facundo said, his voice at about half the usual power. “Son.”

Pescatore bent to give him a clumsy hug. It was hard to see Facundo laid low. And to know this was probably good-bye. Pescatore forced a smile.

“How are you, boss?”

“As you see.” Facundo emitted a morose growling noise.

“To tell the truth, better than I expected,” Pescatore said.

Facundo’s gestures and expressions had a torpid quality. He was disturbingly pale.

“The doctors are compiling a list of all the things that are prohibited to me from now on,” he rasped. “Cigarettes, coffee, alcohol, ice cream,
medialunas, dulce de leche
—in short, every decent kind of food—talking excessively, getting upset or excited. They didn’t mention sex, but since it is a good thing, I fear the worst. Meanwhile, my sweet little daughter, I discover to my amazement, has a future as a prison warden if she ever gets bored with architecture. She won’t even let me talk on the phone.”

“They are taking care of you. You had a massive heart attack.”

“A massive indignity, is what it is. Who wants an existence like this? Nooo. From what I understand, I am alive and kvetching because of you. I have to thank—”

“Don’t mention it. Biondani and me teamed up.”

Facundo drank water from a plastic cup. His head sagged back. He stared past Pescatore at the television, which was on mute.

“A memorial,” Facundo muttered. “Can you believe a week went by?”

“Feels like yesterday.”

“I have lost my sense of time. Most of what I know about the case is from the news. An extremely unsatisfactory source. Lamentably low level. Nooo. For mental hygiene, almost better not to watch.”

“You’ll catch up when you’re stronger.”

“During a lapse on the part of my jailers, I managed to call my friend at La Biela. A brief conversation. I gather you have played an important role. Dario D’Ambrosio is impressed. But there are a million things I don’t know or understand.”

“You’re not supposed to talk about work stuff. I promised Esther.”

“Et tu,
Valentín? Do you think it puts more strain on my heart to receive credible, helpful, specific information, or to continue like this—totally frustrated, depressed, and in the dark like a useless cretin?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Fortunately, I was able to clear my busy schedule for you. Have a seat, for the love of God. Take off your jacket.”

Pescatore sat. He did not take off his jacket. He positioned his chair so they could both see the television. The screen showed images of a covered outdoor podium surrounded by a blue wall of police officers. Dignitaries wore black armbands. Umbrellas and signs sprouted from the crowd. The memorial service had begun, along with the rain.

“Please don’t get worked up,” Pescatore said.

“Go ahead!” Facundo exclaimed.

In Pescatore’s experience, loud and talkative people tended to be bad listeners. Facundo was an exception. He could cut off the verbal torrent as if shutting a faucet. He sat very still. His barrel chest rose and fell with his labored breathing. Pescatore started with the prologue: the strange reunion with Raymond.

“Your friend sounds like a bit of a
chanta,
” Facundo commented mildly.

“Chanta, chorro, atorrante,
all of that. I’ll never forgive myself for not calling right away to tell you about him. If I had—”

“It would have made no difference.”

“Still. I’m embarrassed I even knew a guy like him.”

“We all have had inconvenient friends.”

The response comforted Pescatore. For the first time in a week, he felt safe. His words would not be used against him. The story came pouring out: his arrest, the FBI and the French police, Flo, La Matanza, the club.