The Convert's Song (26 page)

“Well, sir, officially I went there to see friends and family and do security work. Bodyguard. Unofficially”—he offered a roguish Raymond-style grin—“I was interested in the dope business. Smuggling drugs.”

“Did you?” Brigadier Ali asked.

In Pescatore’s peripheral vision, Raymond’s leg jiggled faster. He couldn’t remember when he had seen Raymond more agitated.

“Little bit. I’ve been kind of lazy, tell you the truth. Enjoying the nightlife. Until I ran into Raymond and he mentioned this project.”

“Have you had contact with the U.S. embassy in Buenos Aires?”

More uncomfortable terrain. Pescatore wondered if someone had seen him with Furukawa. He had to trust Raymond.

“Got my passport renewed there. That’s about it.”

He felt as if the eyes beneath the low brow were scouring his skull. He wished someone would turn up the air or open a window.

“Should we talk about targets?” Raymond interjected, smiling.

The conversation turned to attack scenarios. A minefield. Pescatore wanted to show he had inside intel without giving any pointers. His U.S. handlers had outlined areas in which they knew the Quds Force and Hezbollah had already done surveillance or had gotten access to information. Ali and Raymond discussed Jewish targets in Los Angeles.

Pescatore’s goal was to heighten his value by emphasizing obstacles. He said, “Remember, you’d have to get to Los Angeles first. There are Border Patrol freeway checkpoints. It’s like a second border.”

Brigadier Ali cleared his throat. “I have seen, on television, long lines of traffic at the Mexico border. Many cars and trucks. This seems full of possibilities. A, eh, target-rich environment.”

“That’s what I was talking about, Valentín,” Raymond said “Hit a border station. Symbolically, the strike combines the U.S. and Mexico, government and commerce. A lot of the crossers are U.S. citizens, right?”

“Sure. And green-card holders. U.S. residents.”

“The drug traffickers have shot at border crossings, haven’t they?”

“Yeah. In Arizona, retaliating for a drug bust. A sniper in the hills on the Mexican side fired at the port of entry.”

“Can you imagine, Ali?” Raymond enthused. “A well-o
rganized
sniper attack on the border traffic. Or close-range shooters. Combined with a truck bomb? San Diego and El Paso simultaneously? A real spectacular.”

The brigadier raised black eyebrows. His forehead was dry despite the heat. “What do you think, Valentín?”

“It could do damage, that’s for sure, if—”

“Also, you eliminate the whole problem of the team crossing the border,” Raymond exclaimed, talking loud and fast. “The real line is a couple hundred yards south of the port, so you’d technically strike in the United States. Isn’t that right, Valentín?”

Slow it down, bro, for the love of God,
Pescatore thought.

“That’s correct,” he said gravely. “In all these scenarios, the issue is operational security in Mexico. U.S. agencies have a major intel presence south of the border: human sources, communications intercepts. The bigger the plot, the more likely the Mexican police or traffickers are going to hear something. The mafias have
halcones,
lookouts, everywhere: gas stations, hotels. They even run their own highway checkpoints.”

Brigadier Ali shook his head. “Remarkable.”

“I’m the guy who’s going to improve your odds, who can overcome those challenges,” Pescatore said.

The general asked about ports of entry, the internal workings of border agencies and smuggling groups, countries in South and Central America. Pescatore gave succinct answers. He was starting to worry that this was beyond the brainstorming stage. He wondered if an attack team was already formed, if the brigadier had consulted others. They might be ready to pull the trigger sooner than he had thought.

The general swiveled to Raymond and spoke in Arabic; Raymond’s Farsi was weak. Pescatore rested his hands on his belt buckle. As he watched and listened, he began to get angry. Raymond was dangerous, but alone he was ultimately a hustler, a medium-size kingpin. Brigadier Ali had imbued him with skills, focus and resources. He had transformed him into a killing machine. He was the puppet master behind the puppet master.

If you were a man,
Pescatore told himself,
what you’d do now is dive over the desk and waste this fucker. Snap his neck. Choke him out. He’s in okay shape, former wrestling champ and whatnot, but you could take him. The lives you’d save. The deaths you’d avenge. It would be a public service. A victory worth dying for. The question is what Raymond would do. Lend you a hand? Defend Ali? Sit there with his mouth open? You’re probably the one guy he would risk his life for if you pulled a stunt like that.

Sweating, feverish with hate and fear, Pescatore imagined the sequence of violent events. The tangible possibility of it made him dizzy. Even if Raymond followed his lead, even if he finished Brigadier Ali quickly and quietly, there were a dozen gunmen in the compound. For the sake of argument, say he and Raymond succeeded in overpowering the two guards inside and grabbing their rifles. Two more down. By then, however, they would have made noise and lost the element of surprise. And Raymond hadn’t signed up for a suicide mission.

Pescatore shook his head.
Get a grip,
he told himself.
The real world doesn’t work like that. That’s some grade-Z Hollywood bullshit. Martyrs are either real brave or real stupid. You’re not brave or stupid enough. Stick to the plan.

“Yes?” the brigadier said, looking straight at him. In a panic, Pescatore saw that the man thought he wanted to speak.

“No, sir, I was just going over something in my mind. Not important.”

“You have not asked about money,” the general said, taking a long puff on the cigar with his hand over his mouth.

“No, sir.”

Pescatore held the stare until the Iranian allowed himself a smile.

“I will ask you, then,” Ali said. “What is your price?”

“Honestly, it depends what I end up doing.” Pescatore spoke earnestly while going for a sharklike edge. “This is the biggest, hardest target there is. You need top-quality services. That’s what I intend to provide. If I work for you on the ground, surveillance and recruiting smugglers and everything, that could get me killed any number of ways. So we’re talking about two hundred fifty thousand dollars. If it’s more like just consulting, one hundred fifty thousand. Plus travel and expenses.”

“Not cheap.”

“No, sir. I think I’m worth it. And I think the expense is worth it to you.”

Ali nodded. His body language indicated that the meeting had come to a close.

“I’m so glad that my two favorite people are now friends and allies,” Raymond declared. “We will do great things.”

“You are young, but you are intelligent and strong,” Brigadier Ali said to Pescatore, beaming. “I think we will be working together.”

“That’s a real honor coming from a great and wise soldier like yourself, sir. I look forward to it.”

The general raised a finger. “Remember, with this honor comes responsibility. Raymond says you are his brother. This means you are now my brother.”

Pescatore pressed his hand to his heart and lowered his eyes. Brigadier Ali continued: “Two things now. Absolute discretion. And being ready. We will communicate soon. You must be ready.”

“I am, sir.”

The Iranian rummaged in a desk drawer and pulled out an envelope. He placed it on the desk in front of Pescatore. It was stuffed with U.S. currency.
A tip for the new henchman,
Pescatore thought.

“A token of appreciation,” Ali said.

They stood. The general glanced at one of the phones on the desk. Pescatore thought,
Last chance. Now’s the time. Tell him where he can shove his money, then hit him in the throat to shut him up, then kill his ass.

Pescatore murmured thanks and slipped the envelope into a vest pocket.

“There may be obstacles, but money is not one,” the Iranian said.

“Good. Money is usually an obstacle if you don’t have it.”

Brigadier Ali emitted a short sharp laugh. They shook hands. The brigadier gripped Pescatore’s left biceps again. He spoke in Arabic to Raymond. Raymond and Pescatore passed the sentries and went downstairs. Raymond kept his hand on Pescatore’s shoulder, pounding it softly.

“It went great it went great it went great,” he exulted.

There was no shade left on the veranda. Pescatore felt unsteady on his feet as they conferred.

“You think so?” he asked. “He wasn’t too concrete about a follow-up.”

“The meet was about the feel,
che.
About you giving him a good vibe. And that’s what you did. He leaves the details to me. The important thing is you handled yourself just right. This will move fast now.”

“Good.”

“Everybody needs to be ready.” Raymond raised his eyebrows for conspiratorial emphasis.

Pescatore noticed a green Nissan Pathfinder in the driveway. Ahmed—the Bee Gees–looking guard who had played soccer—stood by it with his rifle. He exchanged words with Raymond. His hand still on Pescatore’s shoulder, Raymond turned so their backs were to the driveway.

“Listen, man, change in plans,” he said. “Ali wants me to stay. He wants to go over our project. Other stuff, too. There’s a meeting tonight. Then he leaves town and I’ll be done.”

“I don’t understand. We’re done. You’re supposed to take me to the border right away.”

“I know, but—”

“You said I’d be in Jordan ASAP.”

“Sorry, he’s the boss. He changed schedule on me.” Raymond’s voice was urgent and soothing. “Ahmed will take you to Mustafa, Mustafa will take you to the hotel. Chill out, eat something, watch TV. I’ll be back late. Or in the morning. We leave tomorrow for sure.”

“I don’t like it.”

Pescatore glanced back at the driveway. Two more guards had appeared near the SUV. Others stood ready at the gate. Ahmed smiled at Pescatore. A broad, telegenic smile.

Pescatore looked, finally, at Raymond. He was smiling too. His hooded eyes were intent.

A coldness welled up in Pescatore’s chest.
Goddamn it,
he thought.
You got me. I thought that was the one line you would not cross. The scorpion strikes again.

“Come on man, everybody’s waiting, this is starting to look weird,” Raymond whispered.

Pescatore wiped sweat from his forehead with a sleeve. He mustered a grin. He put a hand on Raymond’s shoulder, presenting the onlookers with a pose of old friends sharing a confidence before they parted.

“Raymond,” he said in a light offhand voice. “I really think we should stick with the plan. I really think you and me should go back to the hotel now, together, and get me out of the country like we agreed.”

“I can’t. If the boss says jump, I jump. You’ll be fine. A minor adjustment, that’s all.”

Pescatore exhaled. The suspicion had taken wing: the brigadier had seen through the scam and told Raymond to get rid of Pescatore. Or Raymond had turned triple agent and revealed all. It had been a charade to lure Pescatore into their clutches and take an American scalp. He imagined a videotaped decapitation after a torture-induced confession denouncing the U.S. spymasters who had dared to fuck with Brigadier Ali. Pescatore cursed the day the foolish idea had entered his head that he was slicker than Raymond. He was about pay for it big-time.

Very softly, he said, “I’m getting a bad feeling about this.”

Playing for their audience, Raymond burst into laughter, giving it a lot of shoulder and head movement.

“That’s ridiculous,” he muttered through his teeth. “We’re in this together, all the way. I’m always straight-up with you. I know you got heart. Don’t punk out on me now.”

Pescatore squinted against the sun. He had doubts about his doubts. If they were going to kill him, the safe house was perfect. Surely it was equipped with rooms for interrogations and wet work. Why take him anywhere else? Moreover, Pescatore was willing to admit that Raymond had hoodwinked him. But he believed that, if this was true, he would see the betrayal in Raymond’s eyes. And he didn’t. Maybe that was ridiculous, but his instincts hadn’t been wrong up to now.

Nevertheless. Even if Raymond was sincere, even if Pescatore was not in danger, the bottom line had not changed. It was still imperative that Raymond follow the original program and leave with him right away. Pescatore had to get that across, but not too obviously.

He was aware of multiple eyes on him. Perhaps Brigadier Ali was watching from his study. Pescatore stalled by adding a little pugilistic horseplay to the farewell scene. He bobbed, weaved, and threw a fake punch at Raymond’s midsection, talking under his breath as he did so.

“I know all that, man,” Pescatore said, “but I’m telling you I’d feel a lot better if we stuck to the plan and you came with me now.”

Raymond responded with a playful rope-a-dope defensive stance, his fists together at his brow, elbows at his midsection.

“Trust me,
cuate,”
he said.

Pescatore wasn’t sure whom he was trying to save. He couldn’t push any further. He gave Raymond a hug and thumped his back twice.

“See you soon,” Pescatore said.
“Cuate.”

Raymond cocked his head, as if examining the problem from a different angle. He gave Pescatore a long, searching look. His eyes shone.

In the Pathfinder, Pescatore was sweating so much that his clothes stuck to the seat. Ahmed sat next to him, two gunmen in front. Pescatore remembered the Arabic word:
Maktub.
It was written.

During the ride, Pescatore watched his escorts from the corner of his eye. He slouched against his window, but his muscles were on a hair trigger. Soon they stopped next to Mustafa’s white Suburban. It was parked in the shade beneath an expressway interchange in a landscape of junked cars. Dogs rooted in trash in a vacant lot.

Ahmed handed over the Beretta. Pescatore holstered it. Ahmed flashed the million-dollar smile. Pescatore smiled back. He put his hand on his heart.

His legs ached with accumulated tension. He closed the door behind him.

Looks like Raymond told the truth after all,
he thought.
Too late.