The Convert's Song (7 page)

“Perfect. Go tell him about that. We’ll be there in a minute.”

Pescatore hoped for the best. If Modesto was inspired, he could talk a customer’s ear off. He liked to describe in detail the interminable documentaries with which Spain’s television network fed the nostalgia of the Galician diaspora overseas.

Pescatore had decided that Dario D’Ambrosio, the former spy chief who hung out at La Biela, was his best prospect for a hip-pocket ally among Facundo’s many contacts. Facundo had said D’Ambrosio owed him and still pulled strings in the intelligence service. Pescatore and Belhaj were making the initial approach.

“I’m not real presentable,” Pescatore told her in the vehicle, touching the bandage and his swollen upper lip. “I hate to go in there looking like Raging Bull.”

“It is not grave,” she said. “You have the body of a boxer, and now the face of a boxer.”

Pescatore digested that comment. The vehicle stopped on Quintana Avenue by the green-and-white awnings of the café. He glanced at Belhaj, who was looking out the drizzle-streaked window.

“So when you say that about the, uh, body of a boxer, is that a good thing?”

“C’est une question de goût,”
she said, opening her door. “A question of taste.”

She’s messing with me,
he thought.
She’s smart and hot and French and she’s messing with me.

They found D’Ambrosio sitting at a corner table in the glass-partitioned smoking section of La Biela. Modesto the waiter stood in front of the table like a soccer goalie poised for a penalty kick, tray in hand and dish towel over his arm. He was deep in a monologue. He stopped midsentence and slid aside when Pescatore strode up out of the smoke and introduced himself as Facundo Hyman’s right-hand man and dear friend.

“Yes, of course, I know who you are,” D’Ambrosio said, startled but suave.

Pescatore spotted money on the table; they had arrived just in time.

D’Ambrosio eyed the damage to Pescatore’s face. He asked: “How is our friend Facundo? The hospital said he was not ready for visitors yet.”

“I checked this morning and his condition is stable, thank God.”

The spymaster was the first person Pescatore had ever seen use a cigarette holder. The lanky D’Ambrosio had silver hair. His burgundy ascot and corduroy sport jacket gave him a rugged patrician air: an outfit for relaxing at a country home after a day of hunting. When Pescatore introduced Belhaj as a French counterterrorism chief, D’Ambrosio rose to his full height, squared his shoulders, and said he was enchanted. He invited them to sit down while glancing appreciatively at the contours of Belhaj’s tight sweater. Pescatore congratulated himself. Furukawa had wanted him to meet the Argentine one-on-one to maintain deniability. Pescatore had insisted that Fatima Belhaj at least should come along to prove he was working with a bona fide police force. He hadn’t mentioned his other reason: the presence of this particular Frenchwoman would weaken D’Ambrosio’s defenses.

Pescatore dove in. He described his arrest by the federal police.

“I heard about a misunderstanding with an American,” D’Ambrosio said.

“They misunderstood that my head wasn’t a punching bag.”

D’Ambrosio smiled. Pescatore said he needed urgent help on a delicate matter. D’Ambrosio dragged on the cigarette holder, squinting.

“In reality, then, this is an ambush.” His tone suggested that he was being a good sport—for the moment.

“A friendly ambush,” Pescatore said. “With Facundo in such bad condition, I didn’t know where to turn. I know he would want me, and you, sir, to help the
commissaire
and the FBI. I am in the middle of this thing.”

Pescatore asked about the feasibility of making discreet inquiries about another American who had surfaced in the case.

“You put me in a complicated position,” D’Ambrosio replied. “Don’t forget, I am retired.” He turned to Belhaj. “I retired early, you see. Mademoiselle, how old do you think I am?”

Sixty, but say fifty-five,
Pescatore thought.

“Fifty?” She said it with her eyes extra-wide.

“You are flattering me, mademoiselle!” D’Ambrosio had the toothy debonair laugh of a talk-show host. “The point is, I cannot go poking my nose into this.”

“Dr. D’Ambrosio,” Pescatore said softly, figuring that the spy chief might have a law degree (which in Argentina made him
Doctor
) and that in any case, the title was appropriately deferential. “Facundo has explained to me that you still have great influence in your former service, and that you are a force for good.”

“As dear friends will do, Facundo exaggerates my merits.” He beamed at the woman before shaking his head at Pescatore. “I am afraid I cannot help you, son.”

“Maybe I am not being clear, Doctor,” Pescatore said.

“You are being very clear.”

“But Doctor, I—”

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a pressing engagement.”

D’Ambrosio started to get up. Pescatore decided to drop the
Doctor
crap.

“Listen,” he said through clenched teeth. “It happens that I know Facundo Hyman did you a big and specific favor. I know that he saved you from an embarrassing and unpleasant situation with my government. You owe him, which at this moment means you owe me. I need you to repay the favor. Right now. Understood?”

D’Ambrosio’s scowl made him look less country-house and more street.

“Muchacho, you are leaning on me,” he hissed. “And I don’t like it.”

Although Pescatore returned the stare, he was concerned that he had overplayed his hand. Belhaj intervened. With a high-voltage smile, she asked for a cigarette. D’Ambrosio handed her one and gallantly proffered his lighter. She pushed back her hair and blew smoke.

“Monsieur, you must remember that Monsieur Valentín has had a traumatic experience,” she said earnestly in her Castilian-style Spanish. “He was at the scene of the attack, he was wrongly accused. He is understandably upset. We want to seek justice for this terrible crime. You are the only person who can help us.”

D’Ambrosio concentrated on a new cigarette, avoiding eye contact, flustered.

Pescatore offered an olive branch. “I apologize if I spoke harshly.”

“Perhaps we both got a bit tense,” D’Ambrosio muttered. “These are days of great tension. I imagine Facundo would want me to lend a hand. I am going to order a cognac. Why don’t we have a cognac and chat?”

As Pescatore sketched out Raymond’s visit and his possible link to the terrorist attack, the veteran spy chief listened with increasing zeal. He asked incisive questions.

This guy is good,
Pescatore thought. He handed over a printout with basic data, including the Argentine phone number and e-mail address that Raymond had given him. The spymaster waved off the papers, pulling out a Moleskine notebook and a Montblanc pen to take notes instead.

“Better to avoid exchanging documents,” he said. “You were shrewd to come to me. I can steer this data to the right operators. The investigation is being distorted and damaged by competing interests. Both the federal and provincial police are implicated in the plot at some level. And the politicians are affected by domestic and foreign issues. A real
cambalache
.”

Pescatore told the woman, “That’s a tango about how everything is so corrupt and upside down, you can’t tell who’s a crook and who’s a saint.”

“Exactly,” D’Ambrosio said.
“Mademoiselle la commissaire,
do you really think this was the work of an al-Qaedist organization, as the official version asserts?” He asked the question with sudden sharpness.

He has trouble believing a Moroccan chick could be a hotshot cop,
Pescatore thought.

“The thesis is not excluded,” she replied. “The French phone number connects to networks sending extremists to Pakistan and Syria. The universe of al-Qaeda. South America would be new territory for them, but these days, they are looking for opportunities. Cells form spontaneously and strike where they can.”

“In my view, this was an unusually professional operation. It is inconsistent with the signature of al-Qaeda in recent years, which has been clumsiness and failure outside its traditional strongholds. I will share with you something that is not public.” D’Ambrosio lowered his voice. They leaned forward. “The forensics people found the detonators of the two bombers who blew themselves to bits at the delicatessen in the mall. Each detonator was still gripped in a hand: one right hand, one left hand. The investigators realized that they were the hands of the same person. What does that tell you?”

Another flirtatious jab at Belhaj. She tilted up her face and inhaled serenely from her cigarette. She was enjoying herself.

“It suggests the masterminds studied the psychology of the bombers,” she said. “They probably had doubts that one would go through with it. The more resolute kamikaze, the one whom they trusted, was responsible for his comrade. He detonated both bombs. Expert planning.”

“An excellent analysis, and one that reinforces my view of mysterious powers at work. Pescatore, anything else?”

“Yes. An Argentine woman phoned Raymond Mercer while I was with him. He talked as if it was a romantic relationship. It sounded like she was upset. He said he was going to visit her that night. I think her name was Flo, maybe short for Flora or Florencia.”

Belhaj stared with surprise at Pescatore, who avoided her gaze. He had kept a card up his sleeve. He had forgotten to mention Flo at the embassy the night before, which meant Furukawa had not told the federal police about that detail. By the time Pescatore remembered, they were already planning to go to D’Ambrosio. He had decided to share the lead exclusively with the SIDE. If the spy agency had ammunition to compete with the police, it would help keep everybody honest. Not to mention giving leverage to the Americans, the French, and Pescatore himself.

The move had been risky and sneaky. But necessary.

T
he building was one of the most exclusive high-rises in the city. A celestial refuge for magnates, politicos, soccer stars, television personalities and other fashionable fauna.

The service elevator climbed in its vertical cage. The narrow windows of back-door landings gave glimpses of the Puerto Madero district, the waterfront of old docks and brick granaries transformed into boardwalks lined with restaurants.

“You see how many fancy dogs that poor bastard was hauling downstairs?” Furukawa whispered. “Couple thousand dollars a dog, a dozen leashes: thirty grand worth of pooch.”

“Flo did good,” Pescatore whispered back. “Nobody in the immigration service back home lives like this. Even the ones who steal.”

The investigation had advanced on two tracks during the three days since the meet at La Biela. The official version now depicted a homegrown Islamic terrorist plot—an unprecedented event in Latin America. The radicalized former drug cop Belisario Ortega had traveled to Pakistan and trained with terrorists there. He had returned home and assembled a misfit band of Argentines of Middle Eastern descent and criminals who had converted to Islam. His group’s ideology mixed the influences of al-Qaeda and neo-Nazis. The authorities insisted that the ex-cop had trained, armed and led the plotters on his own. The attackers’ federal police uniforms were declared to be fakes. Spokesmen proclaimed that initial reports of foreigners among the terrorists were wrong and dismissed talk of overseas masterminds.

“The more local they say it is, the easier it is to control,” D’Ambrosio had explained during a second meeting at La Biela, wreathed in a smoke cloud that he and Belhaj had created. “This new government doesn’t get along with the Americans, the Europeans or the Israelis. It does big business with the Middle East. This way, there is no sharing with pesky foreign espionage services, no pointing fingers in dangerous directions. In Mumbai in 2008, an attack like this took two years of external planning, a high-level operation by a terrorist group and Pakistani intelligence working together. Here, they claim these
pelotudos
pulled it off alone, and they expect the rest of us
pelotudos
to believe it.”

D’Ambrosio’s crew at the spy agency had leaped on Pescatore’s lead. They had tracked Raymond’s trail in Buenos Aires and identified his woman friend as Florencia Pucinski Rodriguez, also known as La Gorda Flo (Fat Flo), a section chief in the national immigration service. The spy agency had put her under house arrest, and she had cooperated, providing a wealth of information. D’Ambrosio had offered the Americans and French secret access to the star source.

“I haven’t had this much fun in years,” a beaming D’Ambrosio had told Pescatore at the café. “Thanks to you, I’m going to flunk retirement.”

The elevator stopped at the twenty-sixth floor. The metal gate clattered open to reveal a familiar face: Biondani, the shaggy-haired intelligence officer who had been at El Almacén during the attack.

“The lady of the house was working out at the gym upstairs,” he said. “She is grooming herself and will be at your disposal shortly.”

Biondani led them through a sunny kitchen past plainclothesmen at a table covered with breakfast and a mean-l
ooking
MP5 machine pistol. The apartment occupied the entire floor and offered panoramic views. It had the air of a showroom: a grand piano, lush carpeting, sumptuous sofas.

“Hello, everyone!”

Florencia greeted them like a perky hostess, not a prisoner in gilded limbo. She was trailed by a weary-looking female officer in jeans and a wearier-looking maid in uniform. Biondani made introductions.

“The famous Valentín from Chicago!” Florencia kissed him on both cheeks. “I’ve heard all about you.”

As she bustled around getting them seated, Pescatore decided that, despite her ungentlemanly nickname, La Gorda Flo wasn’t that fat. She reclined on her side next to him on the couch, her movements creating hills and valleys in her low-cut, leopard-skin top and electric-blue leather pants. She was over forty, at least ten years older than Raymond. Her helmet-style hairdo reminded him of the suburban molls in
The Sopranos.
Below the bangs, the perpetually startled eyes and oddly upturned nose reflected a vicious cycle of cosmetic surgery.

“My goodness, that one looks like Beyoncé,” Florencia chirped. “At least from the back. And the hair.”

She was appraising Belhaj as the French investigator removed her coat and draped it over a chair. The comment was marginally accurate, at best. It confirmed his impression that Florencia expressed her thoughts as they crossed her mind, unconcerned about saying something politically incorrect or wildly inappropriate.

“So you want to talk about Ramón.” She turned to Pescatore. Her smile was a mask of makeup strained by fear. “Your old and dear friend. The love of my life. The curse of my life.”

“I always called him Raymond,” he replied. “Don’t tell me his name was really Ramón all this time.”

“No, that was what I called him. He started using it himself. It was part of his discovery of where he came from, he said.”

Pescatore had planned to defer to the others. But he sensed that Florencia felt a connection to him. He glanced at Furukawa, who nodded.

“You said he talked about me?” Pescatore continued.

“A lot.” She put her hand on his arm. He smelled coconut perfume. “He had great fondness for you. His best friend from childhood. You could have been a good influence on him. Instead, he was a bad influence on you. He regretted it very much. As if it were the cause of all his troubles.”

Pescatore’s hopes that Raymond would somehow turn out to be one of the good guys had been waning. Now, the first thing out of her mouth amounted to a heartfelt apology from Raymond.

“How did you come to meet him?”

“It was about eight years ago. I used to do favors for some rich
turquitos:
residency papers, bureaucratic troubles. They would throw me some mangoes for my help. Ramón had a relative who sent him to me through a family named Kharroubi. Ramón wanted Argentine citizenship.”

He qualified for citizenship because of his Argentine mother, Florencia explained. She expedited the process for a private fee. Raymond invited her to see him sing at a hole-in-the-wall club in the San Telmo neighborhood. He performed several times a week, accompanying himself on piano or teaming with a rhythm section.

“The first time I went, he dedicated a song to me: ‘Sophisticated Lady,’” she said wistfully. “From then on, he always sang it for me. What a song. What a voice. I didn’t understand half the words, but it didn’t matter.”

A memory came to Pescatore. He was getting high with Raymond and listening to jazz, a Tony Bennett version of “Sophisticated Lady.” Raymond called it one of the best songs ever. He said no woman was going to turn down Tony Benedetto with lines like that.

“He told me I was his sophisticated lady,” Florencia said. “I felt like the queen of the world. He shot an arrow right through my heart. Ay.”

She pressed a hand over the afflicted organ and addressed Belhaj in a sisterly tone. “What a romance. First class all the way: champagne, restaurants, hotels. Very physical. The age difference made it better. A vigorous, passionate young man!”

Please God no details,
Pescatore thought. She described romantic getaways to the beach resorts of Uruguay.

“He loved that coast. I told him the old joke: If the Apocalypse comes, move to Uruguay: everything there happens fifty years later. He said he would be perfectly content to find a little club on the beach and play the piano waiting for the Apocalypse. He liked how calm and slow Uruguay was. It soothed him. Remember, he was still recovering from his cocaine addiction. Very tormented. I took care of him. I cured him.”

She explained that Raymond grew close to Suleiman Kharroubi, who was in his thirties and owned car lots and import/export companies that did business with Bolivia.

“Well connected in the Arab community, the Kharroubis,” she said. “A used-car empire. Half gangsters. Well, to tell the truth, total gangsters.”

Raymond told Flo they had an opportunity to make serious money. He began bringing her “clients” for illegal help with documents.

“Turquitos, chinitos, bolitas,”
she said.

Arabs, Asians, Bolivians,
Pescatore translated to himself as she threw around impolite ethnic labels.

“Also Indians, Pakistanis, Mexicans. An American or two. Some bought new identities. Some left with their Argentine passports and visas for the United States or Europe. I wanted to stay low-key, not overdo it, but Ramón kept pushing. He was so charming and persuasive. I was drunk on him. And the money was incredible. Even before the drug aspect began. We were
The Bold and the Beautiful.
Pardon me, I am dying for a cigarette. You don’t mind, Valentín?”

He minded. Belhaj had been smoking in his face for days. But he wasn’t going to complain. Florencia’s plump hands fumbled with the lighter.

“The drug aspect is where Belisario Ortega comes in, the leader of the terrorist cell,” Biondani interjected. He was perched on the edge of an armchair, as if getting comfortable might implicate him in the acquisition of ill-gotten goods.

“I only met Ortega a few times.” Florencia wrinkled her nose. “I never liked that one.
Un negro de la provincia.
”

The commonly used, casually racist term meant “a black from the province.” It referred to dark-skinned, working-class people living in the hinterland around the capital. Pescatore wondered if the maid hovering in the next room had heard it. He wondered what Florencia would have called his mother.

Cocaine smuggling grew out of the human trafficking, she said. The ring moved migrants with strategically placed officials in ports, airports and border posts. They started using the same pipelines for drugs: inbound from suppliers in Bolivia, outbound to Europe through Africa. At first, couriers carried the cocaine. As the volume grew, loads were hidden in shipments of cargo, mainly used cars, using the cover of Kharroubi’s firms.

“Ramón brought in Ortega, who was a narcotics chief in the Bonaerense. His men in the police escorted loads, protected distribution. Soon we were swimming in cash. You can’t imagine. I couldn’t spend it fast enough. I bought this home. I bought that piano for Raymond.”

Her languid wave took in the piano, the apartment, the city below, the horizon beyond. As if to say:
Behold all I am about to lose.

“It’s a lovely home,” Pescatore said, sensing that she expected a compliment. “Life was good.”

She sighed. “Yes and no, dear. Yes and no. Frankly, I was frightened. We were playing in a heavyweight world. Ramón told me he knew what he was doing. He had contacts: the police, the Americans. He had worked for American agents, and he still had connections. He threw them something once in a while, little tips. Meanwhile, our romantic—”

“Which Americans?” Furukawa looked as if his breakfast had disagreed with him. “Agencies? Names? Did you meet Americans?”

“No.” She rearranged herself into a childlike, cross-legged pose. “Our relationship deteriorated. I knew he had other women. Younger women. Then he got all caught up in the Islamic thing. Because of his family history. The
turquitos
took him to their mosque. They were always going on about Muslims, Israel, Palestine. I could care less about politics. Ramón was obsessed. He converted. That beast Ortega converted. You know what a talker Ramón is. He said they were becoming international warriors.”

Raymond went through intensely devout periods when he grew a beard, prayed constantly, and shunned pleasure, Florencia said.

“He was driving me crazy. He became abusive. Verbally and physically. Telling me I dressed like a whore, acted like a whore. Then, after a few weeks, he would return to his old self: shave, spend money, carouse. Like the religious thing was a joke. The drug smuggling kept growing. I told him we should slow down. How much money did we need? He got angry. He said it was about ‘the cause.’ Whatever that meant.”

Disaster struck. Federal police intercepted a truckload of cocaine in the province of Buenos Aires. There were rumors of DEA involvement in the bust. Raymond visited Florencia, agitated and intense. He said he was leaving for Bolivia to lie low.

“A week went by. Kharroubi came to see me. He said I had nothing to worry about. My people were not touched. Ramón used his allies to protect us. Kharroubi said Ramón would be back soon.”

She took a deep breath. Pescatore noticed that Biondani was texting on his BlackBerry.

“I never heard from him. For months, I called. I sent e-mails. Not a word. I wanted to go to Bolivia. They told me to be patient, things were delicate. The man vanished from my life. It was absolutely brutal. Like a kick in the stomach. Like…”

She stopped. Her fleshy shoulders hunched. She began to cry soundlessly, sobs shuddering through her, tears jumping from her eyes. Pescatore glanced at the others; apparently, the next move was up to him. He patted her tentatively on the back. Although her snobbery annoyed him, now he felt sorry for her.

“It’s all right, Flo,” he said. “You take your time.”

He gave her Kleenex from a box on the coffee table.

“Me van a limpiar,”
she wailed. Underworld slang: “They are going to clean me.” Meaning: “They are going to kill me.”

“Please, Florencia,” Biondani said, looking up grumpily from his BlackBerry. “We are here protecting you around the clock.”

“Soy boleta,”
she sobbed. More gangster talk: “My ticket’s going to get punched.”

“For the love of God, who wants to kill you?” Biondani demanded.

“Who doesn’t?” Her wet mascaraed eyes stared over the handful of Kleenex. “The narcos. The terrorists. The police. Everybody!”

“What melodrama.”

“It might be melodrama, but it’s true.”

Biondani reminded her that, as a condition of her comfortable detention, she had agreed to cooperate fully. She composed herself and went on. A year ago, Raymond had resurfaced. He showed up at her door with a bottle of champagne and an apology. He said he had been forced to go underground. He alluded to intrigues, mafias, governments. Now, however, his wild ways were behind him. He had used his drug fortune to invest well. He was back in Argentina on business.