The Convert's Song (14 page)

Glancing back, he saw Yennifer running away down the middle of the street on broad stubby legs and bare feet, a platform shoe in each hand.

“What happened?” Fatima asked.

Pescatore struggled to catch his breath. “Somebody found out about our little transaction.”

He leaned forward to pat Wenceslao gratefully on the shoulder. The security man nodded.
The dude might be a complainer, but he’s not shy about pulling a trigger,
Pescatore thought.

Fatima lit a cigarette. She gave the order to go to Santa Cruz, which had an international airport. She had no intention of sticking around to explain to the authorities the chain of events that had deposited three casualties on the doorstep of the Pensión Lola. The Land Cruiser hurtled down the two-lane highway. The driver cursed the occasional vehicles, cyclists, pedestrians and animals that flashed by like apparitions in the corridor bisecting the pitch-black rain forest.

About a half hour later, the driver said a Nissan Frontier was following them. He slowed down; the Nissan slowed down. When he sped up, the Nissan matched his pace. A red light began flashing on its roof.

There was a conversation about whether the unmarked Nissan was really the police, whether that was good or bad, and whether they should stop.

“I hate to bring this up,” Pescatore said, “but those guys we shot mighta been cops. Plainclothes or off duty. They had that look.”

Fatima told the driver: “Go faster.”

She lit another cigarette. Pescatore reloaded. The security officer used his phone to report an emergency, presumably to the French embassy in the Bolivian capital hundreds of miles away. He described their location. Pescatore thought,
Just tell them it’s so deep in the jungle that the cavalry will get here in time to tag our toes.

Ten minutes later, more flashing red lights appeared up ahead. Two vehicles blocked the road. Silhouettes with long guns took shape. Belhaj, Pescatore and Wenceslao had a rushed conversation about strategy. Pescatore voted for blasting through the roadblock.

“What do we do, Commissaire?” Wenceslao demanded.

Fatima angled her head to blow smoke, as if she were sitting in a sidewalk café with someone who had made an annoying comment.

“This is a vehicle of the embassy of France carrying representatives of the government of France on official business,” she said. “We will stop as requested.”

By now, silhouettes at the roadblock were flashing headlights in a signal to stop and scurrying to take cover. The driver hit the brakes on the Land Cruiser. After the howl of the engine and the shriek of the tires, the quiet was startling.

Pescatore gripped his pistol. The Nissan behind them disgorged two gunmen.
We’re good and surrounded now,
he thought.
I hope Fatima has a plan.

A half dozen gunmen at the roadblock took aim at the Land Cruiser. But Pescatore wasn’t convinced they were confederates of the guys he had just shot. They seemed too calm. Unless they were real cold-blooded.

The lean, bespectacled man who approached the vehicle made a show of holstering his pistol as he walked. He wore a uniform-style cap, a fatigue jacket, and khaki pants—an outfit that left some ambiguity about his affiliation with law enforcement. He carried a satellite phone.

Wenceslao lowered his window, talked with the man, and turned in his seat.

“The gentleman identifies himself as a police lieutenant,” Wenceslao said, his voice full of disbelief. “He says he has a phone call for Mr. Valentín.”

“What?” Pescatore demanded.

Wenceslao handed Pescatore the lieutenant’s phone. Because his life was getting stranger every day, Pescatore wasn’t altogether surprised to hear Raymond’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Cuate,”
Raymond said. “Whaddya hear, whaddya say?”

T
he line was from
Angels with Dirty Faces,
a 1930s gangster film they had liked as kids. James Cagney and Pat O’Brien are boyhood pals in a tough neighborhood. One day the police chase them. Cagney gets caught and becomes a gangster; O’Brien escapes and becomes a priest. The gangster goes to the electric chair after helping the priest reform a bunch of punks played by the Bowery Boys. Raymond liked to mimic the nasal delivery of the pals greeting each other: “Whaddya hear, whaddya say?”

“Raymond.” Pescatore spoke into the phone through clenched teeth. He saw an incredulous look on Fatima’s face. “You think this is some kinda joke? I got guys pointing guns at me over here.”

“Just getting your attention, bro.” Raymond sounded jovial. “Bringing the drama.”

“Where you calling from?”

“Far away. What’re you doing in the Chapare? That’s a bad place to cause trouble. And you’re sidekicking with a lady fed. African American babe. What is she, FBI?”

Raymond had enough clout in the area to track their movements and sic the cops on them. Someone had given him a description or photo of Fatima Belhaj. Yet his sources weren’t that great; he was under the impression that she was a U.S. agent. Pescatore wondered if Raymond had sent the gunmen to the Pensión Lola.

Raymond asked, “So, homes, are you tapping that?”

“Man,
fuck
you!” Pescatore’s exclamation made the others jump in their seats. “You and your goddamn head games.”

“You’re lucky I heard what was going on and got involved.” Raymond’s voice hardened. “You’re messing with heavyweights.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot, that’s your specialty now: long-distance murder.” He trembled with rage. “I was at El Almacén, Ray. I saw those people with their arms and legs blown off, guts all over the floor. God rest their souls. You proud of yourself, scumbag?”

A long pause. Finally, Raymond asked, “You were at El Almacén?”

“Goddamn right.”

“How—”

“That was the worst shit I ever saw.”

Raymond’s voice faltered. “I’m sorry, Valentín, I hope you—”

“Sorry I was there? Or sorry two hundred people got massacred?”

“The whole thing.”

Outgunned or not, Pescatore pressed his apparent advantage.

“Bullshit,” he snarled. “Next you’re gonna say you had nothing to do with it.”

“Less than you think. And don’t forget, I called you. When I found out something was coming down in Buenos Aires, I tried to warn you.”

“Didn’t try too hard.”

“You gave me a fucked-up number.”

“You could’ve kept calling, or dialed fucking Argentine 911.”

“It’s not that simple. I took a big risk. Like I’m taking right now.”

Pescatore was aware of Fatima, the security man, and the driver listening in consternation: his audience for a conversation at gunpoint. He took a breath.

“Raymond, I appreciate that,” he said. “What you need to do is step up and turn yourself in. Before it’s too late. Before more people get killed.”

He looked at Fatima, who nodded encouragingly.

“Unfortunately, that’s not possible at this time.” Raymond spoke mechanically, as if for the record.

Maybe he thinks U.S. intelligence is monitoring the conversation,
Pescatore thought.
Maybe he’s right.

“Come on, man,” Pescatore insisted. “You and me need to figure something out.”

“If the time comes, you’ll be the one I deal with, believe me.”

“At least tell me if there’s any more attacks out there getting ready to happen.”

“All I can say is keep an eye on Europe. That’s where it’s gonna hit the fan.”

“Where in Europe?”

“Escuchame, fiera,
you’re not exactly in a position to be interrogating me right this minute.” Raymond chuckled harshly. He had regained control.

“Guess not.” Pescatore glanced at the roadblock. “You gonna call off your monkeys?”

“Yes. But get your ass out of Bolivia.”

“Okay.” And then, “Thanks.”

“Pass me the
teniente.
”

“Think about what I said, Raymond. I’ll be waiting on your call.”

No response. Pescatore reached around Wenceslao and handed the phone back through the window.

“My friend wants to talk to you about giving us safe passage,” Pescatore told the lieutenant in a voice intended to convey that he didn’t take any shit.

After listening briefly to the phone, the lieutenant stepped back. The officers cleared the road. The Land Cruiser lunged forward as if heading for takeoff. The occupants relaxed in their seats as the danger faded in the rearview mirror.

Pescatore told Fatima about Raymond’s end of the conversation.

“Here we been chasing this guy’s shadow,” he said. “And all of a sudden he’s on the phone, calling the shots.”

“Incredible,” she said, shaking her head.

“I think Raymond might’ve just saved our lives.”

“That is certainly one interpretation.”

Fatima and the embassy security man conferred, then talked on their phones. Resting next to her with his eyes closed, their legs touching, Pescatore heard bits and pieces. The talk was about hustling Pescatore and Belhaj out of the country before the Bolivian authorities could trace the shooting and intercept them. Pescatore added Bolivia to the list of nations where he had worn out his welcome. His mind wandered; he relived the gunplay in Villa Tunari. He had most probably killed two men. Things had happened so fast he hadn’t had time to dwell on it. He wasn’t sure what to feel. The conversation with Raymond had freaked him out. Raymond had seemed self-confident but fragile. He relished playing the puppeteer, with the power to take or spare lives by phone. But he had sounded genuinely distraught about the news that Pescatore had been at the scene of the attack in Buenos Aires.

At the Santa Cruz airport, they were met by a local security team dispatched by the embassy: a Frenchman and three Bolivians. Wenceslao and the new guards brought in the luggage. They escorted Belhaj and Pescatore, who grudgingly handed over the SIG Sauer, through immigration and security checkpoints to a VIP lounge. The guards hovered near the door.

“These guys look like they expect the police to charge in any minute,” Pescatore said.

Typing one-handed on her phone, Fatima said, “They will be happy when we are in the air.”

“Why are we going to Miami?”

“It is the first available international flight.”

“Oh. Then what?”

She looked up. “I want to go to Paris to push the investigation. Especially after what Raymond told you about possible attacks in Europe.”

“And me?”

“It is up to you.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I would like you to come with me and continue our work.”

Pescatore leaned closer in his armchair, glancing around. “In what capacity?”

“What?”

“For professional or personal reasons?”

She mimicked his pose with a conspiratorial grin. He felt as if he were drowning in her eyes. She kept her voice down.

“Both.”

“Let’s go to Paris,” he said.

“Good.”

“One thing, though. I pay my own way, my company’s covering the expenses.”

“We can discuss the accounts later.” She made a dismissive noise. “Now I have something for you to help me.”

She had received an e-mail with a list of names the French police had generated in the hunt for Raymond. They were mostly Argentines residing in France: legal and illegal immigrants, criminal records and clean. The theory was that Raymond was using a fake identity with a real Argentine passport obtained through Florencia. Fatima said it was her experience that people didn’t make up aliases out of the blue, but chose names that had some significance.

“Tell me if you see anything that could be relevant for him.”

She handed him her phone. He scanned the two dozen names in the e-mail.

“Why are these five in a separate list at the end?”

“They are not probably in France. Little information. No photos.”

“Well, this one is interesting. Alberto Francisco.”

“Why?”

“Turn it around and make it English. Or French.”

“Francis Albert.”

“It could be a coincidence. But it’s the first two names of a singer. One of Raymond’s idols.” He smiled. “I’ll give you a hint: he loved Paris.”

“Sinatra.”

“Yep. I figure if I’m Raymond playing around with aliases, that’s the kind of thing I’d come up with.”

“Excellent.” She started tapping out an e-mail.

Pescatore called Facundo, who had been asleep but was happy to hear from him. Pescatore briefed him on events in Bolivia and the story behind the photo that he had e-mailed him. Facundo did not recognize Ali Baba, but he promised to make inquiries. Pescatore told him Fatima Belhaj had sent the photo to the FBI as well.

“We’ll find out who the rascal is.” Facundo sounded groggy. “I’m having the surgery tomorrow. I might be woozy for a couple of days.”

Facundo played it casual, but the surgery was not a small matter. Pescatore knocked the wood of a side table, hoping he would pull through.

“Okay, boss,” he said, keeping his voice warm and upbeat. “Hurry up and get better. You’ll be taking care of business at La Biela in no time.”

“I can’t wait to watch other people have coffee and
medialunas
,” Facundo replied. Pescatore wished him luck and they hung up.

Pescatore and Belhaj caught their flight. A long layover gave Pescatore a chance to play tour guide at the Miami airport, which combined U.S. infrastructure and Latin personality. He took Fatima for Cuban coffee at a counter where the workers addressed him in Spanish. They wandered boutiques where the salespeople and customers represented Ibero-America: Caracas, Madrid, São Paulo, Santo Domingo. At La Carreta diner, he introduced her to fried plantains, guanabana shakes, and a rice and beans dish whose name provoked a wry smile from Fatima: Moors and Christians.

He didn’t mention that he also liked the Miami airport because of the high proportion of good-looking women who reminded him of Isabel Puente. But when Fatima asked how he knew Florida, he said his ex-girlfriend was from Miami. He found himself telling her about Isabel: a love story intertwined with a crime story. He explained that Isabel, then an internal affairs agent, had recruited him as an informant in a case that led to the Triple Border. Back in San Diego, they got engaged. It lasted three years.

Fatima said that romances between handlers and informants were problematic.

“You got that right,” he said. “The relationship was all about danger, excitement, adrenaline. Us against the world. It was hard to adjust to a nine-to-five life. We were hot or cold, no in between. Isabel is real organized, ambitious. Me, uh, you know, I’m more of an improviser. I see you smiling over there behind your hand, Commissaire. Anyway, the bosses didn’t want me working the Line anymore. There was intel that the mafia in Tijuana wanted to retaliate against me. I bounced around—the anti-smuggling unit, details in Arizona and Texas. More tension at home. We were like cats and dogs. Finally, she got a promotion to Washington. And it ended.”

“But you still care about her.” Her tone was soft.

“I guess you’re right. But listen: I moved to Buenos Aires partly to get away from her. I couldn’t get her off my mind for months. Then I met you. And I’ve been thinking about you nonstop.”

She smiled. She didn’t say anything. He was comfortable with that. He had done enough talking.

They arrived in Paris on another overnight flight. The taxi sped through a gray dawn. He had never been to France, and he didn’t spot any landmarks before Belhaj dropped him at a hotel on Porte Maillot, the city’s northwest edge, next to a convention center resembling a space station. She was going home to change and then to her headquarters. Until she met with her chiefs, it would be better if he didn’t accompany her.

“It is delicate,” she said. “I need a little time.”

“I understand,” he said.

She had been up-front with him and brought him back into the case. But he was a foreigner. He wasn’t official law enforcement; he wasn’t on the team. Her words increased his feeling of isolation and uncertainty.

“Rest,” she said.

They gave each other a lingering kiss, the first since the jungle. He savored it while he trudged like a zombie to his room and collapsed.

When he awoke, it was dark outside. He had slept all day. He showered, changed, and turned on the TV news. The lead report described rumblings of unrest in the slums of Paris and other cities. As summer neared, the government feared riots. He understood most of what he heard, and that was a relief. Speaking French would be another matter.

The room phone rang. Fatima Belhaj was downstairs. She steered him to the hotel restaurant and ordered for both of them, looking impatient until the waiter left.

“News?” he said.

“Enormous news,” she said. “You were right. Alberto Francisco was Raymond’s alias in France. Bravo, Valentín.”

“Wow. Is he still here?”

“We do not know. Not only did he live in France, he has been known to the authorities for some time. Not only has he been known, he was
un indic.
An informant.”

Still half asleep, he took a while to process the information. He asked, “How is that possible? How are you just now finding out?”

Her eyes flashed. “The things can be very strange in this world. I had an uncomfortable day. A number of colleagues were reluctant and unhappy to talk to me. This is an explosive affair. It had been kept quiet. And Valentín”—she reached to take his hand—“it is completely confidential. I should not tell you any of this.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t tell anybody anything. When did Raymond stop working for you guys?”

“Last year. I am still assembling the narrative.”

“Has Ali Baba been identified?”

“No. Tomorrow we fly to the south.”

“What’s there?”

“Raymond’s…
officier traitant.
”

“Case officer?”

“Yes. We are going to see him. He is not happy about it.”

“Another member of the Ray Mercer International Fan Club.”