The Convert's Song (9 page)

The barrage lasted awhile. When the shooting and the shouting finally stopped, when the roar of the helicopter receded, Pescatore came to the conclusion that they were still alive.

His mouth was full of Belhaj’s hair. He had gotten involuntary intimate confirmation that she was firm as well as curvaceous. He untangled himself from her.

“You all right?” he asked, sitting up.

Kneeling, she pulled matted curls back from her face. She was breathing fast. Her eyes were huge. Her clothes were smeared with mud. When she spoke, however, her voice was pretty steady.

“I am fine. And you?”

He followed her gaze to his own torso. It was as if he were looking down from a great height. Slowly, his fingers probed the spot where the bullet had hit him. He touched the mangled slug encrusted in the vest. He could not find blood or damage. Pain flared in his midsection. The impact would no doubt leave a bruise. But the body armor had done its job.

“Got me right in the ten ring.” His laugh was shaky. “That’s what vests are for, right?”

Moving slowly, tentatively, he and Belhaj helped each other to their feet. They swayed together like drunkards. She put an arm around his neck and gave him a brief hard hug. She spoke in his ear as if telling him a secret.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you too,” he said, feeling dizzy and warm. “You played it just right. And we got lucky.”

The gunman had staggered several yards and fallen at the edge of the trees. Cops surrounded the body. A youthful officer in a uniform sweater walked in circles, hands on narrow hips, looking up at the sky and then bending over. He was trying not to throw up. Aldo stood examining the corpse with workmanlike nonchalance, his shotgun over his shoulder. He greeted a pudgy uniformed sergeant who held a revolver.

“Che, polaco,”
Aldo said to the sergeant. “All good?”

“All good.”

The two officers leaned over the corpse and exchanged kisses on the cheek.

Pescatore and Belhaj approached the dead gunman. He lay sprawled on his back, a long arm flung up above his head. He wore a tracksuit and mud-stained high-tops with no socks. An extra ammunition magazine for his pistol protruded from one of his shoes. The body was a mess, but the corpse’s face was relatively unscathed.

The gunman’s voice echoed in Pescatore’s head. He had called them
ratis.
Pescatore remembered what the word meant. The origin was
tira,
a strap once worn on police uniforms. Jailhouse slang scrambled letters;
tira
became
rati.

“See that on his forehead?” he asked Belhaj. “A prayer mark?”

She crouched.
“Oui. Une zebiba.”

“He looks Argentine. No beard.”

“But the
zebiba
suggests a devout Islamist. A convert.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. By way of prison, maybe.”

The officers made a fuss over Pescatore and Belhaj. They put a lot of ceremony into making sure their guests were unharmed. They dusted them off, praising their bravery and professionalism. The group trudged back through the field to the road. Pescatore lay down on the hood of a squad car. A dull ache expanded in his chest and ribs.

I just got the bandage off my head and now this,
he thought.
Raymond’s going to be the death of me.

Furukawa hurried up. He turned pale when he heard their story.

“You know what kind of international interagency cluster fuck I’d have to go through if you got killed?” he declared. “You two need to cut that shit out.”

“Did they catch Kharroubi?” Pescatore asked.

“The SWAT team smoked them both.”

“There goes the best lead, right? Except for Raymond, everybody we know about who’s connected to the attack is dead.”

Belhaj got a ferocious look on her face. She was coming to grips with what had just happened—and almost happened.

“Was this what you call an operetta?” she asked. “They have silenced them intentionally?”

She had a point. The commander had said the safe house was under surveillance and the area was surrounded. Yet Kharroubi and his men had managed to get to their car and break through the perimeter. The police could have engineered it to finish them off during hot pursuit.

“Biondani said these guys were helping in good faith,” Furukawa muttered uneasily. “I’d like to believe him. But you’re getting the hang of how things work around here.”

W
hen Pescatore showed up at the U.S. embassy the next morning, Belhaj called him Valentín instead of Monsieur Valentín. She didn’t say much else, but her smile was enough to make his day.

Furukawa, meanwhile, looked glum. Kharroubi’s death had been a setback. The SIDE spy agency was convinced that Raymond had been the conduit between foreign masterminds and the local cell. Other than Florencia’s account, however, there was little evidence to rebut the official version of a homegrown plot.

Furukawa announced that he wanted to try a long shot. He asked Pescatore to write an e-mail to the Argentine address that Raymond had given him. Stepping aside to let Pescatore sit at his desktop computer, he said to keep the note short and general.

In the e-mail, Pescatore told Raymond that he hoped he was all right and urged him to get in touch as soon as possible. He wanted to help Raymond and was working with people who could lend a hand, but Raymond had to make contact if he wanted that to happen. Pescatore gave him all his phone numbers.

Reading over his shoulder, Furukawa suggested adding a personal touch.

“Like what?”

“Something only you would know. To prove it’s you writing.”

Pescatore thought for a minute.

“We both liked old movies when we were kids. Gangster films, Westerns. We saw
Rio Bravo
a dozen times.”

“Mention that,
órale.
”

Pescatore remembered the movie: John Wayne played Sheriff John T. Chance. Dean Martin played Dude, his alcoholic deputy. They holed up in the local jail and fought off a town full of enemies.

I figure you’re probably feeling like John T. alone in the jail right now,
Pescatore wrote.
Or maybe more like Dude; he was the singer. Anyway, bro, you need some backup.

Furukawa nodded. Pescatore hit the Send button. He said, “There you go. It’s a long shot, all right.”

“Hey, if the guy really reached out to you before, there’s always the chance he’ll do it again.”

The next item on the agenda was a meeting with one of Raymond’s cousins: Professor Jorge Takiedinne. Although Takiedinne had already been interviewed by the SIDE, Furukawa and Belhaj wanted to hear his account firsthand. Takiedinne received them at home in the Belgrano neighborhood. The somber apartment was crammed with antiques and carved wood furniture. Takiedinne did research on infectious diseases. The walls of his study displayed awards, diplomas, and a large glass case containing specimens of tropical parasites: a nightmare gallery of miniature monsters—with antennae, tentacles, shells—that had apparently been removed from people’s guts.

The professor’s courtesy did not conceal his resentment. He had a glossy head of hair and a handlebar mustache. He was a younger cousin of Raymond’s mother. There was a family resemblance in the hard, intelligent eyes above high cheekbones. Raymond had lived with the professor and his wife for a few months before finding his own place. Takiedinne acknowledged sending Raymond to the Kharroubi family for help with immigration issues. He knew the Kharroubis because they had once consulted him about a medical issue. The professor said that Raymond was pleasant but private. After Raymond moved out, his relatives saw him for occasional meals and visits and eventually lost contact with him. When the FBI agent interrupted to ask about Raymond’s religious conversion, Takiedinne got riled up.

“All I know is that he converted,” he declared. “A legitimate decision by a restless young man with an impressive intellect. I am doing my civic duty and answering your questions. I was horrified by the attacks. I personally know someone who was hurt. Yet it seems that terrorism is in the eye of the beholder. The rich and powerful nations decide who the terrorists are, who the war criminals are, who can plant bombs and commit assassinations. As I tell my Jewish colleagues: If you are Jewish and support Israel, that’s fine. If you are Lebanese, and you mention that Hezbollah has defended the nation and helped the poor, you are a terrorist, a fiend.”

“No one is saying anything like that, Professor,” Furukawa said. “We’re trying to understand who or what might have driven this young man to become radicalized.”

“I am not an expert on Islam. I am a nonpracticing Catholic. That does not stop your airport police from asking tiresome, stupid, insulting questions every time I go to an academic conference in the United States. Apparently, there are few offenses more grave in your country than having an Arab name.”

Furukawa expressed his disappointment that terrorism had forced the United States, a country of immigrants, to become less welcoming.

“Have those elements ever caught a real terrorist?” Takiedinne snorted. “Have you seen that science-fiction movie
Brazil
? Those brutes barking at people and arresting the innocent? That’s what your airports are like. The gates of an empire in decay.”

Pescatore’s abdomen still hurt from getting shot in the vest. He was in no mood to listen to disrespect of the U.S.A., not to mention of his former coworkers at Customs and Border Protection. He interrupted to point out that, as a matter of fact, U.S. airport inspectors had been instrumental in catching terrorists: from the would-be twentieth hijacker in the September 11 plot to the Times Square bomber.

“And who are you, exactly, young man?” Takiedinne demanded, his nostrils flaring over the formidable mustache.

“I’m an old friend of Raymond’s from Chicago,” Pescatore said, returning the stare. “I’ve known him since I was little. His parents too. We think Raymond is in serious danger. We want to find him before it’s too late.”

Takiedinne frowned. “You know Lydia?”

“When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time running in and out of her kitchen.” Pescatore allowed himself a grin. “The best empanadas I ever ate.”

The professor’s eyes softened. He asked questions about Raymond’s childhood. Pescatore was pretty sure he was being tested to see if he was telling the truth. Takiedinne sighed.

“I wish I could help,” he said. “At a certain point, Raymond made a decision to distance himself from us. We had a warm rapport. He went in a different and unfortunate direction.”

“Do you mean his friendship with Kharroubi?” Pescatore said. “And Florencia Pucinski?”

“In general. I have not seen Raymond since he moved away.”

“But it sounds like he cared too much about you to just disappear. You never heard from him again, sir? A phone call? An e-mail?”

“A postcard,” Takiedinne said at last. “About two years ago. From Lebanon. He had visited the village near Tripoli, in the north, where our family comes from originally. He sent a card with a brief greeting. I no longer have it, I am afraid.”

The summary of the SIDE interview had not mentioned a postcard from Lebanon. Not the kind of thing they would leave out. Takiedinne turned to Furukawa, showing his teeth without smiling.

“That detail slipped my mind during my conversation with the authorities,” he said. “Something about the way your colleague asked me just now stirred my memory. Strange, no?”

Takiedinne did not give up any other nuggets. After the interview, Furukawa and Belhaj held a brief whispered conference on the street. Then they told Pescatore they had business to attend to at their embassies. They needed him to make himself scarce.

He didn’t mind. He was tired and sore and wanted to think. He went to a café and ordered a
milanesa a la napolitana:
a breaded steak with ham and melted mozzarella cheese on top. Comfort food. His father had joked about the irony of the Argentines coming up with a dish that united northern snobby Milan and southern rowdy Naples.

Pescatore ate slowly and thought about what he’d learned so far. If the Buenos Aires plot was not homegrown, where did Raymond fit in? Did his visit to Lebanon mean anything? Though Shiite Hezbollah dominated Lebanon, Sunni al-Qaedist groups operated in the north of the country and in Syria and Iraq. Raymond was Sunni—as were the others in the Buenos Aires terrorist cell. But Kharroubi had been a Shiite.

Pescatore went home, put an ice pack on his midsection, and dozed. When he woke up, he decided to check out the club in San Telmo where Raymond had wooed Florencia. Not because he expected to turn up hot leads; he just hoped for more details of Raymond’s life in the city.

Pescatore spent the cab ride scanning the traffic for surveillance. He spotted a motorcycle and a Renault sedan that might or might not have been tails. The federal police were probably shadowing him. Maybe the Americans and the French too, hedging their bets about his reliability. And, what the heck, why not the Israelis for good measure.

He remembered reading a quote by an author named Taibo: “A paranoid Mexican is someone who is sure he is being followed, and about to get screwed, and he is right.”

That’s me, homes,
Pescatore thought, slumped in the seat, his head low in the collar of the leather jacket.
A paranoid half Mexican. And the other half is paranoid too.

The corner club was on the fringe of the cobblestoned historic district of San Telmo. The heart of the area was Plaza Dorrego, where vintage nightspots offered tango revues with orchestras and dance troupes. This club was more modest. A step-down entrance led to a narrow, smoky interior half a floor below street level. Overhead fans and a titanic espresso machine with an eagle statue on top made it feel like a neighborhood joint.

The place was almost empty. A pianist and bandoneon player warmed up onstage playing a lazy version of “Libertango,” the Astor Piazzolla classic. Jazzy piano chords anchored the lament of the bandoneon. Pescatore listened, savoring his rum and Coke.

The waitress wore her multitinted hair Rasta-style. Her T-shirt depicted Che Guevara wearing a Che Guevara T-shirt and exposed her flat belly. After ordering a second drink, Pescatore told her he was looking for an old friend, a singer who had performed at the club seven or eight years ago.

“Before my time,
gordo
.” She called him “fats” in the Argentine way, a term of endearment rather than an insult. “I’ll ask the muchachos. They’ve been around for years.”

The muchachos were the musicians. Within a couple of minutes, they wrapped up their rehearsal, sat down at Pescatore’s table, and accepted his offer of drinks. They gave no indication that the police or the SIDE had come by asking about Raymond. By now, Pescatore was used to the name causing people to get pained, angry or frightened looks on their faces, yet the musicians reacted with enthusiasm. They had played gigs with Raymond and seen him often at the club.

“What a great guy,” exclaimed Nestor, the bandoneon player, tossing back long hair. “We used to have fun with his imitations. Bocha, remember when he would do Nat King Cole? ‘Ansiedad’?”

“Of course,
loco,
” said the pianist, a chunky, sleepy-eyed mulatto from Uruguay. “A genius.”

Bocha crooned a verse of “Ansiedad” (“Anxiety”), approximating the velvet tone in which Cole had mispronounced Spanish—especially the
o’
s—so beautifully. Bocha and Nestor broke up laughing. Pescatore joined in. He liked these guys, and he wanted to keep the conversation going.

“That Raymond was something,” Nestor said. “Very talented.”

“Perhaps not the best pianist.” Bocha grimaced apologetically, as if compelled to put that evaluation on the record.

“He used to tell me he was basically faking it on the piano,” Pescatore said. “He said he played just well enough to get into trouble.”

Bocha chuckled. “That’s about right. What is he up to these days?”

“I don’t know,” Pescatore said. “I was hoping you could help me.”

Pescatore explained that Raymond’s family had lost touch with him. Because of Pescatore’s Argentine connections and investigative experience, he had agreed to help look for Raymond. He was worried about his friend. Although all that was technically true, Pescatore felt sneaky. Once he mentioned law enforcement, he expected the musicians to get nervous. They didn’t. He realized that they lived in a simpler, more civilized world than he did. They were cool and open-minded and presumed others were the same way.

The musicians said Raymond had been a fixture at the club, performing or hanging out, during his first two years in town. His onstage persona was a hit—he introduced numbers in
porteño
Spanish, then sang in bona fide American—and he became a minor celebrity. He was affectionate and generous. Bocha told an anecdote about Raymond loaning money to a waitress who had gotten evicted then refusing to let her repay him.

“He probably ended up hitting on her, though, right?” Pescatore asked cautiously.

“No,
che,
he was a real gentleman,” Bocha said. “He told her this place was like home for him, we were like family. He didn’t talk about it much, but he was recovering from a drug problem. The music helped him get clean.”

The musicians recalled Flo Pucinski vividly and Kharroubi vaguely. The more Florencia and Kharroubi came around, the less Raymond played regular gigs. He said he was traveling a lot on business. Eventually, he stopped playing any gigs at all. On rare visits to the club, he talked about having discovered Islam.

“He said he loved music, but he also loved his religion,” Nestor said, shrugging. “A personal issue, of course, so you don’t interfere. It was a shame he had to make that kind of choice.”

Bocha had been rubbing his goatee. He opened and closed his mouth. He sipped beer. He rubbed the goatee again. Pescatore waited.

“You know,” Bocha said at last. “I can’t be sure, but this year I thought I saw him. A strange thing.”

Bocha paused. Pescatore got impatient and said, “Really?”

“I hadn’t thought about it for a while,” Bocha said. “I remember I was on a break between sets. I was out on the sidewalk, having, eh, a smoke.”

Nestor grinned. Assessing Bocha’s watery gaze, it occurred to Pescatore that the pianist had gone outside to smoke a joint.

“It was drizzling,” Bocha continued. “I was about to go back inside. Then I had that sensation, you know, when someone is looking at you? There was a car across the street, a guy at the wheel. Watching. It startled me. It was dark, but the face was familiar. I thought,
Che,
I know who that looks like: Raymond, the American singer.
I took a step forward. I might have waved. But the car started up and took off fast.”