The Triple Frontier

by Marc Cameron

  “I’m sorry, chère,” Thibodaux said, his voice hushed.

  “I would have been adopted out to military family—or killed to make certain the subversive bloodline was stopped—but I had gone to visit my grandparents in Cordoba. The police were looking for them as well, and they sent me to live with other relatives the night before they were kidnapped. I was four years old and I never saw any of them again.” She shivered, and then shook off the emotion. “I tell you this not for sympathy, but to explain that I am no talking head on the television. Were it not for the military junta, I would have grown up to be the daughter of a college professor and a beauty queen, but those monsters bathed me in the blood of my parents and turned me into a revolutionary. I would have done anything to have saved my family if I had been able. How could I not help you do the same to save yours?”

  * * *

  Traffic was light and it took less than a half hour to reach the upscale Belgrano neighborhood. Quinn felt a familiar tightening in his gut as Soledad turned onto the quiet side street where the attack had occurred. Large brick houses fronted by rosewood trees lined the quiet avenue. Spiked iron fences and high walls topped with razor wire cordoned off each home.

  “These places are like mini forts,” Thibodaux said, face to the side window.

  “Sadly,” Soledad said, “Such measures are necessary to guard against robbery and other crimes. You have gated communities in the States. Outside of Buenos Aires, we have communities that are surrounded by electric fences and moats.”

  “Is it really so bad?” Miyagi asked.

  Soledad gave a solemn nod. “I supposed it depends on one’s circumstance. Many Argentines of this generation have never been affected by violent crime. They would tell you this is a safe place to go jogging at night. Others, they have had a much darker experience. They are the ones who build the fences. The only house on the block with no wall would make an awfully tempting target—so, everyone builds walls.”

  Soledad parked under a street lamp, next to an ivy-covered wall with wrought iron spikes along the top, and got out of the car.

  “Your brother’s motorcycle was found here, in the middle of the street. The other motorcycles were all around his. Your brother’s bike had damage to the front fender, and the bike ridden by . . .” Soledad consulted a long reporter’s notebook. “. . . the bike ridden by Eva Turcott had damage to the back tire. All the other motorcycles were simply lying on their sides.”

  “Someone ran into the back of her bike,” Miyagi mused.

  Soledad crossed her hands in front of her, clutching the notebook. “The police suspect that was the case, and that your brother ran into a lead vehicle when it stopped suddenly in front of him.”

  Quinn shook his head, walking the area, studying the street. “Maybe,” he said. “But Bo’s not likely to have run into anything unless he intended to.” He pointed at the pavement where Bo’s bike had gone down. “See this dark patch of rubber? I’m thinking he spun his back tire here, attempting to drift his back wheel. It’s something we used to do as kids. There’s a good chance he ran into one of the bad guys and that’s what damaged his bike.”

  Thibodaux walked to the middle of the dark street and did a slow three hundred and sixty degree turn. “Tidy spot for an ambush,” he said. “Especially that early in the morning. All these walls and fences keep everyone cordoned off nicely from the outside world.”

  “That looks like a guard shack.” Quinn said, nodding to what looked like a white phone booth on the corner less than fifty feet away.

  “It is,” Soledad said.

  “Is it not staffed at night?” Miyagi asked.

  “Sometimes yes,” Soledad said. “Sometimes no.”

  Quinn went to get a better look. Roughly four feet by four feet, it was vacant and secured with a heavy padlock. He could see a ceramic mug and some girlie magazines on the desk, as well as a couple of unopened bottles of water. “Someone’s been here recently,” he said. “Do you think it would have been staffed early this morning?”

  “I can check with the company,” Soledad said. She scribbled the telephone number stenciled on the side of the shack into her notebook. “The police may have already—”

  Quinn held up his hand, motioning down the street toward an elderly gentleman out walking in the dark with his beagle.

  Thibodaux, ever aware of his intimidating size, moved away to give the man plenty of space.

  “Could you ask him if he lives around here?” Quinn asked.

  Soledad’s smile was visible in the darkness. “Of course,” she said. “Just leave it to me.”

  The beagle growled when he saw the group, but the elderly man tipped his hat as he went by.

  Quinn could not understand much of what she said, but Soledad introduced herself and then chatted briefly with the man. He became animated and pointed to the guard shack, rattling off what appeared to be directions. Soledad pulled a business card from a clip on her notebook, wrote something on it, and then gave it to the man. He held it briefly to his heart, and then bowed before walking away.

  “Did you give him your contact number?” Quinn asked.

  Soledad chuckled. “That is already on the card,” she said. “It appears that he is a big fan of my news program. He wished for my autograph. In any case, he did not see anything this morning, but he did hear the sound of yelling and a woman’s screams. By the time he came to his gate only the motorcycles remained. He said the security guard was in his booth during the kidnapping, but that he left before the police arrived.”

  “Does he know the guard’s name?” Miyagi asked.

  “He does,” Soledad said. “His nickname at least. The guard goes by the name Viscacha. It’s a little animal somewhat like a rabbit or a large packrat. Their meat is actually quite tasty. According to Señor Gomez, this fellow has a pinched face with big ears that resembles one of these creatures.”

  Quinn tapped his thigh, gazing into the darkness, thinking. “Could your contact get us his address? I don’t have time to wait until he comes back on duty.”

  “We are fortunate there,” Soledad said. “Señor Gomez said that Viscacha works at Liniers tomorrow.”

  “Liniers?” Thibodaux asked.

  “A cattle market in Buenos Aires,” Soledad said. “More than 40,000 animals are sold here each week to restaurants and supermarkets. Tomorrow is a big sale day.” She looked at her watch. “Cattle lorries will begin to arrive in a few hours. Viscacha works the chutes so he will get to work around four or five in the morning.”

  “How about your contacts?” Quinn pushed. “Maybe they can get us his home address so we don’t have to wait.”

  “Señor Quinn,” Soledad said, her voice soft but resolute. “I understand your desire to move forward and rescue your brother. But my contacts would not remain my contacts for long if I telephoned them at one o’clock in the morning and asked them to identify a man whom I only know by the nickname of a small animal.”

  “I’ll give you that,” Quinn said, feeling the urge to hit something. He turned to head toward Soledad’s car. “Let’s go have a look at this auction place then.”

  “Viscacha will not be there for at least four hours,” Soledad said. “We are less than forty minutes away. I suggest you take a moment to eat something in the event that we do not have a chance to do so later.”

  Quinn hesitated. Bo was out there somewhere, waiting. Stopping for the trivial human appetites like food and sleep seemed unthinkable.

  “She’s right, chère,” Thibodaux said. “We need to be firing on all cylinders when the time comes.

  Quinn sighed. “True,” he said. “But I want to get to this Liniers place early enough that we can get the lay of the land.”

  “Of course,” Soledad said, starting up her car. “I know a bar that still serves a wonderful milanesa at this time of night. It’s like a beef schnitzel. The owner is a former friend of my father’s so he can be trusted. He is one of the people I have looking for another pistol.
”

  “That would be good,” Thibodaux said, patting the Taurus in his jacket pocket. “But if we can’t find one, it shouldn’t be too much of a problem to get another when the time comes.”

  Chapter 11

  Tigre and the others found the judge’s stash of wine, and, for a time, bottles clinked and the wood fire snapped amid the bawdy songs and filthy jokes. The men laughed and farted, raising their voices when they got to the most explicit punchlines so the women inside could hear what was in store for them. Alcohol and the post adrenaline crash from a day of kidnapping and watching two of their compatriots be shot to death, eventually pushed them into deep snoring sleep.

  Bo and Alma sat awake in the darkness of the little house, huddled as close as possible against the chill. The cold tile floor sent a sickening ache through the bones in Bo’s hips, but the throbbing pain in his tooth made everything else feel insignificant. Alma, whose hands were cuffed in front of her, did her best to tend to him, administering a few precious drops of clove oil every few minutes. The cold, or maybe it was the nerves, caused her to shiver uncontrollably and she had to brace her body against his to keep from spilling the entire bottle every time.

  Steven and Eva leaned together, backs to the wall, in and out of fitful sleep. Matt’s head lolled to his chest, mouth open, drooling.

  “I’m not worth any ransom,” Alma blinked back tears. “My father can’t even afford to replace his old pickup truck.”

  “Shhh,” Bo said, snuggling closer, fighting the urge to curse at his shackled hands. “We’ll figure something out before then.”

  “Maybe things always work out happily ever after in your world,” Alma snapped. “But I have seen too many times they do not.”

  “Me too,” Bo whispered.

  “I’m sorry,” Alma said. “It is stupid to attack the only friend I have. You must have led a very dangerous life.”

  “Not really,” he said.

  “Well,” Alma said. “Your ‘not really’ gave you some cruel scars.”

  Bo forced a smile. “They’re worse than they look.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, sounding far away. “My youth was dull. The most adventure I ever had in Valparaíso was sneaking out at night to go dancing.” She sniffed, wiping away a tear. “Dull does not sound so bad at the moment.”

  “Help is on the way,” Bo said. “My brother’s not the type to wait around to make a plan. In the meantime, we need to look around for something to get out of these cuffs—a paperclip, something like that.”

  Alma sighed. “I can appreciate your optimism, but does this look like the kind of place where we could find a paperclip?”

  “A hairpin, then,” Bo said, refusing to let Alma slide into complete despair. “You’ve seen the judge. I imagine her to be a slave to fashion, even out here among the cattle.”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “But even if you’re able to pick the locks, what then? We are half naked in the middle of nowhere.”

  “To be honest,” Bo said, “I wouldn’t mind a few minutes alone with The Flea.”

  “I am not afraid to die,” Alma said. “But the thought of dying among these animals—”

  The scrape of a shoe on tile caused her to stop and turn toward the door.

  Bo sat up straighter, peering into the darkness.

  “How are we doing?” It was The Flea’s croaky voice. Rather than wait for an answer, he strode across the room and planted a boot in Bo’s side, driving the wind from his lungs and cracking at least two ribs.

  Bo rolled with the blow, doubling up for the next kick—because guys like The Flea were never content kicking you only once. He coughed and groaned, but refused to cry out.

  La Pulga stopped once he judged Bo to be sufficiently tenderized, leaning against the wall on one hand. Panting from his efforts, he looked down at Alma and grinned.

  “Are you cold, little one?” he asked, as if he genuinely cared. He squatted down beside her, speaking English, as if he wanted Bo to understand every word. “I know what would make you warm.” His put a hand on her thigh, just above her knee. “Your passport says you are from Chile, so you might not be familiar with the interrogation methods formerly used by our military here in this country.”

  “Hey!” Bo grunted. He tried to pull himself into a seated position, but earned another swift kick from The Flea.

  “Now,” La Pulga said, settling down beside Alma again. “I was telling you about the military methods. I think your country used the parrilla to warm prisoners up on old bedsprings with a bit of electric current. I suppose it was effective enough, but somewhat . . . hands-off if you ask me. I prefer the more personal touch of the cattle prod.” His hand began to inch upward inside Alma’s bare thigh. “They say it smells like bacon cooking . . . Such a shame to burn this precious flesh.” His voice grew huskier with every word. “But some measures are necessary—”

  Alma drew her knees together, trapping The Flea’s hand long enough to launch herself forward and drive her forehead into his nose. He recoiled, doubled his fist to hit her, but Bo wheeled on his hips and reared back with both feet, planting them into the man’s unprotected groin. The Flea fell backward, out of Bo’s reach, but Alma got down, pummeling him in the neck and head with her powerful legs. Bo rolled quickly, intent on getting a leg wrapped around the man’s neck and choking the life out of him.

  Unfortunately, Jelly came in and grabbed him by the shoulders, dragging him back across the tile to the wall. The muscular kidnapper gave him a half-hearted swat to the side of the head, but it was apparent he probably wanted to kick La Pulga as well, so there was no force in it.

  The Flea clamored to his feet, one hand to his bleeding nose, the other clutching his groin.

  Jelly raised both hands and rattled off a string of what sounded like accusatory Spanish. The Flea gave an insolent shrug, and then muttered a few halfhearted words. Jelly stood for a long moment with his arms crossed, as if considering what to do. At length, he shook his head and went out to rouse the sleeping men.

  Alone again with his victims, The Flea licked the blood from his upper lip, and squatted down beside Alma again, staying just out of her reach.

  “Do not worry, my sweet,” he said, congested from his broken nose. “This place has no electricity, but we will soon be someplace with more . . . how do you say it? Creature comforts. Anticipation is half the fun. No?”

  He ventured forward to pat her on the knee again, and then stood before she could react. Bo jumped forward, rattling his handcuffs, causing him to recoil for fear of another attack.

  La Pulga stopped cold, a crooked smile spreading over his face.

  “You find yourself amusing?” he said. “Let us see how amusing you are when Jelly is not here to protect you.”

  He went out the front door, leaving the prisoners alone again.

  They were all awake now, staring at Bo and Alma.

  Matt’s glare was enough to cut through the shadows. “You’re going to get us all killed,” he said.

  “It’s not their fault.” Steven leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I really thought my dad would get something rolling by now.”

  Matt turned his glare toward Eva. “What about your dad?” He asked. “He got enough firepower—”

  “Shut up!” Steven snapped. “So help me, Matt, I’ll kill you myself if you don’t—”

  “If I don’t what?” Matt said. “Lay back and die like a good friend? I’m going to do whatever it takes to stay alive. You can take that to the bank.”

  Eva sighed. “They’ll find out soon enough,” she said. “Maybe I can save the rest of you.”

  “That’s not the way these guys think,” Bo said. “We keep quiet and let them find out on their own. That gives people time to mount a rescue operation.”

  “We’ll see,” Matt said. “But I’m not waiting to get shot in the head.”

  Bo turned to Alma. Matt was going to do what he was going to do. He leaned closer. “What did Jelly say when
he came in?”

  “He yelled at La Pulga for taking liberties,” Alma said. “And reminded him of the judge’s order. Then he said the judge is working out the money details and that she’s not coming back until sometime tomorrow morning. She’s supposed to be bringing an ice chest and enough food for a couple of days.”

  “A couple of days?”

  “That’s what Jelly said.”

  Bo sighed, thinking. “La Pulga seems to think we’ll be at a place with electricity soon.”

  Alma shivered. “You think they’re moving us?”

  “I do,” Bo said. “And I don’t think Jelly knows.”

  * * *

  Angelica Medina pushed away from her the laptop and tapped long manicured fingernails on the polished wood beside her keyboard. Her red silk dressing gown flowed down either side of the squeaky office chair where she’d slipped it off her shoulders. The hotel room across the Tancredo Neves Bridge over the Iguazú River in Brazil was cramped and hot but Richter surely had people watching their home in Argentina. Angelica said it did not matter. They could log into their cloaked accounts from anywhere. According to her, the move to a different network would only make them more secure.

  The kidnappings had been planned on a whim and she was still in the process of working out the method for Grey to pay the ransom. Justino was not stupid. He understood finance and banking—even the illicit kind. He and Angelica often used offshore banks to hold their proceeds from the illegal adoptions they arranged. The government was hot and cold regarding investigation and prosecution, but a sitting judicial officer could not afford to be found with an overly healthy bank account in the event some enthusiastic prosecutor decided to go snooping. As an attorney, Justino had set up the offshore accounts. But when Angelica started talking about ransoms of Bit-coin and other cryptocurrency, it all went over his head.