by Allan Topol
A few kilometers ahead, at the crest of the mountain, Craig spotted a building that looked like a cabin or a hunting lodge. There were no cars in sight. His guess was that it was deserted.
Hunched forward and gripping the steering wheel, he floored the accelerator, kicking mud from the rear tires. He wanted to get to the cabin quickly, as much ahead of his pursuer as he could.
On the last turn, he narrowly missed slipping off the road. Holy shit, he thought, it was a helluva long way down. He had no intention of duplicating his crash in Sardinia. He straightened out, then blasted through a small decrepit wooden gate and into the parking area on the side of the cabin. In an instant, he was out of the car, racing toward the front door of the cabin, Beretta in his jacket pocket. He grabbed the rusty doorknob and twisted. The door was locked, but it was old. When he smashed his shoulder against the rotting wood, it easily gave way.
Inside, he took stock of the cabin. It had a living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bath. No clothes or other signs of occupancy. The kitchen led to a wooden patio in the back, surrounded on the side, away from the house, by a wooden fence about three feet high. Crossing the patio, he saw beyond the fence a sheer drop, several kilometers straight down to a mountain stream.
He ran back into the cabin, leaving the door open to the patio in the back and ducking into one of the bedrooms, where he hid behind a heavy wooden chest. Through the bedroom window, he had a clear view of the patio. As he expected, the red-faced man thought he had gone out through the door in the kitchen to the patio.
Craig watched him pull a gun from his pocket and walk slowly across the patio toward the fence. When he reached the edge of the wooden deck, he stopped and peered over the fence, gun in hand, looking for Craig.
That was Craig’s signal to move. He ran back into the kitchen and out onto the patio.
From a distance of ten yards, Craig shouted, “I have a gun aimed at your back. Raise your hands and don’t turn around.”
The man followed the command.
“Toss your gun down the hill. Then raise your hands again.”
Once he complied, Craig ran up behind the man, looped his left arm around his neck and pressed the Beretta against his right temple.
“Now you’re going to answer some questions,” Craig barked.
“Anything. I don’t want to die.” The man was trembling.
“Tell the truth, and you’ll live. Otherwise you’re a dead man.”
Sweat was flowing down the man’s red, pockmarked face. “What do you want to know?”
“Why did you follow me up here?”
“I didn’t,” the man responded in a halting voice.
Craig jammed the gun so tightly against his flesh that the end of the barrel made an indentation. “You’re lying. Now tell me, or I shoot.”
The man hesitated.
Craig pressed the gun hard. “Tell me now.”
“Colonel Schiller sent me,” he stammered. “To keep tabs on you.”
“Why’d you pull out your gun?”
“I can’t get caught, or the colonel …”
Craig saw fear in the man’s eyes. “You have a cell phone. Don’t you?” Craig asked.
The man nodded. “In my pocket.”
“I want you to take it out slowly. Then call Colonel Schiller and tell him you lost the man you were following. That’s all. You got that?”
“I got it.”
If he made the call, Craig planned to take his cell phone, knock him out, and tie him up, making sure there were no other phones in the cabin. Then he would disable his car. That should give Craig enough time to meet Antonia and get out of Bariloche.
“Okay. Put one hand in your pocket. Nice and easy. If you say one other word, I’ll blow your head off.”
The man placed his right hand in his jacket pocket. As he began to lift it out, everything happened so quickly that Craig thought he was in a video that someone had turned to fast-forward. First the man’s right hand, gripping a shiny metal object, shot out of his pocket. With a jerking motion he brought it up and smashed the metal object against Craig’s wrist, knocking the Beretta from his hand. Helplessly, Craig watched it slide across the patio.
To his horror, he saw that the metal object wasn’t a cell phone, but a switchblade knife.
The man pressed a button and out snapped a long blade, glistening in the sun. He had fast movements for a large man. With the knife, he lunged for Craig’s chest, but Craig darted away. All he struck was the heavily padded sleeve of Craig’s ski jacket. The knife was embedded in the lining, and the man had trouble getting it out.
That was the break Craig needed. Ignoring the pain in his wrist, he raised his right arm and swung it in a powerful backhand motion with all the force he could muster, going for his assailant’s face. As he did, the man lifted his leg and aimed a powerful kick for Craig’s groin. Craig felt a jolt of searing pain just as the back of his hand struck the man’s face. It was a direct hit on his cheek and the side of his nose. Craig heard the crunching sound of bones breaking, but that wasn’t all. The man was off balance when the blow came. It was so powerful that it propelled him toward the fence.
From the ground where Craig was clutching his genitalia and writhing in pain, he watched the heavy, bulky man crash through the rotten wood of the fence. From the force of Craig’s blow, his assailant was now on the precipice of the cliff, leaning down the hill, trying desperately to straighten up and move back toward the cabin. Craig wanted to pull himself up to help the man. But he was barely conscious himself. That coupled with the pain prevented his body from responding. He watched the man pitch over the cliff, screaming, “Help,” and roll like a boulder side over side all the way down to the creek in the gully below.
A few seconds later, Craig’s mind cleared. The pain eased. He staggered down the hill, grabbing onto rocks and small bushes to keep his footing in the slippery mud. Once he reached the bottom, he realized he had come for nothing. The man had hit his head on a rock that had cracked his skull. He was dead, his face covered in blood.
Craig made no effort to move the body. Climbing back up was even more difficult. Several times he thought he would black out, but finally he made it.
On the patio, bruised and weary, he staggered toward the house. In the mist, in front of the Andes, the sun was dropping fast, but there was still a little more daylight. When he reached the door, he remembered his Beretta, which had skidded into a corner of the patio. He backtracked, picked up the gun, stuffed it into his pocket, and dragged himself outside to the SUV. He found the tracking device attached to the vehicle’s rear bumper. When he got back on the road, he would toss it into the lake.
Washington
Gina couldn’t believe that she was at a black-tie state dinner at the White House for the president of Brazil. She wasn’t there as a reporter, but as Edward Bryce’s date. Though she found Bryce increasingly repulsive after her evening with Barry Gorman, she was still awed by her surroundings.
The State Dining Room, its walls freshly painted a light blue, contained seven round tables of eight people each. Gina, dressed in the low-cut silk magenta Valentino Bryce said made her look ravishing, was seated between Bryce and Justice Thompson of the Supreme Court. President Treadwell and his wife, Polly, were at an adjacent table with the Brazilian president and his wife.
The only other person Gina knew was Amy, the president’s speech writer, seated across the table from her.
Amy was the president’s mistress, Gina had learned last evening when she and Bryce went to the White House to watch Hitchcock’s Vertigo and Polly was out of town. Amy was there supposedly to work on a speech, but midway through the movie the two of them had disappeared into a bedroom. When they emerged, half an hour later, her face was flushed and the president’s clothes were disheveled, his hair uncombed.
Gina was thinking she had to find a way to persuade Edward to arrange the delivery of the arms Estrada wanted. He must be planning to use them. He was sounding in
creasingly anxious.
A waiter in a white jacket with white gloves served the first course of warm Gulf shrimp over arugula and radicchio with a red pepper coulis.
“Where are you from, Miss Galindo?” Justice Thompson asked as he turned his mostly bald head surrounded by a ring of gray toward her.
“Argentina. Have you ever been there?”
“Once for a conference on human rights issues a year ago. We traveled around. It’s a wonderful country. What I really liked was …”
As he was speaking, she noticed that through his glasses he was looking down her dress, which had slipped a little, exposing the tops of her breasts.
She glanced across the table at Amy who must have sized up the situation because she was winking at Gina and smiling.
Before Gina came to Washington, she would have been embarrassed and humiliated by this situation.
But no longer. Anything was now possible. Her life had taken a bizarre turn. She had been content teaching history at the girls’ school. She never thought about being a journalist. That had been Estrada’s idea. He had arranged a job for her at La Nación in Buenos Aires. After a couple of months, she wasn’t enjoying being a reporter—all the sitting around for a story and then meeting deadlines. She decided she should stick with it for a year, because of what Estrada had done for her. Then one day he told her, “Good news. I’ve arranged with the publisher of the newspaper to transfer you to Washington.”
That sounded like fun. She had always wanted to go to the United States to visit. The foreign editor briefed her on her assignment. It didn’t seem that difficult because the White House and State Department regularly issued press releases. All she would have to do was repackage those into articles.
Two days before she left, Estrada had taken her to dinner. In a soft voice, just above a whisper, he explained that he had an important assignment for her in Washington, in addition to being a reporter. He told her about Edward Bryce and how critical he was for Argentina. Then Estrada told her, “I want you to find a way to become close with Edward Bryce. This would be valuable for Argentina. And your father would be proud of you for doing it.”
She had asked Estrada how she could get close to Bryce, but as soon as the words tumbled out of her mouth, she blushed, realizing how naive and stupid she sounded.
Estrada had placed his hand on hers, and said, “In the way that women always get close to men. And after you do, I’ll want you to pass along messages to Bryce.”
Gina may have been inexperienced in many things, but she had studied enough history to realize Estrada wanted her to be a spy. She had left that dinner with Estrada feeling excited. She would be serving her country, as her father had.
Shortly after she began sleeping with Bryce, her enthusiasm collapsed like a balloon that was punctured on a spike. The sex wasn’t fun. She felt dirty after she went to bed with him.
The jewelry he was giving her and the Watergate apartment he had rented made her feel like a whore. The reality sunk in that Estrada had plucked her from teaching as a way of getting to Bryce.
She would have preferred abandoning Washington and returning to teaching in Argentina. But she couldn’t let Estrada, the Republic, and her father’s memory down. She had been depressed about her situation. Then Barry Gorman came along.
Justice Thompson touched her arm. “Don’t you think so?”
“Oh absolutely,” she replied without having the vaguest idea what he was talking about. I better pay attention, she decided.
“As I was saying,” he continued, “your country is democratic now, but it wasn’t that long ago during the Dirty War that babies were kidnapped and pregnant women arrested, their babies taken from them at birth, and then they were executed.
“At the conference we heard from an organization, called the Abuelas de Plaza de Mayo. It was trying to find those children who had been given to supporters of the regime for adoption and restore them to what remained of their biological families.”
“What happened to those babies was terrible,” Gina said, “but don’t judge our whole country by the actions of a few evil people.”
Bryce turned to his right and was pleased that Gina was engaged in an intense conversation with Justice Thompson. Gina was young; still she had intellectual sophistication. If he married her, he wouldn’t have to worry about her gaining the respect of his contemporaries or others in Washington power positions.
A waiter returned with the main course, a rack of lamb with an assortment of vegetables. Another poured wine. Bryce looked at the bottle: Silver Oak cab, a very fine California wine. He was reminded of what President Nixon did at some White House dinners. He had waiters pour American wine for all the guests and Chateau Margaux for himself from an unmarked bottle.
Before eating the lamb, he glanced at the next table and at Treadwell. The president looked well, Bryce thought. Still, Dr. Lee had told Bryce not to be deceived by that. He was happy he had persuaded Treadwell to go to Bethesda Naval for a cardio workup. He prayed it would come out alright. That was about all Bryce had succeeded in convincing Treadwell to do. His entreaties to end the affair with Amy had been summarily rejected by the president, who laughed and said, “Sex with her does my heart good. Keeps my blood moving. You know what it’s like with a younger woman.”
“Yes, but I’m considering marrying Gina,” Bryce had told Treadwell.
“Then do it,” the president had said.
“I’m worried people will think she’s marrying me for my money and position, even though we’re in love.”
“Do it,” Treadwell had repeated.
Bryce decided he would. He had to wait for the right time to ask her.
Thirty minutes later, after dessert was cleared, Bryce watched Treadwell stride to the podium. Speaking without a note, he delivered a five-minute speech extolling the long friendship and ties binding the United States and Brazil. He then moved on to praise the great progress the Brazilians were making in strengthening their economy. He closed by looking forward to close cooperation on many issues in the future.
Treadwell had told Bryce that was what he called his standard one-two-three foreign visitor speech. The format could be adapted for the visiting head of any country. Treadwell was a good enough speaker that he didn’t have to memorize the words written for him. He always got the essence right. What Treadwell totally ignored this evening, was the acrimonious discussion he had had with the president of Brazil that afternoon, with Bryce in attendance, on the issue of United States arms supplies to Argentina.
Treadwell sat down. When the Brazilian President Dumont stood up, Treadwell leaned back in his chair and relaxed, expecting a similar couple of minutes of meaningless platitudes. Then he heard the Brazilian president say, in halting English, “Many of you in this group are our friends, and there are certain times that blunt talk is necessary among friends.”
Bryce sat up in his chair. He looked at Treadwell who was now ramrod straight in his own chair, the president’s eyes focused on the speaker. Protocol was being breached. State dinners were never for serious talk. That only came in the meetings before and after dinner. A deathly silence fell over the room.
“For several months,” Dumont continued, “we have watched with increasing dismay and alarm the huge quantities of American arms flowing to our neighbor Argentina. I mean planes, tanks, grenade launchers, and all of the other weapons for a state-of-the-art army. You should not delude yourself. Those weapons have no defensive purpose. They can only be used by General Estrada in some new aggressive military adventure.
“Let’s not forget that Brazil and Argentina fought a number of wars over the years, primarily in connection with border issues. We had thought all of those issues were resolved, but perhaps our neighbors believe otherwise.
“Let’s also not forget that Argentina is the nation that attacked Britain in the Falklands. If they dare to move against Brazil, they will be humiliated as thoroughly as they were in the Falklands. For we have our own sourc
es of arms, a much larger population, and a more powerful army.
“I strongly suggest that you halt these arms shipments and reign in General Estrada. If not, Washington will suffer the consequences of these actions.”
The Brazilian president sat down to a stony silence and a horrified audience.
All eyes turned to President Treadwell. Bryce wondered whether he would accept the challenge and respond in kind, telling the Brazilian that Argentina had reports and satellite photos confirming significant Brazilian troop movements near the Argentine border. Estrada had forwarded the reports to Bryce through Gina, and he had given them to the president.
Treadwell stood up to the deathly silence. He said, “We will move into the Green Room for a concert by the Tokyo String Quartet.”
Bariloche
Craig drove forty-five minutes from the cabin where he had struggled with the red-faced man to Antonia’s house. He decided not to call first, rather to show up and hope she was home. If she had time to think about it, she might not want to talk to him.
Taking a cautious approach, he turned the corner onto Avenue Santa Fe and drove by the house, a simple wooden structure in a neighborhood jammed with other similar houses, without stopping. Everything looked normal. He didn’t dare park the new SUV in front of Antonia’s for fear of bringing attention from a policeman who happened to be passing. He continued driving for two more blocks until he reached the parking lot for a soccer field. He parked there and hobbled back to number fifteen. As he did, he kept looking around, making certain he wasn’t being followed.
Before he had a chance to knock the front door opened. Someone had been watching him approach the house. A frail man in his forties with a professorial appearance, metal frame glasses, and thin brown hair was staring at Craig.
“What do you want?” he said.
“I’m looking for Antonia.”