The Argentine Triangle: A Craig Page Thriller

by Allan Topol

  It was early morning; the sun was shining. More rain would come later in the day.

  Past the gatehouse drove a van carrying four Argentine generals, longtime friends and colleagues of Estrada, who would be in the field directing the attack.

  The four assembled around a table in Estrada’s office with Schiller and Estrada. The mood of the six was jovial, pleasing Estrada, and matching the bright spring day. For decades, the Argentine military had been maligned and regarded with contempt by one incompetent civilian ruler after another. Well, those days were over. The military would rule again in Argentina. This time they wouldn’t have to fight their way in. On the heels of a smashing victory against those illiterate Brazilians, the people would sweep Estrada into power. It would be a great day for the Argentine military. A great day for the Argentine nation.

  “We have two items of good news,” a beaming Estrada announced with a lit cigar in his hand.

  All eyes were looking at him, waiting expectantly.

  “First, I personally spoke with General Sanchez in Porte Allegre. He assured me that most of the key Brazilian army commanders in their southern sector are on board. In that region, they despise the federal government. They will order their soldiers not to resist. Sanchez is worried about casualties from our weapons. I promised that we would only fire if fired upon. Is everybody clear with that?”

  In unison, all four generals replied, “Yes.”

  “Excellent. The second bit of good news is that the Americans will not intervene. The decision was made by President Treadwell. That’s the last piece that had to fall into place. So now we can finalize our plans.”

  He paused to puff on his cigar. He had been a happy man since Gina had called last night to tell him about Treadwell’s decision. “Now let’s talk about logistics.”

  Estrada picked up a pointer resting on the table. With long purposeful strides, he walked over to a large map of the area taped to the wall. Then he targeted four specific points along the Argentine Brazilian border. He assigned each of them to one of the generals in the room.

  “At first light, 600 hours, Wednesday,” he said, “four days from now, our planes will bomb the Brazilian air bases and eliminate their air force as a factor. An hour later, each of your units will smash across the border. If Sanchez proves to be wrong, and you encounter resistance on the ground, then I’ll call for air support. Regardless, you push your tanks and troops eastward as fast as you can. And you don’t stop moving until you’ve reached the Atlantic Ocean.” He paused for a minute. “Now are there any questions?”

  One of the generals raised his hand. “You said that the Americans won’t intervene.”

  Estrada nodded.

  “But how can you be sure of this?”

  “Our secret weapon. Thanks to a friend in Washington I have complete control over Treadwell. He’ll do whatever I want.”

  Washington

  Bryce arrived at his office at the law firm at eight o’clock Sunday morning. After spending so much time on the Argentine issue, he needed an hour to read his mail and check e-mails for firm business. At nine, he was scheduled to meet with the other two members of the firm’s executive committee.

  The law firm’s fiscal year ended on December 31st, and it was time to begin thinking about how to divide up the year’s profits. This had been an incredible year for the firm. Thanks to Bryce’s close relationship with the president, vast numbers of new clients from corporate America as well as giant foreign corporations retained the firm hoping to gain some advantage from the magic of Bryce’s name in their legal dealings with the United States government. Those clients were charged “premium billing,” which meant adding a hefty amount on top of the normal fee calculated by multiplying the hours lawyers worked by their normal seven or eight hundred dollar hourly rates. Bryce’s own rate was $1,500 an hour. That was a perk of having access to the Oval Office. As a result, the firm was awash in money. A local auto dealer who sold Bentleys and Rolls Royces was repeatedly being summoned to the firm’s offices to discuss the availability and differences among various models. And as long as Treadwell stayed in the White House, the lawyers at Bryce’s firm would party on.

  It was no different than what happened in any administration in Washington. One or more law firms always caught the giant wave and, like a champion surfboarder, rode it to financial ecstasy.

  Later on that Sunday, the office would be bustling as young lawyers, anxious to make their mark and gain the position of partner at the cash trough by exceeding the target of three thousand billable hours a year, would be hunched over their computers, composing briefs and memoranda. But at eight o’clock, the posh wooden corridors, covered over by oriental carpets, were quiet.

  Bryce’s secretary was already at her desk, poised to provide help when he needed her. Rarely did Bryce have anything for her on a Sunday that couldn’t be done on Monday. Still, she smiled and endured the ridiculous waste of giving up part of the Lord’s day in return for the large bonus that went with being the managing partner’s number one secretary.

  “Morning, Sue,” Bryce said, as he passed by her desk without looking at her.

  “Morning, Mr. Bryce,” she responded. “The firm’s financial information that you wanted is on your desk, and I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

  Once he was inside his office, Bryce turned on his computer. Waiting for it to boot up, he noticed that the voice mail light on his telephone console was red.

  Bryce hit the listen button. What he heard was Gina’s voice, leaving a message at six fifty that morning. “I had a really good time last night, Edward. Thank you very much and for the earrings … I’m sorry, but I’ll have to miss the football game today. I just received a call from my editor. He wants me to go out of town to cover a story for a couple of days. I’ll call you when I get back … I can’t turn him down.”

  What the hell’s going on, Bryce wondered. Her excuse had to be total bullshit.

  He thought about her behavior since the trip to Buenos Aires. Everything had changed in their relationship. It wasn’t simply that she had been cooler to him. They hadn’t made love even once. He remembered the last time she had her period, and he checked the calendar. That was only fifteen days ago.

  He dialed Gina’s home number, but encountered her answering machine. Then her cell phone. Same result. No surprise. She didn’t want to talk to him. Otherwise, she would have called him at home or waited until he had gotten to the office.

  Bryce replayed Gina’s message again and listened carefully. She sounded hesitant and tentative. She didn’t say where she was going. And what’s more, what kind of an assignment could her newspaper have given her in the middle of the night that would take her out of Washington. The Argentine-Brazilian dispute wasn’t only the lead news story, it was the news for that region. And Washington was critical. From a journalism standpoint, it made no sense for her to leave Washington.

  There was only one explanation: Barry Gorman. That’s why everything had changed since Buenos Aires. She had met Barry Gorman there. He’d bet anything she hadn’t been with Rosie that night at all. She had been out with Gorman. His initial judgment at the Alvear had been right. She had made a fool out of him, letting her talk him out of it and buying her earrings.

  Thinking about Rosie made him recall the sudden phone call she had received last night after dinner at her apartment on her cell phone. That must have been another phony Rosie story. Gorman must have called and asked her to meet him somewhere today. That would account for her change of plans.

  She had not only lied to him, but she was off somewhere shacked up with Gorman. In his mind, he had a picture of the two of them naked in bed, his gorgeous Gina on her back, legs spread, and Gorman on top pounding away. That made his blood boil.

  He wasn’t willing to give her up, but how could he compete with a good-looking, dashing investment banker loaded with money, who was twenty years younger? He couldn’t!

  It wasn’t merely that he wanted to re
tain Gina. He had more at stake than the woman. She was the linchpin for the new life he contemplated after Claire’s departure.

  Bryce wasn’t a quitter. He never gave up on anything. Tenacious was one of the adjectives used to describe him in his high school year book. So as he sipped his coffee, he thought of how he could win her back.

  If he could dig up some shady things in Gorman’s past or some embarrassing aspects of his current life and reveal them to Gina, then he’d be able to win her back.

  And it wasn’t farfetched. After all, Colonel Schiller had told Bryce that he thought Gorman was a phony. Thus far, Schiller couldn’t prove it.

  Well, Bryce would expose that fraud, but he’d need help.

  About six years ago in his legal practice, Bryce had been representing an American computer company, whose technology was being pilfered by a Chinese firm. To uncover the critical evidence, Bryce had hired Dale Briscoe, a former high-ranking official of the Defense Intelligence Agency, who had a PI firm based in Roslyn, Virginia, close to the Pentagon. Briscoe maintained a lengthy list of former FBI and law enforcement officials around the country whom he drew upon as consultants for spot assignments.

  Then two years later, Bryce had hired Briscoe in a stock fraud case to establish that the government’s main witness had made a killing trading in the stock himself through concealed third parties. Both times, Briscoe’s work had been outstanding.

  Bryce picked up his Blackberry and scrolled through the directory until he found Briscoe’s home telephone number.

  “Dale. It’s Edward Bryce. Been a couple years. I hope you remember me.”

  Briscoe gave a hearty laugh. “How could I forget? You’re the man of the hour in Washington. The man everybody wants to hire.”

  Hearing those words, Bryce was bursting with pride.

  “Right now, I need you.”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  “Ten this morning. My office.”

  “I’ll be there with bells and whistles. Whatever you need, I’ll get it for you.”

  Though Dale Briscoe had a jovial side in personal matters, when it came to intelligence work, the wiry former Holy Cross basketball player was a hard charger. He never said a job couldn’t be done. He loved outrageously short deadlines. He took no prisoners. Those were the qualities that Bryce thought made him perfect for this assignment.

  Briscoe once told Bryce, “Show me an intelligence agent without holes in the soles of his shoes, and I’ll show you a man who’s not working hard enough.”

  So when Briscoe collapsed his six-foot-four frame into a straight chair across from Bryce’s desk, the first thing the lawyer asked was if he could see the soles of Briscoe’s shoes. With delight, Briscoe lifted one and then the other. Each of them had holes the size of a quarter.

  “Tell me what I can do for you,” Briscoe said, in his usual, no-nonsense manner.

  Bryce had made a copy of the card Barry Gorman had given him in Buenos Aires and printed a copy of Barry Gorman’s bio from the Philoctetes website, including Gorman’s photo. He handed both of these to Briscoe. “I want you to find out everything you can about this man. Every transgression he’s ever committed all the way back. Anything. Was he punished in grade school for putting chewing gum under the desk? You know what I mean.”

  Briscoe nodded. “You want to expose those things to some mutual acquaintance, or maybe persuade Gorman to do your bidding.”

  “All of the above.”

  The investigator glanced at the documents Bryce had handed him. “What do you know about the Philoctetes Group?”

  “Personally, I’d never heard of it until a couple of days ago. It’s a private equity firm. Gorman has billions of their money to invest in Argentina.”

  “Why would he want to do that with the economic mess in Argentina?”

  “You always cut to the chase. I tried calling his office in San Francisco, but I got a routine voice mail message. I’m afraid I can’t tell you much else about the man.”

  Bryce was ready to end the meeting. “Let’s talk about the deadline and your fee.”

  Briscoe wanted to probe some more. “Have you ever met the man?”

  “Once in Buenos Aires last week. He was staying at the Alvear Palace.” Bryce bolted upright in his chair. “That reminds me. I should have told you that Argentina’s Director of Military Intelligence, Colonel Schiller, is also suspicious of Gorman, but he couldn’t point to anything specific.”

  “Karl Schiller?”

  “Yeah. You know him?”

  “We cooperated on a couple of projects involving Venezuela when I was still with the DIA. We got along fine, but he’s one tough son of a bitch. I’d hate to be on his shit list.”

  Briscoe put the documents down on Bryce’s desk.

  “All right,” Briscoe said crisply. “Now, let’s talk about deadlines and money.”

  Bryce said, “I want the information tomorrow. Nine in the morning.”

  “No way. I’ll need forty-eight hours. Even that will be a killer, but for you I’ll do it.”

  Bryce didn’t argue. He realized tomorrow was unreasonable and expected some push back.

  “The second is easy,” Briscoe said. “I want a million dollars.”

  Bryce whistled. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Nope. This is worth a lot to you. Here’s the deal. I only get the million dollars if I hit a home run. If I don’t, you won’t have to pay me a cent. Not even expenses. That’s it. Take it or leave it.”

  Bryce realized Briscoe wasn’t bluffing. “What’s a home run?” he asked weakly.

  “A ball that goes over the fence and out of the park.”

  “Who’ll decide if it’s a home run?”

  “That’s the beauty of this arrangement. Never any question about whether a ball goes over the fence.”

  When Bryce didn’t respond, Briscoe said, “So are you in or out?”

  “I’m in.”

  The two men stood up and shook hands. Brisco never liked written agreements; and that suited Bryce.

  “See you Tuesday at nine in the morning,” Briscoe said, sounding as if he was convinced he would hit a home run.

  Los Angeles

  Killing time before Gina’s plane arrived, Craig was in a bar at the Los Angeles airport sipping a beer because the only wines they had were cheap California rotgut. Although California produced some excellent wines, this dive didn’t have any of them. Above the bar, the television was blasting a football game. It was almost five o’clock, which meant the second quarter for the Rams and Forty-Niners.

  His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw Betty was calling.

  “Hang on and let me move into a quiet place,” he told her.

  He plunked ten bucks down next to his glass, left the bar, and found a deserted area in the terminal.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “LAX. I’m waiting for a friend to arrive.”

  “A foreign reporter from Washington?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “C’mon, Craig, I’ve known you a long time. I even understand how you operate.”

  “Frightening. Isn’t it?”

  “Let’s just say that you’re different than other people.”

  “Unique is good.”

  “Sometimes.”

  He pressed the phone tight against his ear waiting anxiously to learn why she was calling.

  “Alright. Now that we’ve both had our fun, let’s get serious. I have the dossiers you wanted.”

  “Anything useful?”

  “Extremely provocative.”

  He realized she didn’t want to say any more over the phone. “I guess we better talk in person.”

  “Exactly. And you have to see some documents I would prefer not transmitting electronically. How soon can you get back to Washington?”

  “My friend and I are supposed to spend a couple of days together out here, and …” He paused, took a deep breath and gulped h
ard before continuing. “It would be extremely useful to have those materials to discuss with her. Any chance you can send one of your people out here with them?”

  “That’s possible, but I’m afraid you and I have to talk.” She paused.

  He understood how delicate everything was because of the Bryce’s relationship with Treadwell. Just as she was spying on Bryce, he could easily have been using the FBI to eavesdrop on her.

  As if having read his mind, she interrupted his musing. “I can’t believe that I’m going to fly cross-country on your account.”

  “Well you already flew to Sardinia. Los Angeles isn’t nearly as far.”

  “Don’t push it, wise guy.”

  “Yes, Madam Director. Sorry about that.”

  “I can get a plane anytime, and I never sleep, so tell me where and when you want to meet.”

  “We’ll be staying at a little gem of a resort called Rancho Valencia in Rancho Santa Fe, south of LA. North of La Jolla. Tomorrow morning I’ll pretend to go jogging. At five-thirty let’s meet at the gate house near the entrance to the resort. It’s on Rancho Valencia Drive.”

  “You sure you’ll be alone? That your friend won’t want to go jogging with you?”

  “I’ll find a way to leave her back at the hotel.”

  Craig had selected the location for his meeting with Gina with care. Rancho Valencia was a relatively isolated resort outside of the tiny town of Rancho Santa Fe. He had learned about it from a Carnegie Mellon fraternity buddy, whose father owned a horse farm for racing thoroughbreds across the road.

  The resort property consisted of one-story, two-unit casitas spread out on meticulously landscaped grounds, proving that with enough water the desert can bloom. He had reserved an entire casita so that if she yelled and screamed there would be no one to hear her. But all of that would have to wait until tomorrow morning.