The Argentina Rhodochrosite (32 page)

66

Six hours later, Ainsley was in
another traffic jam, this time on the outskirts of the nation’s capital.

After Tico had dropped her at Laura and Luca’s house, she’d shown Marcelo the necklace, told him the story. The old rancher had volunteered to immediately drive her down to Buenos Aires. He’d looked delighted.

Ainsley knew that, for him, revenge was sweet. He wanted to begin the process of exposing the true identity of the monster who had stolen newborn babies out of their mothers’ arms.

They’d flown down the two-lane road that afternoon. On either side of the car, the tall grass of the pampas had flattened itself, as if bowing before the passage of the gemstone that throbbed like a secret inside Ainsley’s purse.

Now the Toyota was crawling down the freeway, the engine of the Englishman’s truck sputtering. It backfired suddenly, belching a cloud of exhaust into the windshield of the poor vehicle behind them.

Ainsley wouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but she would definitely speak ill of the dead’s choice of transportation. This Toyota, unlike Marcelo’s, was a rolling barrel of donkey crap. The stuffing was popping out of the seats. Not a single gauge on the dashboard was functioning. And the suspension simply didn’t exist. Ainsley was stunned that they had travelled this far—half the length of Argentina—without incident.

Tonight was game night at La Bombonera. She’d heard the lieutenant colonel say it, and Luca and Laura had confirmed it. Not just any game either, but the biggest of the year.

The
Superclásico
. Boca Juniors vs. River Plate.

It was Ovidio’s team against Sebastian’s team. Of course, neither was actually playing. Ainsley wondered for a moment what it felt like to face a good friend on the field.

She fingered the rhodochrosite. Then she looked at the phone numbers on the paper that she’d filched along with it.

Should she call? From her own cell phone?

Ainsley threw caution to the wind. It had been flying out of her fingers easily for quite some time anyways.

She dialed the first number. Four rings, and then the voicemail picked up. She recognized the voice immediately.

It was Horacio. The flamboyant taster who’d taken her out to a
parrilla
, and then made her pay for it.

Quickly she ended the connection. She chewed on her lip. Lieutenant Colonel Ortiz had that little rat’s phone number.

Had
he
stolen the gemstone?

She looked at the second number. She was afraid to dial it. Afraid of who might be on the other end if she did.

She watched her fingers dance across the pad. Heard the ringing in her ear.

“Hello?” said a man’s voice.

“Hello, who’s this?” she said.

“Ainsley?”

Her heart climbed into her throat as she recognized him.

It was Sebastian. Ovidio’s best friend from their youth. The substitute striker for River Plate—and the only friend who hadn’t betrayed the superstar.

Lieutenant Colonel Ortiz had his phone number too.

Ainsley tried to speak, but her throat had gone dry. She gasped like a fish.

“Are you in Argentina?” asked Sebastian.

“Yes,” she said.

He lowered his voice to a whisper. “But the rumors said the military took you—”

“I came back,” she said. “I needed to get the story.”

There was an unfriendly silence. “I know you’re not a journalist, Ainsley.”

That was a relief. “Then what am I, Sebastian?”

“You were working for Ovidio. And he fired you. Is that right?”

“Maybe,” she said. “I’ll tell you, if you can help me.”

“What do you need?”

“Get me into La Bombonera tonight,” she said. “The VIP entrance.”

“Why?”

“Because I have something Ovidio needs.”

She didn’t want to reveal that it was the necklace. It could be information. It could be a slutty girlfriend. Sebastian didn’t need to know.

Sebastian hesitated. “What do you have?”

“I can’t tell you.”

He hesitated again. “I will talk to security. Give them your name. They will take care of you.”

“Thank you. Have fun on the bench.”

“The coach said he might substitute me. We will see.”

She hung up the phone. Something about him sounded different. Ainsley always knew when somebody was hiding something, and Sebastian’s tone of voice had set her on edge.

Mostly, however, she couldn’t get around the fact that he was apparently communicating with Ortiz. She realized that she couldn’t trust Sebastian.

Marcelo cleared his throat and spoke. “How do people live like this?”

“How?”

“Like this.” His hand swept around at the freeway traffic.

She looked over at the man. He was a rancher, before that a mine owner. He probably hadn’t seen traffic like this in decades.

“When was the last time you were in Buenos Aires?” she asked.

“Forty-two years ago.”

“Much has changed?”

“No, it looks exactly the same. Actually, I’m more concerned about this truck right now.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think it’s going to last much longer.”

Ainsley shrugged. “Just get me as close as possible to La Bombonera.”

He shook his head and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “I don’t know why people even go to soccer matches. It’s too easy to get stabbed by the
barra brava
.”

Half an hour passed. The Toyota was still stuck in traffic, but this time on Avenida Defensa, in San Telmo, three kilometers from the stadium. Ainsley gazed out the window towards Plaza Dorrego, famous for its lively antiques market on Sunday mornings. She’d been planning to go there just before she’d been kidnapped. Maybe she would get there someday. She wanted to play tourist at some point.

“At this rate, I don’t think you’re going to make it,” said Marcelo.

“Be patient,” she replied. “It’s the biggest game of the year.”

“Maybe you should get out and run.”

“I’ll wait until we get a little closer.”

“That may not happen.”

Then Ainsley heard the engine suddenly make three weird coughs, followed by a long, slow death rattle. Then it puttered out.

Marcelo turned the key in the ignition, gunned the motor. Then he pounded the dashboard with the flat side of his palm. “The last gift of the Englishman.”

“I guess I’m walking,” she said. “Thank you for everything.”

He nodded solemnly. “It was my honor to help you on this mission.”

She opened the door and climbed out of the car. Then Marcelo leaned over and grabbed her hand. The skin felt rough but the shape of the hand was friendly. “Listen to me,” he said. “I want you to destroy that
milico
bastard.”

Ainsley nodded and closed the passenger-side door. She checked her watch. It was seven o’clock.

She only had half an hour to find her way inside La Bombonera.

67

Ainsley ran down the sidewalk, dodging
the bouncing, dancing fans who were pouring once again towards the stadium.

On her side of the street was a sea of blue-and-gold Boca jerseys; on the other side of the street, the red-and-white shirts of River Plate. The two sides were singing obscene songs at one another.

Then Ainsley found the railroad tracks, turned, and sprinted towards the stadium. There were twice as many policemen in riot gear patrolling the crowd. These security measures were tight. They’d probably learned the hard way.

She lined up along the barricades and waited for the patdown. The police officer looked through her purse but either missed or ignored the Zorro rhodochrosite.

Inside the perimeter now, Ainsley made a quick decision. She wouldn’t try to enter through the VIP entrance. She didn’t trust Sebastian. For all she knew, he could have told security to escort her to the local Navy office.

No, she would try to buy a ticket, like a normal fan.

She checked her wallet. She had one thousand pesos remaining. That was about two hundred and fifty dollars.

Ainsley glanced around and saw exactly who she was looking for. The fat ticket scalper was standing in the same place, just inside the alley, wearing the same Boca jacket.

He saw Ainsley approaching. “Ah, the lost sheep. You’ve been wandering outside the stadium for two weeks.”

“No, the VIP won’t let me in this time,” she said.

“So you need something from me?”

“A ticket would be nice.”

“The box office has some. You can check there.”

His chin tipped saucily to the side. His eyes danced with good humor. Ainsley stuffed a roll of four hundred pesos into his hand. He looked down at the money.

“I need two hundred more,” he said.

Ainsley was shoving it into his palm before the sentence was already out. She’d known this was coming and had it ready. All together, it was approximately one hundred and fifty dollars. For a ticket to a soccer game.

The scalper gestured for her to come into the alley. He pulled a single ticket from his inner coat pocket and handed it to her.

Then he pointed at her chest. “Keep that covered.”

She looked down at her modest endowment. “What are you talking about?”

“That.”

His pudgy fingers pinched the fabric of her red sweater. “Don’t let anyone see that.” The ticket scalper pantomimed buttoning up his coat.

That was good advice. As she approached the sheer walls of La Bombonera and followed the instructions to her gate, she understood why.

The gate on her ticket simply read La Boca. She’d just bought a ticket to the supporters’ section.

The
barra brava
.

She handed the ticket over for scanning, then found herself pushed into a horde of screaming, bouncing men dressed in blue. They pushed her up a short tunnel into the stadium.

And just like that, Ainsley found herself entering one of the most famous sporting events in the entire world. The Superclásico.

The field opened up before her, a carpet of green. White tickertape already decorated the outside edges of the grass. She looked at the now-familiar white tunnels and dancing Boca girls.

But this time, Ainsley was behind the eighty-foot-high razor-wire fence. Somehow, it reduced her. She felt less like a human, more like an animal.

There was a reason for that. All around the supporters’ section, thousands of fans were singing at the top of their lungs. Some were tossing cans into the air. Others were brawling. A few were attempting to dismantle their bench seats. Three adventurous fans had even decided to scale the eighty-foot fence, until the police officers on the other side had started beating the men’s toes with billyclubs.

Ainsley knew she couldn’t stay in this section. It wasn’t safe.

She whipped out her cell phone. She scrolled through the contacts until she found Nadia’s number. Quickly her fingers tapped out a text message.

It’s Ainsley Walker. I’m in La Bombonera right now. I have Ovidio’s necklace and other news. Come rescue me from the barra brava.

Ainsley hit send. She waited an interminable minute. She watched the executive suite across the stadium. Then her phone beeped.

On our way
.

Ainsley danced a little jig and stowed her phone away. On the field, the Boca players had burst out of the white tunnel and were doing warmup kicks on the field. She could see Ovidio warming up with them. He was avoiding his teammates. He especially kept his back turned on the
barra brava
.

Five minutes later, a small commotion near the edge of the tunnel caught Ainsley’s attention. A flying wedge of seven security guards had bulldozed their way into the supporters’ section. No-bullshit expressions were etched upon their faces as if they were made of concrete.

In the middle of the flying wedge was Nadia. She was glancing around anxiously.

Ainsley threaded her way through the bleachers. Nadia saw her coming, pointed at her to the security. The seven men surrounded Ainsley and Nadia like a bubble and quickly pulled them back towards the tunnel.

“Where have you been?” Nadia said.

“Where have
you
been?” Ainsley answered. “I tried calling you.”

“I couldn’t answer. I thought maybe they took your phone and it was a trick.”

“So you didn’t abandon me?” said Ainsley.

“Never,” she said. “I’m not like that.”

So Nadia had just been afraid to tangle with the military. “I got deported,” said Ainsley. “The morning after the game.”

“I heard they took somebody from a cafe.”

Ainsley nodded. “That was me. They drugged me and put me on a plane.”

The women were moving quickly down the tunnel, the roar of the crowd at their backs.

Nadia seemed to be deeply pained. “I’m so sorry. Why the military picked you for such treatment—”

Ainsley interrupted. “I know exactly why,” she said. “Listen and I will tell you.”

As they circled the stadium, Ainsley told the manager everything. Her kidnapping. Her empty life in the United States. Her need to finish the assignment. Her phone call to Marcelo. Her adventure in Patagonia. Her sneaky infiltration of the naval base. Her theft of the necklace from Lieutenant Colonel Ortiz’s desk. Her discovery of Sebastian’s number under the necklace.

By the time she had finished, Nadia was rolling the rhodochrosite around in her hand. “Ortiz was working with Sebastian. That is a surprise.”

“But you were right,” Ainsley said. “It wasn’t the maid. It was his friend.”

“Just not the one I expected.”

“And his employee.”

“I never trusted that little taster,” said Nadia. “He’s an actor, you know.”

“He seems like one.”

“Last year he lost his job as an understudy when the director caught him stealing money from the lead’s purse while she was onstage. I just found out.”

That didn’t surprise Ainsley. He’d basically stolen a lunch from her. “Good. You’re better off without him.”

Then Nadia looked at her admiringly. “You did all of this in two weeks.”

“Yes.”

The manager threw an arm across Ainsley’s shoulders.

“I need to tell you something,” she said.

“Okay.”

“I have never liked an American before. Your people have egos almost like we do. But I like
you
.”

Ainsley grinned.

“Now let’s go tell the baby the news.”