The Convert's Song (23 page)

The image chilled him.

“Don’t you worry,” he said. “I’m the only one who sings to you.”

“Très bien.”
He heard hospital noises. Voices echoed, saying her name. “I must go. I wanted…”

She trailed off. He said hurriedly, “I’m glad you called. I’m glad I heard your voice. You take care of yourself, Fatima. I’ll be there soon as I can.”

“Je t’aime,”
she said.

And he said it right back.

He returned to the living area and sank into his chair. Isabel eyed him.

“What happened?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” He sat up and cleared his throat. “That was this French investigator who got shot the other day. I was there.”

“I heard. How is she?”

“Hurt bad. But she’s recovering.”

“Good.”

“Isabel.” He looked down. “I should tell you…this French investigator. Fatima. We’ve been working together. We’re close now. I care about her a lot. She’s the first person since you and me broke up that I care about like that. It feels strange. I’m sorry to bring it up now, but…”

She reached out and put her hand on his. “I’m glad for you, Valentine. I want you to be happy.”

Her smile was tinged with melancholy. The tension had dissipated; combat had been averted.

“We should get going,” she announced.

After they walked across the hotel courtyard and out the gate, Pescatore asked: “Who’s gonna be at this meeting?”

“All the relevant federal players,” she said. “Be ready. We’ll probably bring in the British, the French. The Israelis are interested. Everybody you can imagine who wants a piece of Raymond and his friends. It’s going to be complicated.”

He saw that Isabel would play the role she had in the past: protector, spokesperson, intermediary.

“Jeez,” he said, shaking his head. “All these countries and agencies bumping into each other. Like they say: Bureaucracy is the new geography.”

“Who says that?”

“It’s a line in a book.”

“Which book?”

He hesitated, embarrassed now. “It’s called
Are We Rome?
About whether the United States is going down the tubes like the Roman Empire.”

She stopped on the sidewalk. Her sunglasses glinted up at him. Her stance was playfully incredulous.

“Since when do you read books?” she demanded.

“You always said I should finish college. I decided you were right. I couldn’t study in Argentina, so I started reading on my own. Mainly about terrorism, law enforcement, international issues.”

“Good for you.”

“Raymond never went to college, but he read books nonstop. And he’s one of the smartest people I ever met.”

“I hope he’s smart enough to pull this off.”

The walk to the U.S. embassy took them down an incline and across the Paseo de la Castellana, a tree-lined boulevard with six lanes and two pedestrian walkways. The sky was an immaculate blue. The air was hot and dry and tinged with smells of food and exhaust fumes. Madrid reminded him of a cleaner, more elegant version of Buenos Aires. He and Isabel walked slowly and close together, elbows and shoulders brushing.

“Isabel, remember we used to talk about a honeymoon in Spain?”

“Of course.”

“It woulda been a blast. I took a walk last night. Two in the morning, it felt like two in the afternoon. Traffic. People on the street: families, old folks on benches. The bars and restaurants were full, everybody carrying on. Hard to believe there’s an economic crisis.”

“Maybe they should shut up, get some sleep, and fix the mess.”

The U.S. embassy was a tall concrete slab wedged among prime office buildings and stately apartment houses, boutiques and restaurants. Security had been beefed up after the terror strikes in Paris and London. At the fenced back of the compound, two armored vehicles idled at barricades manned by officers of the Guardia Civil in three-cornered hats.

Pescatore had his hands in his pockets, his head down. To his surprise, Isabel slipped her arm through his. The sensation was familiar and comforting. He glanced at her. She removed her sunglasses.

“Valentine. How long were we together, three years?”

“Three years.”

“As close as we were, as much as we shared, how is it possible you never mentioned Raymond Mercer? I’ve read the files. I talked to Facundo and Agent Furukawa. I listened to you talk about him. I see what a big impact this guy had on you. It’s like finding out you had a secret brother.”

He came to a stop. Her stare was making him nervous.

“I don’t know about all that,” he said. “We were close when we were kids. When we got older, I figured out he was bad news.”

“Still. I can’t believe you never once told me about him.”

He shrugged. “Isabel, you knew I got in trouble in Chicago. You knew the kind of crowd I ran with. I’ve always been honest with you.”

“You don’t lie. But you keep secrets. You lock things away inside.”

He thought about that. He thought about how he had concealed the gun from Fatima.

“You always said I was a natural at undercover work,” he said.

“Do me a favor and let’s go for full disclosure from now on. The stakes are too high. I’m really, really worried about this Iraq thing.”

“I’m gonna be fine.”

“I’m trying to understand: Is Raymond still your friend? Do you really trust him?”

“I don’t know what he is anymore. I trust him because he trusts me.”

They resumed walking. He was taken aback by her public display of affection. Isabel was not exaggerating. She thought there was a good chance he was not going to return alive.

I
t would have been easier, faster and safer to fly into Baghdad.

But Raymond had orders from Brigadier General Ali Houmayoun. The Iranian spymaster was intrigued by the idea that Pescatore might hold the keys to the kingdom as far as striking the Great Satan was concerned. Ali had convoked a sit-down. In order to conceal Pescatore’s trip to Iraq, Ali and Raymond decided he would use a real-fake Argentine passport from Raymond’s stash and enter by land from Jordan. Raymond had used the route to move foreign jihadis in and out of Iraq.

Pescatore had spent a week in Spain after Isabel’s arrival. The meetings took place at the embassy, hotels and a U.S. military base. The final days were dedicated to strategy sessions, preparing gear, and making arrangements by e-mail and phone with Raymond. Pescatore updated Facundo regularly and talked several times with Fatima. He kept the phone conversations cheerful and did not tell her about Iraq. She was improving slowly and did not need stress. Meanwhile, against all expectations, he and Isabel had become friends again. She worked tirelessly. She steered him through a gauntlet of cops, spies, soldiers and diplomats. When they hugged good-bye, she said repeatedly, almost threateningly,
“¡Cuidate!”
(Take care of yourself!).

In Amman, Pescatore met Mustafa, an Iraqi smuggler. He looked disconcertingly Mexican: bowlegged, sturdy, Emiliano Zapata mustache on a round face. Pescatore remembered hearing the comedian George Lopez joke long ago that he worried about certain male relatives during hostilities with Iraq. “I’ve got an uncle who looks just like Saddam Hussein. Don’t you?”

Mustafa was at the wheel of a Chevrolet Suburban, a grimy white war wagon speeding through the dark. They had left Amman at midnight in order to cross the Jordan-Iraq border in the early morning. The faster the Suburban went, the more contentedly it hummed. Mustafa hummed too. To Pescatore’s alarm, Mustafa performed multiple tasks in addition to driving. He sent text messages. He had gesticulatory phone conversations. He inserted earbuds to listen to music. He poured two cups of tea from a thermos, passed one over the seat to Pescatore and drank the other. As they approached the border crossing, Mustafa reached back to give him an envelope with the Argentine passport that had been prepared by Raymond using photos sent by express mail.

“You now,” Mustafa said, pointing at the passport and him.

“I got it, thanks very much,” Pescatore said, looking at the windshield in hopes that Mustafa would get the message and keep his eyes on the road.

Mustafa asked for Pescatore’s U.S. passport, which he would keep hidden. Pescatore handed it over, feeling bereft. He opened the Argentine document and saw that his new name was Marco Antonio Martin. No doubt a mix of Marc Anthony and Ricky Martin. The envelope contained business cards and a letter on official stationery identifying him as a representative of a Buenos Aires firm that exported halal meat to the Middle East. Raymond had created the firm as a front. A good cover because Iraqis didn’t know much about Argentina other than its soccer stars, he said.

It was ironic. A proud U.S. Border Patrol veteran was about to sneak into a country using fraudulent documents. Pescatore had known Customs and Border Protection officers who had done tours of duty in Iraq training the border police to defend the very port of entry that he intended to breach. He hoped the trainees hadn’t done well in the class on spotting phony papers.

The port of entry appeared: a low huddle of structures and floodlights. A line of vehicles waited behind a fuel truck with rust-eaten tanks. Mustafa made short work of the Jordanian bureaucracy. On the Iraqi side, he directed Pescatore to a gloomy waiting room. Pescatore leaned against a pillar watching Mustafa bustle between counters where officials stamped papers, the impacts echoing. Travelers sat listlessly on plastic benches. Fluorescent lights painted them in unhealthy hues.

Pescatore noticed a machine against a wall behind empty desks. It seemed familiar. He sidled closer. Sure enough: a state-of-the-art X-ray machine of the kind used by inspectors in the United States to scan luggage. He knew that CBP had donated a shipment of X-ray scanners to Iraq; his colleagues had trained Iraqis in their use. The multimillion-dollar piece of high-tech equipment stood next to a garbage can, unplugged. Hangers holding uniforms and civilian clothes were hooked at the top of the scanner. It had become a garment rack.

Mustafa conversed with an unshaven official in a blue uniform with rubber shower thongs on his feet. They talked a few yards from Pescatore but did not speak to or look at him. The two of them retreated abruptly into an office. This did not strike him as positive. He had assumed Raymond knew what he was doing. He started to worry. Was his cover going to work? What kind of dumbass Argentine meat importer would do business here anyway? He wondered if the mission would fail before it began. He tried to imagine the penalties for illegal entry. If they charged him with espionage, in most two-fisted nations the punishment was death.

Minutes later, Mustafa emerged from the office. Beaming.

The Suburban plunged back into blackness. Mustafa waved, panoramically and mournfully, at the desert rushing by.

“Iraq,” he declared. “
Harb
all the time.”

Pescatore had learned enough Arabic to know that
harb
meant “war.”

“I know what you mean, brother,” he said. “Too much
harb
.”

They pulled over onto the shoulder of the highway behind a parked SUV. Raymond appeared out of the darkness carrying a duffel bag. He climbed into the Suburban with a burst of welcoming chatter. Pescatore gave him a high-five; he didn’t have to fake being happy to see him. The Suburban roared off again. The SUV followed, carrying guys who would ride shotgun as far as Baghdad.

“Whaddya hear, whaddya say,
cuate
?” Raymond said. He wore dark clothes and a red-checked kaffiyeh. His incipient beard recalled his Pacino-as-Carlito look from ten years before in Chicago.

“A todo dar,”
Pescatore said.

“I see you followed my grooming instructions. Looks local, doesn’t he, Mustafa?”

Mustafa smiled over his shoulder. “Like a Samarra man.”

Pescatore hadn’t shaved for three days. A U.S. attaché in Madrid who had served in Iraq helped choose his outfit: black pleated slacks, a striped short-sleeved shirt with a wide collar, and a black-checked kaffiyeh. He also wore his black travel vest. The attaché said he might blend in if he kept his profile low and his mouth shut.

“Remember,” Raymond said, reaching into the duffel bag. “No seat belt. Or sunglasses. You might as well wear a sign that says
American CIA Jackass
.”

Raymond gave him a semiautomatic Beretta, a belt holster, and ammunition. Pescatore strapped up.

Another country, another gun,
he thought. Raymond showed him two M4 carbines in the duffel bag.

“You can handle one of these bad boys if necessary?”

“I carried one on detail in Nogales.”

“Nogales was nothing, homes,” Raymond hooted. “This is the Wild West right here! Anbar Province.”

The ride would take them through a hotbed of al-Qaeda militants and other gunslingers, Raymond said. “This country is
puro desmadre.
A nonstop brawl. Sunni versus Shiite versus Kurd versus Christian. And all the factions and tribes. Angling and maneuvering and sniffing at you, trying to figure out if they should shoot you and how many
cabrones
on your side will hunt them for the rest of their lives if they do.”

“Kinda like Chicago.”

“That’s why they call it Chi-raq, homes.”

“Keep the rifles handy.”

“My rifle, my pony, and me. When was the last time you saw
Rio Bravo
?”

“Oh, man. Been a while.”

Raymond repeated his oft-made assertion that
Rio Bravo
was the best movie in the history of the universe. Although, he added, like all Westerns, it had an imperialist-fascist-racist worldview.

“Nobody wants to hear that radical bullshit,” Pescatore retorted. “You leave
Rio Bravo
alone.”

Raymond grinned. He leaned back and sang “My Rifle, My Pony, and Me,” the song from the movie. His imitation of Dean Martin’s mellow ginzo-cowboy baritone had only improved with time. Pescatore recalled the scene: Dude slouched on a cot in the jail, hat over his eyes, feet propped up, holding a cigarette as he crooned.

Road signs flashed by. The names were redolent of rage and gore: Ramadi. Fallujah. Baghdad. The Suburban was rolling through the badlands. Raymond was behaving as if it were all a big movie. Typical.

The song put Raymond in a nostalgic mood. He reminisced about gigs, girls, games, friends, fights, crimes. Pescatore, his face in his scarf, drifted between sleep and wakefulness. Dawn brought a sandstorm. The world turned brown: sky, desert, minarets, flat-roofed buildings, war ruins. People bent into the gritty wind; palm trees bent away from it.

They entered Baghdad at midday. A pall of pollution darkened the sandstorm. He was surprised by the snarls of traffic, the sprawl of expressways, boulevards and overpasses. A gas-guzzler city. He saw blast walls, barbed wire, barricades. The Americans had left; the conflict remained. The streetscapes looked familiar from countless media images. The crowds, menace and casual disorder reminded him of Latin America. Except there were few women on the streets. And even fewer women showing hair, let alone skin.

Their destination was an apartment-hotel behind a checkpoint manned by heavily armed civilian guards. The two-b
edroom
unit was spacious and dingy, a 1980s decor gone stale. The air-conditioning whined in harsh harmony with a generator. Pescatore asked Raymond if this was where he lived now. Raymond’s answer was evasive.

Pescatore took a nap. He was awakened by the evening call to prayers echoing among buildings; he found it soothing. In the kitchen, Raymond poured Turkish coffee and was amused by Pescatore’s rictus when he drank it. They discussed strategy for the sit-down with Brigadier Ali. Raymond said the important thing was for Pescatore to be himself.

“It’ll be fine,” Raymond said. “He likes serious, respectful guys. Guys who’ve worn uniforms and taken orders. He thinks I’m too wild sometimes. Can you believe that?”

Pescatore laughed. As Raymond talked, Pescatore looked for some sign that he had qualms about plotting the betrayal of a man who had been a close friend and an influential figure in his life.

Raymond changed gears. He asked about the U.S. government’s reaction to his hopes for a deal. Pescatore had rehearsed his response.

“They’re definitely interested in the brigadier. The plot against the homeland got everybody’s attention. But they don’t trust you. At some point, you need to hire a lawyer, sit down with them, and work it out. Using me as a go-between isn’t gonna fly.”

“Fair enough,” Raymond said.

“Before anybody does any negotiating, they want to see what you deliver. If you really get us a sit-down with the brigadier.”

“That’s why we’re here.”

“Frankly, they’re worried I won’t come back in one piece.”

“Of course you will. I guarantee it.”

“I’m counting on you not to make me look bad. And keep me alive.”

“Well, I’m counting on you too.”

“Good.”

“Hell of a team,
cuate.
”

They ate a room-service dinner in the living room in front of the television. Reclining in a fuzzy green armchair, Raymond accompanied his channel-surfing with stream-of-consciousness commentary: the relative merits of Shakira versus Jennifer Lopez, the Barcelona-Madrid soccer rivalry, the latest wave of bomb attacks in Iraq. He drifted into a monologue about the future. He had plenty of money, investments and properties that he hoped the feds would never find. Or if they did, maybe they’d let him keep some of it if he served up Brigadier Ali. Once this mess was behind him and he got custody of his sons, he planned to settle down somewhere peaceful and raise them right.

“Academics, sports, music. It’s all about discipline. If I could find a military school combined with a conservatory, that’d be perfect. A father has to make rules and set limits. Like your
viejo.
”

“I’m not sure my dad’s the best parenting model, tell you the truth.”

“You turned out good. You know right from wrong.”

“It’s not that complicated.”

“If you’d grown up in the environment I did, the value system in my house, you’d know that’s not necessarily true.”

“Oh, really?” The tension and weariness got the best of Pescatore. “Here’s an example. Killing two hundred unarmed defenseless people minding their own fucking business in a mall, that’s wrong. Blowing up kids at a school, that’s wrong too. Wrong as hell.”

Raymond’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe you’re ignoring structural issues. Like the hundreds of
thousands
of kids and adults who’ve gotten killed and victimized every day for years. Palestine, Lebanon, Afghanistan, Iraq. Maybe the people at that school, and that mall, and fucking Harrods in London, weren’t innocent. Because they’re part of a system that destroys the Muslim world. Thanks to that so-called democracy you’re so patriotic about.”

Pescatore said, “I hate to think what the world would be like if the guys you work for were in charge. You chose the wrong side, bro.”

Raymond extended the footrest and reclined full-length in the armchair. “Never too late to change sides.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Shit, I learned that back in Chicago.” Raymond turned his head to stare at him indolently. “As long as you got something or someone to offer, you can always convert.”

“I wonder.”

“Relax, man. By this time tomorrow we’ll be done and have you on your way.”

Pescatore went to bed early. In his room, he used his phone to send a brief e-mail in code to Isabel at a cover address set up for that purpose. He slept with his door locked, a chair wedged under the knob, and his keys on the chair. His hand gripped the pistol under the pillow. If terrorists or kidnappers struck in the night, he didn’t have any illusions that he’d blast his way out of it. He just wanted control over the time and manner of his demise. Like Rodolfo Walsh, an Argentine writer he had heard about. When a death squad tried to abduct Walsh during the Dirty War, he drew a pistol, forcing them to end it right there. He spared himself getting tossed out of a plane into the Rio de la Plata or something equally undignified. Pescatore didn’t plan on starring in anybody’s jihadi-porn beheading video.