The Convert's Song (28 page)

“I’m not as good at lying to people as you are,” Pescatore said.

“I think you did it on purpose, to send me a signal.”

“Huh.”

“Maybe without even realizing it. That’s what I think.”

“Interesting theory.”

After Pescatore’s departure from the safe house, Raymond explained, Brigadier Ali’s men took a break for lunch. Raymond was tense. He replayed the conversation with Pescatore over and over in his mind. He noticed that the chubby teenager who worked as a flunky at the safe house was being sent to pick up food for the brigadier and his men. He improvised a fictitious errand and got in the kid’s car.

“Total survival rush, man. I had to get out of there. I had to think. We were like three blocks away when the missile hit. My ears hurt for days.”

Raymond and the kid returned to the scene. Minutes later, Raymond melted away in the crowd. The Quds Force zeroed in on him as the obvious suspect. Dodging a manhunt, he traveled overland to Turkey. He eventually reached Dubai, where he took the risk of emptying his last surviving bank account and retrieved an unused passport. He flew to South Africa and Brazil, then made his way to Uruguay.

“You rooked me good.” Raymond stared at the keyboard. “My money, my houses, cars, women, connections. My family. I don’t have shit.”

“You got the music. This nice spot.”

“Not for long.”

“True. I found you in three days. All kinds of hard-asses are looking for you. Like a race.”

Raymond surveyed him bitterly. “Are you getting off on this?”

“Nope.”

“I changed sides for you, Valentín.”

“For yourself. As usual. Because your back was to the wall.”

“I was a loyal friend. Protected you no matter what.”

Pescatore experienced a physical pang of regret. He let it subside. He spoke as if to a child.

“Here’s the thing, Raymond. Let’s say you have a dog. A real mean dog. A menace. It attacks everybody. Even people you love. But it’s totally faithful to you. You probably love it back. Sooner or later, though, you have to do something about the dog.”

“Now I’m a dog, huh?”

“You’re smart, talented, funny. I learned so much from you. You had a big impact on me, you’re part of where I come from. But you’re a monster. You said I did what I did because of Fatima. How did you know we were together, anyway?”

“I know you,” Raymond responded mockingly. “My people watched you in Bolivia. I could tell just by the way you looked at her in the pictures they took. I thought she was American at first. I got more info later, identified her, put her on a list of targets. After the brothers fucked up on the Champs-Élysées, I needed results. And I needed to calm my wife down. I felt bad, but I had to try to whack Fatima Belhaj. I outed her on a website and arranged for the shooters.”

“Well, I was mad as hell. But it wasn’t the only reason. I was hoping you’d show some sadness about all the lives you took. France. London. Buenos Aires, for God’s sake. Where our families are from. I was praying for remorse. Nothing. You were disappointed the car bomb didn’t go off at the school. Coulda got five hundred easy, you said.”

“We’ve been over this. I was a soldier. I was fighting a war.”

“Fuck that. You’re a Nazi. If this was 1939, you’d sign up to run a concentration camp. Shut up and let me finish. In Iraq, I had to operate like you. Scamming, backstabbing. I didn’t want to kill you. I’m sentimental. But I couldn’t let the brigadier get away. He was a bigger monster. The worst thing was being sneaky. If I had to pull the trigger, I wanted to do it face-to-face.”

Raymond was absorbed in the conversation. He had leaned back on the bench, his hair matting against the wall. Now he sat up. Fear flared in the small caverns of his eyes.

“You came here to finish the job,” he whispered.

Mr. Drama,
Pescatore thought.
Living the movie to the end.

“Not unless you jump me. I’m here to make an offer.”

“Representing who?”

“Me.”

Raymond cocked his head and waited. Although Pescatore hadn’t discussed the idea with anyone, it had been taking shape over several days.

“My offer is, you surrender to me. I turn you over to a senior U.S. fed I trust. Aboveboard, official. You confess publicly in a written statement and lay the whole thing out. Every crime in every country, every terrorist shot-caller, every sleazy snitch relationship, everybody who let you skate. Let it all hit the fan.”

“You’re thinking I could score some kind of deal?”

The lights flickered on overhead. Both of them jumped. A uniformed cleaning man appeared by the bar pulling a mop and a bucket. He waved at Raymond, who slowly raised a hand in response.

Pescatore turned back to Raymond and continued in a low voice.

“Hell, no,” he declared. “No deal. I’ve got some press contacts.” He thought of Leo Méndez in Tijuana, who was wired with journalists all over. “They’ll put the pressure on. That’ll keep you locked up and alive. You’ll be prosecuted somewhere: Britain, France, the U.S. I’m thinking you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison.”

“So what do I get out of it, exactly?”

Raymond’s eyes narrowed. His voice had regained petulance. It almost made Pescatore nostalgic. It almost comforted him. He resisted an impulse to stand up and leave.

“If I have to spell it out, it kinda defeats its own purpose,” he said, frowning. “You’ll be alive, Ray. Maybe your sons will visit you. You’ll pay for your sins. The victims and survivors will get information, closure. A little justice.”

Raymond used both hands to sweep his hair back. He looked sideways with his fingers at his mouth. The pose of a young shaggy Springsteen. Finally, he shook his head.

“That’s not me. But thanks.”

Pescatore wasn’t surprised. He had learned to have high hopes and low expectations.

The adrenaline had faded. They sat in silence, not quite looking at each other.

The cleaning man advanced. The mop squeaked. Furniture scraped.

“So what kind of stuff you singing here?”

“Standards. Tango. A little jazz.”

“Nothing wrong with old school.”

“I’m doing more instrumentals. Not just getting by on the voice, you know?”

“Yeah. Sounds good, Ray.”

After a moment, Pescatore got up. He said, “All right, then.”

He started toward the door to the lobby. A memory came to him of the wind in the tunnel in Chicago. He walked faster.

“I’m not running,” Raymond said. “I’ll be right here.”

“Won’t be long now.”

The story appeared in the Argentine press the next week. Murders were uncommon on the Uruguayan coast, so it caused a splash. Reporters and headline writers came up with variations on the phrase
shoot the piano player.
Two helmeted gunmen had arrived on a motorcycle one morning. They went directly into the bar of the hotel. They used silencers.

The police speculated about a stickup gone wrong. No one took that seriously. The crime had the hallmarks of a professional hit. The victim carried an authentic Argentine passport with an invented identity. The investigators wanted to know who he really was.

Pescatore had not told anyone, not even Facundo, about finding Raymond. He knew nothing beyond the press reports. The articles lacked detail. It was not clear what Raymond had been doing, where he had fallen.

The way Pescatore imagined it, though, he had been at the piano. He liked to think Raymond had been playing the song that he had been practicing when he saw him for the last time: “Manteca.” The mambo classic by Chano Pozo, the ace drummer, the Santeria zealot who hit the big time for a while. The wild man who was dancing alone to his song in a bar when his past caught up with him.

I want to give heartfelt thanks to many men and women in law enforcement, intelligence and diplomatic service in many countries who have been my patient teachers and generous guides over the years.

Many thanks also to Asya Muchnick and Liana Levi and their teams. Also to Valeria and Carmen; Carlo and Sal; my parents; family near and far. And to Andy for the jokes.

Sebastian Rotella is the author of
Triple Crossing,
which the
New York Times
Sunday Book Review named favorite debut crime novel of 2011, and the nonfiction book
Twilight on the Line
. He is a senior reporter for ProPublica, a newsroom dedicated to investigative journalism in the public interest. He covers international security issues. He worked for twenty-three years for the
Los Angeles Times,
serving as bureau chief in Paris and Buenos Aires and Mexico border correspondent. His honors include a Peabody Award, Columbia University’s Dart Award and Moors Cabot Prize for Latin American coverage, the German Marshall Fund’s Weitz Prize for reporting in Europe, five Overseas Press Club Awards, The Urbino Prize of Italy, and an Emmy nomination. He was a Pulitzer finalist for international reporting in 2005.

Triple Crossing: A Novel

Twilight on the Line: Underworlds and Politics at the U.S.-Mexico Border

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