The Convert's Song (8 page)

“He had changed, physically and in personality,” she said. “Colder. More mature.”

“Where was he living?” Belhaj asked.

“He was vague. Perhaps Europe.”

“What about his religious activity?”

“He was still Muslim. But he said he had gotten the fanaticism out of his system. He had put his faith in perspective.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Based on the way he looked and acted, yes. I had sworn I would never forgive him. But of course, I did. He left a few days later. He visited again several times. And of course, a few months ago it turned out he wanted something: two passports.”

“We believe they were for the attackers last week,” Biondani told the visitors. “The suicide bomber with the two detonators at El Almacén. And the driver of the car bomb at the school.”

“I know nothing about that,” Florencia declared. “I never met them. I sent Ramón to a specialist we used in the passport department.”

Furukawa asked, “So these were fake passports?”

“Absolutely not,” she responded huffily. “Authentic and official.”

Pescatore could see how the authorities were able to squelch word of foreign involvement. For the official record, the attackers were all Argentines, with documents to prove it.

“The two Arabs were not in the country yet,” she continued. “A couple of weeks ago, Ramón came to town once more. His friends were in Bolivia about to fly to Buenos Aires. They had the passports, but Ramón wanted to make sure they wouldn’t have problems. I said I didn’t want anything to do with it. He sweet-talked and manipulated and browbeat me. Fool that I am, I agreed to have them fly in at a time when I had a trusted inspector on duty. Just for insurance; no one had to do anything. And that was all.”

There was a pause.

“Do you know if he was familiar with the Almacén mall?” Furukawa asked quietly. Pescatore was impressed at the FBI agent’s restraint. The guy was good at listening. “Did he ever shoot video or photos there, anything that might be considered surveillance or reconnaissance?”

Florencia stared at him with a kind of muted horror.

“Reconnaissance? Surveillance?” she exclaimed. “He knew El Almacén like the back of his hand. It was one of the first places I took him to show him the city. We went all the time. Shopping, movies, coffee. It was where he bought me clothes and jewelry. And now, when I think what happened…”

Furukawa nodded patiently. New tears slid down Florencia’s cheeks.

“We used to eat at the delicatessen, the one that was bombed,” she said plaintively. “Raymond was friendly with the waiters, he knew their names. The food reminded him of a place in Chicago. Moro, Mauri, something like that. When he became very religious, though, we stopped going.”

Morry’s,
Pescatore realized, gritting his teeth. He had a vivid flashback of buying corned beef sandwiches at the deli on the South Side, of Raymond clowning around with the countermen.

Cold-blooded bastard,
he thought.

Furukawa and Belhaj asked more questions. Florencia told them she believed Raymond had been in touch with Kharroubi in recent months.

“I haven’t heard from Kharroubi in a while, but he knows a lot,” she said. “A heavyweight mafioso.”

She opened a folder on the coffee table. She showed them a photo of Raymond with Kharroubi, who was round-faced and arrogant-looking, and Ortega, the ex-cop turned terrorist. All three had beards. There was a photocopy of Raymond’s original Argentine passport. He was clean-shaven and wore his hair long and slicked back. He had the haggard air of a recovering addict. The name on the passport was Ramón Verdugo. The word
verdugo
meant “executioner” in Spanish.

Raymond would think that was cool,
Pescatore told himself.

“His mother’s family name was Takiedinne Verdugo,” Florencia said. “He chose the second last name. He said the Arab name would cause him trouble traveling. But remember: He dealt directly with my document people and obtained passports under other names. For himself and others. These colleagues”—she gestured at Biondani—“are looking into that, I am sure.”

Biondani nodded impatiently. He seemed eager to wrap things up.

Florencia hugged her pillow, looking drained and forlorn. She reached over and patted Pescatore on the cheek.

“Ay, Valentín. In what an inferno your friend has left me. And to think, in spite of it all, I still love him. If you find him, you tell him that for me.”

She examined him for a moment.

“It’s curious,” she said. “You are different than Ramón. But at the same time, the way you talk, the way you carry yourself—you remind me of him.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

Biondani rode down with them in the elevator. He had news. The spy agency was closing in on Raymond’s friend Kharroubi. After learning that the SIDE was onto him, the businessman had fled his home with bodyguards, planning to take a private plane to Bolivia. SIDE officers arrived at the airfield at the same time, but Kharroubi escaped by car. Officers had been tracking him overnight. They had identified a safe house in the industrial suburbs west of the city.

“We are convinced Kharroubi was involved in the attacks,” Biondani said excitedly, standing in the street outside the high-rise. “He is implicated by evidence from the searches of the homes of Ortega and the others, their phones and e-mails. Kharroubi was the logistics man for guns, vehicles, explosives, police uniforms—which were authentic, no matter what the media says. We are putting together an operation to capture him now. If you follow me, we can be there for the show.”

As they sped off, Belhaj and Furukawa called their embassies and relayed the information on Raymond’s new identity. Pescatore pulled out the iPhone he had bought that morning. He called the hospital and learned that Facundo was doing better and would be ready for visitors soon.

“So,” Furukawa said grimly. “What did we think of that
telenovela
up there?”

“I think she essentially told the truth,” Belhaj said. “She exaggerates her role as a victim. His arc of radicalization is familiar. Crime evolves into extremism. They justify drugs as jihad.
Gangsterrorisme.
”

“The passports for the suicide bombers fit your theory,” Furukawa told her. “They weren’t sure the locals were committed to blowing themselves to kingdom come. So they brought in outsiders with
cojones.
”

Belhaj turned in the front seat to look at Pescatore. “And Monsieur Valentín, what did you think? You are our expert on Raymond/Ramón.”

He liked her calling him Monsieur Valentín in her throaty voice.

“The way he treated Flo rings true,” he replied. “He was always a dog. The U.S. agency stuff was weird.”

“Damn right,” Furukawa said. “I didn’t like that one bit.”

“Explain something to me,” Pescatore said. “Sounds like Raymond was a player. He got documents, got the bombers into the country. Had to be involved in the Bolivian cell too. Why would he do all that, then turn around and blow the whistle at the last minute? I know he likes to play both sides, but does that make sense?”

“Your homeboy is bad news.”

“Maybe now we can figure out where he is and what the hell he’s doing.”

Morning mist rose off roadside meadows. The highway led out of the city into a bleak landscape dominated by the spires of a Mormon temple. Atop the tallest tower, the statue of a golden angel with a trumpet glinted in the pale sun.

“What is the name of the area where we are going?” asked Belhaj.

“La Matanza,” Furukawa said.

“That means…”

“‘The Massacre,’” Pescatore said. “A bunch of Spaniards got killed there by Indians in the 1500s. I’ve been there a couple times on cases. No need to change the name.”

T
he commander ate steak every day.

The commander was a throw-down individual. You could tell from his thick-veined hands working the knife and fork, the set of his shoulders, the edge in his voice. Like he was chewing rocks. He wore a blue blazer over a wool vest in the chill of the station house dining room. The district headquarters had defective heating. Officers wore scarves and coats indoors. Several had hacking coughs.

The commander’s name was Saladino. There was a statuette on a shelf above him: the Virgin of Luján, the patron of the provincial police. It was the only decoration on the peeling green walls other than the flags of Argentina and the province.

“I was in New York once on a mission,” the commander said, eyeing Furukawa through square glasses. “Dirty. Noisy. Lunatics. Savages. The Americans didn’t know anything about us. They expected Indians with feathers. They invited us to eat raw fish, Chinese vegetables. Girl food. There’s nothing like our Argentine meat. I eat steak every day.”

The deputies flanking him nodded, crew cuts bobbing above necks that resembled the slabs of beef on platters served by uniformed cops. The provincial police were the biggest armed force in the country. They averaged a shootout a day.

Pescatore took a sip of red wine that warmed his insides. The hunt for Raymond’s associate had detoured into an epic meal, courtesy of the police in La Matanza. Upon arriving at the headquarters, a ranchlike facility with a muddy courtyard, Biondani had given them a quick briefing in the vehicle. The spy agency had located Kharroubi’s hideout in La Matanza, where he owned used-car lots and other property. Biondani had a dilemma. His agency was doing a parallel investigation of the terrorist attack; he didn’t want to involve the federal police. So he had enlisted the help of the provincial police, bitter enemies of the federal force. Commander Saladino oversaw a district with almost a million residents. A sea of mafias, civilian and uniformed.

“The provincial police own the turf,” Biondani said. “If we tried a raid on our own, they would mess it up one way or another. We will take the risk of working with them. Saladino is relatively trustworthy.”

Pescatore had his doubts. They had put themselves in the hands of a notorious force involved in a crossfire of feuds.

“I’ve heard about Saladino,” Pescatore said. “A specialist in operettas, no?”

“Correct,” Biondani responded curtly. “We work with what we have.”

Biondani got out of the vehicle.

Belhaj asked: “Operettas? Like
The Pirates of Penzance
? ‘Modern Major General’?”

“Not exactly.” Pescatore felt a glow of confidence. His trips into the province with Facundo, the solo missions to remote police outposts, soaking up details: it had all paid off. He was an expert now.

“An operetta works like this,” he said. “The police go partners with a stickup gang. They help choose the target, a store or a bank, secure the perimeter. A ‘liberated zone.’ They make sure the robbers get in and out. They split the loot. They do it a few times, everybody gets comfortable. Then there’s another robbery. But this time, the police set up an ambush outside. When the robbers come out, they kill them. And announce another victory against crime.”

The commander had welcomed his visitors with the news that they were in luck: on Wednesdays, he and his staff ate an
asado,
a carnivorous extravaganza prepared in a barbecue pit of industrial dimensions. The raid could wait until after lunch.

Belhaj took it in stride. Furukawa reacted like an uptight American. He was climbing the walls. For the second time, the FBI agent cleared his throat and said that, while he was really enjoying the food and the company, he was concerned that they needed to focus on the fugitive.

“No hurry,” the commander responded. “We are putting the operation in place. Things are under control. Have a glass of wine.”

The commander and his deputies sat facing Furukawa, Biondani and Belhaj. Pescatore was on one end, the odd man out. He stayed quiet and ate. He stole a glance at Belhaj, next to him. She was looking good in black: boots, jeans, blouse, and a sleeved garment over the shoulders that, as a result of intel acquired during his engagement to Isabel, he knew was called a shrug. He was having trouble figuring out Belhaj. Although a stickler for formalities, she had little time for small talk. Her silences bordered on aloofness. Yet she had a sense of humor and turned on the charm in a flash. She clearly enjoyed the team spirit that had developed with Furukawa and Pescatore.

After coffee, the commander got down to business. The safe house was twenty minutes away. Kharroubi had two armed bodyguards. Police and intelligence officers had surrounded the hideout.

“Let’s go see if we can find some trouble,” the commander said.

The day had clouded over. The fog had thickened. A line of police vehicles idled in the courtyard. Two pickup trucks carried a tactical team in baseball caps and paramilitary jumpsuits. They had assault rifles and machete-type weapons in their belts. A small helicopter with a bubble-shaped cockpit whirred to life on a nearby pad.

Biondani and Furukawa got in one police sedan, Pescatore and Belhaj in another. Their minder was named Aldo: a mustachioed, weather-beaten supervisor in a down coat that accentuated his width. He toted a shotgun. He acted delighted about having to babysit dignitaries. He helped them strap on armored vests, held the door of the aging blue sedan for Belhaj, and clapped Pescatore on the back as he got in.

The convoy drove past rows of well-kept brick homes with barred windows, security cameras, spiked ornamental fences. The neighborhood ended abruptly in a prairie of muddy lots where multicolored buses, vans and taxis picked up and dropped off passengers. The commuters hunched against the wind, silhouettes plodding over misty terrain. Many of them were Bolivian and Paraguayan immigrants coming off morning work shifts. Their breath steamed beneath hoods and wool caps. They watched the police go by. The city limit of Buenos Aires was the border between illusions of Europe and the reality of Latin America.

Aldo had his front passenger-side window open, unbothered by the icy wind. He alternated between talking into a handheld radio and the microphone of the dashboard radio. They entered a slum. The streets turned narrow and dusty; many were unpaved. The sidewalks were high and the buildings low, a dense patchwork of brick, wood, stucco and tin. They passed a grocery with hand-painted signs announcing empanadas, and an automotive-repair complex where a gaunt Doberman paced the roof.

The safe house was a narrow bungalow with barred windows. There was a yard and a warren of sheds and huts visible behind it. By the time Pescatore’s car pulled up, armed officers had stormed the bungalow, but their stances were relaxed. The chief of the tactical team stood talking to his men in the open front doorway. The helicopter appeared. Neighbors stuck heads out of windows.

Pescatore went up to Furukawa and asked what was going on.

“They hit the place, but no one was home.”

Just then, a dozen radios erupted in vehicles, belts and hands: the sounds of a siren, gunfire, a distorted voice shouting about pulling a trigger.

Everybody whirled. The crisp urgent tone of a female radio dispatcher cut through the racket:
“¡Enfrentamiento a mano armada! ¡Enfrentamiento a mano armada!”

A shootout. They scrambled back into the vehicles and took off in an uproar of sirens and brakes and tires. The speeding caravan churned sheets of dust into the fog.

The three suspects were in a Ford Falcon. They had rammed a squad car a few blocks away, opened fire, and fled. Ear to the radio, Aldo exclaimed gleefully: “
Epah!
How about that! They have a FAL!”

The speed and rough terrain sent Pescatore sliding into Belhaj. He clung to an overhead handle. The caravan split up, taking different routes. The police sedan careened uphill out of the slum onto a major paved road, skidded wildly, and almost got broadsided by a rusty tow truck. The tow truck went into a spin, horn blaring. Aldo pounded his driver’s arm, urging him to go faster. The two-lane road had no divider. Traffic slowed ahead. Instead of braking, the driver whipped into the wrong lane and stomped the gas. It felt as if the back wheels were lifting off the pavement. Oncoming cars swerved desperately to get out of the way, lurching onto the shoulder, fleeting glimpses of faces congealed in fear and anger behind windshields. The sedan hit a pothole with a resounding bang. The jaw-jarring impact knocked the police radio right off the dashboard. Aldo whooped and thumped the driver again.

Crazy fuckers,
Pescatore thought.
Either we crash or they drive us right into a volley of machine-gun fire.

The sedan rattled. The driver slalomed back and forth, cursing and blasting the siren. The traffic got worse. The civilian drivers pulled over slowly and resentfully.

Pescatore told Belhaj, “You’d think with the sirens and everything, they’d get out of the way.”

Overhearing the comment, Aldo spun around. He was holding the shotgun with the barrel out the window. Tendons bulged in his neck.

“You see?” he demanded furiously. “You see how they don’t give us the ball?”

The next thing Pescatore knew, Aldo had lunged halfway out his window. He brandished his shotgun at cars. He banged a fist on the side of a van. His hair streamed in the wind.

“Get out of the way, sons of whores!” he bellowed. “Move, move, your mother’s cunt!”

Pescatore saw the helicopter whiz overhead. The driver hunched over the wheel to keep it in sight. The sedan followed other police vehicles swinging off the main road. They barreled across a wooden bridge over a filthy creek bed. Clumps of trees and overgrown fields ended at the walls of an abandoned factory. It had tall shattered windows and rusty cylindrical tanks: a ghost hulk in the fog. The driver hit the brakes. Pescatore and Belhaj were tossed against the front seat.

“Everybody fine?” Aldo demanded. “Let’s go!”

They tumbled out. The fugitives had abandoned the Ford Falcon in a ditch, its tail fins sticking up at an angle, and taken off in three directions. Cops gave chase on foot. Pescatore heard gunfire near the factory gates, where the helicopter was circling.

Aldo plunged left into the tangled vegetation of a field. Pescatore and Belhaj followed. They crashed through waist-high weeds wreathed in fog. Cold air slammed Pescatore’s lungs. He ran stiffly in the heavy armored vest, puffing breath clouds.

Shots echoed in the distance. He thought he heard the chatter of the FAL automatic rifle. He kept going, head low. He cursed the federal police once again for confiscating his gun. Aldo veered toward a stand of trees in the distance by a stone wall, converging with other officers. They were hot on the trail of a suspect.

“Careful, careful,” a voice said. “He’s right here somewhere.”

The officers slowed. They advanced in crouches behind their guns. Aldo scanned the high weeds like a duck hunter, shotgun poised. The underbrush made Pescatore wish for one of the machetes the tactical boys carried. He saw Belhaj on his right, moving gracefully in her high boots. She was also unarmed.

Pescatore had an unpleasant epiphany. In his vest, he looked like a cop. Their quarry was hiding in the weeds, so close they might step on him. If the gunman had any street savvy, he knew the officers would open fire no matter what his intentions. His only chance of survival was to take a hostage, a frequent underworld tactic fomented by the trigger-happy tendencies of the police. And he would grab the closest dumbass without a gun.

Sure enough, it happened.

To Belhaj.

Pescatore saw a blur of motion on his right. The gunman erupted out of the weeds like a diver coming up for air. He pounced on Belhaj and got her in a choke hold. He had a broken nose, a goatee, and a shaven brown pate—one of Kharroubi’s bodyguards. He crouched behind Belhaj and jammed his pistol against her head.

“Get back or I clean this
rati
whore!” the gunman screamed. “I’ll blow her brains out.”

Aldo and the other officers took aim from three sides. Pescatore was the closest to Belhaj and the gunman, only about ten feet away. He spread his hands so the gunman could see they were empty.

Aldo ordered the gunman to drop his weapon. The gunman told Aldo to fuck himself. He tightened his forearm against Belhaj’s throat.

“Get back,
ratis
!”

Pescatore knew that if he didn’t act fast, Belhaj would die at the hands of the gunman or the police or both.

He stepped forward, arms high in surrender.

“Look at me,” he told the gunman. “I’m not armed. Listen to me. Don’t shoot, whatever you do. Listen to me, I’m your only chance.”

Terror distorted the gunman’s face. He jammed the pistol into her neck.

“Get back or she’s dead!”

“Don’t do it,” Pescatore said. He took another step forward. His goal was to get him to point the pistol away from Belhaj. “Look at me, man, I’m trying to save your life!”

Pescatore saw more cops closing in and, as if he didn’t have enough problems, creating a potential crossfire.

“Don’t shoot,” he implored them. “Give this man room. He’s going to do the right thing if we let him.”

Pescatore took another step. The helicopter swooped above them, whining like a big angry insect. The rotor wind whipped the weeds. The gunman glanced up in panic, eyes bulging in their sockets.

Come on, aim at me, you skull-faced psycho,
Pescatore thought.
You can do it.

He edged to his left. He calculated that the gunman would shoot at him before Belhaj in order to preserve his human shield. He caught Belhaj’s eye. Her look told him she was going to make a move.

“Listen to me now!” Pescatore roared, taking one more step.

The pistol shifted to point at Pescatore. Belhaj threw an elbow in her captor’s face, staggering him, and broke free. Pescatore lunged. He saw the barrel spew flame and felt a sledgehammer blow against his chest and then he was tackling Belhaj and driving her down into the weeds. Shots rang out as the two of them hit the mud. They rolled twice and he landed heavily on top of her and stayed there, shielding her.