The Argentine Triangle: A Craig Page Thriller (26 page)

El Bodegon was a grimy down-and-out tango joint in a seedy area of San Telmo, a fifteen-minute cab ride from the Alvear. While mentioning the name of the place to Craig, the concierge said, “I doubt whether any foreigners have ever been there. At any rate, with the increased crime that’s an unfortunate consequence of our recession, I would not recommend it.”

“Then I certainly won’t go there,” Craig had told him, in case any of Estrada’s people asked.

Walking through the front door of El Bodegon, he and Gina looked like porteños. She was dressed in a bright blouse and short black skirt. Her shoes were black patent leather with a strap across the instep. She had left the cross in the hotel room. He was in a pair of khakis and muted plaid shirt.

Since neither of them wanted to be seen, he had told her to come to the eighth floor of the Alvear, to which she readily agreed. He had met her at the elevator, then took her down to the basement and outside through the service entrance he had used yesterday.

It was still early. El Bodegon was dimly lit and half empty. He led her to a booth in the corner and ordered a couple of margaritas with salt.

The accordion-like
bandonéon
was playing a hauntingly sad song. The words described a lonely man at a bar drinking to drown his troubles to forget the woman who had left him. On the dance floor, couples, quite adept at the tango, moved together, giving the appearance of one stalking the other. Two sweat-slicked bodies fused, simulating copulation. Wide-eyed, watching their overt sexuality, Gina said, “I’ve never been to a place like this before. I can’t believe it took a gringo to get me here.”

She had given him the opening he wanted. He took a sip of his drink, then moved right in. “Have you ever lived in Buenos Aires?”

“Only for a few months when I began at
La Nación.
I was born in Mendoza. My mother died when I was only two. With my father in the army, I grew up with his parents on their farm. They’re wonderful people. The family has been in Argentina for more than two hundred years.

“Though I was only ten when my father died, he had spent lots of time with me—whenever he could. He was kind, warm, and caring. A marvelous human being. I loved him so much. Everybody did. He was a great man, a hero of the Republic. Very popular. My grandparents told me that people cried for days when they found out the Communists assassinated him. I was away at school at the time. It was horrible.” She paused to wipe tears from her eyes.

“What was his name?”

“Miguel Galindo. General Miguel Galindo.” Looking over at Craig with pride, she asked, “Have you heard of him?”

He hadn’t, but he didn’t want to admit that. So he said, “I saw his name in some of the articles I read before coming down here. They were all very complimentary.”

She gulped down the rest of her drink. “I’m so thirsty.”

The waitress was passing by. Gina told her, “I’ll have another one.”

The waitress looked at Craig. “You, too?”

“I’m good for now.”

“How’d you get to know General Estrada?”

“What makes you think I do?” She sounded defensive.

“The way he was talking to you tonight. The fact that he selected you for his dinner partner.”

She was beaming. “I guess that’s right. Alfredo served under my father. After papa’s death, Alfredo treated me like one of his own children. I spent many weekends at his country house. He’d send an army car to pick me up at the girls’ school. He took me skiing with his family in the winter and to a mountain lake in the summer. Now that I’m grown up, he’s helped my career at the newspaper.” She paused to take another sip. “But I’m tired of talking about myself. I want to talk about you. How did you get into this investment business?”

She said it in such a forced way that he decided Estrada had told her to obtain information from him.

The waitress brought her drink. She sipped it and looked at him, waiting for an answer.

“I always liked money,” he said, laughing easily.

She laughed with him. “Most people do.”

“And I found that I’m good at it.”

“Your office is in San Francisco?”

He nodded. “I’d love to show you around California some time. What do you think, Gina?”

“That would be great,” she said with enthusiasm. “Also, I like that you call me by my name. Not honey or dear. You treat me like a real person.”

She was slurring her words, blinking her eyes as if getting them to focus. She’d had too much to drink.

“And of course you are a wonderful person,” he said. “If you give me your cell number, I’ll call you when I can arrange it.”

She took a pen out of her purse and sloppily wrote down a number on a paper napkin. “My cell,” she handed it to him.

“I have to go back to San Francisco for a couple of days. To do some work on one of the investments I’m discussing with your friend Alfredo.”

She smiled like a cat who had just swallowed a canary. In a soft voice, she began singing. “A kiss on the hand may be quite continental, but diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”

She picked up her left hand and waved her ring finger at him.

Startled, he responded, “How did you know that?”

“My friend Rosie has tons of CDs from Broadway musicals. That’s from
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
.”

“No. I mean how did you know that Alfredo and I were discussing diamonds?”

She held a finger up to her lips and gave him a coquettish look. “There’s plenty that I know, but I’ll never tell.”

Just how tight with Estrada was she, he wondered. He decided that it was time to close up shop before arousing her suspicions. He had already gotten more from her than he had hoped. A new song was beginning. “We didn’t come here to talk,” he said. “We came to tango.”

He led her out to the floor, where they joined half a dozen other couples.

Back at the Alvear, Bryce was calling Gina’s room for the third time. As before, it rang and rang with no answer. In a white fury and in his stockinged feet and Alvear terrycloth robe, he charged down the hall from his suite in 601 to 614. He pounded on the door so loudly that a security guard came up an inside staircase and eyed him with apprehension, ready to go for his gun.

“I’m sorry,” Bryce mumbled. “I must have made a mistake.”

But he knew damn well he hadn’t made a mistake. He was absolutely certain what had happened.

Going for total certainty to make himself as miserable as possible, Bryce went back to his own suite and asked the operator to connect him with Barry Gorman.

“It’s quite late, Mr. Bryce,” she said.

Bryce tried to sound polite. “I know that, but we’re working on something very important. I’m the head of the American delegation. Don’t you know that?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll connect you right away.”

Again the phone rang and rang without any answer. That lying bitch had to be with Gorman. He’d find a way to get even with him.

The song was a tale of passion and unrequited love, its tones melancholy and bittersweet. “It’s over between us / you said / in a goodbye of sugar and ice.”

As they reached the dance floor, Craig took charge. She followed where he led, anticipating his movements, her hair swinging freely, her face a mask of sexual desire, her eyes focused on him. With a fervor they moved, their bodies slapping together recklessly, generating a sense of mutual desire. Her face flushed, she raised her right leg high, pressing it against his left side, their bodies entwined. Roughly, he clasped her ankle, held it for a couple of seconds, while her chest pressed against his and their faces were an inch apart. Then he released her and their bodies unraveled.

As she pulled away, no longer content to follow, she challenged him for the lead. They were in her country. Lust had given her a self-confidence she had never known before. She stalked him in their ritual of desire. At first surprised by her aggression, he quickly backed down, yielding to her as the predator. Other couples had stopped dancing and were watching in awe the strangers, gliding around the floor. The temperature in the room was high. That combined with their intense motion and the alcohol they had consumed through the evening made their skin glisten with perspiration.

When they came together now in the dancers’ embrace, they were equals. Suddenly, she stopped dancing and squeezed him tight. “Oh Barry, I’m so happy. When I’m with you, I don’t want anything else.”

From deep down inside, a little voice whispered to him, “I hope you know what you’re doing. Don’t let her be destroyed.”

The music overrode that voice as they resumed dancing. When the music stopped, without any warning, she leaned up and kissed him hard on his mouth. Pulling away, her face was flushed with desire. “Let’s go back to the hotel,” she whispered.

In the back of the cab, she leaned her body close to his. As soon as the wheels began turning, she fell sound asleep, snoring softly.

When they got out of the cab in front of the Alvear, she woke up. Cautiously, he led her through the revolving door into the lobby. She held his arm to steady herself.

Except for an armed guard and a tired looking clerk behind the desk, the lobby was deserted as he expected at three in the morning. No sign of Clay or Schiller.

Craig’s suite was on the eighth floor. As he pushed six, her floor, Craig, who had quite a bit to drink himself, wasn’t sure how this would play out.

When the elevator stopped on the sixth floor, she suddenly looked pale. Walking along the corridor, she handed him her room key.

“Open the door fast,” she said.

As soon as they were in the room, she cried out, “Oh God, I’m going to be sick.”

She ran to the bathroom. Standing near the door, he heard her throwing up.

White as sheet, she emerged from the bathroom minutes later.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked.

“Please go. I don’t want you to see me like this. Just leave.”

She ran back to the bathroom and threw up again.

Once she returned, she stretched out on the bed. “Please, Barry. Leave me. I’ll be okay.”

He left her room.

Back in his own suite, he showered and dressed, then packed everything he needed for a trip to the United States. He called American Airlines and booked first class to San Francisco via Miami on a morning flight. In the lobby, he stuffed several thousand dollars in a briefcase but left the rest of the cash and the guns in the vault box.

In a loud voice, he told the clerk on duty at the desk to let Mr. Fernandez, the hotel manager, know that he had to make a quick trip to San Francisco, he’d be back within the week, and please continue to keep him registered in the suite because he left many of his possessions behind. Then he shouted for the doorman to get him a cab to the international airport. He wanted to leave behind lots of witnesses so Schiller would think he had gotten what he wanted—Barry Gorman leaving the country.

After a few hours of sleep, Bryce, cursing under his breath, was ready to go on the offensive against Gina. After all he’d done for her. Shit, he’d given her all that jewelry. Bought the Watergate apartment. Arranged for the arms shipments to Argentina as she had asked. He had a right to more than lies and deceit. He’d find a way to get even with her and that investment banker, Barry Gorman. Colonel Schiller didn’t like the man and was suspicious of him. That goaded Bryce, now convinced that the two of them were shacked up together somewhere.