The Argentine Triangle (A Craig Page Thriller)

Other Masterful Thrillers
from the Mind of Allan Topol

China Gambit

“The China Gambit is a choice pick for those who love high end military plots, very much recommended.”

Midwest Book Review

Spy Dance

“It’s a smooth and exciting ride. You’ll want to see these characters take on another problem or two. Yep, I was sorry the story stopped.”

Carnegie Mellon Magazine

“The story takes off at warp speed.”

Washingtonian Magazine

“Spy Dance is a must-read for fans of espionage thrillers, and deserves a place on the bookshelf alongside the works of Tom Clancy, Robert Ludlum, and even John LeCarre.”

Hadassah Magazine

“This is a superb first novel …”

Newt Gingrich

Enemy of My Enemy

“Topol’s turf is the old-fashioned novel of international intrigue. His scene shifts constantly from trendy clubs in Moscow to three-star restaurants in Paris to strip joints in Montreal to Cabinet-level confrontations in the Oval Office.”

The Washington Post

“Topol is up there with such masters of the Labyrinthine as Robert Ludlum and Tom Clancy.”

Washintgon Post

Dark Ambition

“Topol might be the most riveting spy-adventure writer in America today … I found myself solidly immersed in Topol’s multi-faceted conspiracy and am eagerly anticipating his next work.”

Newt Gingrich

“Unlike most other members of the lawyer-novelist fraternity, Topol turns out good old-fashioned spy stories that leave the corridors of big law firm business far behind in favor of the broader stage of foreign affairs, political intrigue, and the murky recesses of human desire.”

“In this tightly written novel, Topol captures well the quiet neighborhoods of Washington, D.C., and the occasional ruthlessness of its people.”

Legal Times

“John Grisham and Richard North Patterson may have a new successor in Topol …”

Publishers Weekly

Conspiracy

“Seethes with political intrigue, a cast of shady characters, and enough deception, smart dialogue, and behind-closed-doors deals to keep readers hooked until the final.”

Publishers Weekly

“An entertaining and suspenseful thriller with a well-crafted plot …”

Stephen Frey, New York Times best-selling
author of Silent Partner

“Conspiracy is a perfectly executed combination of the best elements of legal and political thrillers. With a lightning-fast pace, a compelling story, and an insider look at Washington, Topol takes his readers on a memorable thrill ride. Find a comfortable chair and plan to stay up late. Highly recommended.”

Sheldon Siegel, New York Times best-selling author of Final Verdict

“[Topol has] managed to weave a convincing conspiracy theory into near worldwide conflict. And it’s done with the extreme finesse that keeps us guessing all the way, also hankering for more of Topol’s penetrating portrayal of inside-the-Beltway deceptions.”

The Sanford Herald

“A paranoia-inducing thriller … The action scenes and telling details linger long after you have finished the book.”

Legal Times

“This Washington, D.C.-set thriller from Topol (Dark Ambition) seethes with political intrigue, a cast of shady characters and enough deception, smart dialogue and behind-closed-doors deals to keep readers hooked until the final scene.”

Publishers Weekly

A Woman of Valor

“Few novels have kept me as involved as this one.”

South Bend Tribune

“Topol has written an evenly paced story, introducing his characters slowly so that each has a chance to come alive before the plot takes off on a convoluting and deftly interwoven path leading to the climax.”

The Free Lance-Star

The Fourth of July War

“The book is remarkably reflective of contemporary affairs.”

Chicago Tribune

“Topol creates believable characters with real problems and emotions; he constructs a tight, suspenseful plot that has us flipping pages as fast as we can find out what happens while we root 100% for a hero we don’t altogether like.”

The Los Angeles Times

“Topol’s scenario for this fast-paced, gripping novel has the ring of inevitability … Should be a best seller.”

Houston Chronicle

“It’s a screamer of a novel … So real it makes you believe it could happen.”

Natchez Democrat

The Russian Endgame

“The Russian Endgame is a satisfying conclusion to the trilogy, and reading it is like a rush of adrenaline in your veins. The characters are three-dimensional and believable, and it’s a book you won’t want to put down.”

Douglas Cobb 
Guardian Liberty Voice 
guardianlv.com

“Allan’s novel, The Russian Endgame, brings to light what happens when two powerful countries and their leaders decide to team up against the United States! Just Reviews is honored to award this year’s Author of the Year for Historical Fiction and Writing to best-selling author Allan Topol.”

Presented by Fran Lewis and Just Reviews

November 20, 2013

Also by Allan Topol

FICTION

The Fourth of July War

A Woman of Valor

Spy Dance

Dark Ambition

Conspiracy

Enemy of My Enemy

The China Gambit

The Spanish Revenge

The Russian Endgame

NON-FICTION

Superfund Law and Procedure (coauthor)

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations within cities, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events and locales or persons described, either living or deceased, is coincidental.

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

This edition is published by SelectBooks, Inc.

For information address SelectBooks, Inc., New York, New York.

First Edition

ISBN 978-1-59079-141-7

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Topol, Allan.

The Argentine triangle / Allan Topol. – First edition.

pages cm

Summary: “Undercover in the glamorous circles of Buenos Aires’ wealthy elite, former CIA director Craig Page uses all the skills in his arsenal to avert cataclysmic events threatening the future of the United States and South America”– Provided by publisher.

ISBN 978-1-59079-141-7 (pbk. : alk. paper)

1. United States–Foreign relations–South America–Fiction.
2. South America–Foreign relations–United States–Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3570.O64A89 2014

813’.54–dc23

2013035457

Manufactured in the United States

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Dedicated to my wife, Barbara, my partner
in this literary venture

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

One Year Later

Bariloche, Argentina

Sardinia

Porto Cervo, Sardinia

Buenos Aires

Porto Cervo, Sardinia

Washington

Northern Argentina

Washington

Buenos Aires

Bariloche

Washington

Bariloche

Buenos Aires

Bethesda, Maryland

Buenos Aires

Middleburg, Virginia

London

Over the Atlantic

Buenos Aires

Washington

Buenos Aires

Northern Argentina

Buenos Aires

San Francisco

Washington

Northern Argentina

Washington

Los Angeles

Rancho Santa Fe

Washington

Buenos Aires

Washington

Buenos Aires

Middleburg, Virginia

Buenos Aires

Iguazu, Argentina

Middleburg, Virginia

Northern Argentina

Middleburg, Virginia

Northern Argentina

Iguazu

Northern Virginia

Iguazu

Epilogue

About the Author

Acknowledgments

I wish to thank my agent, Pam Ahearn, who helped me develop the Craig Page series. We are now on our fourth book. It has been a pleasure working with the people at SelectBooks. I very much appreciate Kenzi Sugihara’s enthusiasm for the novel from the first reading.

Nancy Sugihara and Molly Stern did an outstanding job of editing, and I’d like to thank Kenichi Sugihara for his work as the marketing director.

Thanks to my wife, Barbara, for her enormous assistance. She read each draft and offered valuable suggestions for keeping Craig in character in Argentina. We had great fun visiting Buenos Aires, Bariloche, and Iguazu.

PROLOGUE

Washington

The morning after Craig Page’s return to Washington from Moscow, he arrived at the office at 8 a.m. Since he had been in his job as director of the CIA for only three weeks, and was traveling most of this period, Craig hadn’t had time to select his own secretary. He refused to inherit Jane, who had worked for the predecessor he despised, so he counted on his deputy Betty Richards to find someone more suitable.

He met her choice. Monica Donnelly was a tall, angular blonde with a runner’s legs in her forties who had worked with the agency for twenty years. “She’ll keep you out of trouble,” Betty had told him. “If that’s possible.”

Knowing Craig had lived in Paris, Monica had installed an espresso machine in the outer office. For Craig, fighting jet lag and a couple of sleepless nights, the double espresso she placed on his desk was like manna from heaven.

“Welcome back Mr. Page,” she said.

“Thank you. It’s good to be in Washington.”

“Miss Richards called and asked if she could see you as soon as you arrived.”

Betty had beaten Craig to the punch. He was planning to talk with her first thing this morning.

“Have Betty come up,” he told Monica. “And please fix her an espresso.”

Minutes later, Betty arrived, dressed in a snug navy suit, strands of black hair streaked with gray falling haphazardly around her face. She was wearing black frame glasses with thick lenses, the kind that people refer to as looking like old Coca-Cola bottles.

Cup in hand, Craig led the way to the conference table where Betty’s espresso was waiting.

Once they were seated, she said, “I want a briefing on what occurred in that airplane hangar in Moscow.”

He sighed. “It was an unmitigated disaster. Nothing went as I had planned.”

“I realized that when I heard that President Zhou was dead. What happened?”

“Well, my great plan to have the Spanish Special Ops kidnap Zhou and fly him back to Madrid to stand trial for the murder of scores of Spanish citizens never got off the ground. Orlov killed Zhou.”

“Avenging the death of his sister?”

“Yeah. After that everything spun out of control. Zhou’s aide killed Orlov and one of the Spanish troops shot Zhou’s aide. I felt as if I were in a shooting gallery.”

Betty pushed back her glasses. “That’s not such a bad result. Even if the Spanish had gotten Zhou to Madrid, they might not have been willing to hang tough about putting the president of China on trial. They might have folded and coughed him up. At least this way the world is rid of a man who was on his way to rivaling Mao. And you have some form of revenge for Zhou arranging the heinous murder of your daughter.”

“All of that’s true, but I didn’t want it to end that way.”

“Have you briefed President Treadwell?”

“As soon as the plane landed at Andrews yesterday I went straight to the White House.”

“What’d Treadwell say?”

“He was pleased. He realizes that Mei Ling, the new Chinese president, is someone he’ll be able to work with. He already sent her congratulations and invited her to Washington for an early visit.”

“So it sounds as if everybody came out a winner.”

“Except Zhou. But as you said, the world’s a better place without him.”

He paused to take a sip of coffee before continuing, “Now that this operation is over, I’ll really have to take on the job of being CIA director. No more shunting all the work off on you.”

“That’s true. You can’t duck it any longer. How about if I schedule a meeting at three this afternoon for you with senior staff. Let them finally meet the boss.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

His office phone rang. A moment later, Monica buzzed on the intercom. “It’s the White House. President Treadwell wants to see you ASAP.”

Puzzled, Craig replied, “Did they give you a reason?”

“Nothing. Just that it was urgent.”

“Tell them I’m on my way.” What else could you tell the president of the United States?

He looked at Betty. “What do you think? A new crisis?”

“I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

“That doesn’t help me.”

“Just a gut instinct. Washington is the city of sharp knives.”

When Craig entered the Oval Office, he saw that Edward Bryce was there along with President Treadwell. Craig had met Bryce once before in another Oval Office meeting, when Craig had gotten Treadwell’s approval for the Moscow operation that resulted in Zhou’s death. At that meeting it had been the president, Craig, Elizabeth Crowder, and Bryce, whom Treadwell had introduced as “a close friend, a powerful Washington lawyer, and my informal advisor on certain sensitive issues.”

Bryce was about sixty, Craig thought. Dignified and patrician was how Craig would have described him. He had a full head of gray hair and was dressed in a starched white shirt with diamond studded French cuffs and a red silk Hermes tie, loosened at the neck. No jacket.

Treadwell, looking grim, was seated behind his red leather-topped desk and made no effort to come forward and greet Craig. Bryce was standing next to one of the two chairs in front of the desk. Treadwell motioned to the other chair and Craig sat down.

“We have a problem,” Treadwell began.

“What’s that?” Craig asked.

“I received a call from Mei Ling. She and the Chinese leadership are publicly sticking with the story that President Zhou had a heart attack. No one was permitted to see Zhou’s body. It was kept in a sealed coffin. Armed guards enforced that order. He was buried quickly.”

Craig held his breath, waiting for what came next.

“Are you familiar with President Zhou’s brother, Zhou Yun?” Treadwell asked.

“Very. He’s one of the wealthiest and most powerful businessmen in China. He’s every bit as evil and ruthless as his brother. Zhou Yun arranged the assassination of President Zhou’s predecessor, President Li.”

“Well at any rate, Zhou Yun met with Mei Ling. He told her that he had confirmed that the official reason given for his brother’s death from a heart attack was untrue. He discovered that the president had died from a shot in the chest. Mei Ling thinks that somehow, either by bribing some of the president’s guards or by paying off a good friend of Russian President Kuznov, Zhou Yun got the whole story of what happened in the airplane hangar on that Russian Air Force base.

“He learned that his brother was killed by Orlov, the former KGB agent the president was conspiring with to steal cutting-edge American military technology for an alliance between China and Russia to defeat the United States. He knows now that Orlov murdered the president to avenge the death of Orlov’s gorgeous sister, Androshka, who died as a result of her entanglement with President Zhou.”

Bryce interjected. “That’s what really happened. Isn’t it, Craig?”

“Yes.”

Treadwell continued. “Even though Orlov fired the gun, Zhou Yun is blaming you for arranging his brother’s death in Moscow on behalf of the American government.”

“That’s absurd. My plan, which you approved, was to let the Spaniards fly Zhou to Madrid to stand trial. I had no way of knowing that Orlov would kill President Zhou.”

Bryce sprang to his feet. The trial lawyer was ready to cross-examine a hostile witness. He was staring at Craig and pointing a bony finger at him.

“You arranged this little gathering in the Moscow airplane hangar. Didn’t you?”

“Correct.”

“And you knew that Zhou killed Androshka, Orlov’s sister. Didn’t you?”

“Of course I knew that.”

“But you didn’t search Orlov for weapons. Did you?”

Craig didn’t reply.

“So in a sense,” Bryce was raising his voice, “you were to blame for Zhou’s death.”

Craig was forming an intense dislike for Bryce. He clutched the arms of his chair tightly. “Look here, Bryce. My plan was to assist the Spanish government in flying Zhou to Madrid to stand trial for crimes he committed against the Spanish people on Spanish soil.”

“You couldn’t possibly have thought you would succeed in having the president of China tried in a Spanish court.”

Craig glared at Treadwell, but the president had no intention of interrupting his friend Bryce.

“I did. Zhou was responsible for the death of hundreds of Spanish people.” Craig decided to go on the offensive. “When I presented my plan here in the Oval Office, neither President Treadwell nor you raised any objection.”

Bryce was ready for that. “At the time, neither President Treadwell nor I had detailed knowledge of the situation. We had to rely on your judgment. Wouldn’t you agree with that?”

Before Craig had a chance to respond, Bryce continued. “The truth is that you were intent on gaining your own personal revenge against Zhou for the death of your daughter, Francesca. Were you not?”

“Zhou was not only responsible for the death of hundreds of Spanish people, but also for the assassination of your predecessor, President Dalton,” he said, looking at Treadwell.

Bryce glared at Craig. He was obviously not used to being challenged.

“So you did want President Zhou to be murdered?”

Bryce sat down. The cross-examination was over.

Treadwell picked it up. “Zhou Yun has powerful friends in China. His brother had support among top military people. Zhou Yun is threatening to have Mei Ling ousted from the presidency and to launch a trade war against the United States. Obviously this would be very detrimental to us. We can’t let that happen.”

While staring at Craig, Treadwell paused and tapped his fingers on the desk. “There’s only one way to solve this problem.” The president turned toward Bryce. “Edward, you tell Craig what we have to do. It was your idea.”

Betty’s words flashed through Craig’s mind: “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

Bryce was on his feet again, pacing and looking at Craig while he spoke. “We have to take the position that Moscow was a rogue operation that you conceived and implemented on your own to avenge your daughter’s death. Neither president Treadwell nor anyone else in the American government had advance knowledge.”

Craig was flabbergasted. “But you authorized it, Mr. President. Right here in this room. And Bryce, you were at the meeting.”

Treadwell looked away from Craig. “Unfortunately, we don’t have a choice.”

“So you want to throw me under the bus, Mr. President.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“Then how would you put it?”

Still on his feet, Bryce responded, “The president won’t be charging you with a crime. He’ll merely accept your resignation as director of the CIA.”

Craig realized that Bryce probably would like to charge him to give their story credibility, but at trial they’d never be able to stop him from disclosing Treadwell’s approval. He also realized that further opposition was pointless. Treadwell was being completely dominated by Bryce.

“Even for Washington,” Craig said caustically, “three weeks in a job must be a record.”

“Look. I feel bad about this,” Treadwell said.

“It’s only politics,” Bryce added.

Craig stood up, wheeled around to face the president’s advisor, and calmly said, “Go fuck yourself.”

“You really told Bryce that in the Oval Office?” Betty said after Craig related the events of the meeting. They were in Craig’s office.

“Damn right.”

“Good for you. I can’t believe them.”

“C’mon, you were the one who told me Washington is the city of sharp knives.”

“I know, but I never thought …”

She reached into her bag and removed a cigarette that she fiddled with, knowing she couldn’t light it inside of the building.

Craig said, “And the world’s record for the shortest tenure in a top Washington job goes to …”

“I’m out of here, too. We’ll leave together.”

“No,” he said emphatically. “You have to stay. You’ll be acting director. Maybe they’ll even give you the job.”

Betty shook her head. “It’ll never happen. First, I’m a woman.”

“Treadwell said he wants to appoint more women to top jobs.”

“Second, you appointed me to be your deputy.”

“But they have no idea how close we are. When they ask you about me, say ‘Craig who?’”

She laughed.

“I haven’t heard you laugh in a long time.”

“That’s true. I stopped laughing when Zhou murdered Francesca. I loved your daughter as if she were my own. You know that.”

Craig nodded, saying “Yes, I understand and appreciate this. But the United States needs you. No one else has your wealth of information about the CIA. I don’t want you to leave. Whatever I think of Treadwell and Bryce, I still love this country.”

Craig decided not to say to Betty that the CIA had been her whole life. An orphan, she never married and never had children. She had nothing else. Although his wife and only child had died, he still had Elizabeth.

“What will you do?” she asked.

“Does that mean you’ll stay?”

“Until the assholes across the river become too much for me to bear. Now tell me what you’ll do.”

“I’ll have to sit down with Elizabeth and talk. Maybe we’ll travel for a while if she can get time off from the paper. Perhaps we’ll resume a vacation we were having in Corsica when we learned President Li had been assassinated. We’ll have to sort it out together.”

When Betty left, Craig remembered that he had turned off his cell phone when he entered the Oval Office and forgot to turn it back on. When he did, he saw that he had a voice mail from Elizabeth.

“I have news. We have to talk. I’m working on a story now. How about meeting me at Tosca for dinner at eight.”

He wondered what news she had. Was she pregnant?

That would be something. He’d want to get married. Stay in Washington. Maybe open a private security firm here.

Buoyed by the possibility of being a father again, Craig was looking forward to hearing what Elizabeth had to say.

When he arrived at Tosca, Massimo, in his white chef’s uniform, came out of the kitchen to greet him. He noticed that Elizabeth was already at the table, halfway back, next to the railing, far enough from other tables that they could easily talk. As he headed toward the table, he saw that she had a cosmo and was sipping it. He asked the waiter to bring him a glass of white wine, “And please open that Barolo from Bruno Giacosa that I had the last time.”

“Absolutely, Mr. Page.”

At the table, Craig leaned over and kissed her. Then he sat down across from her. While he was anxious to tell her what happened at the White House, he wanted to hear her news before he announced, “I’ve been fired!”

She definitely wasn’t pregnant, he decided. If she were, she’d be drinking champagne or more likely just sparkling water.

“What’s your news?” he asked.

“Henrie Morey called me from Paris.”

“The publisher of your paper?”

“Yeah. That one.”

She sounded nervous, he thought.

“And?”

“Rob decided to retire as foreign news editor and Henrie offered me the job.”

“Great. Congratulations.”

“There’s a kicker, though.”

“What’s that?”

The waiter arrived with Craig’s glass of wine. She waited until he left to respond to Craig’s question.

“I have to live in Paris.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“I’d take it.” Sounding sheepish, she continued, “It’s my dream job.”

Craig was pissed. He couldn’t believe that she didn’t ask Henrie for twenty-four hours to think about it, so they could discuss what it meant for their lives. Of course they weren’t married, but they had a life together, or so he had thought.

As if reading his mind, Elizabeth added, “We’ll commute back and forth between Paris and Washington. Lots of couples do that.”

It was clear to Craig that her job meant more to her than her relationship with him. He thought back to when they were living together in Paris and he had been offered the CIA director’s job. He had discussed it with her before he took the job.

“You’re upset,” she said.

“I’m having one shitty day.”

“What happened?”

The waiter returned with plates of ravioli stuffed with lobster. “Compliments of the chef.” Craig thanked him and then told her about his meeting in the Oval Office.

“Oh Craig, that’s outrageous. What a couple of crumbs. I was there when you laid out your Russian endgame. Neither Treadwell nor Bryce raised a single objection. Now you can move back to Paris with me.”

“And do what?”

“Take back your old job as EU head of counterterrorism.”

“I couldn’t do that to Giuseppe. He was my deputy and my friend. I put him into the job.”

Suddenly it struck Craig that he had another problem. “I have to worry about Zhou Yun.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know Zhou Yun and how close he was with his brother. If he’s blaming me for his brother’s murder, he’ll be coming after me with his thugs, and I won’t have the protection of any government.” He paused and thought about what that meant.

“I’ll have to go somewhere, and damn soon, to arrange plastic surgery to change my face. Probably in Switzerland.”

“When you’re finished there, you can come live with me in Paris.”

Craig shook his head. “Too dangerous. Some things can’t be changed even with plastic surgery. Like how a person walks. Zhou Yun will be able locate you easily through your newspaper. When I drop out of sight, the first thing he’ll do is have someone watch your apartment in Paris.”

“I better get a gun myself.”

“That’s smart. I’ll give you one of mine in the house.”

“So how will we see each other?” she asked. “Separately sneak off to some place like Corsica and meet there?”

Craig had learned long ago that if he wanted to stay alive, he had to think the way his pursuers did. “That’s exactly what Zhou Yun will be expecting.”

“So what do we do?”

“We separate for a year or two. When I think it’s clear, I’ll contact you.”

The waiter dropped menus on the table. Elizabeth looked miserable. “Don’t you think you’re being a little extreme?”

“Zhou Yun can’t be underestimated. We’re talking about a man who arranged the death of the Chinese president on an operating table during surgery. And he has unlimited money.”

“I guess you’re right,” she said glumly.

From her face, he saw that even though Elizabeth had wanted the job first, she had wanted him, too. Now she was only getting the job. She never imagined that she would have to give him up, but there was no other way. With his life on the line, Craig had no emotions. He was hard, cold, and pragmatic. In his business, there was no other way to stay alive.

After dinner, they went home. Their lovemaking had none of its usual passion. They went through the motions, but the reality was that a chapter of their lives was closing, and they were moving on to the next.

In the morning while it was still dark, after a quick coffee together, Elizabeth left in a cab for the airport. She was flying to New York to meet her book editor. From there, she’d fly to Paris.

When they kissed at the door, her closing words to Craig were, “Be careful.”

Craig took his cup out onto the verandah in the back, where he watched the sun rise.

He felt very much alone. His wife and only child were dead. Elizabeth was gone.

He felt as if he was starting a new life. What would he do with it after having the facial surgery?

“Something I always wanted to do,” he said aloud. “Something just for me.”

Bariloche, Argentina

“The goddamned market,” Ted Dunn cursed as he looked in the mirror of his room at Hosteria La Balsas. He touched the strawberry mark on the side of his face and pulled a black ski cap over what was left of his thinning brown hair. It was all because of the stock market that he was down here in this mess.

After twenty-five years with the CIA, Dunn had retired last year. Despite being apart for so much of the time, he and his wife Alice still had a great marriage. The plan was to buy a place in Sarasota, then sell the McLean house outside of Washington and move to Florida. At long last, he was looking forward to spending time with Alice, playing golf together and walking on the beach. He didn’t want to take a security job in private industry as so many of his colleagues had done. Even with the allowances for living abroad, his CIA salary had been meager by industry standards, but he figured he had enough from his pension and savings to live out the rest of his life without working.

Everything was on schedule. With a bridge loan, they bought a great three-bedroom along the beach on Longboat Key, with the extra room for Marion, her husband, and their grandchildren to use when they came. He was getting ready to sell the McLean house when—bam! The market took a nose dive. Dunn lost half his savings in three months. Unable to sell the house, he couldn’t cover the bridge loan. He was facing financial ruin.

That was when Betty Richards, like a shark moving in on a bleeding seaman, called him in for a meeting. In her director’s office on the seventh floor of the Langley headquarters, she told him, “One small contract job in Argentina. Off the books. $500K. You operate on your own. No contacts with agency or embassy personnel.”

“Why not use Bill, who replaced me in Santiago, or one of the other agency people in Buenos Aires?” he had asked.

“I can’t tell you. Are you in or out?”

Good old Betty. Always mysterious. Plays everything close to the chest. “You know I need the money, don’t you?”

“We’re in the intelligence business. Never forget that.”

“What’s the job?”

“Spend a week or two in Argentina. Pretend to be a tourist. Find out what General Estrada is up to.”

Dunn knew Betty wanted the information badly because he bargained her up to $750K plus expenses.

“Reports are for my eyes only,” she had told him.

That was ten days ago. Now he placed a .38 caliber pistol in a holster strapped around his shirt, zipped up his jacket, and stuffed a Beretta in the right side pocket. At ten thirty in the evening he left his second floor room and headed downstairs toward the entrance to the inn.

He hadn’t heard from Pascual all day, which was good. Dunn had told the young driver, “Don’t call or text me unless it’s an emergency.” Dunn was from the old school. He communicated only when essential. He didn’t trust technology. With electronic equipment you could never be certain if someone was eavesdropping.

Since Dunn’s arrival in Argentina, he had collected a significant amount of information about Estrada, and this had been relayed to Betty via a special diplomatic courier she had arranged. He expected Pascual to supply the most critical information about General Estrada tonight. Once Dunn received Pascual’s report, he planned to wrap it up and go home. Betty would have gotten her money’s worth. The weather was nice in Florida. It was time to get on the golf course with Alice.

Before leaving the inn through the back door, Dunn glanced around carefully. Everything looked normal. It was bitter cold in the October night air, the sky filled with clouds. Dunn guessed another spring snowstorm was coming over the Andes from Chile. Cautiously, he walked across the parking lot toward his rented gray Honda. He had left it at a remote spot and installed a motion sensor that would have alerted him in his room if anyone had approached the car. The sensor hadn’t beeped.

He climbed into the car, kicked it into gear, and set off down the dirt road, wanting to be in place a little before Pascual arrived, but not so long as to raise suspicions if someone passed along the rarely used road.

At the rendezvous point Dunn checked his watch. Ten minutes to eleven. Ten minutes to the meet. Precisely when he wanted to be here. He pulled over to the side of the road and turned off his lights. The clouds were blocking the moon. Small farms lined both sides of the road. Dunn wondered how the farmers eked out a living in the depressed economy where so many had so little money for food.

Dunn was staring straight ahead through the front windshield, the Beretta on the car seat close by if he had to go for it. His jacket unzipped. He could grab the .38 in an instant.

At ten fifty-nine, a car turned off the main road, Route 21, and headed toward him. Pascual was right on time. Dunn kept looking straight ahead to see if anyone was following Pascual. Nobody else was on the road. So far, so good.

Suddenly, the car coming toward him flashed its lights. “Dammit,” Dunn muttered. That was the warning signal he had told Pascual to use.

Gun in hand, he scrambled out of the Honda. He had developed an escape plan this afternoon. He would cut through the farm on the right side of the dirt road. That would take him to the main highway, a distance of about two miles. He had parked another rental car there that he could pick up and drive out of town before they had a chance to set roadblocks.

The approaching car now had its high beams on. Dunn moved fast to duck into the bushes before he was caught in the headlights. He just made it. Then, with his body low and close to the ground, he ran.

Up ahead was a large tree. Dunn stopped and hid behind it, looking back for an instant to see what was happening. Four armed soldiers sprang out of the Lincoln Town Car that he guessed was Pascual’s and approached his Honda. He heard one of them shout, “Remember, don’t kill him. The colonel wants the American alive.”

Another soldier opened the front door on the driver’s side. “He’s gone,” the soldier shouted.

They were standing around, puzzled as to what to do. One man took a cell phone from his pocket. Dunn didn’t stick around to hear what he said. He resumed running. The earth was wet and muddy. It was slow going.

One of the soldiers had a powerful wide-beamed flashlight. He sent its rays flying out in a 360-degree arc. Dunn kept his body low and stayed in tall weeds and heavy brush. He didn’t think they saw him. By the time he had covered about half a mile, he was panting. He was out of shape. Too much time on the golf course and not enough on the treadmill. He vowed to change that if he made it out of here alive.

Then he heard the dogs racing toward him from the farmhouse. He hated dogs. His shirt was soaked despite the cold.

Terrified and trembling, he put his head down and willed his body to keep going.

Sardinia

Coming out of the tight serpentine turn, Craig Page, calling himself Enrico Marino, gripped the steering wheel hard and slammed down his foot on the accelerator. The powerful V-12, XJS, light blue Jaguar with 510 horsepower responded instantly. The speed rose fast. They were roaring along the coast of Sardinia at sea level. The azure, sparkling Mediterranean was on the right.

“How long until the next curve?” Craig called to Luigi, his navigator from Rome, who was studying the map as if his life depended on it, which it did. They were communicating through microphones and headsets hooked up to their racing helmets that permitted them to hear over the drone of the engine.

“Another 4.2 kilometers.”

“We’ll make up the time we lost on the last curve. I was too timid.”

“Good. Go for it.”

Perspiration dotted the back of Craig’s hands. Following the completion of his plastic surgery at a clinic outside of Zurich a year ago, Craig had changed his name to Enrico Marino. Using the proceeds from the sale of his house in the inflated Washington market, he had hired Paolo Fittipaldi, one of the best retired race car drivers, based in Torino, to give him a private tutorial. As Paolo told Craig, the zenzation—or in better English, the sensation—of speed is intoxicating. After four tough months of education and training, Paolo found wealthy sponsors for Craig, and he began driving in rally races, like this one in Sardinia. Cars raced against the clock on rural and town roads that had been blocked off from normal traffic. The drivers used modified standard cars, rather than Formula One or Indy cars. The fastest time wins.

Craig and Luigi were on the final segment of the Sardinia rally, a grueling one thousand kilometer three-day race, much of it over treacherous, twisting, mountainous terrain as they made a large loop from Porto Cervo and back. It was a difficult and dangerous course, demanding and unforgiving, with switchback turns, blind corners, and vertical drops.

Craig glanced to the left. With his usual thoroughness, he had spent enough time poring over weather data to know that sudden changes were typical for the northern Mediterranean island sandwiched between France and Italy. So it didn’t surprise him when dark clouds appeared from nowhere in the western sky. Craig cursed. The blinding sun an hour ago had been hard enough. The last thing he wanted now was rain. He had started this final segment fifteen seconds behind Carlucci, an experienced driver from Milan who had run dozens of these rally races around the world. Craig was the new kid on the block. This was only his third world-class race. In Paris and Barcelona he had failed to crack the top ten. Today with Luigi, the experienced navigator Palo had persuaded to join Craig, he had a good chance of pulling a stunning upset. But if the roads became slick, Carlucci’s experience would give him an added advantage.

Craig had no intention of finishing second. He was pressing hard, pushing to the edge, that optimum point where the driver is at the limit of his skill and the car at the boundary of what it can do. Under good conditions, there is no room for error. With rain the course would be downright diabolical.

They were nearing the end of a straight stretch. “What now?” Craig asked.

“The road snakes along the shore for two kilometers. Then we start up a hill.”

On the left, the Jaguar passed a latticework of vineyards. They began a gradual climb along a twisting hill road. The terrain on both sides was filled with large, dangerous boulders.

Without any warning, the heavens opened and a pelting rain fell in sheets. Craig kept up his speed. On the right side, the road dropped off sharply. Rock-covered terrain fell down toward the sea.

“Hairpin turn to the right at the crest,” Luigi barked, “coming up in seconds.”

Blasting into the turn, Craig clutched the wheel with white knuckles. His body was soaked with perspiration. Luigi grabbed the support on the front dash. The windshield wipers were operating at full tilt, fighting a losing battle with the falling water. Visibility was poor. The road was treacherous.

He felt the rear wheels spin on the slippery pavement. The Jag was dangerously close to the vertical drop. “Always turn into the spin,” Paolo constantly shouted. The command had been etched into Craig’s brain.

I hear you, Paolo, he thought, as he eased up for an instant on the accelerator. The car bucked, then responded. It straightened out.

“Damn good driving,” Luigi said. “You’ve got the reflexes of a twenty year old.”

“What’s next?”

“We head down. Sharp turn on the left coming up. Prepare to cut speed.”

“Roger that.”

Craig leaned forward, straining his eyes to see through the foggy windshield. There it was, almost an L in the road. On the left was the cliff and the sea below.

Luigi was right. He needed a little brake to take this turn. Just a gentle tap. But after three long days of driving, his body was weary. His control not as sharp. He was going into the curve too fast. He hit the brake too hard, cutting the corner too sharply.

Immediately, he knew he was losing traction on the wet asphalt. The car spun out of control and headed toward the precipice. He smashed his foot down on the brake, but this time he had pushed too far and was beyond the limit. On the slick tarmac, the Jaguar couldn’t respond. It spun off the road at the edge of the drop, down toward the sea.

The car rolled over once. Craig was sure they would keep rolling over and over until they either reached the sea or the car hit a sharp rock and exploded. Either way, he had lost the race. He and Luigi were dead.

The car was on its roof on the first rollover. It began turning upright. Then it crashed into the trunk of an olive tree.

Craig’s head snapped forward against the dash. “I’m sorry, Luigi,” he mumbled. Then he blacked out.

Gradually Craig’s vision cleared and his senses returned. In front of him he saw a beautiful, nubile young woman sitting on a chair. She was dressed in a pure white uniform, which accentuated her attractive, voluptuous figure. Her chestnut brown hair was tied up in a bun.

My God, I died and went to heaven.

She removed a gray instrument from the bag resting on his bed, cuffing one side around his arm and hooking up a stethoscope to her ears. Intent on her work, she didn’t notice that he was watching her. He felt the pressure in his arm as the cuff inflated. As if he weren’t there, she stared silently at the meter, then recorded some numbers on a clipboard chart and removed the device.

“So how am I?” he asked.

She was startled. “Oh, you’re awake.” She stared at him. “We didn’t know when you’d come around.”

“How long was I unconscious?”

“It’s Sunday morning. Eight thirty. What’s your name?”

He smiled. “That’s a hard one.”

“Well?”

“Enrico Marino.”

“You were in an auto race yesterday, Mr. Marino. Do you remember that?”

His vision was cloudy. He blinked his eyes repeatedly until the room came into focus. “All too well. I lost.”

That comment evoked a stern look. “You’re fortunate to be alive.”

“What happened to Luigi, my navigator?”

“Lucky. Alive, but with a broken arm. And some cuts and bruises. We kept him overnight for observation. Later this morning, he’ll fly back to Rome.”

Craig glanced at the name tag on her white uniform. “Adriana,” he said. “What about me? How bad was the damage?”

“I’m just a nurse. You’ll have to talk to the doctor.”

“Oh, c’mon. At least give me a preview.” He gave her that smile of his that usually worked with women.

“Cuts and bruises on your face and much of your body. Concussion, but no brain damage. Vital signs are all okay.”

“Now tell me something important. I feel great. When can I get out of here?”

Actually he was still woozy, but he hated hospitals. They evoked memories of sitting in the hospital room with his wife, Carolyn, in Dubai, while her body spiraled toward death with bacterial meningitis. He had damn near gone crazy with guilt for moving Carolyn and their daughter Francesca from the comfort of the Washington area to the Middle East—ostensibly to give his CIA cover greater authenticity, but in fact because selfishly he didn’t want to be without them.

“For that, you’ll have to talk to the doctor. He’ll be here in a few minutes. Just remember we’ve given you heavy doses of medication for pain, which is why you aren’t feeling anything at present.”

As if on cue, the gray-haired doctor, who looked as ancient as one of the forts along the northern coast of the island, walked in. He examined Craig, instructing him to “Call me Professor.” His medical judgment was that Craig should spend another twenty-four hours in the hospital for further observation. No doubt the professor was accustomed to having everyone follow his edicts. Craig’s flat refusal to obey set off a heated argument.

In the end, the doctor shook his head in resignation. “We can’t keep you here against your will, Mr. Marino. At least rest for a couple more hours.”

“Fair enough. I’ll stay until noon.”

That didn’t ameliorate the professor’s anger. He stormed out and slammed the door.

An hour later, Luigi, his arm in a cast, barged into the room.

“We almost won, Ricci,” Luigi said.

“Sorry I couldn’t hold the road.”

“Nobody could in those conditions. We’ll team up for Paris in April, okay?”

“That’s a deal.”

“We’ll win in Paris, no problem. Ciao, Ricci.” Luigi turned and waved a hand over his head as he left the room.

Craig thought about Adriana. She was really quite beautiful. Focusing on her made him think about his sexual life during the last year since he and Elizabeth had split. They had no contact. Meanwhile, he had no interest in developing a serious relationship with another woman. On the other hand, he was still alive and had strong desires. He was able to satisfy those to some degree with a widow in Milan whom he saw for a couple of days each month, going out to dinner with her and spending time at her house. She was a contemporary of Craig’s with grown children, and like Craig had no interest in emotional involvement.

What didn’t appeal to Craig were the racing groupies, as he called them, the young women who hung around the tracks and with the drivers, ready to grab any opportunity with them, any time, any place. My God, they were all at least ten years younger than Francesca would have been.