Free The Convert's Song by Sebastian Rotella

to say anything about Raymond unless they asked about him specifically. Scared and suspicious as he was, he didn’t know if Raymond had called him. He didn’t plan to give him up for no good reason. Especially after what Raymond had said about protecting him in Chicago.
    “Who called you from France?”
    “I haven’t even seen the phone. Show me the number. Tell me whose number it is, maybe I can help you.”
    Ferribotte put a hand on Mendizábal’s arm. They whispered. Ferribotte indicated the computer screen. They were probably getting updates by e-mail. Mendizábal frowned. Pescatore began to think he had misjudged the dynamic of Mendizábal as boss and Ferribotte as underling. He suspected that Ferribotte did not approve of his partner’s approach to police work.
    “Listen, gentlemen,” Pescatore said. He tried to catch Ferribotte’s eye, but the investigator hunched over the laptop. “I don’t want you to lose time. I think you should contact people who can make it clear I’m not a terrorist. I have a well-d ocumented history of service in law enforcement.”
    “Who do you know at the U.S. embassy?” Ferribotte asked. His voice was quiet and even.
    As Pescatore said the name of an FBI agent he had once met, he remembered that the guy had already finished his tour in Buenos Aires.
    “You’ll have to do better than that,” Ferribotte said.
    “I haven’t met the new FBI legal attaché. He just got here.”
    “What about your employer?”
    Pescatore didn’t even know if Facundo was still alive.
    “Mr. Hyman is in intensive care. He wasn’t able to talk, last I saw.”
    “Convenient,” Mendizábal growled.
    Pescatore regarded him coldly, tasting blood from his cut lip. “He had a heart attack at El Almacén. He was trying to help your GEOF team.”
    “If this Hyman”—the interrogator pronounced the name as if it were an obscenity—“employs a chorro like you, I am not impressed.”
    “I’ll tell you this. He knows there’s more to investigative work than acting like a thug and hitting people who can’t hit back.”
    Mendizábal rose. Pescatore crouched behind his free arm, ready for a beat-down. Mendizábal leaned on the table, a wall of blue. His jaws and neck bulged.
    He’s gonna give another hard-ass speech before he starts dropping bombs, Pescatore thought. He loves to hear himself talk that shit.
    “Listen carefully, Pescatore. I have orders from the highest levels to do what I must. That includes methods that make Guantánamo look like Disney World. No matter what we do, even if we kill you, there will be no sympathy for you. Not even the loudest, most cretinous human rights faggots will dare complain. On the contrary, I will get a medal. I suggest you start cooperating.”
    As scary as he sounded, Mendizábal didn’t get a chance to deliver. His subsequent questioning was interrupted several times by Ferribotte, who was receiving calls on his BlackBerry. Their rhythm faltered. Something had changed. The guard at the door went out and came back. The three of them huddled. The interrogator and Ferribotte got up and left.
    As Pescatore was escorted back to his cell, one thought dominated his mind: From the moment he had seen Raymond at the airport, he had known trouble would follow. He wished that his instincts weren’t so frigging accurate.
    Minutes later, Ferribotte brought visitors. A man and a woman stood in the dim cell looking down at Pescatore huddled on the bench.
    “Mr. Pescatore? I’m Supervisory Special Agent Tony Furukawa of the FBI, the legal attaché at the embassy. This is a colleague from the French police, Commissaire Fatima Belhaj. You’re going to be released into my care and custody.”
    “Good news for me.”
    “I’ve worked with Facundo Hyman on some issues. How you doing? Let me get a look at those injuries.”
    The FBI agent leaned forward, squinting in the bad light. He had a broad Asian face under a graying black buzz cut. He wore a tweed sport