Free The Argentine Triangle: A Craig Page Thriller by Allan Topol Page A

not very much. If Bryce finds out somebody’s been listening to him banging his girlfriend and the pillow talk afterwards, he’ll throw a shit fit. Probably mobilize the president to make sure DOJ tosses the book at me.”
    Craig held out his hands, palms up. “Sorry. That’s the best I can do.”
    “I’ll have to think about it, pal.”
    Craig decided to ratchet up the pressure. “We don’t have time for that. You’re my first choice, but I have three other names on my list.”
    It was a total bluff. Craig had no other choices if Tim turned him down.
    Craig glanced at the sweep second hand on his Franck Mueller watch. When thirty seconds had passed and Tim was still squirming in his chair, trying to decide, Craig changed the deal in order to sway him.
    “We’ll cut back your role. You get me the bugs, and I’ll plant them. You’ll still have to do the rest. And you arrange a car and driver for me for the next couple of days in Washington.”
    That was enough to do the trick.
    “I’m in,” Tim said. He walked over to his desk and picked up a business card he handed to Craig. Then he made arrangements for the car and driver. “Vince will be here in half an hour. Here are all my numbers. How do I get to you?”
    Craig reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a Barry Gorman business card. He added another phone number with a 415 area code. “It’s my cell phone,” he said, handing it to Tim. “I’ll keep it on twenty-four hours a day.”
    Tim studied the card. “Barry Gorman, The Philoctetes Group, San Fran. Sounds like a money man.”
    “That’s what I am. I manage a ten billion dollar private equity fund. We’re investing in Argentina. We’re open to investors with $100K minimum.” Craig smiled and reached across for the envelope. “You want to make a killing? I can give you one share for what you’ve got there.”
    Tim broke into a laugh. “Keep your fuckin’ hands off my money. I might need it for bail by the time I finish your job.”

    Craig was alone in the back seat of the dark blue Cadillac sedan. Tim’s driver, Vince, was behind the wheel, heading north on Connecticut Avenue past small, trendy restaurants and cafés. The Argentine Embassy was on New Hampshire Avenue, one block east of DuPont circle. A light rain had begun to fall.
    As they drove around the circle, Craig looked out of the car window and admired the memorial fountain in the center created by Daniel Chester French, the sculptor of the Lincoln Memorial, and commemorated to Admiral DuPont, a union Naval officer in the Civil War. Even on a grim day this is a beautiful city, he thought, laid out with a real plan and chock-full of statues, parks, and memorials.
    Craig waited until Vince came around to open the back door with an umbrella in hand before climbing out. He had to behave like a powerful financial figure. He glanced up at the stately, tan, four-story brick building with the Argentine flag flying above the entrance, with its blue and white stripes and a gold sun in the center.
    As he approached the black wrought-iron gate in front, a member of the US diplomatic protection force stopped him to see ID. “I have an appointment with Jorge Suarez, the economic attaché,” Craig said. That and a California driver’s license were enough to get Craig up the stairs and through the heavy wood and glass door where he repeated his words to the receptionist sitting behind a bulletproof glass window just inside the front door. Two armed soldiers standing in the reception area eyed him suspiciously.
    “Your name?” the receptionist said into a microphone.
    “Barry Gorman.”
    He slid a passport and one of his business cards through the opening beneath the heavy plate glass.
    After perusing the items, she picked up the phone. Craig couldn’t hear what she was saying. When she hung up, she activated the microphone. “Mr. Suarez is expecting you.”
    A smartly dressed young woman with a noticeably lovely figure identified