Triple Crossing (36 page)

During this exchange, Méndez watched Facundo’s eyes: bemused, intelligent, detached. Méndez wondered if he was really a vintage
Argentine blowhard. Méndez suspected that the barrage of words was a diversion, a facade behind which Facundo sized up his
listeners. Méndez spotted a printout of a Tijuana newspaper article on the desk; the photo of a smiling Araceli Aguirre jarred
him. The neat stack of Mexican articles had apparently been pulled from the Internet. Facundo was in his fifties; he came
off as distinctly pre-cyberspace with his beige linen suit, pointy brown shoes and operatic manner. But he had done some homework.

Facundo explained that his full name was Facundo Hyman Bassat.

“Argentines call Jews ‘Russians,’ you see. Argentines call Arabs ‘Turks.’ And Argentine Jews call Sephardic Jews ‘Turks.’
If you wanted to take the national idiosyncracy for ethnic nicknames to the extreme, I would technically be Facundo the Turkish
Russian. Absurd, eh?”

“Are you from around here?”

Facundo faked a shudder. “No sir. Buenos Aires. Born and raised, body and soul. I moved to Israel as a young man. Military
service, had adventures, saw the world. My Spanish-language skills were in demand. Then I came back to Buenos Aires. Hard
times. A friend talked me into buying this taxi service up here
on the frontier. Drivers pick up a lot of information out on the street all day. I realized there was a market for investigations,
security work. There was this community of merchants, especially Taiwanese and Lebanese. Many hardworking folks, but many
scoundrels. Chinese extortion. Arab feuds. Brazilian bandits. Islamic fanatics. Companies and governments needing eyes and
ears. So we evolved. But enough about me: Let’s talk about young Mr. Ruiz Caballero.”

“Good idea,” said Isabel, whose foot had jiggled throughout the autobiography.

“We will operate from here in Puerto Iguazú, the smallest of the three border cities. The most controlled as well. You may
know about the anti-Semitic terrorist bombings in Buenos Aires some years ago. The terrorists had their support cells in this
area. So the Argentines finally began enforcing the border. That doesn’t mean there isn’t still corruption, identity documents
for sale, stolen cars departing, cocaine and marijuana coming in. But it’s better than Foz. The Brazilians are friendly, wonderful
music and what have you, but too relaxed for my tastes. And the Paraguayan side… well, Paraguay is the belly of the beast.”

“Which is why Junior holed up there,” Isabel interjected.

“Yes, Miss Puente. I’m coming to that.” Facundo the Russian beamed chivalrously. “Your Mr. Ruiz is Khalid’s guest at the El
Naútico Resort in Ciudad del Este. Perhaps you’ll recognize these faces.”

They moved closer as the Argentine opened a folder. The photographs had been taken with a long-range lens. They showed men
getting in and out of cars, leaving an airport terminal.

“There’s Buffalo and the
pochos
from Los Angeles,” Méndez said.

“And Dr. Guardiola,” Porthos said. “That’s Rufino, he drives for them. I wonder if Junior’s going to bring his girlfriends.”

“He has a taste for the ladies?” Facundo said.

“Quantity and quality,” Méndez said. “And he’s crazy about sports, especially boxing. Hyperactive. If there is a gym, he’ll
go, either to box or to watch. But he’s sick, no?”

“The word is that he’s recuperating from, eh, overexertion.”

“Too bad. He also collects exotic animals, by the way.”

“We have plenty of those. Four-legged and two-legged. Our information is that a lot of cash arrived with the second group
from Mexico. Police chiefs and intelligence officials in Foz and Ciudad have received down payments for protection. The Mexicans
brought goodwill gifts to Khalid and his friends and colleagues too.”

Méndez grinned. “Some things are the same everywhere. Junior is paying tolls.”

“How many gunmen with Junior?” asked Athos, producing a cigarette.

“Oooof.” Facundo offered Athos a lighter, then leaned back in a mastodonic executive chair and sipped pensively at his
mate.
“Eight Mexicans. Ten Brazilians: Mozart and Tchaikovsky’s crew, and let me tell you, those fellows are tigers. Give them
an Uzi and they’ll paint you a picture on the wall. And the Paraguayan police, at least twenty-five. Nooo, Comandante Rojas,
unless you brought the U.S. Marines, we will not be reenacting the raid on Entebbe. Not right away, at least.”

Méndez said: “You sound like you might have a few ideas on how to proceed.”

Facundo’s bushy eyebrows danced. “Well, one or two, Doctor. As I told you, the Gendarmería will give us their base. Infrastructure.
Muscle if we absolutely need it. But the Argentine border police are not supposed to operate in Paraguay. There are certain
interests they prefer not to offend. That’s why they do me the honor of utilizing my humble services… Excuse me, are you looking
for something, Miss Puente?”

Isabel was on her feet rummaging through photos. She
stopped, leaned forward, and put both hands on the table, her bare triceps tensing.

“Are you all right, Miss Puente?” Facundo asked, his eyes wide with concern. “This heat, my God. Some more lemonade?”

Isabel Puente sat down abruptly. A woman in love, Méndez thought.

“No,” she said. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

The photo on top of the stack showed a group at the portico of the hotel. In front was Buffalo Mendoza with the pointy-bearded
gangster known as Abbas and a Tijuana flunky with a suitcase. Bringing up the rear was Valentine Pescatore. He had acquired
a mustache. But there was no mistaking the bantam build, the curly head ducked slightly, the big and skittish eyes.

“Look, it’s the Border Patrolman,” Porthos said. “He’s alive. And it looks like he got a new job.”

H
IS PHOTO STARED BACK
at him above his new name.

“Lookit you,
ese,
” Momo rasped over his shoulder.
“Puro paraguayo.”

When asked what he wanted his name to be, Pescatore had improvised. He fused the names of his father’s favorite boxers: Ray
“Boom Boom” Mancini and Roberto Durán. Now he had a Paraguayan passport identifying him as Raymundo Durán, born in a place
called Encarnación. New passport, new clothes, new mustache: He was traveling farther and farther away from himself.

He was in Galerías Alhambra, a vertical warren of stores in downtown Ciudad del Este. Pescatore and Momo sat in the fifth-floor
waiting room of a travel agency that was a front for a fraudulent passport operation. Posters of Cairo and Casablanca decorated
the walls. Clients filled ratty sofas, next in line to become overnight Paraguayans with bona fide, if illegally obtained,
identity documents to prove it. Young tattooed Asians. Long-bearded Arabs with wives in black gloves, despite the heat, and
full veils covering all but the eyes. Bull-necked Eastern Europeans. A regal Nigerian.

Buffalo strode out of the office, monster biceps bowling over invisible obstacles. He said: “All set, let’s hit it.”

They walked one flight down a broken escalator into a musty,
block-long gallery as dense with shoppers as the streets outside. Once again, Pescatore found it hard to believe that he was
in a Spanish-speaking country. Half the time he didn’t understand the babble around him. The shoppers were mostly Brazilian.
The merchants in the stalls and glass-walled shops spoke Arabic and Asian languages among themselves and Portuguese-Spanish
patois with customers. And there was also the Guaraní Indian language of the Paraguayan security men, the maintenance workers,
the cooks at the indoor lunch counter where Pescatore stopped to buy fries and a Coke to go.

Brazilians sat at the counter surrounded by bundles destined for the contraband markets of São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro: two-bit
smugglers bent over paper plates in the fluorescent light, watching grease sizzle on the skillet.

“Eatin’ again, Valentín?” Buffalo shook his head. “We just had breakfast.”

Pescatore grinned sheepishly. The vibes with Buffalo were better now that Junior had recovered. Pescatore’s standing had improved
with Momo and Sniper as well; he thought they had secretly enjoyed seeing him knock heads with Junior on the basketball court.

The city was full of shopping towers like the Galerías Alhambra. Too dingy to be considered malls, they did not have movie
theaters, food courts or anything else that got in the way of buying and selling. Each tower was a castle of one of the Arab
clans who divided up the business sectors under Khalid’s orders—a citadel defended by cameras, bars, security guards with
shotguns at every turn. Mr. Abbas owned Galerías Alhambra. It specialized in electronic products. The cacophony changed with
every shop: disco,
ranchera,
tropical, rap, samba. Video-game explosions. Giant TVs flashing images of George Clooney, Jennifer Lopez, Jackie Chan. All
the newest latest stuff, the top brands—at least according to the labels.

Buffalo stopped to buy himself a new iPod. Sniper picked out
a cigarette lighter shaped like a Luger. Pescatore paused in front of a screen showing soccer highlights. The Argentine accent
of the announcer was instantly familiar. It reminded him of his father: Spanish that sounded like Italian. The lithe, long-haired
players on the screen wore blue-and-white-striped jerseys resembling the triangular Argentine pennant that had dangled from
his father’s rearview mirror when Pescatore was a kid. He bought a key chain decorated with the Argentine flag.

“Let’s go,” Buffalo said. “Khalid’s waitin’ on us.”

For their first sit-down since Junior’s arrival, both Khalid and Junior turned up in safari-style outfits. Junior wore baggy
khaki shorts and Timberlands; Khalid sported a guayabera shirt with epaulets and clip-on shades over his steel-framed glasses.

Pescatore had only seen Khalid for a moment at the dinner in Tijuana. In the sunlight he was rotund but solid, a well-preserved
sixty-year-old with coppery skin. His demure smile came and went with all the warmth of someone flicking a light switch.

The homeboys and the Mexican henchmen who had arrived with Dr. Guardiola distributed themselves with the Brazilian entourage
in four vehicles. The convoy drove across the river into Brazil and through Foz to the Bird Park, a sanctuary for jungle birds
and butterflies. Shaded pathways wound among giant cagelike enclosures that contained a collage of tropical colors.

Khalid paced with manicured fingers laced behind his back. Junior hovered around him. One minute they were deep in conversation,
patting each other’s shoulders, nodding gravely. The next minute Junior was practically climbing the mesh walls. His trunklike
calves pumping, he hurdled a wood rail to frolic among the flamingos. He leaned back, perilously off-balance, mesmerized by
hawks and condors in the treetops. He spread his arms and turned circles in a cloud of butterflies that spattered bursts of
violet, black, yellow, orange. Khalid watched with a mix of indulgence and impatience.

“Junior digs this kinda shit,” Buffalo said, leaning on a bench. “A real nature lover.”

Medicines and rest had restored Junior’s color. But his grimace had become perpetual, like that of a man staring into the
sun.

Pescatore saw a tourist couple in white hats pose for a guide snapping photos. The guide was a no-necked Brazilian with Popeye
forearms. Pescatore had seen him at the wheel of a dark Mercedes taxi in the parking lot outside. Was it his imagination or
were the tourists taking a lot of pictures with Junior and Khalid in the background?

Leaving the bird sanctuary, the caravan took a highway that led toward Argentina. They exited before the border and entered
a jungle park abutting the Iguaçú Falls.

The falls announced themselves with billows of white foam steaming up out of a lush gorge in the distance. Then came a hissing
crescendo of sound. The convoy stopped at a colonial-style hotel on a plateau overlooking the spectacle: a miniature mountain
range alive with waterfalls. Rows of waterfalls, hundreds of them. Mile-long curtains of water thundered and churned and poured
into multileveled lagoons. The play of light and water constructed rainbows everywhere, interlocking archways of color. On
the far side of the gorge, visitors walked on a network of catwalks and bridges among dancing waters. Pescatore leaned on
the rail of the observatory platform, enjoying the moisture on his face, a respite from the heat.

“We can take a helicopter if Junior wants,” Buffalo told someone. “They only let helicopters fly on the Brazil side. That
part over there, that’s Argentina.”

There was no discernible boundary, but Pescatore had finally seen his father’s country. He remembered arriving in San Diego,
confronting The Line and the knowledge that those were his mother’s people on the other side. Isabel was the only person to
whom he had ever described that moment. Once again, as far as he had strayed from home, there was something familiar here.
Some part of him, buried deep, connected with this place. Like it or not.

Junior ruined Pescatore’s private moment by getting into an argument with Dr. Guardiola. Junior didn’t want to hire a helicopter.
He wanted to ride one of the tourist speedboats that were skimming in and out of the falls in the gorge below. Dr. Guardiola
said it wasn’t a good idea. What if the boat capsized and Junior had to exert himself? Junior bitched and raged until Abbas
intervened, suggesting they take pictures.

Somebody produced a Nikon and the photo session began. Brightening, Junior cleared everyone aside to get a shot alone with
Khalid, arms around shoulders. Junior clowned and choreographed: me and all the Brazilians, now just Mexicans, wait, let me
suck in my gut. Pescatore edged away. He wanted no part of the picture.

Khalid clapped his hands ostentatiously and announced that it was time for lunch. They entered the paneled dining room of
the hotel. Junior, Buffalo, Khalid, Abbas and Dr. Guardiola occupied the table of honor in a corner by bay windows with a
view of the falls. Pescatore and the homeboys were assigned to a small round table directly behind Junior where they could
watch the entrance.