Chapter Five

 

 

Estancia Refugio Seguro, Argentina

23 December 2014 – 1625 local

 

Rafiq and Jamil finished their daily afternoon inspection of the cargo, closing up the secret vault deep in the wine cellar. Neither of them knew what was in the crate, but Rafiq’s commitment to his half-brother, Hashem, to keep the “cargo” safe at all costs was a charge he’d taken to heart. It was the purpose of their presence here in South America.

Some days he wondered if he was supporting the mission or the mission was supporting him. He’d given up his entire career as a Hezbollah fighter—and asked his closest friends to do the same—to come to a foreign land for . . . what? To guard a wooden box and wait.

He drew in a deep lungful of the damp, wine-scented air of the cellar. But now, now they had a real mission.

“Jamil, I need you to take care of something for me.”

“Anything, boss. You know that. Name it.”

Though both men were now fluent in Spanish, they conversed in their native Lebanese Arabic whenever they were alone. They’d known each other since they were children in Arsal, had grown up together and joined Hezbollah together. Jamil and his twin brother, Farid, had been with Rafiq in Iraq where they fought with the Iraqi Shiite insurgent units against the American occupation.

Farid’s pancreatic cancer had taken him only a few weeks ago, and Jamil still bore the pain of his brother’s absence. It was in his eyes, Rafiq decided, a softness in his gaze and a downturned set of his mouth. When Farid’s passing was still fresh, Rafiq had tried to comfort his friend with kind words and small gestures, but he gave up. Jamil had a wife and family for that kind of comfort. Instead, Rafiq entrusted Jamil with more of the vital jobs around the estancia and sought his advice more frequently. Jamil didn’t need comfort, he needed a purpose, more testing of his resolve to their cause. If Rafiq ever detected that Jamil was faltering . . . Rafiq licked his lips. If it ever came to that, he wouldn’t hesitate.

This new mission would be a good test for Jamil, a test of his skills. It had been some time since either of them had seen any real action. That was about to change.

Rafiq led them to a set of chairs outside the wine cellar and waved for his companion to take a seat. The pergola overheard was covered in the deep orange and red tubular flowers of the Chilean Glory Vine and the air was filled with the whirr of hummingbirds feeding in the afternoon sun.

Jamil tilted his head back to try to catch a glimpse of a hummingbird, a half-smile on his face. This had been Farid’s favorite spot in the estancia. Jamil’s gaze followed an iridescent flash as one of the tiny birds sped away. Rafiq cleared his throat, and Jamil focused on his leader, the smile dissolving into that permanent set of his mouth.

“Jamil, we have a mission.”

Jamil’s eyebrows ticked up but he stayed silent.

“I need you to take a ‘vacation’ to Buenos Aires. There is a man there who has been causing our benefactors trouble. We’ve been asked to deal with the situation.”

Jamil sat forward in his chair, a look of expectation on his face. “And he needs to be . . . eliminated?”

Rafiq nodded. “But quietly, without our fingerprints on the job. A suicide, or perhaps a mugging—that’s for you to decide.”

Jamil’s eyes slipped out of focus and Rafiq knew he was thinking about options. Jamil had always been the problem-solver between the twins. Farid was the action man, but Jamil was perhaps the more dangerous because he thought, planned, and then executed. In their hand-to-hand combat training sessions, Jamil was unpredictable, often willing to try a new maneuver. Though Farid had been the larger and stronger of the twins, he was no match for Jamil’s cunning and Jamil invariably won in their contests. But Farid was gone now, and Jamil—well, he needed to be tested.

“Who?”

“A man named Alberto Nisman. A special prosecutor investigating the bombing of the Jewish Center in Buenos Aires that happened twenty years ago. He’s causing problems for my brother and needs to be dealt with. Quietly.”

Jamil’s lips curled into a wolfish grin, the exact response Rafiq had been hoping for. The old Jamil. The one who thought and planned and used cunning to attack his prey.

Nadine and the children appeared at the turn in the path to the house. Little Javi spied him and started running toward his father. Rafiq waved and placed a hand on his friend’s knee. “Family first. I’ll give you a full rundown after dinner. You leave in the morning.”

 

The restaurant in central Buenos Aires was crowded, even at half past nine in the evening, the normal dinner hour in this part of the world.

Alberto ordered wine with dinner, a Malbec he knew was Jaime’s favorite. A table of young women, about the ages of his daughters, filled the air with their laughter. He hadn’t seen his girls in how long? They were likely out with their friends this time of night, just like these young women.

He shook his head. When this was all over, he had some relationships in his life to repair, starting with his girls. Just a few more weeks. His report would indict the president and put an end once and for all to the political interference that had held back the AMIA bombing case for two decades. The Hezbollah terrorists and their Iranian backers would finally be exposed to the world as the cold-blooded butchers that they were.

Jaime arrived, interrupting his reverie.

“Alberto, I’ve been dismissed from the Secretariat of Intelligence.” Jaime had scarcely seated himself before blurting out his news.

Alberto realized he was clutching his napkin and he forced himself to relax his grip. Jaime’s face was haggard, with deep bags under his eyes and a dusting of gray stubble on his cheeks. Alberto poured wine into Jaime’s glass as a deliberate act. He must think first of his friend, not of the damage this would do to his investigation. Still, the news made him want to scream. He was so close.

He filled his own glass before he replied. His voice sounded like a strangled whisper in his own ears. “Why?”

Jaime’s hand shook as he picked up his wineglass and he looked close to tears. “I don’t know. Perhaps because I was too vocal about the president. Perhaps because I spent so much time trying to help you . . . I just don’t know.”

Alberto reached across the table and patted his friend’s hand. “How can I help?”

Jaime gripped Alberto’s hand so hard that Alberto almost cried out. Jaime’s eyes brimmed with tears. “This was my doing, my friend. I knew the risks, but I felt they were worth it. This president . . .” He shook his head slowly, biting his lip to keep from weeping openly. “She has been leading Argentina down a path that I do not agree with. I felt it my patriotic duty to help you—your investigation—and expose her for what she really is. It was the least I could do.”

Alberto pulled his hand back. This man, his friend, was responsible for getting his investigation off the ground in the first place. And now, Jaime had lost everything. “I don’t know how to thank you, Jaime. Without you . . .”

Jaime leaned forward, his eyes hard now in the glow of the candles on their table. “You’re not done yet, Alberto. There’s a final file I think you need to have.” Jaime pulled a thick stack of paper from his leather satchel and handed the package across the table. Alberto slid the folder into his briefcase. It barely fit. He’d taken to carrying his most important files with him at all times.

Jaime excused himself, leaving Alberto alone with his thoughts.

He drank off half his glass of wine in one gulp, trying to still the cold finger of anxiety that probed his gut. First Jane Carver’s cryptic warning, now Jaime. If they can get to Jaime, a respected intelligence officer, they can get to me.

He jumped when the table of young women let out another burst of loud laughter. Alberto swallowed the rest of his wine and paid the check.

He walked swiftly toward his apartment building, holding his briefcase across his chest like a shield, pushing down the feeling of unnamed dread that wrapped itself around his mind. The security detail that was assigned to protect his residence met him at the front door.

“Good evening, Marcos.”

“Good evening, Mr. Nisman.” Marcos’s tone was clipped and formal.

Alberto hurried past them. In the early days, he would have stopped to talk to Marcos for few moments, but not anymore.

Alberto paused at the elevator, then turned back to Marcos.

“Listen, it’s probably nothing, but on my way home, I could have sworn there was someone following me. And—I know this sounds strange—but has anyone been in my apartment during the day when I’ve been at the office? Apart from Paula?”

“No, sir. Just the maid.” Marcos’s gaze seemed more like a glare to Alberto. “I’ll have the men walk the perimeter of the building if you’d like, Mr. Nisman.”

Alberto shook his head. “That’s not necessary. Must be my imagination.”

He punched the up button on the elevator. When he stepped into the open doors and turned around, all four men of the security detail were staring at him.

Their blank faces gave him no sense of security.