The Convert's Song Read Online Free Page A

Facundo was also known as El Ruso (the Russian). He wasn’t really Russian. Argentines of Spanish origin were known as gallegos, Italians were tanos, Arabs turcos. And those of Jewish descent were rusos.
    Facundo divided his time between Buenos Aires and the town of Puerto Iguazú on the Argentine side of the Triple Border with Brazil and Paraguay. His agency did a thriving business with companies and governments. His wife and an adult daughter lived in Buenos Aires; other daughters lived in Miami and Tel Aviv. When in the capital, Facundo held court at Café La Biela. Buenos Aires was full of cafés, ornate as cathedrals, big as ballrooms. La Biela occupied a corner with a view of the Recoleta Cemetery and attracted politicians, executives, journalists, entertainers, intellectuals. The waiters wore bow ties and green vests and moved with speed and pride. The ambience was unpretentious: a well-lit rectangular room with rows of tables, blond-wood paneling, and plants.
    Pescatore found Facundo in his usual spot with his back to the wall. The burly Argentine wore a black suit with no tie. He stood with his cell phone at his ear, shaking hands with a sleek-looking, silver-haired man in a blazer and ascot who stopped long enough to say hello and good-bye. When Facundo saw Pescatore, he ended the call, speaking in Hebrew, and put the phone down. Spreading long arms, he advanced wrestler-style, banged Pescatore’s shoulder, pumped his hand, and planted a kiss on his cheek that left him with a scratchy sensation and an aroma of cologne and nicotine.
    “ ¿Cómo te va, Valentín?”
    Facundo’s voice rasped from deep in his chest. He sat heavily, wheezing. A waiter slid his usual order onto the table: a double espresso, three sweet mini-croissants known as medialunas, and a glass of mineral water.
    “My eternal blessing upon you, my son,” Facundo told the waiter. Pescatore ordered an espresso. Facundo blissfully contemplated a pastry, which looked flimsy in his hairy mitt of a hand. “Ah, the medialunas of La Biela. Did you see that character?”
    Brandishing the medialuna at the tapered back of the man in the ascot, Facundo continued: “Dario D’Ambrosio. An ex-chief in the SIDE.”
    The SIDE was the federal intelligence agency of Argentina. Pescatore watched D’Ambrosio stride out as if he were late for a polo match.
    “I’ve heard of him,” Pescatore said. “Just retired, right?”
    “Supposedly. But he still runs things as far as about thirty percent of the agents are concerned. There you have a spymaster who feels the greatest possible appreciation and gratitude toward this humble servant.”
    “Why?”
    Facundo grinned, his eyes narrowing to slits between stubbled cheeks and furry eyebrows. “Let’s say he, eh, ran into trouble with agencies of a very big country that detected his links to an international auto-theft ring and put him on a list of pending indictments. And let’s say that someone interceded to convince the agencies in question that, although he is not a saint—and who is?—Dario remains a valuable ally. How did it go today?”
    Pescatore sighed. “Fine.”
    “The judge’s secretary called. They are pleased with our ‘efficient and professional collaboration.’ He will issue an order ensuring detention for trial. So what’s the problem?”
    Pescatore looked down. After Pescatore had left the Border Patrol and Isabel Puente, Facundo had hired him as a favor to Leo Méndez of Tijuana, a friend from a case they all had worked on at the Triple Border. Méndez had explained to Facundo that the young American wanted to spend time in Argentina and put distance between himself and his troubles. Pescatore knew the Mexican had told Facundo that he was a good kid, tough and reasonably smart. But he also knew the recommendation had come with the warning that the kid had a wild side. Pescatore had overcome Facundo’s doubts by proving himself loyal and serious. He didn’t want to complain.
    “Well,