The Convert's Song Read Online Free Page B

I know it’s for a good cause and we didn’t have a choice and everything,” he said. “But I’m not comfortable being a bagman. I feel much better doing surveillance or executive protection.”
    “Understandable.”
    “Also, you were right: The judge is a clown. He told Dr. Block that he needed to pray a lot. That’s when I really wanted to slap his face.”
    “What a chorro .” Facundo dispatched the last pastry. “Unfortunately, the judge has influence right now with this problematic government. And the American embassy does not. The new FBI attaché has run into so many conflicts he’s afraid he might get declared persona non grata.”
    “Really?”
    “Things are not good. Nooo.” Facundo shook his head and exhaled audibly. He looked tired. It didn’t help that he consumed industrial quantities of steak, coffee, cigarettes and dulce de leche. Since Pescatore had met him, he had gone from big to fat. His unruly hair and bushy mustache had grayed. While giving Pescatore pointers on combat skills, Facundo had shown he was in better shape than he looked. But he had five grandchildren. He had to be in his sixties.
    “Criminality and terrorism are mixing together,” Facundo continued. “Across the region. Along with ideological extremism, anti-Americanism, and hatred of Israel.”
    Facundo lowered his voice, a rare occurrence. “I was on the phone now with an old friend. A paisano .” (For Facundo, that meant an Israeli working for a government agency.) “There is alarming chatter. Unusual movements. Possible preparations for an attack.”
    “Here?” Pescatore glanced around to ensure no one was listening.
    “South America for sure. The Islamic networks see the region as a promising theater of operations. A new frontier.”
    “Sunni or Shiite networks?”
    “I would think the latter. The Iranians and Hezbollah. They are in the hemisphere making money, establishing alliances with mafias and extremists. But it is not clear. The al-Qaedists are looking for unexpected places to strike as well.”
    Facundo had told him the story of two terrorist attacks in Argentina in the 1990s: the Israeli embassy and the AMIA, a Jewish community center. The car bombings were the work of Iran and Lebanese Hezbollah, whose presence stretched from Buenos Aires to the Triple Border to Venezuela and had grown over the years. No one important had gone to jail. The Jewish community still lived behind bomb barriers, closed-circuit cameras and private security, guarding against what people called, with a tone of inevitability, the third attack.
    Facundo stood up. Dr. Block had entered La Biela, the door held for him by Fabián the driver. They ordered coffee for Block. Pescatore translated the conversation between the doctor and Facundo and was pleasantly embarrassed when Block praised him.
    “I don’t ever want to go through an experience like that again,” the doctor said. “But if I do, I want this young man with me.”
    “I’m not surprised to hear that.” Facundo beamed. He assured the doctor that he would make his flight on time and sleep well in business class. Then Facundo told a joke: A businessman boards a plane and falls asleep as the meals are being served. His neighbor gobbles his own meal, switches trays, and wolfs down the sleeping businessman’s meal too. This makes him nauseated. He throws up all over the businessman, who awakes to find himself covered in vomit and his neighbor dabbing at his face with a napkin and asking, “You feel better now?”
    Pescatore translated as best he could. Facundo pantomimed gleefully, delivering the punch line in English with a broad Yiddish accent. For a moment, Block regarded Facundo and Pescatore. His eyes shone behind his glasses. Then he threw his head back and erupted into laughter, rocking in his seat. It was as if he had come out of a stupor. The doctor laughed and laughed, and Pescatore laughed along with him.
    Later, Block dozed during the ride to the airport.