American agents, and he still had connections. He threw them something once in a while, little tips. Meanwhile, our romantic—”
“Which Americans?” Furukawa looked as if his breakfast had disagreed with him. “Agencies? Names? Did you meet Americans?”
“No.” She rearranged herself into a childlike, cross-legged pose. “Our relationship deteriorated. I knew he had other women. Younger women. Then he got all caught up in the Islamic thing. Because of his family history. The turquitos took him to their mosque. They were always going on about Muslims, Israel, Palestine. I could care less about politics. Ramón was obsessed. He converted. That beast Ortega converted. You know what a talker Ramón is. He said they were becoming international warriors.”
Raymond went through intensely devout periods when he grew a beard, prayed constantly, and shunned pleasure, Florencia said.
“He was driving me crazy. He became abusive. Verbally and physically. Telling me I dressed like a whore, acted like a whore. Then, after a few weeks, he would return to his old self: shave, spend money, carouse. Like the religious thing was a joke. The drug smuggling kept growing. I told him we should slow down. How much money did we need? He got angry. He said it was about ‘the cause.’ Whatever that meant.”
Disaster struck. Federal police intercepted a truckload of cocaine in the province of Buenos Aires. There were rumors of DEA involvement in the bust. Raymond visited Florencia, agitated and intense. He said he was leaving for Bolivia to lie low.
“A week went by. Kharroubi came to see me. He said I had nothing to worry about. My people were not touched. Ramón used his allies to protect us. Kharroubi said Ramón would be back soon.”
She took a deep breath. Pescatore noticed that Biondani was texting on his BlackBerry.
“I never heard from him. For months, I called. I sent e-mails. Not a word. I wanted to go to Bolivia. They told me to be patient, things were delicate. The man vanished from my life. It was absolutely brutal. Like a kick in the stomach. Like…”
She stopped. Her fleshy shoulders hunched. She began to cry soundlessly, sobs shuddering through her, tears jumping from her eyes. Pescatore glanced at the others; apparently, the next move was up to him. He patted her tentatively on the back. Although her snobbery annoyed him, now he felt sorry for her.
“It’s all right, Flo,” he said. “You take your time.”
He gave her Kleenex from a box on the coffee table.
“Me van a limpiar,” she wailed. Underworld slang: “They are going to clean me.” Meaning: “They are going to kill me.”
“Please, Florencia,” Biondani said, looking up grumpily from his BlackBerry. “We are here protecting you around the clock.”
“Soy boleta,” she sobbed. More gangster talk: “My ticket’s going to get punched.”
“For the love of God, who wants to kill you?” Biondani demanded.
“Who doesn’t?” Her wet mascaraed eyes stared over the handful of Kleenex. “The narcos. The terrorists. The police. Everybody!”
“What melodrama.”
“It might be melodrama, but it’s true.”
Biondani reminded her that, as a condition of her comfortable detention, she had agreed to cooperate fully. She composed herself and went on. A year ago, Raymond had resurfaced. He showed up at her door with a bottle of champagne and an apology. He said he had been forced to go underground. He alluded to intrigues, mafias, governments. Now, however, his wild ways were behind him. He had used his drug fortune to invest well. He was back in Argentina on business.
“He had changed, physically and in personality,” she said. “Colder. More mature.”
“Where was he living?” Belhaj asked.
“He was vague. Perhaps Europe.”
“What about his religious activity?”
“He was still Muslim. But he said he had gotten the fanaticism out of his system. He had put his faith in perspective.”
“Did you believe
“Which Americans?” Furukawa looked as if his breakfast had disagreed with him. “Agencies? Names? Did you meet Americans?”
“No.” She rearranged herself into a childlike, cross-legged pose. “Our relationship deteriorated. I knew he had other women. Younger women. Then he got all caught up in the Islamic thing. Because of his family history. The turquitos took him to their mosque. They were always going on about Muslims, Israel, Palestine. I could care less about politics. Ramón was obsessed. He converted. That beast Ortega converted. You know what a talker Ramón is. He said they were becoming international warriors.”
Raymond went through intensely devout periods when he grew a beard, prayed constantly, and shunned pleasure, Florencia said.
“He was driving me crazy. He became abusive. Verbally and physically. Telling me I dressed like a whore, acted like a whore. Then, after a few weeks, he would return to his old self: shave, spend money, carouse. Like the religious thing was a joke. The drug smuggling kept growing. I told him we should slow down. How much money did we need? He got angry. He said it was about ‘the cause.’ Whatever that meant.”
Disaster struck. Federal police intercepted a truckload of cocaine in the province of Buenos Aires. There were rumors of DEA involvement in the bust. Raymond visited Florencia, agitated and intense. He said he was leaving for Bolivia to lie low.
“A week went by. Kharroubi came to see me. He said I had nothing to worry about. My people were not touched. Ramón used his allies to protect us. Kharroubi said Ramón would be back soon.”
She took a deep breath. Pescatore noticed that Biondani was texting on his BlackBerry.
“I never heard from him. For months, I called. I sent e-mails. Not a word. I wanted to go to Bolivia. They told me to be patient, things were delicate. The man vanished from my life. It was absolutely brutal. Like a kick in the stomach. Like…”
She stopped. Her fleshy shoulders hunched. She began to cry soundlessly, sobs shuddering through her, tears jumping from her eyes. Pescatore glanced at the others; apparently, the next move was up to him. He patted her tentatively on the back. Although her snobbery annoyed him, now he felt sorry for her.
“It’s all right, Flo,” he said. “You take your time.”
He gave her Kleenex from a box on the coffee table.
“Me van a limpiar,” she wailed. Underworld slang: “They are going to clean me.” Meaning: “They are going to kill me.”
“Please, Florencia,” Biondani said, looking up grumpily from his BlackBerry. “We are here protecting you around the clock.”
“Soy boleta,” she sobbed. More gangster talk: “My ticket’s going to get punched.”
“For the love of God, who wants to kill you?” Biondani demanded.
“Who doesn’t?” Her wet mascaraed eyes stared over the handful of Kleenex. “The narcos. The terrorists. The police. Everybody!”
“What melodrama.”
“It might be melodrama, but it’s true.”
Biondani reminded her that, as a condition of her comfortable detention, she had agreed to cooperate fully. She composed herself and went on. A year ago, Raymond had resurfaced. He showed up at her door with a bottle of champagne and an apology. He said he had been forced to go underground. He alluded to intrigues, mafias, governments. Now, however, his wild ways were behind him. He had used his drug fortune to invest well. He was back in Argentina on business.
“He had changed, physically and in personality,” she said. “Colder. More mature.”
“Where was he living?” Belhaj asked.
“He was vague. Perhaps Europe.”
“What about his religious activity?”
“He was still Muslim. But he said he had gotten the fanaticism out of his system. He had put his faith in perspective.”
“Did you believe
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