Gloria shook her head no, and hurried down the hallway. By the time she’d set the bottle of San Pellegrino on Señor Gregorio’s desk two minutes later, Gabriel had located the company’s financial records. He was surprised to see that Inteltech had recently moved its business to a new bank. The Banco Mundial de Montevideo. Inteltech moved on average thirty thousand units a month to wholesalers in Panama, Bogotá, and Marseilles. The bank statements showed a steady revenue stream of approximately nine hundred thousand dollars. The company boasted gross margins of seventy-four percent and booked a net profit each month of more than five hundred thousand dollars. The figure was not entirely accurate. It was Gabriel’s practice to over-invoice the cost of the compact disks and production machinery, wringing an additional fifteen thousand a month out of the company and sending it directly to an account in Germany.
Selecting the most recent statement, Gabriel called the number at the top, introduced himself as Gregorio, and asked to be connected to the vice president in charge of Inteltech’s account. A short discussion ensued and Gabriel learned that the twelve million dollars was no longer in Banco Mundial’s coffers. Pleading a clerical error, Gabriel asked where the money had gone. He hoped the answer would be the Bank of Dublin, as he had ordered. He was disappointed. Gregorio had, in fact, wired the money to a numbered account at the Bank Moor in Switzerland. Gabriel’s hand shook as he drank the water.
Before leaving for the police station, he stopped briefly at the reception desk. “I know you will not think of contacting Señor Gregorio,” he said to Gloria. “You have two children. Pedro and Maria.”
The patrol boat was an old Boston whaler, rusting at the gunnels, with a string of bullet holes in the port side. Four men sat in the bow. They wore jeans, sunglasses, and black T-shirts beneath new Kevlar vests. They carried AK-47s on their laps and side arms on their belts. All were officers of the Paraguayan federal police. Colonel Alberto Baumgartner stood at the wheel, steering the boat through the placid, muddy waters of the Paraná River. After an hour’s ride, the river began to narrow. The banks grew closer. The jungle loomed over and around them. Baumgartner opened up the two Suzuki engines, calling out to Gabriel. “Snipers. They like to take a few potshots at us to keep us honest.”
Gabriel didn’t answer. He stared at the mass of vines and trees and scrub, too focused to remark on anything but his anger. Smoke from cooking fires rose above the tree line. Baumgartner pointed to a series of chutes, carved from the riverbanks. “Smugglers,” he said. “They slide bales of marijuana into the river, float it to the Brazilian side.”
Baumgartner was tall and blond, with a slight paunch and not quite a square jaw. His father, Josef, an SS Standartenführer, had fled Nazi Germany for Paraguay in the last days of the war, and had served as Alfredo Stroessner’s-the strongman who had ruled the country as a private fief for thirty years-chief of federal police. His son would likely soon assume the same post.
A ten-minute conversation and a fifty-thousand-dollar bribe had enlisted his active support.
“How much this guy steal from you?” Baumgartner asked. He spoke a mix of Spanish, English, and German, with a complete absence of emotion.
“Too much,” said Gabriel.
“Klar.”
The Paraná River had narrowed to the width of a country road. Branches ventured over the muddy water and more than once, Gabriel saw the thin, writhing shape of a snake hanging near the water. He did not like snakes. At a bend far up the river, he made out the figures of two men waiting on a dock. The boat slowed and Baumgartner shouted to them in German. “Bitte, werfen sie uns die Seilen!”
Two Toyota SUVs waited in a clearing by the river. “We’ve got the house under surveillance,” Baumgartner explained as they climbed into the vehicles. “The Mercedes is there and one of my men said he spotted Gregorio inside. Two women, too. Maybe he stay at home, have himself a fest.” Baumgartner handed him a pistol. A Beretta nine millimeter. Gabriel was surprised it wasn’t a Luger. “In case he’s not so happy to see you. I’m afraid we can’t kill him for you, too.”
Gabriel began to decline the offer, then had second thoughts.
It had been easy to track Gregorio to his country retreat. A note on his dining room table informed someone named “Elena” to meet him at his ranch. The line reminding her to bring a passport tipped Gabriel off as to his employee’s intent.
The road was a dream, a faultless asphalt expressway leading into an infinite nowhere. More evidence of the Germans’ enlightening presence. The jungle had disappeared, and they sped across expanses of dried marshland, scrub, and chaparral. El Chaco, they called it, an area that stretched for hundreds of miles to the north and west. After fifteen minutes, they turned onto an unmarked dirt road and met up with a squadron of Land Cruisers, similar to their own. Gabriel didn’t know how Baumgartner had mustered them so quickly. The police conferred among themselves. Baumgartner reported back a minute later. “You say he’s not a violent man, we’ll take your word. He’s still inside. He has some music playing. Why not we drive to the front door and let you two boys have a word together? In Ordnung?”
“In Ordnung,” said Gabriel.
Gregorio lived in a sprawling ranch-style house at the end of the road. It was an oasis of civilization in an otherwise barren spot. Palms, a rolling lawn, a swimming pool, and oddly, a basketball net, fronted the house. The convoy numbered six vehicles. Baumgartner approached the house slowly, parking near a tiled fountain. Leaving the lead vehicle, he adjusted his hat, then walked to the door and knocked. Gregorio himself answered. All smiles and an unctuous welcome. Gabriel stepped from the car and Gregorio’s eyes opened as if he’d seen a ghost.
“Hello, Pedro,” Gabriel said after Baumgartner had retreated down the walk. “I’m in a bit of a hurry, so let’s keep this quick, shall we? I know you transferred the money to Switzerland. I must say, though, I’ve never heard of the bank. Bank Moor? Maybe you can teach me something, after all. All I need for you to do is to call the bank and transfer it to a more convenient location. It’s only three in Zurich. Plenty of time.”
Gregorio had two choices. Either he could resist and play dumb, in which case after much unpleasantness, he would admit his folly and transfer the money. Or he could pretend it was all some sort of misunderstanding, plead embarrassment, and transfer the money immediately. In both cases, his death was certain.
“Let the girls go,” he said.
“Of course.”
Gregorio disappeared inside the house. A few minutes later, two local women, dressed as if for a day shopping on the Faubourg-St.-Honoré, hunkered out of the house, each lugging a Louis Vuitton suitcase-fakes, like everything else in Ciudad del Este-and continued past the knot of federal officers down the gravel road. Gabriel watched them go. The nearest village was thirty miles away. Where were they headed in their high heels and designer dresses?
Wrapping an arm around Gregorio’s neck, he led him inside the ranch house. “Come now, Achmed, I’m sure this is all a mix-up. Let’s put it off to cold feet and forget about it. I don’t care who or what is responsible. First, we’ll straighten things out. Then we can discuss your plans for our central bank’s policy-the liberalized loan requirements I’d mentioned.”
I’ll be doing him a favor, Gabriel thought to himself. Rescuing him from the rot. Saving whatever chance he has left of seeing Paradise.
Gregorio, whose real name was Achmed Haddad, smiled uncertainly. “I’ve drawn up a proposal I think you’ll like.”
“Wonderful.”