Read Online The Convert's Song by Sebastian Rotella - Free Book Online
Authors: Sebastian Rotella
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armor and ski masks. Some stormed in the bedroom door, others aimed weapons from the patio, their red laser sights spattering the glass. They screamed orders, curses and threats in a murderous chorus.
“Easy,” he declared, his cheek still on the pillow. “I’m an American investigator. Be aware that there’s a pistol—”
Gloved hands wrenched him up off the bed. They cuffed his wrists behind his back and slammed him to the floor. They yanked his sweatshirt up over his face like a backward hood, rendering him sightless and helpless. A signature technique. Argentine police routinely covered the faces of suspects with their own shirts or jackets, leaving prisoners to sit at crime scenes trussed in improvised masks. The idea was to preserve the integrity of lineups by concealing suspects’ identities. He had always seen it as a badass message: We caught this sorry bastard. We can do anything we want to him now. Fuck with us and this can happen to you someday.
Voices and boots invaded his apartment. Radios squawked. Doors banged, drawers crashed, silverware jangled. What the hell was going on?
“Bingo, Commander,” a triumphant voice called in the living room. “The phone.”
“Well done, pibe. ”
He could have sworn his phone was on his night table by the bed. He could see variations of light and shadow through the sweatshirt. Someone was standing guard over him. Against his better judgment, Pescatore decided to speak up.
“Excuse me,” he said through the fabric over his mouth. “I think there’s been some kind of confusion. I am an American citizen. My passport is in the top drawer of the dresser. I am a private investigator and—”
A boot lashed into his left thigh. He writhed in pain. Through clenched teeth he snarled: “Cheap shot monkey-ass punk bitch!”
“Shut your mouth, shitty terrorist.”
The owner of the voice sounded large. His breath smelled of coffee, laced perhaps with a finger of pre-raid brandy.
Pescatore was overwhelmed by the kick, the traumatic awakening, and, most of all, disbelief: the officer had called him a terrorist. These guys were door-breakers, head-bashers, trigger-pullers, and, if the target survived, deliverymen. No use engaging in dialogue. After a few minutes, his captors shoved shoes onto his feet. They hustled him downstairs, the air chilling his exposed torso, and into a vehicle. Sirens wailed: a small convoy. They turned left on Libertador Avenue.
The ride was quick and familiar. As the vehicle bounced up a driveway, the smell of stables confirmed his expectations. He had been taken to the federal police site near his running track, the compound that housed the mounted patrol and the antiterrorism unit.
They removed the handcuffs, pulled the sweatshirt down off his face, and left him in a cell. It was dimly lit and had a cement bench built into the wall. The smell of disinfectant was stronger than the smell of urine. He assumed they would let him sit and stew for a while, for both the psychological impact and to give themselves time to examine the material from the search.
Not that he was in a hurry. He wished he did not know as much as he did about the repertoire of tortures utilized by Latin American security forces in general and Argentine ones in particular. Right now, the fear was worse than the pain, but it looked like that equation was about to change. He took deep breaths and tried to focus.
He had become a suspect in the attack at El Almacén. Perhaps a mix-up caused by the fact that he and Facundo had barged into the crime scene with guns in their hands. But they had been with an intelligence officer. It couldn’t be that hard to clear things up. Unless there was something more sinister going on.
The terrorists had worn police uniforms. That raised scenarios ranging from an unwitting inside source to direct involvement. Police and soldiers with ultra-right, anti-Jewish ideologies had been implicated in past attacks. And the police were good at
“Easy,” he declared, his cheek still on the pillow. “I’m an American investigator. Be aware that there’s a pistol—”
Gloved hands wrenched him up off the bed. They cuffed his wrists behind his back and slammed him to the floor. They yanked his sweatshirt up over his face like a backward hood, rendering him sightless and helpless. A signature technique. Argentine police routinely covered the faces of suspects with their own shirts or jackets, leaving prisoners to sit at crime scenes trussed in improvised masks. The idea was to preserve the integrity of lineups by concealing suspects’ identities. He had always seen it as a badass message: We caught this sorry bastard. We can do anything we want to him now. Fuck with us and this can happen to you someday.
Voices and boots invaded his apartment. Radios squawked. Doors banged, drawers crashed, silverware jangled. What the hell was going on?
“Bingo, Commander,” a triumphant voice called in the living room. “The phone.”
“Well done, pibe. ”
He could have sworn his phone was on his night table by the bed. He could see variations of light and shadow through the sweatshirt. Someone was standing guard over him. Against his better judgment, Pescatore decided to speak up.
“Excuse me,” he said through the fabric over his mouth. “I think there’s been some kind of confusion. I am an American citizen. My passport is in the top drawer of the dresser. I am a private investigator and—”
A boot lashed into his left thigh. He writhed in pain. Through clenched teeth he snarled: “Cheap shot monkey-ass punk bitch!”
“Shut your mouth, shitty terrorist.”
The owner of the voice sounded large. His breath smelled of coffee, laced perhaps with a finger of pre-raid brandy.
Pescatore was overwhelmed by the kick, the traumatic awakening, and, most of all, disbelief: the officer had called him a terrorist. These guys were door-breakers, head-bashers, trigger-pullers, and, if the target survived, deliverymen. No use engaging in dialogue. After a few minutes, his captors shoved shoes onto his feet. They hustled him downstairs, the air chilling his exposed torso, and into a vehicle. Sirens wailed: a small convoy. They turned left on Libertador Avenue.
The ride was quick and familiar. As the vehicle bounced up a driveway, the smell of stables confirmed his expectations. He had been taken to the federal police site near his running track, the compound that housed the mounted patrol and the antiterrorism unit.
They removed the handcuffs, pulled the sweatshirt down off his face, and left him in a cell. It was dimly lit and had a cement bench built into the wall. The smell of disinfectant was stronger than the smell of urine. He assumed they would let him sit and stew for a while, for both the psychological impact and to give themselves time to examine the material from the search.
Not that he was in a hurry. He wished he did not know as much as he did about the repertoire of tortures utilized by Latin American security forces in general and Argentine ones in particular. Right now, the fear was worse than the pain, but it looked like that equation was about to change. He took deep breaths and tried to focus.
He had become a suspect in the attack at El Almacén. Perhaps a mix-up caused by the fact that he and Facundo had barged into the crime scene with guns in their hands. But they had been with an intelligence officer. It couldn’t be that hard to clear things up. Unless there was something more sinister going on.
The terrorists had worn police uniforms. That raised scenarios ranging from an unwitting inside source to direct involvement. Police and soldiers with ultra-right, anti-Jewish ideologies had been implicated in past attacks. And the police were good at
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