Read Online The Convert's Song by Sebastian Rotella - Free Book Online Page A

framing people by planting guns, concocting decoy conspiracies, coaching false witnesses with case files. An American would be a perfect perejil. A fall guy.
    At first, he resisted the temptation to sleep. When Pescatore was a kid, Uncle Rocco had told him something that he later confirmed as a Border Patrol agent: the guilty slept like babies in custody. After about an hour, though, he decided to rest a bit. He glanced around for any sign of rats, then slid to a corner of the bench and reclined. His body ached, especially his left thigh and right hamstring.
    Stay awake or you’ll look guilty, he told himself as he nodded off.
    They rousted him right away, as if they had been waiting for him to sleep. In the interrogation room, they cuffed his right wrist to the table.
    The interrogator was about what Pescatore had expected. And not in a good way. Barrel chest and hard gut in a navy-blue uniform turtleneck. Balding, moonfaced, long sideburns ending at powerful jaws. An officer in a tactical jumpsuit stood by the door. A youthful plainclothesman with a military-style, side-combed haircut sat behind a laptop. His underfed features and mustache reminded Pescatore of a film character named Ferribotte, a dignified Sicilian thief, from an Italian heist comedy of the 1950s that his father had liked.
    Pescatore resisted the impulse to launch into a tirade about how innocent he was. The interrogator studied documents and glanced at his colleague’s computer screen. He raised his formidable chin to examine Pescatore from beneath low lids. In a baritone voice that he seemed to enjoy bouncing off the walls, the interrogator started with an overture.
    “There’s an old policeman’s saying: As time passes, the truth flees. I understand you say you were once a police officer. And you claim to be an investigator now. I assume that helps you appreciate my situation. I have two hundred cadavers, hundreds of wounded, a country in shock, enormous repercussions. And you. What I don’t have is time. I want you to answer my questions quickly and directly. Do we understand each other?”
    “Absolutely. I’m here to help. I don’t know why I’m under arrest, and I haven’t done anything wrong, but I want to catch whoever—”
    “You see? Already we begin badly.” The interrogator rolled his eyes, glancing around like an exasperated headmaster opting for corporal punishment. “I said ‘quickly and directly.’ Let’s start again. My name is Inspector Francisco Mendizábal Wright. Please state your name.”
    Pescatore gave dutiful answers to basic questions. He fought down panic and anger rising from his stomach. The young sidekick tapped at his keyboard.
    “Very well.” Mendizábal went back into the jaw-up, slit-eyed pose. “You say you want to help. I give you that opportunity. Explain your role in the terrorist network functioning here, in Bolivia and in France, and everything you know about the preparation and execution of the attacks.”
    “Inspector, I had nothing to do with it. I have never been to France or Bolivia. I was at the attack scene at El Almacén because I was assisting my employer, Facundo Hyman of Villa Crespo Investigations, and a SIDE officer named Biondani.”
    The interrogator stared at him. Pescatore considered a problem: Biondani might be a code name or an alias, a common practice in spy services. Plus, the relationship between police and intelligence agencies was none too friendly. Even if they tracked down Biondani, he had met Pescatore only once and in chaotic circumstances.
    “Look,” Pescatore said. “This officer, he was introduced to me as Biondani. He knows my boss, Facundo Hyman. Everybody knows Facundo. The U.S. embassy, the Israeli embassy, your force. How could I be—”
    “Shut up!” The baritone echoed in the small room. “You are the worst kind of scum. The coward who makes the plans, who sets it up, but doesn’t have the balls to pull a trigger himself.”
    “You are totally