The Convert's Song by Sebastian Rotella

separating the syllables. Her voice was like the rest of her: tough, reserved and sexy.
    “I’m okay. Thanks.” He sat up and took a long grateful swig of Coke.
    She peered at him. “You should put a bandage.”
    “Hey, he’s fine,” Furukawa interjected. “He’s a boxer, he’s used to it. We got a first-aid kit, we’ll hook him up. I’m the one you should worry about. That burning smell in here is my career going down in flames. Fatima, could you brief us now?”
    “Yeah,” Pescatore said, opening the aspirin bottle. “What’s this they told me about a French terrorist calling my phone?”
    “Our Argentine colleagues were, one can say, imprecise,” she said. “We have not traced the number to an identified person. It is part of a sequence of stolen SIM cards linked to a gang of Islamo- braqueurs in the south of France: radicalized criminals that do armed robberies to finance Islamist groups. The number that called to your phone on Tuesday also called to Bolivia. The call was an anonymous tip that was relayed to the Bolivian authorities and allowed the arrest of a terrorist cell in La Paz before the attack here.”
    Belhaj produced a pack of Gitanes cigarettes and glanced conspiratorially at Furukawa. He shook his forefinger back and forth.
    “This is a smoke-free United States government facility, young lady.”
    “Come on, hombre, the place is empty as a tomb,” she exclaimed in Spanish. She used the lisping th sound, like a Spaniard. One corner of her grin turned down a bit. Pescatore thought that made it more genuine.
    “Negative,” Furukawa said. “I’m a smoker myself, but rules are rules.”
    Pescatore had heard nothing yet to implicate Raymond. Things were moving in a strange direction.
    “So wait a minute,” he said. “The police lied to me. This wasn’t a terrorist calling me. This was somebody trying to help the good guys. You think he wanted to warn me that an attack was coming in Buenos Aires?”
    “I do,” Furukawa said. “And I think whoever it was didn’t mind leaving a trail, because he didn’t block the number. But some of the locals think the Bolivian cell was a decoy, you were in on the real plot, and the call activated the operation.”
    “Except I didn’t answer the phone. That doesn’t make sense.”
    Furukawa shrugged. “Look at it from their point of view: The Bolivians contacted the French about the tip from a French phone. Fatima’s people were already working on the phone lead when the attack happened here. They found the record of calls to your phone and passed the info to the Argentines, who were frantic. Like a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. There was phone evidence connecting you to extremist activity in three countries. They had witnesses and closed-circuit footage putting you at the attack scene.”
    “Jesus Christ.” Pescatore put his hands behind his head. He rocked forward and back. “So if I had been using that phone and answered that call, this whole bloodbath wouldn’t have happened!”
    Belhaj pursed her lips. “Not necessarily.”
    Furukawa came around his desk, removing the tweed jacket. He had short thick limbs in a white button-down shirt and pleated khaki pants. He sat in the armchair at the other end of the couch.
    “Fatima’s right,” he said. “The bottom line is you weren’t using that phone. Whoever called with the warning, if that’s what it was, didn’t leave you a message. He didn’t call anybody else in Argentina. There are a lot of unknowns.”
    “I’m trying to get my mind around the whole thing.”
    “Well, get your mind around this. Now’s the time to tell us anything you might not have mentioned to la federal. It’s extremely important if you want this investigation to move forward.”
    Pescatore glanced from the FBI agent to the French investigator. He had taken a liking to Furukawa. And he not only liked Belhaj but was having trouble keeping his eyes off her. The embassy seemed safe: a mother ship