The Convert's Song by Sebastian Rotella Page A

in the night. His status had improved from suspect to witness. But he faced up to a cold certainty: this was another interrogation.
    “Hey, listen, I wanna help,” he began, stalling for time. “But are we sure this guy was really trying to call me? It could’ve been a wrong number.”
    Belhaj stared at him. Furukawa folded his arms.
    “What are the odds?” he said. “Do you think it was a wrong number, Valentine?”
    Stop bullshitting, Pescatore told himself. Be a man.
    “All right, I’m gonna tell you some stuff.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not sure it means anything, though. Might just be smoke. And I gotta ask you something. I want to play a role in this investigation. I owe it to Facundo. Is that fair?”
    The FBI agent frowned. “We’ll see. But don’t forget: you’re my responsibility. So no more chingaderas. ”
    “You got it, Agent Furukawa.”
    Pescatore told them about Raymond. He laid out the whole thing, from the lakefront in Chicago to the restaurant in Palermo Hollywood. It was cathartic. Furukawa’s baggy eyes were wide with concentration. Belhaj sipped Coke. Pescatore had their full attention. He felt powerful and vulnerable at the same time.
    “Basically, when you get right down to it,” he said, “I have a hunch based on certain facts. I run into Raymond. I give him that number, which hardly anybody else has. Then somebody calls that number. Then all this evil shit happens. But I can’t tell you it was Raymond who called. I can’t claim I understand what’s going on.”
    The questions started. His head swiveled. No, he didn’t know where Raymond lived; he had been evasive about that. He had said only that he was changing planes in Miami. No, he didn’t know if Raymond had any link to France; he had mentioned spending time in Europe and having a North African wife. Yes, Raymond had said he had been a drug informant in the U.S. and Latin America.
    Furukawa seemed interested in the informant angle and in Pescatore’s suspicions that the meeting at the airport had been staged.
    “Let me get this straight,” the agent said. “Why did you think he was lying about running into you?”
    “It felt strange. I used to know him pretty good. His mannerisms: he was worried, emotional.”
    “I’m walking through a scenario where this Ray is the guy who made the calls. He knows you’re in BA somehow. He’s involved with or aware of the terrorist plots. He finds you, engineers this reunion, couple days later he calls Bolivia—”
    “Who got the call in Bolivia, anyway?” Pescatore interjected.
    “Unknown. As I was saying: Raymond Mercer hasn’t seen you since way back when you booked on him and he got busted. But he reaches out to you. Why?”
    “Maybe he trusts me. And maybe what you said: He knew I had law enforcement connections. He asked about Facundo’s company, the embassy.”
    Belhaj toyed with a handful of curls. “Did he explain when and where he converted to Islam? Sunni or Shiite?”
    “Argentina. And he’s Sunni, I’m pretty sure he said that.”
    Furukawa jotted notes on a legal pad. “Do you know his mother’s maiden name? The Argentine family?”
    “Nope. They were originally Lebanese.”
    Furukawa was scribbling industriously. He glanced at his watch.
    “Okay, people,” he said. “This is the one angle in the whole case that gives me potential jurisdiction. Believe it or not, there wasn’t a single victim who was a U.S. person. Not one. Thanks be to God, knock wood, but still: What are the odds? Fatima, you and I need to hit up our databases on Mercer. We need to tell the federal police right away. What’s that look, Valentine? I can’t withhold a lead.”
    “I’m just concerned, you know,” Pescatore said. “It could go to the wrong people.”
    “Despite your experience, their CT squad is pretty good. Professionalized. They learned their lessons from the nineties. I’m more worried about the politics.” Furukawa ducked his head confidentially.