The Argentine Triangle: A Craig Page Thriller Read Online Free PDF Page B

She closed the door behind her. “Hi Enrico,” she said and smiled. “Or should I call you Ricci?”
    “What are you doing here?”
    “I happened to be in the neighborhood so I watched some of the race yesterday. Sorry about the accident. I was rooting for you. We have to talk, but not here.”
    She handed him a piece of paper. “It has the name of my hotel. The nurse said the doctor will release you tomorrow. Come to my hotel. We’ll have lunch in my suite and talk.”
    “The nurse was wrong. I’m getting out of here in about an hour. This is a hospital. Not a prison. I decide when to leave.”
    “Happy to see a brush with death hasn’t changed the Enrico Marino I know,” she said smiling. “Then come to lunch today.”
    “Only if you’ll have good wine.”
    “For you, nothing but the best. Lunch will be ready at two.” She turned and left the room.
    Craig rang for the nurse. When Adriana came, he said. “Could you help me pack and get me a cab?”
    “Your clothes are ruined. Would you like me to buy you some in the store across the street?”
    “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”
    Waiting for her to return, Craig climbed out of bed, clutching the bedpost for a few seconds to steady himself, then walked around the room. Everything seemed to work.
    Looking into the mirror on the back of the closet door, he winced. The deep black eyes, curly black hair, and reconfigured nose, all the result of his plastic surgery, stood out on a face full of cuts and bruises. Fortunately, he healed quickly.
    He walked over to the window and stared off at the sea in the distance. He should tell Betty no. Regardless of what she was planning to ask him to do. Thanks, but no thanks. The powers in Washington had shafted him—not once, but twice. He wouldn’t let her suck him into the Washington morass again.
    Still, he was curious to know why Betty had come all this way to talk to him. And he had to listen to her because of their long friendship.

Porto Cervo, Sardinia
    C raig had never been to Cala di Volpe. He had heard about it from Paolo, his high-living driving coach. “A luxurious small hotel on Sardinia’s Esmeralda Coast. One of the poshest watering holes in the world. The newest summer hangout for Europe’s rich and famous.”
    The taxi pulled up to the front entrance of a three-story building constructed of stone and wood in a Moorish style. Walking into the lobby with its heavily polished stone floor, Craig felt as if he had entered an elegant oasis. Classy, not ostentatious.
    As Craig expected for out of season October, the hotel was quiet. Going up to the reception desk, he found a dignified looking man who identified himself as Michele, the front office manager.
    “I’m Enrico Marino, Betty Richards is expecting me.”
    Through the corner of his eye Craig saw a man lounging against a rounded white stone column, a wire hooked to his ear. Part of Betty’s security detail. It always amazed Craig why they, like the president’s Secret Service, were often so easily identified.
    “I’ll take you up,” Michele said.
    In the elevator Michele, exuding experience and self-confidence, told Craig in an Italian-accented English that he should come back during the summer when the weather was glorious and the hotel booming.
    The presidential suite was tucked away in a tower with a private pool overlooking the sea. Exiting the elevator, Craig immediately spotted two more American security agents guarding the entrance to Betty’s suite. As he walked alongside Michele, Craig’s whole body ached. The painkillers were wearing off.
    “Miraculously, no bones were broken,” Adriana had told him, when she helped him dress in the hospital room. “You’ll be very sore for a few days.”
    “And, I look like hell,” he had told her.
    “I’ve seen worse,” she had said in a nurse’s professional voice.
    Betty was waiting for Craig inside the living room of the suite, decorated in pastel colors and furnished with dark