12.3 Sandstorm

A pair appeared by the church corner. A young bloke with cold hands inside a brown jacket, in blue jeans. The girl with him dressed in a formal style; black tight pants, white shirt and a layer of jewels, in Parisian blue blazer, a bag on her shoulder and a folder in her arm. She even got a stoop in her steps.

“Oh! She’s never been in the rough!” he thought dropping the cone from his head and stepping forward to meet the duo who crossed the road. “Good Afternoon!”

“Buenas tardes! Señor Tony Yunis!”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Nicolás…and Señorita Calima.”

“How do you do?” they shook hands.

“Good Afternoon!” returned Calima.

“Let’s talk!” faced Jamal.

They crossed the street to a bench little aside from the traffic noises.

“I want you to help me find my sister,” said Calima, “I am quite sure you know those behind the kidnapping.”

“Only the ones in police custody,” said Jamal, “I can do nothing while I am stuck here. I do believe I know somebody who just might be involved. If you could help me out of this, I might be able to help you.”

“How can I help, Mr Jamal?”

“Bail me out. I will submit myself to the police, they take me to Argentina as a suspect. You help me out and I help you out. It is good for me and good for you. I want to be there in Buenos Aires, that is my home.”

“Do you think she’s alive?”

“Of course,” expressed Jamal, “I believe this someone did it to chastise me. A personal vendetta, very personal. It knocked my brains from day one.”

“Who is this someone?” she asked.

“Have you heard of Borys Jasinski?”

Calima nodded and Nicolás glowered unaware of this new subject that came up.

“Do you know what happened?”

“I think I do,” answered Calima, “I read a report about his body returned and what you said in it.”

“You wouldn’t believe what they did to him!” uttered Jamal, “It’s Madeleine Blanche.”

“Claudine Cartier!”

“That’s right. How do you know that?”

“Hanna Jasinska,” she revealed, “I flew to Zug to meet her. She learned from various embassies that this French lady was involved. Sometimes uses the pseudonym and works for the Intelligence.”

Jamal couldn’t save his emotion, “This little pest! She knows I was involved with these guys, the Wolf Gang,” his fist in a clench, “This little demon, Mazzikin, the annoying one. She knows the house in Santa Rosa.”

“So, we go ahead!” asked Calima.

“You will need a lawyer, miss!”

“I have a lawyer.”

“Argentinean?”

“Yes,” she nodded.

He got up in appreciation, “Thank you, ma’am. See you in Buenos Aires!” And wished her good luck.

A second later, at another corner, they joined Maria Taylor with a camera who took photos of their meeting with Jamal Carreon.

“Who is Madeleine Blanche?” enquired Nicolás, “He wants you to solve his case! Go to a police station and mention this Blanche as a suspect. It’s very impractical.”

“She works for SIDE,” said Maria Taylor stowing away the camera in the large handbag she always carried, “I know where she stays.”

Maria was the journalist from Cruzado. When Ambassador Martinez asked to look for a qualifying agent to help Calima, this was the name that turned up. A young lady, twenty-six years old, who covered the kidnapping case in the magazine extraordinarily well.

 

Back in Buenos Aires, they drove to the hotel on Carlos Pellegrini. Maria entered the lobby with the big bag on her shoulder. Light fell amply into the hall from tall glass panels. She reached the desk clerk in burgundy coat and stretched a fifty-peso note on the counter enquiring, “French lady, Madeleine Blanche. Is she in?”

The counter guy nodded.

“Room number?”

“Six-O-Six.”

Maria tossed the bill and lulled on the counter after leaving her bag on the top. “You can clearly see the outside from here through the glass. Know what type of car she drives?”

The counter guy was not interested.

“Oh!” she straightened and hastily reached over her head into the bag to draw a five-hundred bill from her purse.

“She drives several cars,” said the desk clerk slipping the note under a folder with his fingertip, “An E-Class Benz, a hatchback Fiat and I see an SUV as well.”

“What type?”

“Toyota, dark green, big one.”

“You have cameras around. Can I see a picture?” requested Maria Taylor.

“Lo siento señora. Ask the manager.”

“Gracias,” and she was gone.

 

“IMPOSSIBLE! IMPOSSIBLE!” police chief broke off, “Your car is stolen, alright! A Ferrari or a Lamborghini…do not expect us to track it down by looking into traffic and highway surveillance cameras! Millions of frames! Miles of desert! Days and hours of police work! A waste of time in the effort and of the personnel! You expect me to call the border patrol and ask to look the recordings for a Toyota Four-Runner! It’s like looking for hay in a needle stack! And you don’t even know the date!”

“Sir!” said Maria, “If they entered Chile, the consulate in Salta will keep a record.”

“Now you’re talking,” cried the chief, “I can get you that. Never heard of a Blanche or a Cartier! Are you sure this is no bluff! He just mentioned a name! Jamal Carreon has turned into the police in Montevideo. He’ll be here in a day or two.”

Jamal returned to Buenos Aires and he was bailed out by Calima’s lawyers for quarter of a million pesos. His name removed from the Interpol Blue Notice.