The document was not there. Whatever the information from inner sources Intelligence had, the fact was that she had turned the Embassy's archive over and the document she was looking for had not showed up. Working frantically but with the care and tidiness of a professional, Leie had even managed to crack open the computer files showing the movement of confidential documents (every bureaucracy had these administrative records, an apparent contradiction to security requirements but one necessary to function with a minimum of order) and the document had not even been received. Soon, she realized she had taken too long, well outside the time margin considered safe for such an intrusion. She became alert, soon discovered a tiny flickering red light on an electrical panel going on, which might reveal a silent alarm had been turned on. She had to flee. Judging not safe to return through his entry route, she chose the contingency exit through the balconies at the third floor. She reached them quickly, while hearing faint noises downstairs: a search had already been launched. Effortlessly she passed to the balcony at the second floor, then to the external wall of the premises, and made a short jump to the side street. Her figure got immediately hidden in the row of parked cars alongside the pedestrian walkway. She stood up against one of the Paraiso trees that grow every ten meters or so in any street of the city of Buenos Aires, took out her black zipper jacket, reversed it to a more civilian looking green colour and put it on again. She walked at the double to the avenue, then slowed her pace to a more casual strand, a pretty young girl like any coming back from some feisty night appointment in a high-class neighborhood in the city.

While her pulse got normal, she thought about her operation, actually her first night intrusion on “enemy” grounds: she had failed to find the document, but had reasonable proof that it was not actually at the place. Though she strove to get her breath under control, she couldn't get quiet as easily, her face still blushing with the effort and excitement. The whole thing had been quite like the training boot: the intrusion, the search, the misled intelligence, the unexpected failure, the alarm and the contingency extrusion. The daughter of a Jewish German family taken refuge in Argentina after the war, she had made the usual travel to Israel when she had finished high school four years ago, together with several friends, former school mates. There she had gone to a kibbutz, where she had been inducted into the service. After two years training, she was back as a Mossad operative at her home city. She arranged her blonde hair, and with a quick, automatic, movement of fingers wiped out the rimmel from her lower eyelids, which might have leaked down with sweat (she might be a special agent, but above all she was a young, pretty, self-conscious Argentinean girl) and walked down the street.

She made three blocks and got to where she had parked her car, while sending the agreed electronic code signal for “document not there”. Ideally, a teammate should be waiting for her in the car, but everybody seemed to have personnel restraints those days, even the Mossad. She got to the car, checked the street, opened it and got in. She sighed and put the key into the starter. It was the smell, a strange smell in the car, which sent a quick “danger” signal to her brain; she got immediately tense. She was not alone. Then she heard the words, in English with a strong Central Asian accent:

“You move, you die.”

But she moved; she was an Israeli agent, and anyway her training would have conditioned her response. She opened the door and fell to the ground. Before that, however, she felt the sting of a needle at the back of her neck. The man at the back had a long reach, and her movement failed to get the needle loose, before a dose of the narcotic had been introduced into her system. She tried to crawl outside but she was soon out. Her last thought was something one instructor had said during her training. It went, “When is a mission secured? On the way home”.

A second man got out of a car parked a short distance down the street. The two men lifted the body and put it into the boot of the car. Then, after checking the surroundings, they drove away.

II

At the depths of the slum called “Villa 31”, next to “El Retiro”, Buenos Aires' central rail station, inside a hut made of some crude bricks and a tin roof, two men kept pondering about several papers. They were not easy men; they ran the lucrative though utterly illegal business of “reducing” material produced by the myriad of petty thefts made in the areas of the city under their “jurisdiction”. That included, by some strange deal long forgotten, part of the produce at the international airport of Ezeiza, however it was located a good two hours drive from their seat of operations. They had received a business attaché, taken from a strange-looking foreigner by their “operatives”; it had proven frustratingly devoid of anything obviously valuable. They kept staring at what looked like a dossier, in a strange language written in strange symbols. They were streetwise men, and good ones, but that did not include literacy in foreign languages or official-looking documents.

“Corcho” (“cork”, a common nickname in Argentina for shorty men) said one, “I tell ya; this can be important.”

“Cannot make out a single damn thing," he answered. He was indeed short, but had a prominent belly, product of years of unrestricted beer consumption. He muttered, “This looks like a list...these fucking… little…” He snorted, spit on the floor and continued. “But yar right.”

“They got this from a 'towel-head' (a common way to refer to a Muslim-attired person) at the airport, I tell ya," the first man continued. He was medium size, medium aged, olive skinned and dressed in indifferent clothes; you would not have noticed him even if he were alone in the middle of an empty parking lot. “He had a diplomatic passport. Tis' rubbish coulda' be important.”

Corcho started playing with the passport. He kept murmuring and swearing in a low voice, “I've told 'em a thousand times not to mix in this fucking bloody rubbish; having so many fucking “gringo” tourists full of money…shitty good-for-nothings."

“Yeah. Tell ya what we do,” he said. “We wait for 'El Turco' (“The Turk”, also a common nickname for anyone remotely coming from the Middle East). He'll tell us.”

III

“So, this is it,” she thought, as soon as her brain started functioning again. She remembered having been assaulted and drugged unconscious; now, she had surely been administered an energizer to wake her up. A quick assessment revealed she was tied to a metal chair or frame, her elbows tied close together at her back, over a metal bar that made the backrest, possibly with a strong strip of rubber, the same kind that secured her arms to the bar and her knees to the seat. She was still wearing her trousers, though unbuttoned at the top, but had been relieved of her tennis and socks, as well as of her jacket and T-shirt. She had been left with the top of the elasticized sports type underwear she had been wearing; as was usual with young Argentinean girls of Jewish origins, she endowed with good sized, natural breasts, covered in speckles. She was also athletic, and had broad shoulders, a flat abdomen and nicely shaped legs. She noticed her long blonde hair had been neatly laced at her neck. She tried the bonds, but the only movements she could do were a very short forward movement of the hips and a small rotation of the shoulders. She realized she was up for some rough interrogation and possibly torture, and tried to remember what she had been taught in the Interrogation Tactics course. Much of it had been devoted to extracting information, but some resistance tactics had also been imparted. But it was very difficult to think, even in her present situation, long before any pain was inflicted on her. She tried to control her breath, murmuring, “Think, think!” and she managed to focus a bit. It was cold, but she was already sweating, her exposed skin gleaming in the dark. As her eyes got used to it, she could see the shapes of some lights and seemingly an electrical device, like a medical defibrillator. She tried to cope with the idea of being very soon subjected to electrical torture of some kind.

That was possibly the worst fear she and her training mates could have. During the training, no one had expressed any concern about death, certainly a fair chance in their trade, but for being captured and tortured. Some brave fools had even boasted that their true concern was failing their duty, giving up and away information that could lead to the death or capture of others. But she knew that, facing physical pain, you could only wish it stopped; nothing else would matter. During the course they had made many exercises, some of them very practical, being tied to interrogation chairs, subjected to some physical abuse and even being “tased” lightly. She remembered that her experience was that as long as the treatment was not long, it didn't look so overwhelming. “A short, weak burst is nothing. It can even go almost unnoticed. A strong one can kill or incapacitate without the subject even be aware of any pain,” the instructor said. “Hey, my first time was more painful than that!” someone had joked. But then, the instructor added, “the treatment will not be short, or excessive; they know how to control and prolong it as long as they wish.” That made her think that no matter her own bravery or resistance, only dying could prevent someone from talking in the long run. And they were being told that death was a remote perspective! Sometime after that, they had been through an exercise in which every trainee, in turn, was asked by an instructor, in front of everyone, “In case of being tortured, what would you wish for?” Many, especially girls, had remained silent; some others had boasted bravery saying “A quick death," or “Revenge.” In her turn, she had said, very low, “Being forgiven.” She was probably no more than minutes away from such an experience. But, for the moment, she could do nothing but wait.

IV

“It's confirmed: they got her." The man entered a tidy office and sat by the guest's side of the desk. He was wearing a good Polo shirt and jeans; he looked disheveled. At the other side of the desk, the owner of the office was also in shirt-sleeves, with a loose tied tie and rolled sleeves.

“You shouldn't have let her go alone, without support,” he said.

“Simon, I didn't have any one at hand; you know, you ordered every single operative to the Triple Frontier yourself," he retorted. The so-called Triple Frontier was the international border between Argentina and Paraguay, and Argentina and Brazil; a melting pot of cultures, traders, smugglers, drug traffickers, con men and terrorists. The man didn't look happy, but was obviously unable to reply. At last he spoke. “Then you should have gone yourself.”

It was an unfair accusation, and both men knew it. Who would have coordinated operations then? But the first man didn't answer. Obviously he also felt guilty somehow.

“By now, they could have been working on her for three or four hours.”

“Yeah,” Simon answered; it was not indifference, but the inevitability of the situation what was reflected in his mood. “She will tell them everything, possibly in one or two more hours. Not that she knew a lot. Nor do we.”

He made a pause.

“What else do we know?”

“Before being taken, she managed to report the document could not be found,” said the first man.

“Can we assume they do not have it?” Simon asked. The other man assented.

“Interesting," he said.

V

Leie was momentarily dazed when several lights were suddenly turned on. “Time has come,” she thought, as she could distinguish three men coming into the room and taking station at different places. One of them took a stool and sat directly in front of her. She tried to look and sound both bewildered and incensed.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” she said in Spanish. It was just routine stuff to try gain some time. The guy in front of her, a balaclava covering his head and face, didn't answer, but stared at her rubbing his hands over his nose. She insisted.

“Answer me! What do you want? Money? My family is not rich…” But at this moment the guy silenced her raising a hand.

“María Isabel Dunovitz, Argentinean and Israeli citizen, middle class, you went to school at the Ort High School, a well known Jewish establishment; traveled to Israel when finishing your studies, to a kibbutz at Samaria, where was recruited by Mossad agents. Changed your name to Leie and returned to your country as a local operative. A quite standard pattern,” he said, in good English, with a strong Central Asian accent. The girl tried to look surprised.

“Well, that's mostly true. Except for the Mossad part, which is ridiculous.” She also switched to a correct, school-sounding English. The man looked unimpressed. She continued.

“My family is Jewish, no doubt, but they are not Orthodox or particularly religious. They have even given me a Christian name! Going to a kibbutz is rather normal; I went with my high school friends and had a good time there. What is this all about?”

“Many Christian names are also biblical, of course. And you changed it at the kibbutz. Or was it at the training center? What you are doing is standard procedure, what you have been taught. Let me say you are showing a good deal of bravery. I guess one of your trainers was Simon Blumenthal.” The girl made an involuntary gesture. “Oh, you know him. What did he tell you about these situations?”

Leie remembered well what he had said. It was, “When your cover is blown, it is blown”. How came that the Iranians were so acquainted with that?

“So, Leie, you can go on pretending you are an innocent Argentinean middle-class daughter, but we both know what this is about.” He made a pause.

“You were caught exiting the Iranian Embassy premises. There are signs of a search all over the place. You are going to tell us what you were looking for.”

The girl felt lost. She swallowed.

“I have no idea of what you are talking about.” But she knew what was coming. Strangely, she did not feel fear, or anxiety, but a kind of sadness, as she had often felt when losing a hockey match (like most Argentinean school girls, she had played that sport for years), like something belonging to the past. As if she was already dead. Except, she was far from being that lucky.

The guy at her front moved away, taking the stool. Another took his place. This was the operative, she thought. Wearing surgical gloves, he took the strap on the right of her bra and slid it down over the shoulder. She moved involuntarily in discomfort. Her right breast was exposed, the elasticized bottom of the bra still supporting it. The man produced a bunch of cables ending in a clamp, which he passed under the bra, and fixed it to her nipple. The bite was uncomfortable but nor really painful, and the bra held the cables in place. Neat and simple, she thought. He then produced another set of cables attached to what looked like a blank rifle round; he showed it to her, and made it run from her chest all along her abdomen, lightly touching her skin. That was unnecessary, she thought; she couldn't have known, but the first man also thought the same. Her trousers were already unbuttoned, showing her underwear – one of those elasticized sports mini shorts - he pulled the rim of it and placed the metal piece neatly inside her. As it was pushed up, she made an involuntary movement upwards with the hips. The underwear provided enough support; again, very neat.

“What? Looks like you are going to shoot a BDSM movie here.” She found the wits to joke in defiance, and the first guy couldn't repress a smile. Brave young girl. If only she could recognize when she is lost, he thought. The metal object inside her was not big enough to be painful in itself; though she was not an assiduous practitioner of sex, some intercourses had been more painful; it was the hard edges and the coolness of the metal that made her uncomfortable. But she knew the worst was to come. The guy went on to attach some electrodes to her temple; she got instinctively alarmed and swayed her neck violently, but the man overpowered her. Her breath quickened; she could see the cables attached to her private parts coming out to the electrical device she had previously seen at her front, but the ones coming from her head went somewhere else to her back. She moved her head but she couldn't see where to; but she felt the third man had taken position there.

The first man took again position in front of her.

“So you are called María Isabel Dunovitz?” She remained silent, but the guy insisted.

“Come on, answer that.”

“Yep”, she said.

“You entered Israel on 9th of January 2012?” She hesitated genuinely.

“Yeah, I guess so…”

“You worked in a kibbutz for nearly six months?”

“Yep.”

“You were recruited into the Mossad in December 2012?”

“That's ridiculous. I went to study at the Tel Aviv University. Bachelor in Tourism. You can check that."

“You did your training at the Bethlem camp and made minor operations in the West Bank in February, 2014, before coming back to Argentina in May?”

“That's not true. I came back to Argentina in September that year.”

The guy stopped and looked over the girl's head to the man at her back. Leie immediately regretted having been induced into that dialogue, but she had been taught to talk as much as she could.

“What were you looking for at the Embassy files?”

She remained silent for a moment.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Then she felt the bite of the electric current. It was completely unexpected, and her body lifted slightly from the chair, as if making a small jump. She opened her eyes wide and gasped for air. That was how she remembered it.

The man spoke.

“Now, Leie, we'll get into serious business. We'll ask some questions. The cables to your forehead and fingers are the terminals for a lie detector. So we can tell when you are lying, just in case we didn't realize. When that happens…”

Another unexpected jolt was released on Leie; she let go a short scream as her body somersaulted.

“… this happens. We sincerely hope to have no need for many of those.”

The girl moved her eyes nervously, as if looking for a way to escape. But there was none.

“So… What were you looking for?”

She didn't answer.

This time the discharge was anything but unexpected. As she felt the bite, she clenched her teeth and fists and moaned behind her firmly shut mouth. Her whole body got stiff with the tension and moved upwards, lifting from the chairs as the bonds allowed. Then, as the current ceased, it fell down back onto it as it relaxed. She tried to regain breath. Sweat instantly started covering her body.

“I… I… don't… know… what… you're talking about…”

The following discharge was a bit longer, and kept her growling as she tried to repress a scream. When it stopped and she fell back, she started moving her shoulders, hip and limbs as if trying to let the pain go away, her breath becoming fast and irregular.

“What were you looking for?”

She took some time to answer, trying to recover.

“I can't tell you…”

The man moved his head slightly to the side and another discharge went through Leie's body. She was expecting it, but nevertheless could not repress a short scream as her hip tilted up forward; then she fell down again. She tried to asses the situation. Her interrogator was in front of her, but he did not administer the shocks; that was a guy sitting at the device “console”. They were an oiled team; the minimum gesture by the first man prompted him to deliver.

Suddenly, another discharge took her by surprise. This time she let go a high scream for almost the whole time the electricity circulated through her body. She had been lost in her thoughts for too long. What was the third man doing? She glimpsed her interrogator glancing over her shoulder, then he came back to her.

“So…?”

She took some air.

“I… can't… tell you…”

The man again moved his head and a discharge followed. She clenched her teeth and moaned, her neck stiff upwards.

“I'll tell you, I'll tell you!!” she cried almost immediately after the discharge ceased. Then tried to recover her breath. She fell silent. Her body was moving as spasmodically as her breath; sweat covered every inch of it, gleaming in the piercing light.

The man in front extended his arm and lifted her face, delicately pushing her chin with his surgeon-gloved fingers.

“'I'm waiting...” But she didn't say anything; she just pretended to be suffocated. The man made the usual short movement of the head, and another discharge went through her. This time she deliberately screamed all the way it lasted, her body lifted from the chair. She fell down as the discharge ceased. She breathed heavily, then spoke.

“I was looking… I was looking for some documents.” The man looked over her shoulder. Then came back to her.

“What… documents?”

But she kept silent, staring at him and breathing heavily. Another discharge. She screamed.

“The Triple Frontier! Some documents… related to the Triple Frontier… operations…” She said, breathing spasmodically.

Again the man looked over her shoulder.

“What did you expect to find about that? Names?”

She didn't answer. She kept as if trying to say something in between her breathing. Another discharge didn't take long to come. This time it really hurt, as if the power had been increased a little. When it ceased, she could barely breathe, but somehow she immediately said, “Yes… yes… some… names of… the agents that were… to cross the frontier into the country… in the next few months, at least. Some schedule for such operations. Sources of financing. Names of local officials involved, like the former Consul at Ciudad del Este was sometime ago,” she said with difficulty, moaning as she went. Tears were coming down her cheeks, carrying what makeup remained on her eyelids. She fell silent again. She couldn't see her interrogator this time, but she was sure he had looked over her shoulder again. He was consulting with the third man stationed behind her, no doubt.

“What did you know about the operation?”

“Not much,” she said. She was recovering her breath. “Other agents were sent there, you probably know that.”

“So… what was your role?”

But she stared at him in silence. The man looked disappointed, but signaled for a new discharge to be made, which reached Leie with extreme violence, hard and long. Her body was lifted up and shrieked; her neck stiff as she howled.

“Support… just support…” she said as soon as her buttock hit the seat back. Then she tried to recover some breath. Her whole body was trembling. “Please believe me, I do not know much about the operation itself. It was not my assignment.”

“But you were looking for documents about the Triple Frontier… are you sure?”

She didn't answer; just kept sobbing low. Then she screamed, and the discharge struck her. “Yes, yes… believe me, please!” she almost yelled, even before the discharge faded out completely, still shrieking from the pain and the remnants of the electricity.

“What else were you looking for?” The man insisted. Leie looked to the side, crying silently. Then, just before the man gave the usual sign, she said, “No, please, no…”

But the man gave the order nonetheless and a discharge was duly applied to her. Her body was again lifted, shrieking, and slammed back down into the seat when it was over. Leie's head fall to her chest. She looked completely spent.

Parham felt disappointed. He stood up, pondered the situation for a moment, and called his team to the debriefing room.

VI

“The bloody device is being of no help," said Parham, the chief interrogator. He could not hide his frustration. “This procedure used to be quite effective in the past.”

“I know. A polygraph is not a hundred percent effective, but I think the girl is misleading us on purpose," Hossein answered. He had been operating the device.

“Of course she has been misleading us!” retorted Parham “She's a bloody Mossad operative!”

“No, no… I mean… she's being smart.” Hossein tried to calm him down and expose his view.

“She has realized a polygraph is being used on her. So she is misleading it on purpose. Very smart… a bit painful, but very smart procedure.”

“How's that?” asked Parham.

“You know the polygraph operates by 'reading' some involuntary body reactions to lies. Well, she's covering up in the torture. She knows that the readings –especially those about some sort of electrical body activity- are disrupted by it. So she answers right after the current ceases in hope that the readings will be distorted so as not to be of any use.”

“That's why she answers immediately and then shuts up.”

“Yep, she just waits for the next discharge… smart move. Painful, but smart.”

“Smart brave little Jew bitch,” said Parham.

The three men stood silent for a while. At last he spoke.

“Ok, she is into heavy things, we'll deliver. We'll do it the old way. Disconnect her from the polygraph. It will be up to us to tell truth from wrong, as has always been.”

“You sure?” asked Hossein.

“Yeah. Put this on the record. It might be this is a smarter than average little bitch, it might be there has been some improvement in the training. HQ should be aware of this.”

Hossein assented. The three men went back to the interrogation room.

VII

The man came to Leie, and disconnected the wires. She knew the rest was over.

“Well, girl, we know what you have been playing at.” He looked annoyed. “Brave game, I should say, but it is over.”

Leie quickened her breath. Her… “method”… had been very effective; too effective, in fact. But now her second “cover” had been blown.

“Now, we'll go by the good, old fashioned practice,” the man continued. “I ask a question, you answer. Whenever your answer looks not satisfactory, this happens.”

He sent a discharge through Leie’s body, just to underline the point. Her body went up and down, with a short scream.

“What were you looking for at the embassy?” He didn't even wait for an answer and sent three of four quick discharges. Leie contorted and screamed. Then, as she fell down into the seat, she was again shivering and sweating; she wouldn't be able to hold on for long. Her interrogator waited for her to asses the new situation.

She tried to think. It was obvious that she was lost. It was hardly her fault, being sent on an intruder operation without support or backup. No one could blame her for anything. She made up her mind.

“Ok, ok… I'll tell you.” She took a couple of deep breaths.

“I was instructed to look for a set of documents related to the bombing of the AMIA locals”

She made a pause; then continued, her eyes fixed on her interrogators.

“We know for certain that a courier of yours came to Argentina through the airport, disguised as a diplomat, two weeks ago.” She took a breath and then continued.

“We suppose that he was bringing some documents with instructions to be delivered to the various agents and friendly organizations throughout the country.”

“That was what I was looking for." Her face fell to her chest; she couldn't repress a moan and some tears. She looked exhausted.

A silence fell on the room. At last, Parham came to her and lifted her face from the chin. As she looked to him, she could see he looked disappointed.

“Leie, I had thought that you had understood your position. But more lies won't do any good.”

She was startled.

“It is the truth. I am not lying. Why do you think so?”

He sighed.

“If I told you that, I would have to kill you, and really I have not set my mind to do that. I still hope somehow a deal can be reached.”

“A deal? But… I have told you the truth!” she said. Suddenly she got desperate. Up to now, she had felt that in a way she had a minimum of control over the situation. As soon as she decided to give up the information, the torture would cease. But now she had given it up, only to meet the disbelief of her interrogators.

“What were you looking for?” the man insisted. Feeling lost, Leie decided to stick to her sayings; she was in no condition to make up a story, and… what story could be more convincing than the truth? She could only hope that his interrogator’s intelligence backup would somehow confirm her story. And would stop torturing her.

“I have told the truth,” she said calmly, but her eyes filled with tears.

Parham put her through several discharges, of varying length and intensity. Leie contorted and screamed wildly. When he finished, she fell down, sweating profusely and sobbing continually, still shivering in pain. He put her face up by the hair, completely damp in sweat, so that she could look straight into him, keeping her in that position for a while.

“Leie, we will start again. From the beginning. What were you looking for?”

But she couldn't answer, just stare at him with watery eyes. So they indeed began, once again.

VIII

“El Turco” was staring at the papers. He had done that for the last thirty minutes. “Corcho” would have never believed someone could be so concentrated on a single subject for so long.

At last he said, “This is not Syrian, nor Egyptian, nor any Arab language I know.”

That was not exactly helpful.

“You say they took it from who?” El Turco asked.

It was “El Paragua.” (“The Paraguayan”, -literally, “The Umbrella” - another common nickname in Argentina, this time for anyone coming from the NorthEast of the country, if not from Paraguay itself.) It was the indistinguishable man who was “Corcho's” chief operative, or kind of, who answered.

“Pelusa’s (“Fluff”, a common female nickname) people took it from a 'towel head' at Ezeiza, one or two weeks ago, we told you.”

“Yeah, but… what kind of towel head?”

“A diplomat.”

“Do you still have his passport?” “Yeah, no one would buy that shit.” He went through several boxes of apparent rubbish until he produced it and handed it to El Turco. He looked at it and seemed satisfied.

“Yeah, it is an Iranian diplomat. The writing is in Farsi, that’s why I couldn't make it out.” The word “Farsi” didn't mean anything to either of them, much less designate a language. Towel heads, like gringos, were all the same.

“Is it valuable?” asked El Corcho.

“It might be. More than you could imagine. Or it could be rubbish. I have to take it to some people I know.”

Both men looked at him suspiciously.

“Hey, amigos, you wouldn't think I shall cross you on this shit?”

They relaxed. A bit.

IX

The man came up to her and raised her head by the chin. She was almost spent, her face covered in tears and sweat. Strands of blonde hair, previously neatly tied out of the way, stuck to her cheeks and neck. Her whole body gleaming in sweat, shivering and trembling. Pants, and even part of her trousers, were completely wet in sweat. Her eyes were reddened as well as her lower eyelids, something usual when someone has been subjected to pain for a long time. The sweat and the short but violent contortions of her tortured body had proved too much for the precarious hold their interrogators had devised for the wires in the beginning of the session. Her bra was now gone, the wire secured by means of a rubber band going around her ribcage, just below her breasts. Another band in her left upper thigh secured the wiring to the bullet inside her.

“Leie, you will not be able to stand it for much longer. Do you really want to die like this, here?"

She could only answer with a strand of a voice, breathing spasmodically in short, irregular moves. Her mouth was half opened, her lips flaccid, as if unable to move, showing her white front teeth, and a hiss went out from them with each breath.

“I… am… as good as dead… I told you the truth… yet you don't believe me… be quick… please…” she sobbed, and tears flowed from her eyes.

Parham let her chin fall to her chest, and looked at Al-Afghani, about to reluctantly give him the order to resume. This time it was Hossein that called for a meeting. They went to the debriefing room.

“Parham, you will kill the girl, yet learn nothing.”

“I know, bloody bitch,” he said, but his frustration was evident. “What do you suggest? We haven't progressed an inch.”

“I do not think so,” said Hossein. “I think we can assume that the girl is telling the truth.”

“But that would mean that…” they both finished the phrase together. "… they do not have the document.”

“They never had it,” completed Hossein.

“Then who? Local intelligence doesn't have it either, according to you,” said Parham.

“No, my information says so. They are a bunch of incompetents; they would have messed up even that simple operation at the airport.”

“So… what do you think?”

Hossein took a minute to answer. Parham and Al-Afghani were all ears.

“Suppose… it was not an operation made to look like a common burglary… but a common burglary indeed.”

“Ajap.”

“We think the Israelis took it; they think we made a fake operation as a cover the reception or at least that we didn't lose it. We were both wrong, firing at each other."

The three men pondered the hypothesis. It looked as solid as any.

“What do you suggest?” asked Parham.

“I think a call to Simon is on order,” he said.

“To Simon? What for?”

“We can offer a deal.”

“A deal?”

“Yep. We can both confirm neither of us have the document, exchange some information and even strike a deal to recover it.”

“Do you think he will come?”, asked Al-Afghani.

“It is worth trying. You three are kind of brothers in arms, in a way.” Hossein smiled.

“Yeah. We can offer to return the girl in one piece, as a sign of good faith. She is no longer of any use. Simon will be delighted; if I know him a little, he must be at pains feeling guilty for having lost her,” replied Parham.

X

Parham left Al-Afghani with the car, near the Court’s Square, and walked down Corrientes Avenue alone. This was one of the biggest and better known avenues in the city, full of coffee shops, cinemas and book sellers, all open until virtually dawn, trodden by tourists and street sellers. He entered the place agreed for the meeting, a big pizza place called “Pizzeria Güerrin”. It was a huge saloon and first floor full of small tables with people of all kinds and social backgrounds tasting what was one of the top five pizzas in the city, which meant in the world. The pastry half-a-finger high, properly cooked, and a sea of mozzarella cheese over a just-a-little-sour tomato sauce. He saw Simon seated at a small table and went up to him. The clippety-clap of tableware and the chatting of a hundred people bunched together in the saloon without openings made sure that no one could possibly overhear any conversation. What’s more, the two big pizza ovens made of refractory bricks blocked any signal, making the place virtually mike-proof. Not even cell phones worked, and you could see the “Friday pirates” running outside to make calls to their wives and official girlfriends full of excuses, leaving their lovers at the small tables in front of slices of pizza and glasses of beer.

They both greeted each other with a movement of the head, and Parham sat down. Simon spoke first.

“Long time no seeing; not in this way, Parham.”

“It’s been a long time since Afghanistan, Simon. I still remember those days as the most… thrilling… in my life.” He made a short stop while looking for the right word.

“I remember you had an eye for the Stinger.”

“I was only as good as you taught me.”

Both men smiled at the memories. They were in a friendly mood, those two old warriors, then Parham went straight to business.

“We have the girl, Simon. It was not a good move to send her unsupported into enemy ground, if you allow me.”

The other man made a gesture of regret.

“Yeah, I know… it is the personnel shortage, you know what I mean? Is she alive?”

“Yes. She’s… in one piece, so to speak. We… gave her some treatment, you can imagine. A combination of electricity and the polygraph. She was smart, but broke in the end. You are training them better, but not nearly enough.”

Simon felt as if chastised… no less than by the enemy!

“I know. You cannot tell them everything. No one would volunteer. Guess you do not have such concerns.”

Parham made a smile.

“We offer to give her back to you.”

“How considerate,” said Simon, but there was no aggression in his tone. “In exchange for what?”

“Just some free chatting and exchange of information.” The other man agreed with a gesture.

“We do not have the documents on the AMIA bombing, Simon. From your move, I assume you do not have them either.”

The Israeli assented. He added, “Local intelligence doesn't have them either. We confirmed that, and we know you also did.”

“So we must look somewhere else.”

“We?”

“Yeah, 'we'. Look, we have to recover the documents, I mean, the originals, after the embarrassment of having lost them. Whoever took a glance at them in the meantime, well, that’s another story, if you get it.”

“’Course I get it. Administrative responsibility, I guess. It is the same everywhere.”

Parham took a slice of pizza and took a chunk out of it. He didn't seem to be enthusiastic about it. Simon pondered the offering, which amounted to a practical truce.

“Look, give me one week. I shall go myself to the airport to reconnoiter the ground. Then I shall come back to you. I think I have an idea of what happened.”

“Are you thinking on a real act of burglary? My intelligence officer would agree.”

“Yeah. Hossein is a smart young man.” Simon felt better after giving back a stroke. Parham smiled. Only then he realized that Hossein, though a diplomat and not a full intelligence officer, was sharing their risks, conducting business in the open, with little or no support.

“I shall drop the girl in one of your safe houses. Where do you suggest?”

But Simon smiled; he wouldn't fall for that one, even considering the ample doses of good faith that impregnated the whole conversation.

“No safer house than mine. You know where I live. Take her there." He made a pause. “Tomorrow evening?”