by Marc Cameron
He pumped out thirty quick push-ups to clear his head and then suffered through a moment of benign panic that there was no hot water in the shower, until he remembered that the C on the faucet did not stand for cold. After a shower that was plenty caliente, he wiped the fog off the mirror and took a few moments to square away his beard with a razor and a small pair of scissors he carried for that purpose. He’d recently shaved down to a mustache—but he was glad to have the beard back. People said he looked like his dad. He didn’t see it. The full beard kept others from seeing it as well.
Ryan had taken the time to lay out his clothes and gear before his nap—he shot a quick glance as the tritium hands on his watch—just four hours before.
The area recon had been interesting if only for total immersion in the European-ness of Buenos Aires.
Lisanne Robertson had dropped Adara off an hour and a half behind the others—and stayed to check personally that the rental-car company had come through on their promise. The valet in the lobby of the Panamericano Hotel assured her that there was a Peugeot 408 and a Renault Duster parked in the garage. Like just about every other rental vehicle in Argentina, both had manual transmissions, a fact that drew a twinkle from every Campus member’s eye. They’d all attended numerous driving schools, and there was nothing like a stick shift to spur the last few horses out of an otherwise humdrum ride.
Lisanne had grudgingly returned to her airport hotel only after a direct order from Chavez. She’d suggested she could provide countersurveillance and force protection. It sounded like a good idea to Ryan, but Ding would have none of it.
They’d given Adara a few minutes to check in and get settled before spending the next three hours doing recon around Parrilla Aires Criollos. Any surveillance of Vincent Chen was likely to end up on foot anyway, so they opted to leave the vehicles parked and walk the few blocks between the hotel and the restaurant. It was their only lead, so they would exploit it until they found something better.
They’d walked in teams of two, going north on Avenida 9 de Julio, with Jack and Adara making up one team while Chavez and Midas brought up the rear. Ninth of July Avenue, so named for the date of Argentina’s independence from Spain, was lined with a greenbelt and many parks and fountains on either side. It was touted as the widest city street in the world.
Ryan had been warned not to refer to himself as an American. People in South America took issue with citizens of the United States coopting that title for themselves. Argentines customarily took siestas in the afternoon and worked late. It was dark by the time the team had ventured out, and many businessmen and -women were just beginning to get off work. Avenida 9 de Julio was flooded with tourists at this temperate time of the South American spring. Members of the middle and upper classes tended to dress in business casual for nearly all endeavors that didn’t require business dress. It had been an easy matter for Jack to pick out the T-shirt-and-Bermuda-shorts-wearing tourists in the crowds.
Argentina’s high inflation made for a thriving underground currency exchange. Called arbolitos, or “little trees,” for their propensity to spring up everywhere, these men and women stood at strategic points along the avenue, usually in front of stores that sold high-end merchandise, and whispered “Cambio, cambio”—change, change—as wealthy tourists walked by. Their jobs required arbolitos to carry a large amount of cash, and though it was probably lost on an average tourist, Ryan noted that there was always a second standing a few yards away, no doubt protecting the person but also—more important for the black-market investors—the money.
The Campus operators had strolled through the Recoleta district, exploring the iconic cemetery and El Gran Gomero, the enormous supposedly two-hundred-year-old rubber tree, the crown of which spanned fifty meters. Ryan found it pleasant and even refreshing to incorporate a little tourism into his recon—even if he was out for a walk with his cousin’s girlfriend and not a girlfriend of his own. This line of work sucked the life out of relationships.
Eventually, he and Adara had used a visit to the inside of Parrilla Aires Criollos as an excuse to have a nice sit-down dinner. Chavez and Midas waited outside. No one thought there was much danger that they were being followed yet, but the last thing they wanted to do was huddle up together in a venue of interest to Vincent Chen. Beyond that, Ding had been to Argentina before and he knew a place that made “killer empanadas”; it was across the street from the sprawling branches of the giant rubber tree.
The evening had ended by ten o’clock, after a zigzagging surveillance detection route back to the Panamericano. They’d talked over the plan for the coming day on the radio as they walked. Chavez was reluctant to discuss anything in the room of a foreign hotel, even in a relatively friendly country like Argentina. It was decided that they would meet at two-thirty the next morning and take a circular route back to the airport by way of the Chinese embassy at the edge of the Saavedra district in the northern part of the city.
“Don’t be late,” Midas said, still a little grouchy about eating fried meat pies while Ryan got to have an Argentinian beefsteak. “And don’t be light.”
Ryan didn’t intend to be late or light.
Freshly showered and shaved now, he looked at his watch again and then rubbed a dab of gel into his dark hair before brushing his teeth. For the same reason they didn’t discuss logistics in foreign hotel rooms, he was careful about displaying his pistol or other gear.
He’d checked the obvious locations for bugs and hidden cameras, using a handheld device Gavin Biery had issued each Campus operator to scan for RF interference, and then looked for the telltale glint of pinhole camera lenses by taking a few flash photos of each wall with his phone and then studying them for reflections. Ryan found nothing, but since he was a good spy, that only made him more suspicious.
He used the half-open closet door to conceal most of his body while he geared up. Cameras and microphones needed electricity, and though Campus operators themselves often used battery-powered devices, when possible they tied into existing sources—especially when running a long-term or open-ended op. Ryan himself hadn’t known he was coming to Argentina until the day before, so any cameras that did happen to exist would likely have been set up to catch targets of opportunity. Those units would need a power source. There was no light inside the closet, and Ryan reasoned that apart from it being a sucky place to put a device, any foreign operative worth his or her salt would place any cameras in more productive locations.
With his movements hidden by the open door, he popped the Smith & Wesson’s magazine, then seated it firmly back in place. He retracted the slide a scant half-inch. He’d been the last to touch the weapon, but as Clark hammered home at least once during every tactical scenario, “press checks were free insurance.” Reassured the pistol was loaded, Ryan held it at arm’s length, acquiring the front sight with his dominant eye, the same way he did each time he picked up the weapon, even to put it away.
This was bound to be a long day, and a long day of surveillance required clothing that was comfortable. Equally important, it required clothing that did not stand out. If his clothes could be changed or altered through the day, so much the better. Ryan decided on a pair of light chinos and a pale blue button-down oxford shirt with long sleeves. The slacks were loose enough to hide his Thunderwear holster and the shirt thick enough to conceal the neck loop and mic of his communication gear. He and the other members of the team customarily carried a folding clip knife. Ryan chose a Benchmade called Big Summit Lake. It wasn’t as tacti-cool as a black knife but was razor sharp and large enough to do the job. Wooden scales made it look more like a tool than a weapon. In addition to their “people-killing” knives, they’d all opted for what Midas called “granddad blades,” smaller folders that could be used to assist with the chores normal people used knives for—bypassing locks and cutting cordage. Ryan had learned the hard way that he’d rather be attacked by just about anything besides a k
nife. Conversely, he’d rather launch an attack of his own with just about anything else.
He dropped the radio the size of a pack of playing cards into the pocket of his slacks and slipped into a pair of lace-up Rockport Boat Builder high-tops before shrugging on a navy blue blazer. Last, he opened a flat plastic pill case and removed one of two beige earpieces about the size of the nail on his little finger. He replaced the small hearing-aid battery that was nearly as large as the device, not wanting to risk comms failure at an inopportune moment. Batteries never died after they finished an op, failing instead at the most critical moments. Ryan chuckled to himself as he dropped a spare battery into the inside pocket of his sport coat. James Bond and Jason Bourne made it look easy, but there was sure a lot of technical shit to worry about in this business.
Removing the chair he habitually propped against any hotel door, he did one final “testicles, spectacles, wallet, and comb” check to make certain he had everything he needed—and then headed into the hallway, leaving the POR FAVOR, NO MOLESTAR sign hanging on the handle.
He made it to the lobby at two twenty-five a.m., teaming up with Midas in the blue Peugeot 408—which, to Jack’s surprise, was turbo-charged.
The streets were far from empty at three in the morning, but the traffic was light enough that Jack had no trouble keeping Chavez and Adara and their Renault in sight as they headed northwest on Avenida del Libertador. The two-car caravan worked its way through Barrio Chino and then drove west to do a quick drive-by of the Chinese embassy.
The Peugeot was far from quick off the line, especially compared to his Beemer back home, but Jack found it zippy enough to get him into trouble at intersections. Buenos Aires seemed completely devoid of four-way stops. According to the guidebook, the vehicle with the most momentum carried the right-of-way, and for a damn-the-torpedoes hard charger like Jack, that came in pretty handy.
Adara’s voice came over the net as they passed the high walls of the embassy. “Here be dragons.”
“No doubt,” Ryan said. “But just what kind of dragons remains to be seen . . .”
They continued west, eventually hitting Avenida General Paz and taking it south until it joined the autopista back to Ministro Pistarini International.
Chavez went into the terminal while the others posted outside. The rain had stopped, but the early-morning air was still cool enough to be bracing.
Ding came over Ryan’s earpiece less than an hour later.
“Heads up, guys,” he said. “A blond female just met our guy and one other Asian male when they cleared customs.”
“A blonde, you say?” Adara said. “Interesting.”
“That’s affirm,” Chavez said. “I have one more Asian male in the middle of the pack behind Chen and his buddy. So far they haven’t had any interaction, but that doesn’t surprise me. Chen’s wearing gray slacks and a black three-button. His buddy’s in jeans and a white long-sleeve. Female is in dark slacks and a fawn blouse.”
Midas chuckled. “Fawn?”
“Yes, fawn,” Chavez said. “Like tan.”
“I see her through the window,” Midas said. “Pretty sure that color is wheat.”
“Dumbass,” Chavez said. “The blonde is pulling the bags. I’m right behind them. The lone Asian male is in jeans and a light blue jacket. Jack, you and Midas mark him, see what he does when we get back on the autopista.”
“Copy that,” Jack said. “We’ll be . . .”
Ryan paused, watching Chen and his small entourage exit the double doors from the airport. He focused on the blonde who brought up the rear.
“Does the female look familiar to anybody?”
She didn’t, so Jack kept working on the connection, whatever it was, in the back of his mind. There was something about her that struck a nerve.
Adara picked up Chavez, but they lingered an extra two minutes as though they were waiting for someone else before pulling around to follow Chen and the others to the parking lot across the street and beyond a row of concrete construction barriers, where they got into a red Chevy compact.
“Got him,” Midas said a moment later. Jack and he watched the loner load his bag into a black Toyota HiLux pickup and climb into the passenger seat. The back glass was tinted, but Jack thought he could make out a female behind the wheel.
Jack counted to twenty, then fell in behind the HiLux.
Both teams stayed well back in the light traffic of early morning. Where the autopista crossed General Paz, the HiLux took the ramp to go north, generally backtracking the route the Campus operators had taken to reach the airport. The Chevrolet continued toward downtown.
“You want me to follow?” Jack asked, eyes over the guardrail as he watched the HiLux accelerate northwest while the Chevrolet continued northeast. “They could be going to the Chinese embassy.”
“Negative,” Chavez said. “Let’s focus on Chen. We’re not even certain they’re together.”
“Copy that,” Jack said. As usual, there were never enough of them to do perfect surveillance.
They followed the Chevy east along Avenida 25 de Mayo, and then wound through the city in what were surely a series of halfhearted surveillance detection routes, only to end up at a tall set of brick apartments off Avenida Santa Fe in the San Isidro neighborhood of Acassuso, northwest of Buenos Aires proper.
Adara kept the Renault heading north on Santa Fe while the Chevy turned left down Libertad, a much smaller street, and came to a stop in front of what looked like a small school or daycare center.
Adara came over the net. “That’s interesting.”
“I agree,” Midas said. “They wound back through town, when the General Paz would have gotten them here much quicker.”
“There is that,” Adara said. “But the blue HiLux we saw at the airport, it’s parked right around the corner.”
38
Ryan and Midas sat in the Peugeot half a block up Libertad from the apartment building while Adara and Chavez met Lisanne to grab the little Clio she and the pilots had been driving. With Chen turning up with so many confederates, the team needed a fresh set of wheels.
When they returned with the Renault, Ryan and Midas went to check out the neoclassical French mansion that was now the Palacio Duhau–Park Hyatt hotel on Avenida Alvear. The hotel also happened to be located in the swank neighborhood of Recoleta—less than eight blocks from the Parrilla Aires Criollos restaurant, where Argentina’s minister of agriculture was hosting tonight’s dinner. Several U.S. intelligence agencies, including the CIA and National Security Agency, kept tabs on traveling members of foreign governments via both open-source and intercepted signals intelligence—and Gavin Biery’s team at Hendley Associates kept tabs on the tabs-keepers. A quick check with the IT guru told the Campus operators the Chinese foreign minister had chosen the Hyatt for his stay in Buenos Aires.
The team was still unsure as to the purpose of Vincent Chen’s visit, other than being reasonably certain it had something to do with the Chinese foreign minister. And even that didn’t narrow things down very much. They knew someone had bombed a subway tunnel outside of Beijing. Eddie Feng obviously thought Chen was behind the attack. He was Taiwanese and he had a code name, so it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. They booted around the idea of sending up a warning through the State Department to contact the Chinese delegation regarding a possible threat to the foreign minister—but decided against it for a number of reasons.
First, the halls of the government in the People’s Republic of China were even more byzantine than those of the United States. Given the fact that President Ryan had dropped a bomb on a Chinese office building that housed a group of hackers destroying American defense computers, trust between the two nations was less than nil. PRC bureaucrats would see treachery in any U.S. action. They would hold the information while its credibility was verified, ensuring that this was not some ploy to make them l
ose face—or worse. Any pertinent intelligence regarding a plot against the foreign minister would take days to climb to the top of an actual decision maker’s desk and then trickle back down to his security detail—who now formed a phalanx of armed men in dark suits around Foreign Minister Li, half a block from the spot where Jack Ryan, Jr., stood on the sidewalk.
Beyond the simple believability of the information, the team also ran the risk that someone from the foreign minister’s delegation was an ROC spy and Chen, being Taiwanese, was his handler, there to collect information.
Ryan stood out of sight of the Hyatt on Rodríguez Peña street, around the corner from the concrete-and-red-brick building that housed the Argentine Ministry of Culture. Midas was farther east down Avenida Alvear, window-shopping at a small art gallery across from the hotel. His vantage point gave him an eye on the Hyatt’s porte cochère and a direct line of sight to the arriving detail.
Ryan spoke into the mic on his neck loop. “See anyone we should recognize?”
“Negative,” Midas said.
Chavez and Adara were too far across town to be in contact via the radio intercom, but Chavez had just confirmed by cell phone that there had been no sign of movement from Chen or his people. Both the HiLux and the Chevy were still parked at the apartments in Acassuso.
Ryan and Midas settled into what seemed would be a couple hours of lurking, without looking like lurkers.
The Palacio Duhau–Park Hyatt was located in an architecturally rich area of Buenos Aires that reminded Jack of Paris. But as nice as the area was, the Ministry of Culture, in front of which he now stood, was covered in graffiti. Ryan couldn’t understand the Spanish, but he could tell from the sheer volume that the writing didn’t tout confidence and trust in the Argentine government. Even the street around the building was covered in graffiti—though this was made with a stencil and more precise than the spray-painted scrawl on the building’s walls. Ryan scuffed at the white paint with the toe of his Rockport.
