by Marc Cameron
Ding Chavez broke squelch fifteen minutes later, crackling with static as his radio came into range: “. . . you guys copy?”
“You’re coming in slurred and stupid,” Midas said. “Go ahead, boss.” Being a retired lieutenant colonel with Delta earned Midas a great deal of latitude. He never would have said such a thing to Clark, but Chavez played by somewhat looser rules in the name of team cohesion when it came to radio decorum.
“Roger that,” Ding said. “Chen and one of the Asian males are in the in the Chevy, heading . . . They’re heading south . . . No . . . Shit . . . These streets are all turned around . . . East on Libertador . . . Turning south on Ayacucho now. Looks like we’re coming to you—scratch that. He cut back toward Recoleta Cemetery . . . Pulling over at Adara’s ice cream shop.”
“Copy,” Midas said. “We’re getting movement here. Gendarmería has the place buttoned down. Due respect, boss, but shouldn’t we send this information to higher and maybe have someone from State contact the Argentines and warn them of a possible threat? Chen and one actor leaves three still in play somewhere.”
“I ran it by Clark,” Chavez said. “He thinks we still have too many variables. He gave me the option, and I say we sit and see what develops, at least for the next few minutes.”
A tall Asian man with a buzz cut exited the restaurant and gave the officer with the dog a dismissive nod. The pigtail of an earpiece disappeared into the collar of his suit jacket. Ryan made out the telltale print of a pistol over his right hip. A similar bulge on his left side, this one slightly blockier, was surely a radio. The man motioned to the BA city police officers with a flick of his hand, and two of them scurried to move the barricades off the street for an imminent arrival.
Buzz Cut was the advance, on station early to see that things were safe before his boss got there.
A yelping siren drew Jack’s attention to the east and he watched two Yamaha police motorcycles nose out from Rodríguez Peña a block away. Strobe lights flashed in the gathering dusk. A black Cadillac sedan stayed tight behind the bikes onto Santa Fe, followed by a shiny black Escalade, and then five more sedans. Two more bikes brought up the rear. It was nothing close to the size of his father’s detail, but a seven-vehicle motorcade package with a motorcycle escort was a lot for a foreign minister, even from a country as large and controversial as the People’s Republic of China. Jack had read a couple CIA briefs on Li Zhengsheng. For someone so high up in PRC government, little was known about the man, but for the fact that he appeared to dote on his wife and son—and he was apparently quite full of himself.
“The ego has landed,” Ryan said. “Foreign Minister Li is on site.”
Ten minutes later, the Canadians and Uruguayans arrived in turn. The Gendarmería posted out front appeared to relax now that the dignitaries who’d been invited were all safely off the street.
“We’ve got ten digs inside,” Midas said. “Including Foreign Minister Li. Thirty to forty staffers and a whole shitload of armed dudes, half of those from Li’s detail.”
“Copy,” Chavez said.
Jack took a sip of his coffee. It wasn’t White House Navy mess, but it wasn’t too shabby, either. “Any movement from Chen?”
“That’s a negative,” Adara said. “They’ve dismounted and gone into a café for dinner.”
“You’ve still just got eyes on the two?” Jack asked.
“Correct,” Chavez said. “Chen and one of the Asian males from the airport.”
Jack pushed away from his table. “No females?” The question was rhetorical. Chavez had already told him who he was watching—but muttering was part of Ryan’s process.
“No joy,” Adara said. “Or the second male.”
“Hmm,” Jack said. “Both women were here last night, scoping out the restaurant at the same time we were. They would fit in with the locals, so it makes sense for Chen to send them in close while he stays back. I’m betting they’re somewhere nearby. Could be they’re waiting for a meet with one of the Chinese staffers. Midas, anybody look like they’re waiting around with the vehicles?”
“Can’t tell,” Midas said. “I have a good eyeball on the front door, but from up here Santa Fe’s a river of black sedans . . .” His voice trailed off. When he spoke again, it was in a rasping whisper. “Jack, didn’t you say that Japanese girl you followed had a big scab on her face?”
“Scratches,” Ryan said. “Not exactly a scab. Why? You see her?”
Midas whispered, “On the balcony two floors below me, sitting behind a rifle. The girl’s runnin’ a gun.”
41
Inside Parrilla Aires Criollos, Chinese foreign minister Li Zhengsheng followed his lead Central Security Bureau protection agent, Long Yun, to his assigned seat. Two other men, both as stone-faced as the colonel, were posted along the far wall, eyes scanning areas of responsibility on either side of the room. Li paid the men little heed. They weren’t there to be noticed. They were there to protect him—and the good name of the party.
The long table was at the back of the restaurant with rustic earthenware settings for ten. As guest of honor, Li sat at the head, facing the door, his back to the rich mahogany bar that stood nearly four feet high. José Prieto, Argentina’s minister of agriculture, sat immediately to Li’s right under a set of rawhide boleadoras that hung from the wall along with assorted other gaucho memorabilia. A white linen tablecloth partially concealed the air-conditioning vent behind the Argentine’s chair.
Most of the ministers knew one another, some of them quite well, but Anika Bos from the Netherlands was newly appointed and worked the table, introducing herself. She was a stunningly beautiful fifty-year-old woman. Most of the men had traveled without their wives, leaving them free to sample the local nightlife—and, perhaps, they seemed to think, explore a cross-border relationship with the Netherlands. A number of them maneuvered for the opportunity to buy her a drink after dinner.
Li kept his face passive but scoffed inwardly at the thought. Unfortunately for Anika Bos, the lascivious Argentine minister had made certain she was seated beside him. Drinks with anyone would not be in her cards.
Prieto tapped his knife against the side of his water glass after everyone was seated and began to welcome the attendees on behalf of his country, calling them each by name as if they were old and dear friends instead of economic rivals or potential customers for Argentine beef and grain. He jokingly apologized to the Canadian minister that the evening’s discussion would have to take place in English because not everyone at the table spoke French.
Li stopped listening almost at once. He moved as if to readjust his chair, glancing at his watch, and laughed along with everyone else at another of Prieto’s asinine jokes, though he had no idea what the man had said.
Five minutes past seven. He could begin whenever he chose to do so.
Li sat through the picada of baked cheese, cured meats, and crusty bread—not because he was hungry. He’d already eaten breakfast in his hotel room. But there would inevitably be survivors, and some of them would eventually regain their senses enough to recall things that had been out of place.
At seven-twenty he leaned back slightly in his chair to get Long’s attention. The colonel nodded to the other two Chinese security men, telling them to remain in place and watch his food while he accompanied Li around the bar to the restroom. The entire restaurant had already been swept for threats, but anyone with a protective detail would see nothing out of the ordinary if Long Yun checked it again.
Once in the restroom, Long Yun made a call, making certain Amanda was ready. He spoke quickly, then nodded to his boss, keeping the woman on the line. From this point on, there could be no error in communication.
Li removed a device that looked like a mobile phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and entered six digits—the first half of the code needed to detonate the small shaped explosive that he knew was behind
the wall vent. It would be a directed blast, not much larger than a hand grenade. There would be a great deal of noise and smoke, and those sitting directly in front of it would be cut in half. The rest of those present would have a very exciting story to tell. To that end, it was imperative that both Li’s hands be visible when the device exploded. Too many things could happen to allow the bomb to be detonated at any specific prearranged time. He’d not risen to his present office by being careless. No, Long Yun would let Amanda know he was in the clear after he armed the device. She would then enter the second half of the code, detonating the device while he was standing slightly around the corner and behind the safety of the thick wooden bar, chatting amiably with the bartender.
“Sixty seconds,” Long Yun said. He dropped the phone into his pocket but kept the line open so the woman could hear if anything changed.
Li began a silent countdown in his head. The bar was close, right outside the door, so he took a moment to wash his hands. The colonel gave an approving nod at his gravitas. He liked to appear in complete control, especially in front of his security detail—two of whom were about to die, though they had no idea.
“Be sure to open your mouth, sir,” Long Yun said. “It will help with the pressure of the blast. The temptation to look toward the device will be great—”
“I will be fine,” Li said.
With twenty seconds to go, he tossed a crumpled paper towel into the trash can and stepped out the restroom door.
• • •
It was obvious from the tone of his voice that Ding Chavez was sitting up straighter in the car.
“She’s on a rifle?”
Midas still whispered. “Affirmative. Suppressed bolt-action. Looks like a small-caliber, maybe a .22 from the size of it. She’s sweeping the crowd like she’s looking for someone—holy shit!”
Jack stood at the McDonald’s window and watched a well-dressed woman with dark curly hair pitch headlong into the crosswalk on the north side of the street. He thought at first she’d stumbled, but it was impossible to mistake the rigid spasms of someone who’d been shot in the brain. Her nervous system short-circuited, and she lay on her side, arms suddenly stiff, as if she were sleepwalking. Her legs made obscenely grotesque pumping motions as if she were riding an invisible bicycle. A dark wig fell away, spilling tresses of blond hair onto the pavement. A moment later her muscles relaxed and she was still.
“It’s her,” Ryan gasped, loud enough to draw a look from a little kid eating an ice cream cone at the window beside him.
The Gendarmería officer at the nearest barricade also recognized a shooting victim when he saw one. He brought his MP5 to high ready and began scanning the storefronts for a threat.
The blonde’s body lay half in the street. The light turned green and traffic honked, unaware. For a moment Jack thought she would be run over, but the drivers in the lead slowed down and stopped, forming a blockade, for the moment, at least. It really didn’t matter. She was beyond saving.
Ryan thought of running to act as though he was rendering aid, and maybe grabbing any identification.
Midas came over the net again, still a quiet hiss. “Jack, I can hear you thinking. Don’t go out there. This shooter is still on her gun.”
“Sitrep when able,” Chavez said, surely feeling blind.
“Shooter just took out the blonde from the airport,” Midas whispered. “Suppressed subsonic .22 and a bolt-action. I didn’t hear shit and I’m twenty feet above her.”
“He’s right,” Ding said. “You stay put, Jack. I mean it.”
Ryan started to say he understood, but a familiar face drew his attention across the street. A crowd of panicked pedestrians braved the traffic to cross against the light directly toward Jack. Amid the fleeing pack, a tall woman with her hair tucked up into a baseball cap walked briskly, working to go just fast enough to stay in the middle. She carried a mobile phone in one hand, and with the other she tugged at the bill of her cap. It was the brunette Jack had watched disappear into Villa 31. A look of barely controlled panic flashed in her eyes. She’d just watched her friend die, and it was obvious she thought she was about to be next.
• • •
Only the two men of the Gendarmería nearest the dead woman realized something was amiss. The second, though highly trained, had never seen anyone in the throes of death. Too far away to see the tiny spot of blood below the woman’s left ear, he thought she might be having a seizure—something she would get over—and it took him almost a full minute before he radioed his command post to request an ambulance. He was on a protective detail and did not leave his post at the door to the restaurant.
The officers in the room heard the call go out to the command post reporting a possible heart attack victim and turned their attention back inward to watch the staff. After all, this was a steak restaurant. Virtually everyone in the place had a blade.
Li Zhengsheng stood with both hands up on the bar and fumed, trying to think of something else to say. It had been well over a minute since he’d entered his half of the code—but nothing was happening. The bartender did not speak English or Chinese—the only two languages in which Li was conversant—making this an extremely uncomfortable predicament. Long Yun stood to his left, carefully positioning himself between the far wall and the foreign minister, but making certain to keep his body behind the protection of the heavy mahogany bar.
Li nodded stupidly at the bartender, forcing a smile that he was certain made him look insane. He kept his feet planted but tilted his head to the side toward the colonel. Anger knotted with the anticipation already in his gut.
“I cannot stand here forever!” he whispered. “Something has gone wrong!”
“Abort?”
That fool, Prieto, shouted across the room as if they were at a sports match. “Mr. Foreign Minister,” he said. “Please come and resume your seat.”
Li held up a hand, signaling that he would be a moment longer. What was the girl waiting for?
Minister Prieto stood and motioned toward Li’s chair with a flourish, as if he would not take no for an answer. “Please, señor. I will order you a special drink if you wish, but it is no meeting without our guest of honor.”
Li clenched his teeth, hardly able to breathe, let alone speak, he was so livid. He reached into his pocket to retrieve the device with which he could enter the abort code—at the same moment the west wall of the restaurant belched a great ball of dust and debris. The explosion was not a huge one, as explosions went. Li had seen much larger. Still, the concussion in the confines of the small restaurant was deafening.
The initial blast knocked José Prieto completely out of his Italian loafers and threw what was left of his burned and mangled body across the table. Anika Bos was killed instantly, her beautiful face slammed into her water glass. The Japanese minister of agriculture would certainly die as well from his massive head wounds, but he lingered now, trying in vain to stanch the trickle of blood and brain matter that obscured his vision.
The blast also claimed one of the two Central Security Bureau men who’d been left to guard Li’s food, a necessary sacrifice to make the story of his miraculous escape even more plausible.
Long Yun was on the radio immediately, calling the limousine forward to evacuate the foreign minister. Security personnel from all the delegations, some more professional and experienced than others, stumbled around overturned chairs and burning tables to locate their charges amid the smoke and chaos. The ministers of Uruguay and India had been seated closest to the door. They both ran from the building, abandoning any thought of a security team.
The concussion of the blast had shattered the restaurant’s large front windows, startling locals who were not unaccustomed to bombings. Most fled for fear of secondary explosions, but some paused long enough to snap a few photographs of the escaping ministers, who now stood with hands on their knees, coughing and
sputtering and trying to get their bearings.
A Chinese CSB agent with very short hair burst from the front door and shoved the Uruguayan minister out of the way, while Long Yun dragged the limping foreign minister through the melee and to the waiting motorcade. Foreign Minister Li Zhengsheng smiled within himself when he saw at least a dozen mobile phones aimed in his direction. With any luck, some of them had gotten it on video.
• • •
Jack watched the leggy brunette turn as soon as she crossed the street. The moment her feet hit the sidewalk she began to fiddle with her mobile phone—and the front doors blew off the restaurant. The sudden whoof of pressure shook the window, causing Ryan to take a half-step back. Car alarms up and down Santa Fe began to chirp and wail. The brunette walked briskly away from the blast without looking back—conspicuously ignoring the carnage going on behind her.
A moment later, members of Li’s protective detail emerged from the smoke through the front door and whisked him away. Pretty damned efficient security, Jack thought.
Midas spoke again, panting now, voice hollow, like he was running down a stairwell. “Our Japanese girl’s about to di di mau outta here,” he said. “Keep eyes on the brunette. I’ll stick with this one.”
Ryan located her easily, moving away through a still-confused crowd without looking back. “Got her,” he said.
Ryan all but flew out the door, against the river of people now fleeing across the street toward him. The brunette was a block ahead when he spotted her again, moving north at a fast trot.
“Brunette’s coming at you, Ding,” Jack said. “I’m half a block behind her on Callao Ave.”
He briefed Chavez and Adara on the situation as he moved, using the crowd and darkness to keep from being seen. If she had anyone running countersurveillance, Ryan knew he was screwed, but she’d detonated the bomb. He couldn’t just let her walk away.
