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.