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 lose 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 Pe?a 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.
“You speak Spanish, right?” he asked over the radio.
“A fair amount,” Midas said, knowing the question was meant for him, since the others were too far away.
“What does ‘Esto huele mal’ mean?”
Midas chuckled. “Where’d you see that?”
“Painted all over the street in front of the culture ministry.”
“Escrache,” Midas said. “I read about that. Argentines are big on shaming elected officials that they feel have done wrong—graffiti, signage, even screaming at them on airplanes or in public places with megaphones.”
Ryan laughed. “My dad gets a lot of that.”
“I voted for him,” Midas said. “Anyway, ‘Esto huele mal’ means ‘This smells bad’ or ‘This stinks.’ Not sure what—”
Ryan cut him off. “Hold on,” he said. The urgency in his voice caused Midas to fall silent.
Walking up Avenida Alvear, past the Hyatt and almost even with Ryan, was a tall brunette. He turned quickly, looking away before she had a chance to see his face. Jack had seen this woman the evening before, at the restaurant with Adara. It dawned on him that the blonde who met Chen had been with this one. Ryan hadn’t been able to see more than her profile from his vantage point, but the brunette had been facing him. The two women had definitely been together. He saw no headphones or Bluetooth earpiece, but the brunette spoke to someone as she walked, perhaps, Ryan thought, utilizing the same sort of hidden microphone and neck loop he wore.
He started to follow but caught sight of an Asian woman from the corner of his eye. She was about the same age as the brunette, early thirties, with high cheekbones framed by shoulder-length hair. She stepped out of a side door of a building connected to the Hyatt, waited a beat while the brunette walked past, and then fell in behind her. She was dressed nicely in snug jeans and a loose designer T-shirt, but she bore angry pink scratches from jaw to forehead, as if she’d slid into home plate on her face. Ryan couldn’t tell if her dark eyes were beautiful or terrifying, but he decided he would find out soon enough.
He gave Midas a quick brief over the radio.
“Good catch,” Midas said. “I don’t know about the Asian, but the brunette has to be in comms with Chen. She’s probably letting him know the foreign minister had arrived.”
“That’s my guess.” Ryan looked over his shoulder at traffic before crossing the street after the Asian, who seemed to be locked on to the brunette. “I’m going to stick with them and see where they go.”
“Stay in range for comms,” Midas said. “I’ll reach out to Ding and bring him up to speed.”
The Asian woman took a right at the first block while the brunette went straight. Ryan knew it was stupid, but he was more than a little disappointed. Maybe she wasn’t involved at all. The leggy brunette continued walking against traffic on Alvear for several blocks, past the popping flags of the Palace Hotel and two sets of arbolitos, touting their money exchange outside high-end shops selling Montblanc and Rolex. Any preconceived notions Jack had on this surveillance were quickly dashed. The Asian woman was nowhere in sight, and now the brunette wasn’t going to her car as he’d first assumed. She turned right, as if to head back to the Retiro train station. A block later she turned left again.
“Northwest on Libertador,” Jack said, as much to make sure he still had a clear signal with Midas as to update him on the location.
“Copy that,” Midas said.