“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 Pe?a 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.