“Too far to walk,” she said, running the numbers in her head. “Even if we jogged, it would take over two hours.”
“Let’s see how near he can get us. We won’t know until we try.”
“Fair enough. Where does he want us to wait?”
“We can walk over to the main access road.”
The guard eyed them distrustfully as they neared his outpost. Jet took Paco’s hand so they looked like a couple out for a morning tryst. The man’s curiosity seemed to extend more to Jet’s skin-tight damp clothes and the way they hung off her curves than anything, but they both exhaled sighs of relief once they were at the main frontage road, the freeway only a few yards away. Traffic inched along it as rush-hour crush clogged the metropolitan arteries with glass and steel.
“That doesn’t look promising,” she commented as she watched the procession of cars.
“Congestion in Buenos Aires is infamous. We’ll be taking back roads and side streets. Of course, so will most everyone else. But there’s no other choice.”
“There are always options. Maybe we can steal a motorcycle.”
The sun beamed down through shreds of clouds and soon their clothes were dry, if somewhat brown, soaked with a fine silt that had permeated every square inch. Jet’s hair felt stiff to her touch, but there was nothing to be done for it.
“I’m sorry about your men. Obviously I had no idea that these people would blow a plane out of the sky. I’m actually surprised they even figured out we were on it. They must have considerably more reach than I thought,” she said. She eyed Paco’s left hand, which was swollen. “Looks painful.”
“Probably tore some ligaments. I’ve had worse.”
“So have I. But it still looks bad.”
Paco stared off into the distance. “Who are they? Shooting down a jet is way over the top.”
“An American black ops team. Unsanctioned. Freelancers. But clearly desperate, in addition to being well funded.”
“If Dante is helping them, we have our work cut out for us. Dante’s extremely powerful. He can get away with whatever he wants.”
“He might have been the one who took down the plane, then. Their jet wasn’t that far ahead of us, so it had to be someone on the ground who could move fast.”
Paco nodded. “Dante’s definitely got the connections to do it. This should serve as a lesson to us – one we’ll need to remember when we go up against him.”
“Which brings us to a practical concern. Can you get any more men to help?”
“All of my people are in Mendoza. I can have a couple of them hop on a flight, but they won’t have weapons…”
“Can you source any here?”
“Not quickly. I mean, we can try to do a street buy in La Boca or Villa 31, but there’s no telling what we’ll get, and it will be dangerous…and time consuming.”
A forest green nineties-era Chevrolet Suburban rolled toward them on the frontage road from the direction of the airport. Paco waved.
“There’s our ride.”
“How much do you trust him?”
“His name’s Julian. I’ve used him before. But we’re not that close. He’s also a freelancer. But reliable.”
“There’s no chance he’ll sell us out?”
“Before the missile attack, I would have said no. But if they want you that badly…I’d keep our discussion to a minimum. Just tell him what he needs to know.”
Julian turned out to be a lanky young man in his thirties with a shock of unruly long hair and a sparse medium-brown beard. An unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth, which seemed perpetually about to smirk. Jet climbed into the back seat. Paco took the front. To his credit, Julian didn’t ask what had happened, or why he was picking up two people who looked like they’d rolled down a muddy mountain.
“Where to?” he asked, his voice quiet.
“Banco Ramirez Popular. The main branch.”
“Near the congress building?” Julian asked, eyebrows raised.
“That’s the one.”
“That whole area is closed down. Hope you’re not in a hurry, because there’s no way we’ll be there any time soon.”
“Get us as close as you can,” Paco said. “Do you have a gun?”
Julian glanced at the glove compartment. “Beretta. But that’ll cost extra.”
“Fair enough,” Paco agreed.
“What happened to yours?”
Paco opened the dash compartment and extracted the pistol, noting its serial number had been filed off. He checked the magazine before glancing back at Julian with a somber expression on his face.
“Long story.”
Chapter 27
Leonid entered the restaurant and scanned the bustling dining area, mostly businessmen lingering over cocktails after a long lunch, the bottles of vodka on their tables half-drained – an unexceptional sight in a nation with the highest alcoholism-related mortality rate in the world. Leonid’s eyes roamed over the diners’ faces until they settled on his SVR contact, sitting in a booth toward the back, a bottle of beer on the table and a look on his face like he’d just swallowed a mouthful of cockroaches. Leonid approached him and sat down with a wince.
“Pavel. It’s been too long,” Leonid said.
“Yes. It’s always a pleasure to hear from you. Beer?” Pavel offered, his face an unhealthy grayish color, his eyes the color of rusting iron.
“Sure. Why not?”
Pavel signaled to the waitress and pointed to his bottle. She nodded and threw him a beaming smile. Pavel sat back and waited until Leonid’s drink arrived, taking sips from his glass that Leonid noted barely lowered the level of the beer. When the waitress set his bottle down and poured two-thirds of it into his glass before departing, Leonid raised it in a toast.
“Na zdarovya!” Leonid toasted. Pavel lifted his beer and touched the rim of it to Leonid’s before taking another miserly sip and setting it down.
“I have the contact information for my Argentine. Here,” Pavel said, sliding a slip of paper to Leonid across the table.
“Excellent. Have you contacted him?”
“I did, and told him to expect you to be reaching out to him shortly.”
“I appreciate the help.”
“As I said, it will be expensive. And I’m quite sure the Argentine will also expect a generous display of appreciation.”
Leonid took a swallow of his beer. “Of course. How much for you?”
“The usual. Fifty.”
Leonid nodded, finally glad to have a transaction where he didn’t have to haggle. “I’ll see that it’s wired today.”
“I knew I liked you for a reason.”
“What does this man do in Argentina? Specifically?”
“He’s the third-ranking official in their intelligence service. He can get you anything you want, within reason.”
“That’s brilliant. Perfect, actually. And who should I represent myself as?”
“I just told him my associate would be in contact shortly. I figured you could come up with whatever story fits your requirements.”
“Great.” Leonid drained his beer. “Anything else I need to know?”
“Only that you can’t trust the Argentines. They would sell their mother if the mood suited them.”
“Good to know. But I trust he can be depended on to provide logistical support for a team, at least?”
“Yes. I just wouldn’t share any operational details you don’t want broadcast to the highest bidder.”
Leonid slid some rubles under his bottle and rose. “Always a pleasure, Pavel, but regrettably, time is at a premium right now. Thanks for everything.”
“I’ll look for the wire.”
“It will be there.”
When Leonid returned to his office, his assistant greeted him with a checklist she’d completed in her neat script. She set it on his desk and waited for any questions.
Leonid read it and glanced up at her. “What kind of plane?”
“Global E
xpress. That was the best I could do on short notice.”
“Would have preferred a Gulfstream.”
“There are none available.”
Leonid grunted his approval. “And the men?”
“Everyone will be at the airport in two hours, as you requested. All with passports that will hold up to any scrutiny.”
“Excellent. I’ll also need a hundred thousand dollars in cash for incidentals.”
“I anticipated you might. Dmitry at the bank will have it waiting in…one hour.”
Leonid studied the sheet again and nodded before rising. “Good. Then I’ll be leaving to pack a bag. See you in a few days. I’ll be on my sat phone if you need anything.”
“Are there any special requests?”
“No. Hopefully this will be routine.”
Leonid owned a three-bedroom penthouse in one of the most expensive buildings in Moscow. He stopped in and, after glancing at the weather report for Mendoza, packed appropriately and was on his way to the bank ten minutes later. His private banker met him in his office like a long-lost relative and ran the stacks of hundred-dollar bills through a counter for Leonid, who packed them into his briefcase.
When he arrived at the airport, his men were already waiting in the private charter lounge – five ex-Spetsnaz commandos who had been with him for years and had successfully executed dozens of difficult missions in countries around the globe. Leonid approached them carrying his briefcase and shoulder bag. He set both down, walked to the window, and looked out at the slate sky. An arctic wind was blowing from the north and the air felt heavy with approaching snow. He turned and faced his men.
“Ivan, you speak fluent Spanish, right?”
Ivan, a blond man in his mid-thirties, nodded.
“Who else speaks it well enough to communicate?”
Two others raised their hands.
“Good. We’re going to Argentina. I’ll fill you in on the mission in the air. Figure it will be no more than a week. Is everyone ready?” His eyes met each man’s in turn. Seeing nothing but determination, he nodded. “Then let’s go.”
The men followed Leonid out to the waiting jet. A flight attendant stood by the stairs with a down jacket and fur hat on her head, the wind biting as they neared. They were ready for takeoff in five minutes and in the air in another ten, the first leg of their long journey begun. When they reached their cruising altitude of forty-seven thousand feet, Leonid opened his briefcase and passed out mission sheets with Jet’s photograph and filled his group in on everything he knew about her, which wasn’t much.
“I’ve already called our Argentine contact on the way to the airport, and he’ll have everything we need by the time we land. He’s also circulating the woman’s photograph. However, he has instructions not to attempt to take her – surveillance only. He seems competent, but I’ve been warned that the locals are less than reliable, so we’ll operate on our own as much as possible.”
He fielded questions from the men and, after half an hour, had finished his briefing and settled in for the long flight. He gazed through the window at the blanket of clouds stretching to infinity below and closed his eyes, hoping that this would be the easiest ten million dollars he’d ever made. After all, it was one woman, on her own, with no retinue of guards, who didn’t suspect a thing. He’d taken down warlords, hired assassins, princes, heavily guarded dignitaries, crime bosses. This was a single female, who, although no doubt extremely capable, was unaware that he was coming for her.
How hard could it possibly be?
~ ~ ~
Tara checked her watch again, her composure gradually eroding over the two and a half hours their vehicle had been sitting in traffic, unable to move. The surrounding cars had shut down their motors to wait for the protest to end. Matt watched the small telltale ticks that he knew so well from their days together – the obsessive smoothing of her hair, the fingering of her left earlobe, the periodic exhalations like a safety valve letting off excess pressure – and calculated how to use her discomfiture against her when the time came.
“Good God. How can this country get anything done with a bunch of thugs closing down the city like this?” she demanded for the tenth time.
“It does make kidnapping so much more labor intensive, doesn’t it?” Matt asked, needling her. He wanted her annoyed. Thankfully, the Argentine labor movement was accomplishing much of that for him.
“Shut up. Just shut it,” she snapped.
A vendor walked along the rows of stalled automobiles with a large plastic container, offering fresh croissants and other baked goods, and another followed and hawked coffee from a nearby café. She was about to order a cup when she lost interest. Her eyes lit up as she pointed to the traffic ahead of them. “Look. Up there. Did that car just move?”
Everyone strained to see what Tara was gesturing at.
“Hallelujah. It’s a miracle,” Carl declared.
Isaac nodded in agreement.
Engines started as drivers returned to their vehicles from where they’d gathered along the sidewalk to chat and smoke and commiserate. The old man in the car ahead of them tottered back to his ancient Citroën on worn dress shoes that dated back to the Perón era and crammed himself behind the wheel before cranking on the ignition. Puffs of black smoke belched from the exhaust and then the car wheezed like a death rattle and sat silent. He opened his door and climbed out stiffly to inspect his engine.
“No. No, no, no!” Tara seethed through clenched teeth. “This can’t be happening. Come on. Move it. Move it!” She made a terse hand gesture through the windshield at the man, who merely grinned and stuck a half-smoked cigarette butt into his mouth and fumbled in his pocket for a match as he considered what to do next. “Can we go around him?”
“I can’t back up. The guy behind me is on my bumper. And no way is anyone going to let us in, even if we could clear him,” the driver complained.
“This is a nightmare,” she said.
“You could always get out and try to help. Maybe offer to push start him,” Matt suggested, twisting the knife with satisfaction.
Tara turned toward him, the expression on her face ugly. “You better shut up till we’re at the bank.”
“Or what? You’re going to kill me? How? Bore me to death? Wait for me to die of old age?”
Tara seemed to realize what he was doing and a look of glacial calm replaced the barely controlled fury she’d just displayed.
“You always knew how to push my buttons, didn’t you? Well, it’s not going to work. Nice try, though.”
“I guess we can add paranoia to your list of mental health issues,” Matt offered.
The old pensioner fiddled with something on the motor, closed the hood, and returned to his position in the driver’s seat. This time, the starter clicked and churned and the little motor coughed to life with an anemic clatter, emitting enough smoke to foul half the street before the driver ground the gears and gave the car gas.
“Finally,” Tara said. Matt watched a small vein in her temple throb. “Let’s do this.”
A paunchy policeman at the next intersection waved them through while blowing on a whistle, his expression sleepy, the snarl of traffic just another day’s work at a thankless job as the city’s denizens went about their business, annoyed and resentful after the impossibly long delay.
Twenty-five minutes later they reached the bank as traffic finally eased to a normal flow. A block and a half away, the tall spire of the congress building jutted into the sky, its French architecture straight from the expansive boulevards of Paris. Beyond it, the large plaza where yet another group of protestors had staked out a corner stretched for blocks. Hand-painted signs had been posted among a small tent city, where the congregation of veterans were demanding benefits for their service in the disastrous Falklands conflict decades earlier, still resolute after thirty years of being ignored by the politicians only footsteps away.
“All right, lover. It’s showtime. Not one false move, do yo
u understand? Not a twitch. Not so much as a word I don’t like, or you’re dead,” Tara warned. She handed Matt back his wallet, which she’d taken from him on the helicopter.
“I’m not sure I got the middle part, but the takeaway seemed like I shouldn’t try anything funny.”
Tara ignored his taunt, now completely aware he was needling her deliberately. “Gentlemen, let’s get this over with. I’ll get out first, and then, Isaac, you help our friend here out, and I’ll escort him into the bank.”
Tara climbed out of the SUV. Carl and Isaac followed, Matt between them. Tara called through her half-open passenger window to Eduardo. “Can you wait for us here?”
Eduardo shook his head. “Probably not. There’s no parking along this stretch, and after a big protest like this, the transit cops tend to get jumpy. I’ll circle back around every few minutes. Or you can call me.” He’d given Tara his number while they’d been waiting.
“Shit. All right.” She turned to Carl. “You two stay outside. I can handle the bank. Just keep an eye out. This shouldn’t take too long.”
“Roger that,” he said as the Land Rover drove away.
Tara fixed Matt with an icy stare. “Remember what I said, Matt. Let’s do this the easy way. You pull anything and I’ll blow a hole through you big enough to drive a car through before anyone has a chance to stop me. So if you’re thinking you’ll pull some stunt once we’re inside the bank, forget about it.” She slid one hand inside her purse to where her pistol was. “Are we clear?”
“Like I said. I get it.”
They pushed through the oversized iron and glass double doors into the bank’s cool interior, as quiet as a library, hardly any customers there because of the day’s events. A security guard eyed them lazily from his position in the corner and appeared to perk up when he saw Tara, whose blonde hair and taut body usually elicited that reaction from any male between the ages of ten and a hundred. Matt approached the manager, who greeted him with a polite smile, and informed the man that he needed to get into the safe deposit vault.
“Certainly, sir. If you would step over here to the hand scanner, your identity will be verified, and then you’ll be free to enter.” The manager indicated a stainless-steel box with a small screen on it mounted near the heavy safe deposit box vault door. He glanced at Matt’s broken arm and frowned. “I hope it’s not serious?”
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