Power and Empire

Callahan slapped the cuffs on the moaning assassin and smiled. “You can relax, ma’am,” she said. “Lucky for me you’re a good shot.” She looked up at Caruso. “And that you had the good sense to call my cell. I knew something was up because you’d just left. I did a quick peek over the booth and saw these rocket scientists wander in.”

Caruso scanned the restaurant, looking for any other would-be assassins. These guys tended to travel in packs. He saw no immediate threats, but what he did see was at least five more restaurant patrons with their hands either on the butt of an exposed sidearm or in a purse getting ready to draw one.

“FBI,” he said again. “Everyone please relax and keep your firearms where they are.” He chuckled and helped Callahan to her feet. “Texas appears to be a bad place to become an assassin.”

The blond citizen who’d saved the day gave a solemn nod, her hands just beginning to shake from the post-shooting adrenaline dump.

“You got that right, hon,” she said.

37

The alarm on Jack Ryan, Jr.’s cell phone began to chime at two a.m., nudging him awake with gradually increasing volume. He’d read somewhere that being jolted out of a deep sleep was a good way to suffer brain damage — and if that was the case, he and most of the people he knew were in serious trouble.

He pumped out thirty quick push-ups to clear his head and then suffered through a moment of benign panic that there was no hot water in the shower, until he remembered that the C on the faucet did not stand for cold. After a shower that was plenty caliente, he wiped the fog off the mirror and took a few moments to square away his beard with a razor and a small pair of scissors he carried for that purpose. He’d recently shaved down to a mustache — but he was glad to have the beard back. People said he looked like his dad. He didn’t see it. The full beard kept others from seeing it as well.

Ryan had taken the time to lay out his clothes and gear before his nap — he shot a quick glance as the tritium hands on his watch — just four hours before.

The area recon had been interesting if only for total immersion in the European-ness of Buenos Aires.

Lisanne Robertson had dropped Adara off an hour and a half behind the others — and stayed to check personally that the rental-car company had come through on their promise. The valet in the lobby of the Panamericano Hotel assured her that there was a Peugeot 408 and a Renault Duster parked in the garage. Like just about every other rental vehicle in Argentina, both had manual transmissions, a fact that drew a twinkle from every Campus member’s eye. They’d all attended numerous driving schools, and there was nothing like a stick shift to spur the last few horses out of an otherwise humdrum ride.

Lisanne had grudgingly returned to her airport hotel only after a direct order from Chavez. She’d suggested she could provide countersurveillance and force protection. It sounded like a good idea to Ryan, but Ding would have none of it.

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.