Power and Empire

The initial blast knocked José Prieto completely out of his Italian loafers and threw what was left of his burned and mangled body across the table. Anika Bos was killed instantly, her beautiful face slammed into her water glass. The Japanese minister of agriculture would certainly die as well from his massive head wounds, but he lingered now, trying in vain to stanch the trickle of blood and brain matter that obscured his vision.

The blast also claimed one of the two Central Security Bureau men who’d been left to guard Li’s food, a necessary sacrifice to make the story of his miraculous escape even more plausible.

Long Yun was on the radio immediately, calling the limousine forward to evacuate the foreign minister. Security personnel from all the delegations, some more professional and experienced than others, stumbled around overturned chairs and burning tables to locate their charges amid the smoke and chaos. The ministers of Uruguay and India had been seated closest to the door. They both ran from the building, abandoning any thought of a security team.

The concussion of the blast had shattered the restaurant’s large front windows, startling locals who were not unaccustomed to bombings. Most fled for fear of secondary explosions, but some paused long enough to snap a few photographs of the escaping ministers, who now stood with hands on their knees, coughing and sputtering and trying to get their bearings.

A Chinese CSB agent with very short hair burst from the front door and shoved the Uruguayan minister out of the way, while Long Yun dragged the limping foreign minister through the melee and to the waiting motorcade. Foreign Minister Li Zhengsheng smiled within himself when he saw at least a dozen mobile phones aimed in his direction. With any luck, some of them had gotten it on video.

• • •

Jack watched the leggy brunette turn as soon as she crossed the street. The moment her feet hit the sidewalk she began to fiddle with her mobile phone — and the front doors blew off the restaurant. The sudden whoof of pressure shook the window, causing Ryan to take a half-step back. Car alarms up and down Santa Fe began to chirp and wail. The brunette walked briskly away from the blast without looking back — conspicuously ignoring the carnage going on behind her.

A moment later, members of Li’s protective detail emerged from the smoke through the front door and whisked him away. Pretty damned efficient security, Jack thought.

Midas spoke again, panting now, voice hollow, like he was running down a stairwell. “Our Japanese girl’s about to di di mau outta here,” he said. “Keep eyes on the brunette. I’ll stick with this one.”

Ryan located her easily, moving away through a still-confused crowd without looking back. “Got her,” he said.

Ryan all but flew out the door, against the river of people now fleeing across the street toward him. The brunette was a block ahead when he spotted her again, moving north at a fast trot.

“Brunette’s coming at you, Ding,” Jack said. “I’m half a block behind her on Callao Ave.”

He briefed Chavez and Adara on the situation as he moved, using the crowd and darkness to keep from being seen. If she had anyone running countersurveillance, Ryan knew he was screwed, but she’d detonated the bomb. He couldn’t just let her walk away.

42

Ding Chavez and Adara Sherman sat at a sidewalk café nursing cold bottles of Quilmes Patagonia beer while they listened intently to the drama playing across their earpieces. They were too far away to hear the report of the blast, but they’d been able to tell something was up from the alarmed reactions of Midas and Jack. Ding stifled the human urge to ask questions and give advice. He wasn’t on scene, and Jack was doing a good job of keeping him up to speed as things went down. It was best to keep his mouth shut and let the operators do what they did best — operate. And anyway, things were about to get interesting here. At eight blocks away, the brunette would be there in minutes.

Adara suddenly tipped the neck of her beer toward the Italian restaurant two businesses to the east. “Chen’s moving. Looks like he just put one cell phone in his pocket and took out a second. He’s in comms with somebody.”

Chen put the second phone away and walked to the street with another Asian male. Both men looked up and down the wide sidewalk before trotting diagonally across Junín and turning left to walk briskly along the fifteen-foot brick wall surrounding the cemetery.

Chavez peeled a couple hundred-peso notes off the roll in his pocket and left them on the table. Tipping was outside the norm in Argentina. The waitress would think him an idiot turista for leaving the equivalent of twelve bucks for two beers that cost half that, but it was better than her chasing them down street for leaving too little.