Power and Empire

30

The Hendley Associates Gulfstream hit heavy turbulence six hours north of Buenos Aires. The movement jostled Jack Ryan, Jr., awake from a much-needed seven-hour nap. Chavez was still sawing logs in the seat across from Lisanne, but Adara and Midas sat at the small conference table in mid-cabin. They both made good use of the G550’s encrypted satellite Wi-Fi.

Jack sat up from the leather couch and raised both arms above his head in what his kid sister called a “squinty-eyed” stretch.

Midas glanced up from his computer.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Jack nodded but said nothing. He stood, steadying himself against the armrest in the bumpy air.

Lisanne unbuckled her seat belt and moved toward the galley. She whispered, so as not to disturb Chavez. “I have a fresh pot of coffee on.”

Ryan made his way forward and put his hand on the lavatory door. Still barely conscious of the fact that he was hurtling through the air at 35,000 feet, he gave her what he was sure was a dopey grin.

“Filling up on strong coffee is second on my to-do list.”

Lisanne leaned forward, giving him a conspiratorial nod. “It’ll be waiting here for you,” she said.

Three minutes later, Ryan set his coffee cup on the conference table and then dropped down in the aisle to pump out thirty push-ups and make sure he was fully awake.

“Any new crises while I was out?” Ryan asked when he was done and seated at the table with the others.

Adara was deep in thought, poring over some article.

Midas looked up and shook his head. “Not that I know of. I woke up about ten minutes before y—”

“Listen to this,” Adara said, cutting him off.

Ryan moved closer. Midas lowered his computer.

“There’s a shop near Recoleta Cemetery that sells lemon-cucumber-flavored ice cream.”

Midas shook his head. “And that’s big news why?”

Adara said, “It’s big news, my good sir, because I like cucumbers and I like ice cream.”

Midas chuckled. “I’m a mint chocolate-chip man.”

“But seriously,” Adara said. “I bring it up because I was checking the lead that Ding found regarding the visiting trade ministers. Several countries have posted agendas on their respective websites. Looks like they’re all attending a dinner not far from Recoleta Cemetery, so I decided to do some research prior to our arrival.”

Ryan shook his head. “You keep saying ‘Recoleta Cemetery’ like we should know it.”

“Sorry,” Adara said. “Some Navy buddies and I burned a week of leave down here one winter — summer here, I guess. Recoleta Cemetery was one of my favorite places. Evita Perón’s buried there. It’s beautiful but slightly spooky, with aboveground crypts like little houses. Many of them have windows where the coffins are visible.” She consulted a legal pad beside her computer on the teak conference table. “Anyway, so far, it looks like the ministers of agriculture from Argentina, Canada, Uruguay, China, and Japan are on the guest list for the dinner. The Chinese foreign minister is also supposed to be in Argentina by tomorrow, but his staff is a little more taciturn about posting his itinerary.”

Jack gave a thoughtful nod. “How about the U.S.?”

“No one, as far as I can tell,” Adara said. “I’m not sure how the beef lobby would feel about us doing anything to help Argentine exports.”

“Speaking of beef,” Midas said, “I volunteer to post up inside the restaurant. Argentina’s supposed to be hell on wheels when it comes to beefsteak. You can keep your damn cucumber ice cream, thank you very much.”

Ryan grabbed the laptop from his bag and brought up a map of the Recoleta area of Buenos Aires.

“What’s the name of the place?”

“Helado…”

Midas chuckled and shook his head. “He’s talking about the venue restaurant, not your ice cream parlor.”

Adara blushed and then glanced down at her notepad again. “Parrilla Aires Criollos.” She pronounced the double l’s like y’s, as someone from Mexico would.

“Parizha!” Ding Chavez corrected without opening his eyes. He coughed, licking his lips and turning slightly in his seat like he might drift off to sleep again. “Argentines speak Castilian Spanish. Parizha Aires Criozhos.”

“Damn it!” Adara said. “I knew that.”

Jack grinned. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since lemon-cucumber ice cream,” Chavez said. He opened one eye a crack and shook his head at Sherman. “Don’t tell me that’s seriously a thing.”

“Anyway,” Adara said, “of course we’ll stay glued to Vincent Chen, but I’m thinking the dinner is a likely place to gather intel. Maybe we can go there tonight and put up a listening device or two.”

“I’m on board with that,” Midas said.

Jack looked out the window at the plane’s shadow drifting over a lumpy layer of clouds. “Or maybe Chen’s just interested in one of the players — not the dinner meeting.”

“That’s true,” Adara said.

“Whatever the case may be,” Chavez said. “The Chinese delegation being here is too big a coincidence.” He leaned forward, rubbing his face with both hands. “Lisanne, you’ve squared away a couple rental cars?”

“I have,” Robertson said. “They’ll be waiting for you at the airport when we land.”

“Thank you,” Chavez said. “We’ll pull small arms from the bulkheads after we clear customs.”

Midas gave him a hearty thumbs-up.

“Roger that, boss.”

In the past, it had been a relatively rare occurrence for Campus members to carry firearms on a surveillance op — whether in or out of the United States. It was uncommon for intelligence officers to go armed, and Gerry Hendley thought it put them in too much jeopardy of getting jammed up by the local police. But surveillance often morphed into something more sinister, and the times that the team needed and didn’t have a firearm seemed to happen with greater and greater frequency.

Chavez had taken his concerns to John Clark — who carried his 1911 ninety-nine percent of the time anyway — and Clark took the issue to Gerry. He reasoned that the work Campus operators did was often “extralegal,” whether on American soil or in another country. There was no reason they should not routinely be prepared to protect themselves during the course of their duties. There were times — certain operations during which a weapon would have proven more dangerous than not — but those would be the exception. Clark’s recommendation, along with a review of the last dozen operations, made Hendley easy to convince.

Unless otherwise directed, Campus operators were to be armed.

Unless Otherwise Directed, or UNODIR, was a technique often used from the bottom up, where a field commander or team leader might slip an operational plan outlining his intentions into the CO’s box — at the last minute and marked UNODIR. The team leader could claim due diligence, though, more often than not, the CO didn’t see the ops plan until after the mission was complete. But a UNODIR order coming down from above signified much more than simply allowing Campus operators to go armed most of the time. UNODIR meant that the bosses trusted them to act independently. As former Delta commander Midas Jankowski happily noted: “They’ve taken off our choke chains and let us decide who we’re going to bite.”

As before, what each Campus operator carried was dictated by personal preference. Ops such as a surveillance in Argentina would require deep concealment. For that, everybody chose the Smith & Wesson M&P Shield in nine-millimeter. In the United States, Caruso and Ryan sometimes carried the same weapon in .40 caliber, but nine-millimeter ammunition was easier to come by in most parts of the world. With a total capacity of nine rounds, the pistols were easy to tuck into a Thunderwear or SmartCarry holster. Both units consisted of a small, flat, and breathable textile pouch on a Velcro belt, worn below the waist and centered low over the groin. These were not designed to be “quick-draw” holsters, but each operator had extensive practice presenting and firing their weapons from this mode of carry. When the need arose, they could do so quickly and safely — almost as fast as they could with an inside-the-waistband or more traditional belt holster.

No one argued that diminutive M&Ps were optimum primary weapons for going offensive against man-sized targets. Every Campus operator knew from harsh experience that for that they’d use a long gun. But virtually any pistol was better than being a naked clawless bear, so they were happy to have them — along with the hard-earned trust of their superiors.

Yet trust didn’t mean the lack of pre-op briefing. Ding Chavez was no micromanager — but he was a leader, and he wanted to be certain everyone on his team was on the same page.

He checked his watch again. “We’ll hit the ground about the time Chen leaves the U.S. That gives us roughly eleven hours to set up in our rooms and run the routes between the airport and downtown before he arrives. Our goal is to gather intel, but we don’t yet know if Chen is running a countersurveillance team — or what the hell he’s even up to for sure. Beyond that, street crime in Buenos Aires isn’t exactly unheard of, and we’re working without a net here. We use the handguns to save our lives, but if you’re mugged by some street thug, I’d much rather see you put a boot up the bastard’s fourth point of contact.”

“Copy that,” Midas said. Jack and Adara nodded.

Chavez continued. “Buenos Aires is supposed to be the most European city in South America, but I don’t care to cool my heels in a European jail, either. It goes without saying, but we’ll keep everything in our pants unless they’re absolutely needed.”

The others, including Lisanne, exchanged glances, stifling laughter.

“Of course, boss,” Midas said.

“Righto,” Adara said.

“Shut up,” Chavez said, leaning back in his chair again. “I’m still asleep.”