Giannina and Ghost

 Back at Palacio Haedo, Xiomara is brewing Maté whilst I pace the room. Giannina, wearing one of the house robes, sits on the terrace alone, shaded beneath a canopy.

‘How are we to handle this’, I ask - meaning in truth that I have no clue what to do.

‘She knows what happened and who is responsible. Moreover, they know that she knows,’ Xiomara replies. ‘We need to video her account and move her for her own safety, as well as ours.’

Our return journey from the Duhau had not been without its problems. First was to depart the hotel unseen. Climbing across the high window ledge had given access to the enclosed courtyard, but options thereafter were limited - the kitchens, clearly in full-flow pending evening supper - or a gated corridor. The gate lock is a disc-detainer. Xiomara rummages in her small rucksack and produces a Sparrows disc pick. Tensioned, it takes her but eight seconds to set the six discs that separate us from the palace gardens and to exit via the double gates into Posadas. Hailing a passing black and yellow radio taxi, we head towards Callao, down to Libertador and back via Cerrito to Palacio Haedo.

Perhaps it is that I have been away from active service for so long, but I find myself totally reliant on Xiomara’s assessment, and unable to make a plan. With Maté and media lunas we step out to the terrace. Giannina is still in shock.

‘We suspect that the bomb was intended to kill us and not to harm you,’ Xiomara begins. ‘Javier Milei and Diana Mondino know that we are here in Buenos Aires, but we represent a foreign government service which is now a target,’ she continues. ‘From what you have told us, we think we know who may have planted it. You are the only living witness and that’s why we think you are in danger.’

It seemed to take several seconds for Xiomara’s words to sink in. Giannina looked desperate. ‘What am I going to do?’, she whispers.

‘If you leave now, they will trace you. Should you return to Duhau they will be waiting. Of course, if you wish to take that chance you are free to do so, but we have an alternative. Help us and we’ll help you.’

Giannina goes silent. There is now just the distant drone of traffic from Santa Fé below and the rustle of a breeze across the terrace garden.

‘What do you want me to do?…What about my apartment in Almagro…and my dog Ghost?’

‘We can take care of your apartment rent, and your dog can come here until other arrangements can be made,’ replies Xiomara. ‘But we need your testimony, and its best to record it now,’ she adds as she takes her iphone 15 Pro from her rucksack.

Giannina’s description of events leading to the bomb blast are recorded in detail - the bellboy pushing the bolero, a pink suitcase, and the strangers she had seen moments before.

After an hour, Raul arrives back at the Palacio. How he has made the journey to and from Almagro in such time is astonishing. On a long lead behind him trails Ghost, from his black nose, white to the inky black tip of his tail. On seeing Giannina he breaks away and bounds towards her.

‘Rosa got together what she thinks you will need,’ Raul says, more by way of apology than information, ‘And she is making a bed up for you down below.’

And with that, Ghost leading the way, Giannina departs. Xiomara looks across and nods, ‘James, less than 24 hours in Buenos Aires, a bomb, fake medics, one of them shot, a bellboy dead and now a guest that we cannot afford to lose.’

All is not what is seems

 Her breathing steadies under Xiomara’s soothing hands, the blood that seemed to cover her uniform has clearly come from the dead bell boy who now lies frozen on the salon floor, and that from her superficial cuts ceases to flow. Within moments, as if from nowhere, paramedics arrive.

Xiomara looks up from where she kneels with Giannina.

‘I’m a doctor. She does not need to go to hospital,’ she orders, ‘Attend to the boy.’

My jaw drops. Surely it would be wiser to have the waitress checked at Accident and Emergency? What is Xiomara doing?

‘James, help these people with the boy. I will take Giannina to the bathroom,’ she continues.

It is only at this point that I glance down to the feet of the nearest paramedic. Nike trainers, with the trace of grey trouser leg appearing beneath the scrubs?

Xiomara has been ahead of me again. Whoever they may be, they are not wearing ESM Reeboks, standard issue for paramedics from Hospital Aleman.

As the male paramedic signals to his female colleague to follow Xiomara and Giannina, I intervene.

‘You heard what the doctor said, stay and attend to the boy.’

We are now surrounded by onlookers, Americans, Chinese families and Korean couples, seemingly jostling for a view of the drama. A Brazillian tourist offers to assist as peremptory, ineffectual steps are taken to resuscitate the dead youth.

I step away along the corridor leading from the salon, but hear footsteps following. I move quickly towards the restrooms, and slip behind a pillar. The lead paramedic comes into view carrying an object before him. He passes. I step out from my concealed position. Placing my 9mm supressed FN FNX-45 Tactical between his shoulder blades, I fire one shot.

In the distance a small dog barks and a Peruvian voice swears. The door to my left leads to the gents. From the hotel layout I figure that a courtyard beyond leads directly to the adjacent ladies powder room. I take the exit and close the door quietly behind me.

Drama at Duhau

Afternoon tea at the Duhau is special beyond belief. After you have experience it you will contend that teatime each day should start with Champagne served by a waitress. Standing alongside, she pours it deftly into two flutes, pale amber with slow bubbles, the bottle label momentarily concealed by a white serviette. After she departs I lift it from its cooler to read the brand.

Were it otherwise I would have returned the Champagne and demanded Bollinger, particularly as it appeared that the Foreign Office was paying the bill, but this Chandon Brut is superb. An assemblage of Chardonnay and Pinot Noir, with flavours of citrus, creamy peach and apples. By rights exhaustion from a fifteen hour flight should be kicking in, but instead the Argentine-made Champagne creates a sense of euphoria.

Moments later our waitress, Giannina, returns with a tower of ceramic and chrome bearing the tiniest sandwiches and little cakes, pretty beyond description. Of the choice of tea I have reverted to an old favourite, Earl Grey, whilst Xiomara hovers a finger over the Rare Rose Petal before selecting a Japanese Genmaicha because she likes the name.

‘Now tell me Xiomara, why is Lord Cameron - David - paying the tab for our tea?’

‘Well, Mr Bond’…. I stop her at this point. ‘Please, it seems you have requisitioned my digs, so less of the ‘Mr Bond’ - try James, its easier and makes me feel less like your uncle.’

‘Okay James, it’s like this: my father, Q -to you, was at Eton with David, and he is my godfather. Just simply that. But, before you start making assumptions, that’s not how I got this job.’

Given my run-around through Argenper, narrowly avoiding discovery, compared with the simplicity and effectiveness of Xiomara’s gothic adventure, I realise that she has all of the talent and guile required of an agent. But nevertheless I still ask the question, ‘On that topic, how did you get the job?’

‘When I lived with mother in Canada, I was Justin’s deputy head of security. The youngest ever, as it happens. And before you ask, no I didn’t sleep with him. I certainly wasn’t the reason he and Sophie split.’

I grin, ‘Clearly you know all about me,’ I interject, ‘And your dad will have filled in the gaps; but whilst you are springing surprises, is there anything else I should know?’

‘I don’t think so - James, except perhaps that M has offered me 003 - in memory of Johanna, both of us having qualified as surgeons,’ she replies.

Suddenly, everything becomes clear. Whilst in London I had bemoaned the prospect of acting as nurse-maid to a young rookie agent, the reality was that M has appointed Xiomara as a skilled professional, to look after me. I glance up to see her smile and catch my craggy reflection on her Champagne glass.

The pianist slides from Sondheim’s ‘Anyone Can Whistle’ to Jerome Kern’s ‘Ol Man River’ as the salon starts to fill with Americans. Ahead, towards Posadas, summer sun glances over the hotel’s private gardens. A flight of Canary-winged green-grey parakeets race by towards the Palo Borracho. Our conversation is over.

Suddenly, the sound of a loud explosion bursts through the salon. Smoke pours in from the corridor outside and our waitress stumbles through the doorway, her hands and face covered in blood. People in the room scream. A returning bell boy runs in to stop suddenly, his body blackened, his arm severed. Within a fraction of a second he falls to the floor, never to recover.

‘Out of the way, I’m a doctor,’ Xiomara shouts as she springs to her feet and rushes to the waitress, her uniform soaked and torn.

‘What happened Giannina,’ says Xiomara, ‘what was that, what did you see?’ she asks.

‘It was a bomb,’ she whispers, ‘it was amongst the luggage…a pink suitcase,’ she continues.

For a second my blood freezes. As Xiomara holds her, Giannina’s breath becomes shallower. ‘I saw the person that put it there,’ she croaks, ‘he was with a younger man. He was carrying a small dog - a Chihuahua.’

I look straight at Xiomara and she returns the gaze. My mind flashes back to London and the Ritz Rivoli Bar where Richard Hammond had given me a classified file. ‘Richard Alvarez and Jay,’ I say so that only she can hear. ‘Yes, I know them. But how do they know we are here?’

In the next episode we will find out more about Dr Alvarez, and surprisingly, a little more concerning Giannina!

Palacio Duhau

 Xiomara sings as she unpacks, that broken song that arrives and departs in little waves of concentration and forgetfulness. It reminds me of Moneypenny’s first visit to Haedo, save that the protective feelings I had towards Moneypenny are replaced by a sense of anxiety in relation to Xiomara.

It is quite irrational, for being Q’s daughter she has provenance stamped all over her. Perhaps it is her dynamic, so different from Moneypenny’s vulnerability, projecting an aura of confident strength tethered to uncompromising will.

Within minutes she emerges and calls out to where I lounge on the patio, ‘Where’s the coffee, Mr Bond.’

‘If Rosa has been there should be some in the cupboard'.’

‘What’s this Kopi Luwak stuff?’ ‘Oh, is smells foul - it must have been here for years.’

‘Skip that’, I reply, ‘is there nothing else?’

‘Just some dregs - looks like Talisker or something’, she continues. ‘Yes, that’ll do’, I reply.

Three hours from touchdown we are sitting under a Buenos Aires sun drinking Scotch. The terrace overlooks Plaza General San Martin and on towards the Torre Monumental, formerly the Torre de los Ingleses, one of the many gifts from Great Britain to Argentina.

Another great gift between our nations was a ritual rather than a building; and it is not long before Xiomara, tiring of the afternoon heat, suggests that we adjourn for afternoon tea at Palacio Duhau.

‘What! You must be joking, M will have a fit if she sees the name ‘Los Salons de Piano Nobile’ on our expense sheet’, I exclaim. ‘She took weeks to get over Moneypenny and I dining at the Alvear.’

‘Don’t fret, Mr Bond, it won’t be on MI6 expenses - David told me to put it on his.’

From our first meeting in Whitehall I knew of Xiomara’s association with Lord Cameron, but hardly imagined that we might skip the Ministry’s meanness for the Foreign Office’s tab.

Xiomara has changed into a dress and I have donned a tie. We arrive a little after five o’clock. The pianist has started with an adventurous Astor Piazzolla for drama, but will eventually slip back to a soporific Stephen Sondheim for the tourists. Our sharp-suited waitress leads us to a table over by the terrace doors, selected by Xiomara so as to avoid both music and sun simultaneously.

‘Yes, the full works’, she orders, ‘And may we have the Champagne upgrade,’ she adds, whilst examining her manicured fingernails under the salon lights.

A surprise awaits

How interesting, since Bond’s previous departure from Palacio Haedo in 2018, that his MI6-leased apartment has remained unoccupied. In fact everything about it is exactly as it was left. You may recall that Moneypenny’s observation was that it looked like a museum. The radiogram remains against one wall, a collection of old vinyl records pushed untidily beneath. Somewhere on a shelf in the cupboard will be the empty box of Belgium pralines discovered by Moneypenny and the dregs of a bottle of Talisker single malt. A voile curtain lifts gently in a breeze from the open patio, allowing access to a shaft of sunlight illuminating the column of dust that hovers in the centre of the room.

‘What kept you, Mr Bond’, calls a voice from the roof garden. And there, in the doorway, stands Xiomara.

‘And how did you get here? I thought you were off to Palermo?’ I ask displaying my incredulity. ‘A detour for a little shopping at Galeria Bond Street, would you believe? I thought you might like a stick-on tattoo? I told the Japanese tourists that they just had to go there, and promptly lost them amongst the Goths.’

Everything became clear. Arguably the best location in Buenos Aires in which to ‘disappear’ is the Galeria at Santa Fe 1670. Entering from the street you could never anticipate the labyrinth that lies behind, beneath and above. A maze of corridors leads between studios buzzing with needles, tiny shops and flights of steps before decanting via the exit into Rodrigues Pena. The hoards of chain-jangling Goths on the back staircase make it impossible to follow.

‘Clever girl’, I say condescendingly, but secretly astounded and impressed by her initiative. ‘How did you know where to go? And, for that matter, how on earth did you get in here past security?’

‘Elementary, Mr Bond, I just did my research and found somewhere with a charming name: Bond Street - it seemed to make sense, just a short stroll away via Plaza Libertad. And of course Horacio downstairs is a total push-over for an experienced woman on a mission,’ she adds with a provocative smile.

The thing that now troubles me, however, is Xiomara’s intentions. Is she planning to take over my Haedo apartment? Am I to be consigned to the sofa, or forced out to the Hotel Alvear?

‘Don’t worry Mr Bond,’ she says recognising my look of consternation, ‘I’m not stopping….at least not for too long,’ she continues. And with that she calls for Horacio to help her with her suitcase and disappears into the bedroom.

Bond is back in his beloved Palacio Haedo

Readers of our previous tales will recall the majesty of Palacio Haedo as it was in Moneypenny's days...ancient, crumbling, clanking, dusty, and chaotic in a sedentary way. 

Inside, the lift is its first indicator of antiquity. You probably thought that elevators with lattice doors and mesh sides through which like a caged canary you watch the ascent to higher floors, had been discontinued for ever. Here in Buenos Aires this is not the case. Those familiar with the city will know that Portenos prefer the mesh to the tomb. 

I pull the concertina door closed with a snap, press a large green button and the lift mechanism jolts into a slow ascent as if an elderly lift operator was hauling it arm over arm. At each floor I sense it will to stop for breath before continuing, but somehow it manages to keep going despite grinding noises from its motor. On reaching the fourth floor it stops five centimetres above floor level before dropping a fraction and releasing the door lock.

Horacio has called ahead using the Ministry's internal system of wires and bells which for historic reasons have survived. Raul awaits on the landing. His shock of grey hair is more unruly than ever. Having come down from the roof garden he wears the old straw hat that somehow has survived years of summers. His fingers, soil stained, are those of a true gardener, quick and searching. Most prominent is his smile, a face creased by the sun over decades of southern hemispheres seasons. He holds out a welcoming hand as I struggle with my flight bag.

'Welcome back, James, I knew you would return some day', he says as he switches to the ubiquitous Porteno greeting, the hug. 'It's been a long time. But you don't look a day older!', he continues before releasing me from his grasp.

The palacio, still supposedly occupied by the Administracion de Parques Nacionales and Bibliotica Francisco Moreno, has been under renovation for what seems like years. Shrouded in scaffold and sheeting, it disappeared from view, to re-emerge in 2024 spendour.

However, the fact that the lift finished at the fourth floor and an unnoticed door opened onto a wooden staircase leading to the roof, concealed the existence of a roof-top apartment, historically leased to the UK government. Whilst the remainder of the building was restored, the top floor rooms and roof garden remained exactly as they were left in 1923. 

Rosa, the maid, clearly has not visited in a while. The staircase is dust-covered, marked by gardener's shoe soles and cat paw prints. But dusty shade gives way to a flood of Buenos Aires sunshine as we exit onto the terrace. Beyond lies the apartment. But what surprises will await there? 

 

Bond makes his way to Palacio Haedo - the long way.

I rest my leather flight bag on a row of metal seats bolted to the floor by Argenper when they occupied the office, and enter the keypad code to open a small door positioned between two tinted security windows. It leads to a counter surmounted by computer brackets and disconnected camera cables. Wires lay across the floor and an empty encrusted paper cup stands against the screens. Beyond the counter is yet another digitally protected door that leads to the main office.

This room suggests that Argenper left in a hurry. Redundant office equipment has been left behind together with a working kitchen - kettle, toaster and coffee machine; and a small furnished rest area. I seize a discarded Clarin baseball hat from a peg outside the bathroom and make my way to the rear door, pushing the security bar open and allowing it to slam behind me. A dark corridor and staircase leads up to the ground floor. There I cross a enclosed courtyard and exit into San Martin by Edificio Arg-Group.

As a young agent my first posting was to Buenos Aires, and this office was a front for the Secretariat. PM James Callaghan wanted information on the Argentine military junta that from March 1976 until December 1983 controlled the Presidency. In these years nearly 9,000 political activists, the ‘Desaparecedos’, were disappeared by the Argentine government. Margaret Thatcher was elected UK Prime Minister in May 1979, by April 1982 Britain was at war with Argentina over the Falkland Islands and I was withdrawn from the field.

Now, it seems, Lord Cameron (David) has been pestering M to return British agents to Argentina. Newly elected President Milei - the one wielding the chainless chain saw - has taken on the left-wing socialists, the Peronistas, the Cristina Kirchner lunatics, the unions and the poor with a view to making Argentina great again. David pledged his support, talking of swapping banking for beef (in which we clearly get the best deal). Rishi wanted to know about the Chinese space station in Neuquén Province and the floating nuclear power station(s) of Rio Gallegos. And so it is our job to find out what exactly is going on!

Palaceo Haedo comes up suddenly as you walk from the east. At first you will think it just a tower - slim and delicate, trapped between Alvear and Santa Fe. As you get close you see it in its full architectural majesty and antiquity. Just months ago the tarpaulins and scaffold came down to reveal restored magnificence. A bonus for Buenos Aires - but a loss for the likes of me who loved it for its shambolic decrepitude.

Somehow, nobody really knows why, Horacio has retained his job as lodge attendant. He spots me on his new screens before I enter the building, ‘Senor Bond, you back!’, he calls as he extricates himself from his swivel-rocker and rushes from his office.

‘Yes, Horacio, they have sent me back to check on you’, I quip. He smiles. I wonder whether he has understood either the words or the humour. But he is pleased.

As I cross the hallway to the lift a black cat races across my path.

‘Is that Cleo?’ I shout. ‘Yes, Cleo, he too is old…es catorce!’ Horacio responds.

As I open the lattice doors to the vintage lift clack open, I wonder to myself what exactly Horacio was trying to tell me?

In the next episode Bond renews his friendship with Raul and tours the new estate.