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.’
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