The factory

The thought that two British agents will put the life of an Argentine waitress at risk in a planned sting operation seems not to trouble either Javier Milei or his deputy, Diana Mondino. Perhaps they realise, but for Xiomara’s rescue, Giannina would already be dead. The sound of a cork pulled from another bottle of Malbec interrupts my musing, as does the sound of a Belfast accent coming from the pavement outside the restaurant. Within seconds, a figure appears in the doorway, sandy blond hair swept back from his forehead, his metal framed spectacles glinting under fluorescent light from the restaurant signs.

David Cameron looks up and calls out in recognition, ‘Norm old boy, over here if you will.’

Norm - agent K, was present at M’s meeting at the Savoy and was the trusted UK government operative who took charge of affairs at Fundación Mercedes Sosa following Moneypenny’s murder on the steps of Monumento Al Plus Ultra. M had told us that he would be returning to Argentina, but that she had ‘other plans’ for him without specifying their nature.

‘Meet Javier and Diana,’ Cameron says, gesticulating with a fork, ‘Norm is my field agent whilst in Buenos Aires. He will be working with Mr Bond - Xiomara is his handler. Norm flashes a smile and momentarily bows his head in recognition. Meanwhile, I struggle to re-set.

For the second time in two days I discerned that my role here in Argentina had shrunk. In the past I had always enjoyed my independence, setting my own pace. It was now more than clear that Xiomara was totally in charge of the operation and I was present to help take care of the detail, as I had at Duhau.

Xiomara turns to Norm, ‘how’s the factory?’ she asks. ‘They worked through the night and finished it this morning.’

‘The factory?’ I ask, to which Norm replies, ‘We’re to take Lord Cameron there as soon as he finishes his sabayon.’

Within minutes, three Ford Falcons pull up outside the restaurant. Cameron and Milei hug in parting, whilst Diana Mondino walks ahead to wait for the President in the first car. In the second car Norm rides up front with our driver, and David Cameron, Xiomara and I squeeze into the back. Behind us in the third car is Cameron’s security contingent, still holding on to my replacement FN FNX-45.

We set off down Salta to Libertad, somehow managing to avoid the afternoon traffic, then right at Viamonte, the car stopping short of the famous Galerias Pacifico centre. Crossing Tucuman, we continue on foot along pedestrianised Florida.

It is only at this point that I guess the location of ‘the factory’. Readers will remember my arrival in Buenos Aires and my detour through a deserted complex at Florida 537. Arriving, we descend the ramp to the lower level, ahead locale 299 still bears its torn signs declaring ‘Argenper’. Here the only sign of life is a diminutive figure in a shrunken wheel chair, a toy harmonica in his hands and Hugo Diaz’ eerie song, Milonga Triste echoing through the deserted halls.