That M had addressed the letter to Xiomara came more as a shock than a surprise. Increasingly Xiomara had taken charge of events, and looking back to our initial meeting at London’s Savoy, it was clear that she was destined for the agency’s top spot. My job was to get her there.
With this transition from ‘control’ to support role came a sense of freedom from responsibility. It was as if a burden had been lifted from my shoulders; yet undoubtedly a perilous future awaited Giannina, and those who held her fate in their hands.
Xiomara waits for Giannina to leave the roof terrace with Ghost in tow. We sit in silence, only a low drone of traffic on Santa Fe disturbs the peace of the moment. A breeze rustles through the Jacaranda.
‘James, I have a job for you.’ My muse was broken by Xiomara’s voice. For once it sounds strained. ‘I want you to arrange a sting. We shall offer up Giannina for Alvarez. The question is, how best to arrange it without too much bloodshed? Sounds like a perfect task for you, James.’
My mind is immediately in a whirl. Giannina has been resident at Palacio Haedo, settled into house life and become part of the team. The thought of putting her at risk is both crazy and appalling. How would Whitehall ever approve such a plan?
______________
I am sitting half way along the right hand side of the glass shelf that runs the full length of Cafe Paulin, Sarmineto 635. The restaurant feels about twice the width of a railway carriage. And that is not where the similarity ends. Down the centre, the full length of the building is a narrow servery giving on to both the left and the right side of the cafe. Within the servery on a raised dais the waiters stand, dressed in olive cross buttoned tunics with floppy fawn hats. Each side of the servery are sheer glass shelves about a foot in width. These are the tracks. Below on each side are low counters against which fixed tall revolving stools swing. The one to my right I have saved with my copy of today’s Clarin.
He lets out a chuckle followed by a groan as he trips on the hidden step-down from the street. Even his laugh sounds straight out of Stranmillis, Belfast.
‘James, how on earth did you find this place,’ he exclaims as he rolls the paper, slips it into his pocket and claims his seat.
‘Oh, you know Norm, this is a great spot for coffee and cake after tango at Galerias Pacifico - you should try it once at least.’
Attentive readers will recall Norm as the agent charged with Lord Cameron’s protection. It is unclear why he was not withdrawn when Cameron left Buenos Aires.
‘Lean back, old boy, I just want to get a snap of this place without you corrupting my camera,’ he jests as a dish of olives spins from the servery along the glass shelf towards the hands of a waiter.
‘The fact is, Norm, I am a bit stuck. I know I can rely on you for a brain-wave. And this one will take a bit of cerebral working if we are not going to sacrifice our latest acquisition.’
‘You’re talking about Giannina, aren’t you Bond,’ he interjects. ‘Xiomara has already told me that she proposes an exchange. I guessed it would hit you hard old fella, especially after…er…Moneypenny…’ Norm’s voice trails off. He stares hard at me. I imagine he detects the way my lip twitches and sees my tightened grip around the Martini I am holding.
‘But don’t worry, James, I have a plan- of sorts. And guess what? I think you will love it.’
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