Ai! Pedrito!: When Intelligence Goes Wrong

by L. Ron Hubbard

  In a dim, shabby room in the Hotel Grande de Lujo, slanted sunlight trickled through holes in a tattered window shade to illuminate a narrow bed and a wardrobe that tihed awkwardly on one broken leg. The bathroom walls were so blotched with mildew and water spots that it was impossible to tell where the stains ended and the tile began.

  Hubbard & Anderson

  A tan suitcase leaned against the tilted wardrobe. The book Famous Naval Battles lay discarded against the wall; the bookmark had fallen out in the scuffle.

  Lieutenant Tom Smith lay in the middle of the floor on his face, stripped down to his skivvies, with silver duct tape across his mouth. A braided cotton rope bound his ankles together and tied his wrists behind his back. The position wasn't very comfortable at all, as Smith discovered as soon as he returned to consciousness.

  Groggily, Smith twisted on his side and gave a muffled groan through the tape covering his mouth. His head hurt as if a rambunctious child with his first toy drum set had taken up residence inside his skull. He fell back on his face in the middle of the filthy floor, where he blinked repeatedly, trying to remember where he was and how he had gotten there.

  He rolled his eyes upon hearing a clatter of buckets in the hall outside, the thunk of a mop handle striking the wall. A key clicked in the lock, and the splintered wooden door opened on its ancient hinges with a truly amazing squeak.

  A bland-faced maid entered the room, looking tired and not the least startled by seeing Smith's prone form on the floor. She was dressed in colorful clothes, her glossy dark hair braided neatly. She was hard-working and intent on her job—but she apparently hadn't been hired to get hapless tourists out of trouble.

  He squirmed and made a muffled sound through the duct tape, begging her to help him, though the efforts only made his head pound harder. She paid him no mind at all.

  Carrying a mop, a ring of keys and a feather duster, the maid went right to work. She propped her equipment in the doorway, then began to hum as she dragged in a sloshing bucket filled with soapy water.

  Nonchalantly, the maid used her feather duster lightly on Smith's back, then tucked it under her arm. Seeing the dirt on the floor in front of his face, Smith couldn't imagine why she was being so meticulous now. Maybe she is a new employee, he thought.

  Still humming, the maid dallied in the bathroom, splashing chlorine-smelling water on some of the worst stains, emptying the chamber pots, then came into the main room to smooth the bed coverings. Finished, she grabbed her bucket and mop, and turned for the door.

  Smith struggled and squirmed in the center of the room, trying to get her to help him. He groaned and mumbled, then waggled his eyebrows.

  Finally, the maid paused and stopped humming. Her forehead furrowed. She looked on the bed and on an ancient dresser, as if she'd forgotten something. After an interminable moment, she glanced down at the bound man on the floor.

  "Wrrr umph," Smith said behind his gag, his eyes flashing.

  The maid hummed again as she bent over to untie the knots around Smith's ankles and wrists, not hurrying, as if this was just another part of her job. No doubt she routinely found men tied up on the floors of various rooms—especially in a place like this. When she finished, she held out her hand and waited for a tip.

  Smith struggled with the remaining ropes around his wrists and at last pulled his hands free. He sat up, rubbing his throbbing hands, then bent to wrestle with the ankle cords and slid them off.

  He patted his boxer shorts, as if to apologize for not having any change. Through a sealed mouth, he grunted an apology.

  The cleaning woman eyed him with a bland look, then grabbed the duct tape around his mouth. She gave the tape a ferocious yank. Smith gasped with a shock of pain.

  "I'm sorry, but someone has taken my clothes," he apologized.

  "Lying pervert," she muttered in Spanish. "I see your kind all the time." She wearily picked up her bucket and exited, closing the door behind her and clicking the key in the lock.

  Smith put both hands against his stinging mouth and cheek, then tore open the tan suitcase, looking for the bottle of soothing lotion he had carefully packed. It worked on sunburns, and he hoped it would work on his face. He found a pint bottle of clear liquid, and splashed the lotion onto his face.

  It burned the raw skin like acid.

  Gasping, Smith fanned his hand rapidly to cool his face. He looked at the bottle in his hand and finally registered what the label said. ''Rum! But I never drink rum—in fact I never drink alcohol. How did that get in my luggage?"

  Still smarting, he pawed through the contents of the open suitcase, perplexed. "No wonder—this isn't my suitcase."

  He stared at the unfamiliar objects. He pulled out a straight-edged razor. After looking at the long and wicked blade, he snapped it shut again. "That's definitely not my razor. It doesn't even look safe." Then he rubbed his raw cheeks and reconsidered, frowning at the rough stubble he had grown. "Well, I'll just have to make do for now. I need to make myself presentable before I give the management of this hotel a piece of my mind." As he considered the situation, he pursed his Ups. "Besides, I'll bet Admiral Horatio Nelson used a straight razor, even on choppy seas."

  A while later. Smith stood in his skivvies before the cracked bathroom mirror, trying to shave with the primitive tool. He had tried to smooth his unkempt hair back into place as he attempted to figure out what had gone wrong. This was supposed to be his perfect vacation! He should have stayed in New York looking at missile plans.

  He went on shaving, but the straight razor was very unkind.

  The strange suitcase lay open on the bed, its contents ready for inspection. Smith, damp from a sponge bath and feeling somewhat better at last, stood with a towel wrapped about his middle. Bloodstained flecks of tissue paper clung to the numerous nicks and cuts from his shaving adventure.

  Rummaging through the strange suitcase, Smith lifted out a khaki safari suit and pants. He held them against him. "Well, at least they look like they'll fit." He patted the pockets, feeling perplexed.

  Why would someone mug me, he wondered, and then leave me in a room with the wrong suitcase? Maybe this guy mugged lots of people, and just happened to mix up the suitcases.

  "Hey, I wonder if he left my wallet?" That wallet had more than his money in it; it had credit cards and ID. Smith searched through the strange suitcase, ft-antic, then he rushed across the room to open the leaning wardrobe. But he found it empty except for a few mouse droppings and a dead spider in the corner.

  Dropping to his knees beside the narrow bed, he lifted the mattress, peering under it for any scrap of his own belongings, but found only a discarded sock with holes in the toe.

  His only belonging in the room was the paperback history book he had been reading in the taxi. Seeking comfort in his historical hero, he picked up Famous Naval Battles, sat down in his underwear on the end of the bed and looked sadly around.

  "No money, no papers, no passport." He looked down at the book, which apparently the thieves hadn't considered worth stealing. He was certainly in a fix, and he had no idea how to solve it. "I wonder what Nelson would have done in a case like this?"

  Chapter 7

  IN FRONT OF THE ANCIENT HOTEL, Bolo's taxi nosed in and stopped. The puttering sound of the engine echoed off the close walls of the alley. Behind the wheel, he yawned elaborately and stretched, blinking his eyes. He had shaved less than an hour ago, and his square chin felt smooth and clean.

  Ah, nothing like a fresh morning in the slums of Santa Isabel, he thought. He settled back behind the wheel, just waiting, biding his time. When plans were afoot, Bolo could have all the patience in the world. He figured Smith would be just about ready for the next stage of the process by now.

  The tall door of the Hotel Grande de Lujo swung open, dangling on its broken hinges, and Smith exited, looking wide awake. He wore a new khaki safari suit that fit him well, and he carried the tan suitcase that Bolo had provided, as the two colonels had ordered.
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br />   Bolo marveled at the redhead's appearance. Exactly like the renegade Pedrito Miraflores. Exactly as planned.

  As Smith stopped on the porch, dazzled by the morning sunlight, the hotel's heavy door snapped free of its remaining hinge and crashed backward into the foyer. From above, chunks of stucco pattered down like shrapnel. Small lizards scrambled for cover into the nearby alley, and the wild chickens fell upon them with hungry glee.

  Ducking from the falling tiles. Smith ran down the steps to the sidewalk, but he didn't seem to know where to go. He looked around and finally spotted the waiting taxicab. Bolo raised a hand in salute.

  With a visible sigh of relief, Smith called, "Taxi! Taxi!" He ran down the street as if he wanted to get as far away from the hotel as he could.

  Bolo leaned across the seat and opened the door without getting out. Smith tossed the mysterious tan suitcase inside, then dove into the cab, plopping down beside the driver in the front. "Whew! Something terrible has happened. Take me to the American Embassy. I'll pay you when we get there." Smith brushed a hand across his forehead, wiping his hair back into place. "What sort of currency does this country use, anyway?"

  "Your credit is good in Santa Isabel, sir," Bolo said mildly. Smith didn't seem to recognize him at all. "You are an American, and that is good enough for me." Wrestling the vehicle into gear, he drove away with a lurch that threw Smith back against the seat. Bolo turned a corner, then accelerated, his gaze fixed ahead through the windshield. He smiled happily, content with the situation.

  In less than a mile, Bolo had taken them into a lovely quarter along a boulevard lined with splashing marble fountains and lush parks filled with hibiscus flowers and flamingos. Rose vendors sold gorgeous bouquets; women sold fried bananas from big black pans.

  "You look very fine in those new clothes," Bolo said. "By the way, didn't you have a black suitcase when you arrived yesterday?"

  "Don't remind me," Smith groaned, rubbing his still-sore head. "Do you have a high crime rate here in Colodor?"

  "Nothing to worry about," Bolo said. "Every country has a few bad apples." As he spoke, the taxi passed a knot of sign-carrying protesters insisting on equality for mapmakers everywhere.

  "You ought to do something about it," Smith said, closing his eyes. "You might get more tourists. Your economy could probably use it."

  "Oh, we try, we try. We keep deporting the criminals, but then they just sneak back over the border." Bolo turned away from the wide thoroughfares, down another two alleys, until he came to a sleepy street. He checked the addresses, locating the exact spot where he intended to abandon Smith.

  In a place not at all close to anything important whatsoever, he coasted to a stop against the curb. He shifted into park.

  "Why are we stopped?" Smith said, sitting up. He looked behind them, then out the side window. He saw only whitewashed apartments and houses with wrought-iron bars on the windows. Laundry hung on lines across the rooftops.

  "We are very close to the American Embassy, if you would like to walk the rest of the way." He grinned sincerely, flashing white teeth. "They have traffic restrictions in front of the main building. No taxis allowed."

  Smith rolled down the grimy passenger-side window and poked his head out. He looked up and down the quiet street. "I don't see any embassy."

  Bolo pointed calmly toward a side alley. "Turn left. It's up there about three blocks. You'll see it. It's got a chicken over the door."

  "A chicken? For an American embassy? Don't you mean an eagle?"

  "My mistake, sir. Here in Colodor, the chickens are fearsome birds, and one does not trifle with them."

  "Just like the United States," Smith said proudly. He climbed out of the cab, retrieved the tan suitcase from the back and stood looking lost.

  Bolo leaned across the seat to smile reassuringly out the passenger window. "I'll wait right here for you, sir."

  "How can I be certain of that?" Smith asked.

  "For one thing, sir, you haven't paid me yet," Bolo said, deadpan. "Why would I leave now, when such a generous tip hinges upon me waiting here for you?"

  Smith saw the logic and nodded. "I'll have to see if I can get my ID and credit cards replaced at the embassy. My wallet was stolen yesterday."

  "Whatever you say, sir."

  Smith walked up the street, whistling a tune that Bolo recognized as "Anchors Aweigh," in search of the promised embassy....

  As soon as the lieutenant turned the corner out of sight, Bolo leaped from the cab like a shot, and raced in the opposite direction down the sidewalk, his feet slapping on the concrete. It was time to put Smith through a few more ordeals so that Bolo could test the man's mettle. The two colonels were just trying to kill Smith, but Bolo had so much more in mind

  He dodged fire hydrants, an old man on a bicycle, and a knot of giggling children tying strings around the pincers of a deadly black scorpion they had caught.

  Once he reached the corner to the main street, Bolo knocked aside one of the protesters, tossing her hand-lettered sign—NO MORE UNOFFICIAL MAPS!—into a gutter. The stringy-haired woman hurled imaginative multilingual insults at him, but Bolo had eyes only for a brightly painted phone kiosk under a cast-iron street light.

  Bolo dug his fingers into his pocket, snatched out a few oddly shaped coins and jammed them into the slot. He picked up the receiver and dialed a number he had memorized.

  A woman answered at once. "United States Embassy," she said in a drawhng Alabama accent, as if reading from a cue card. "This line is for official business only. Would you care to be added to our mailing list?"

  "Never mind that—give me your CIA man. Quick!" Bolo said. "This is a national emergency."

  In the embassy's CIA office (which was located next to the kitchenette and the soda-pop machines), gleaming automatic rifles filled cherrywood racks that covered two entire walls. A sprawling chart marked potential covert assault plans, satellite

  Hubbard & Anderson

  photos showed close-up views of suspicious military bases and shopping malls throughout South America. A map of the world hung behind a large desk, studded with tiny flag pins. The location of Colodor and Santa Isabel had been crudely drawn in by hand.

  A radio man hunched over his equipment in the far corner, nearest to the candy machine. His large padded headphones hid the fact that he was actually listening to a portable cassette player; the rock music blared loudly enough that the drumbeat trickled through the headphones.

  The large desk dominating the room bore a meticulously painted CIA crest. A hulking brute of a man sat behind an engraved name plaque that said HI! MY NAME IS O'HAL-LORAN! A yellow smiley-face sticker grinned idiotically beside the nameplate.

  O'Halloran read from a book, How to Come in from the Cold, and Still Feel Good about Yourself. His face was wide and rough, his eyes close set, his mouse-brown hair parted nearly down to his earlobe so that he could comb long strands up over his gleaming bald spot.

  The phone rang loudly, drowning out the muffled beat of the radio man's rock music. Growling at the interruption, O'Halloran folded the corner of a page to mark his place in the book. He reached over to grab the ringing phone as if it were a bug to be squashed. "Passport Control Officer O'Halloran—it's my pleasure to serve you. What the hell do you want?"

  He listened to Bolo's reply, and his expression changed as if he had been struck with a thunderbolt. "Pedrito Miraflores? You must be joking! For six months now we've had orders to bring him in dead or alive!"

  O'Halloran slammed down the phone and raced to the door. "This is our lucky day," he called to the radio man, who simply drummed his fingers on the communications set to the beat of the music

  In the U.S. Embassy foyer a tough Marine sergeant sat at the front reception desk, where a paperweight that promised "Service with a Smile" held down a stack of Wanted sheets and Shoot on Sight orders.

  O'Halloran rushed up to him, and the sergeant snapped to attention. O'Halloran whispered frantically into the Marine's
ear, pointed toward the street, pointed at himself and gestured to a small observation closet near the reception area. He raced to the closet and dove inside, cramming himself in among the brooms, mops and cleaning chemicals. He slammed the door.

  The Marine sergeant looked grimly out at the street, putting his hand on the pistol butt, out of view from the door. O'Halloran tensely stared out through a small peephole in the spy closet.

  The vile revolutionary leader Pedrito Miraflores was headed this way.

  Chapter 8

  SMITH STROLLED UP THE STREET, anxious to get his ID straightened out and his credit cards replaced so he could enjoy the rest of his prize trip. His vacation in Colodor had gotten off to a bad start, but he didn't want to let that ruin the rest of his time here. Trying to be a good American, welcoming to all the world's people, he smiled at passersby and wished them good day.

  Just where the cabdriver had told him it would be, he found the big white building, the stenciled U.S. Embassy sign and a flapping flag. Smith sighed in relief. "Ah, here we are. A place where I can always feel welcome."

  After making his treacherous phone call, Bolo eased up in his taxi to where he could watch Smith approach the embassy. He sat behind the wheel and held a portable walkie-talkie close to his face, waiting, waiting. He pushed the transmit button and spoke into the radio. "I will give you the countdown, amigos."

  Right on schedule. Smith strolled up the street.

  Nearby, in a rented room above a florist shop, two Colodoran hoods looked out onto the street from a high window. One held a walkie-talkie, the counterpart to Bolo's. The other thug squatted beside the remote controls of a set of planted explosives, gripping the plunger of a radio detonator switch. He wore dark glasses, and he held the detonator the way that another man might hold his lover. "Now?" he pleaded, as if anticipating the thrill. "Can I blow them up now?"