Ai! Pedrito!: When Intelligence Goes Wrong

by L. Ron Hubbard

  "I see him. He's just going inside," the hood with the walkie-talkie answered. "Twenty ... nineteen ... eighteen ..."

  The second thug fidgeted, looked away, clearly distraught. "Can't you count any faster?"

  "No. Now wait for it. Seventeen ... sixteen ..."

  As Smith entered the embassy, he walked up to the receptionist—a tense-looking bear of a Marine sergeant. The Marine watched him, hand gripping the butt of his pistol.

  "Hello, gyrene," Smith said brightly. "I've got to report—"

  From the peephole in the spy closet, O'Halloran squinted, ready to explode forward. He forced himself to take half a second to be sure and another half second to enjoy the flush of triumph.

  "That's him!” he bellowed, yelling through the flimsy closet door.

  Hearing the CIA chief's muffled cry, the sergeant drew his pistol and said, "Excuse me, sir: kindly put your hands on your head!"

  Smith's words faltered to a halt in mid-sentence as he stared down the barrel of the drawn weapon. "I've lost my passport..."

  O'Halloran aimed his revolver through the tiny spy port in the wall. He fired.

  The echo of the gunshot inside the cramped closet nearly deafened him. He shook his head, trying to clear the dazzle from his eyes and the ringing from his ears.

  Smith's commando instincts, well honed from years of dodging gunfire in the streets of New York, took over.

  He turned tail and jogged frantically from left to right. The Marine sergeant opened fire with his own revolver, blasting again and again as Smith scrambled for the door. The glass blew out, hammered by whining bullets.

  Smith felt sure that Admiral Horatio Nelson never had to contend with such outrageous circumstances.

  From the outside he heard the roar of an approaching taxi, the familiar putter of a poorly tuned engine. He charged for it, running pell-mell.

  The cab swerved to a screeching halt in front of the embassy, its door already open. "Here, sir," Bolo said. "Perhaps I could be of assistance?"

  Smith dove into the back seat, sprawling across the upholstery. Gunshots bored holes into the right rear quarter-panel of the vehicle. The cab raced off.

  Meanwhile, the hood at the window above the florist shop stared out onto the frantic street activity as he counted down. "Five ... four ..."

  "Now? Can I do it now?" the second man said at the detonator.

  "Hold on to your britches, Boom Boom," the first thug scolded. "Three ... two ..."

  The Marine sergeant and O'Halloran burst from the embassy's shattered glass entry and stampeded down the marble stairs. "There! Shoot, shoot!" O'Halloran ordered the sergeant. "Don't let Pedrito get away!"

  Both men stood on the sidewalk and fired after the departing taxi, but they succeeded only in gunning down a few pedestrians, mapmaker protesters, souvenir vendors and wild chickens.

  "One!" the hood at the window shouted triumphantly.

  The whole front of the embassy blew out in gouts of orange flame. O'Halloran and the sergeant were knocked into the street.

  "I hope you enjoyed yourself," the first thug said, looking over his shoulder at his partner with the detonator.

  "Oh yeah, that was good," said the man with the detonator, his voice husky with ecstasy. "Almost as good as that airport in Panama in '87." He hugged the detonator close. "Can we do it again?"

  Bolo drove at breakneck speed. Smith climbed to his elbows on the back seat, then scrambled to a sitting position. He glanced through the rear window, yanked the rattling door the rest of the way shut, then popped his head up alongside the driver. "Jiminy Christmas, what was that all about? I just wanted to report my stolen wallet."

  "It's a national holiday today," Bolo said. "Many unexpected things happen this time of year. All in good fun."

  "Does it usually involve shooting unsuspecting tourists?" Smith said, still trying to catch his breath.

  "Sometimes," Bolo nodded. "You have seen few people with red hair here in Colodor. Perhaps now you know why."

  The cab raced up the street, careening around other vehicles. Bolo continued to accelerate, though his face remained bland and unemotional. The cab skidded around a corner, leaving black tire smears on the pavement, then straightened out to speed along a wide expanse as pedestrians and street vendors leaped out of the way. Smith searched for a seat belt in the old cab, but found only loosely connected strands of baling twine, which didn't seem to help.

  Sirens shrieking, a police car turned the same corner after them, roaring in their wake.

  "We're being followed," Smith said.

  Bolo tilted the rearview mirror. "Don't worry, sir. I'm sure they're after someone else. After all, what have we done wrong?"

  A banged-up O'Halloran sat beside a uniformed driver in the police car. Plaster dust and tiny cuts from the embassy explosion covered the CIA man. His hair hung in disarray, the overlong strands flopping down his cheek and leaving his bald spot uncovered.

  O'Halloran gesticulated madly ahead and pounded the dashboard. "After him! After him!"

  The driver hunched over the steering wheel and continued to race along, not daring to argue with his boss.

  The streets became narrower, the houses more ramshackle in a poorer neighborhood. Graffiti covered much of the whitewashed stucco. Ahead, the road ended in a line of telephone poles covered with garish posters for political parties and fruit-based soft drinks. Beyond the telephone poles, the road veered in a steep slope off into a garbage dump, where small, smoky fires were burning.

  Far ahead, the fleeing cab careened up the street, but the police car narrowed the distance with every block. Still hammering the dashboard, O'Halloran turned livid, as if he could physically urge the car forward through the sheer force of his high blood pressure.

  "Oh, that dirty son of a bitch! I'll get him if it's the last thing—"

  Bolo's cab yanked sideways and slid like a thrown dart into a labyrinthine alley, scattering more chickens.

  Unable to make such an unexpected turn, the police car continued straight ahead as the driver wrestled with the steering wheel. A spray of white feathers flew in front of his windshield, blocking his view.

  "—I ever do!" O'Halloran said. "Faster!"

  The driver stomped down on the accelerator—and rammed full speed into the nearest telephone pole.

  After the hissing steam from the radiator cleared, O'Halloran wedged his shoulders out of the window, looking down at the buckled door of the police car. He shook his fist in the direction where the cab had vanished.

  "I'll get you," O'Halloran vowed, because he could think of nothing more creative to say. With his other hand, he dragged his hair back into place over his bald spot. "I'll get you, Pedrito Miraflores!"

  Chapter 9

  THE CANTINA DE ESPEJOS—the cantina of mirrors-was two stories high, though the foundation didn't look sturdy enough to support both levels. The crumbling adobe facade was held together by moss clumps and pigeon droppings. Painted campaign slogans and portraits of political candidates flaked away to reveal similar paintings but for the opposite parties in previous elections. Mildew stained the small patches of clean whitewash below the arched entrance.

  Attached to the back of the cantina, down a flanking alley, stood three low outbuildings with flat roofs of corrugated sheet metal. A wrought-iron balcony at a second-floor window marked the closest thing to a penthouse the building had to offer.

  Despite the cantina's garishly painted sign that welcomed new customers, the area was quiet in the morning air. Muffled music and the background sounds of yelling throbbed through cracks in the walls. Other households went about the day's business—women hung the laundry, fruit vendors set up their stands and cooks fried bananas or Inca corn. They waited for customers to come.

  Bolo's cab sped into view, swerving on the slick cobblestones as it turned mto the side street. In a cloud of dust and street debris, Bolo braked to a halt against the rear wall of the cantina just under the second-floor balcony. An iguana sat
on the corrugated metal rooftop of the nearest outbuilding, blinking down at the newcomers, but otherwise unmoving.

  The cab's engine coughed, shuddered and died with a loud backfire. Bolo stepped out, holding the driver's-side door as he scanned the side street toward the front of the Cantina de Espejos, then back the way they had come. With a relieved sigh, he gazed up at the second-floor window. Smiling broadly, he nodded. "Yes, that will do nicely." "Where are we?" Smith asked.

  "A new hotel for you, sir," Bolo answered. "I know you were not happy with your previous accommodations. Perhaps this one will be more to your liking."

  Smith's head popped out of the car window, his red-gold hair disheveled from the frantic chase. "I hope you're keeping track of the fare," he said. "I'm afraid my embassy wasn't much help to me."

  "We'll settle the bill later. You're an American—we trust you." Bolo yanked open the cab's back door.

  "Is there going to be more of that fiesta?" Smith said. "Maybe I should see some of it, as part of my Santa Isabel vacation experience. Though it did seem dangerous."

  Grabbing Smith's safari jacket, Bolo hauled him from the cab. "Sorry, sir, but this is a No Parking zone. You must hurry and get to your room." Bolo pointed to the second-floor window.

  More powerful than he looked, he picked up the lieutenant by the collar of his jacket and pushed him onto the hood of the cab. "Here, climb up." Smith tried to go through the motions, though he didn't understand why he was climbing on top of a car.

  Bolo leaped onto the hood himself. "Here, sir, let me help you." He kneed Smith in the seat of his pants, boosting the young lieutenant onto the roof of the taxi. "There you go—a much better scenic view."

  "But, what am I doing up here?" Smith said, turning around slowly with his hands on his hips. "I don't see any scenic view." In fact, all he could spot were the low outbuildings, the corrugated roof and the cramped alley.

  On the step of a barricaded door in the rear of the alley, a scrawny dog perked up its ears and watched the performance.

  "This is a cantina room, sir," Bolo said, as if that explained everything.

  "Oh, good," Smith said. "Thanks for taking care of that for me. But where's the entrance?"

  "That window. The assistant manager is a friend of mine, and he has guaranteed your room. But the head manager is very mean and will demand cash in advance. So the assistant manager insisted that you must slip in the back way."

  "Very unorthodox," Smith said.

  "This happens all the time. I assure you it'll all work out in the end."

  Smith looked up at the window on the second floor, then looked at his empty hands. "Where's my suitcase? Well, it's not really my suitcase, but it's the only one I've got. I need to find its rightful owner."

  Bolo bounced to the ground in exasperation. "I'll get it from the cab and throw it up to you. You just go inside your room."

  Smith stood on tiptoe on the cab roof, and stretched his arms, but the bottom of the windowsill was still several feet above him.

  From below, Bolo tossed the tan suitcase up. The case struck Smith off-balance and knocked him backward from the roof of the cab. Smith windmilled his arms, to no avail. He landed on his back, and the suitcase dropped on top of him. The latches sprung, spilling clothes in the alley Now the scrawny dog began yapping.

  Sprawled on the cobblestones between the taxi and the rough wall of the cantina. Smith tried to get up. Covering his impatience, Bolo helped him stuff the scattered clothing back into the case, brushing off dust and street grime. Bolo clicked the suitcase shut, then boosted Smith and the case back onto the roof of the cab.

  "Now let us do it once more, sir. The first time was just for practice."

  Smith tried again to stretch for the balcony window, but couldn't. He walked very softly, trying not to dent the metal on the cab's roof. "Hey, even if I could reach the window, I can't get inside. The window's closed."

  "Throw the suitcase through it," Bolo said matter-of-factly "Then you can get inside."

  "But that'll damage private property."

  "It's okay. Remember, I know the assistant manager. Besides, Americans are always up to such antics here in Colodor. It is expected. We forgive your eccentricities."

  With a shrug. Smith gripped the handle and swung the suitcase up. The tan case that had somehow gotten switched for his own sailed up and hit the lower pane, shattering the glass and going on through.

  "I hope nobody was sleeping under the curtains."

  Broken fragments of the window tinkled around him on top of the cab and to the cobblestones. Smith brushed glass shards off himself

  "Now just go inside and wait," Bolo called from below. "You'll be safe, and you can get a good night's sleep."

  "After what happened yesterday, I could use a good night's sleep," Smith said, looking up in dismay. "But I still can't reach it."

  "Then jump!"

  Smith sprang as high as he could go, missed with his fingers and crashed back to the roof of the cab, leaving enormous dents. "Uh-oh," Smith said, looking at the dents.

  The model of forced patience, Bolo rolled his eyes, then climbed up to help the young lieutenant.

  "Are you sure this is the only way in?" Smith asked, shaking his head. "Isn't there a back entrance? You must have fire doors, in case of emergencies."

  "Colodor is a very relaxed place. We do not worry about emergencies." Bolo tried to get Smith to stand on his shoulders. Like inebriated acrobats, they managed to keep their balance for just a few minutes. Smith tottering on the cabdriver's shoulders.

  Although he couldn't help but be wobbly, Bolo boosted Smith toward the window. Smith finally managed to grab hold of the lower window ledge with his outstretched fingers.

  "Got it?" Bolo said.

  "I got it," Smith said. "This certainly isn't very easy."

  "The good things in life seldom come easily, sir. That's part of the adventure."

  Bolo moved out from under him, peeling Smith's gangly legs from his shoulders. Smith swung forward to hug the whitewashed wall, hanging by his fingers from the second-story window ledge.

  Bolo dropped down beside the cab and climbed back into the driver's seat, gripping the wheel. He started the engine with a coughing roar.

  "You'll be fine now," he called up to Smith, leaning out the driver's window. "Get inside before anybody finds you out here, sir. Part of the festivities for the national holiday involves target practice, so you don't want to be left hanging in a vulnerable position."

  "But, I—uh . . ." Smith said, his voice strained, but the cab drove off' beneath him, leaving him dangling. He stared after the taxi's red taillights as it departed.

  Sweating, he looked down the long two-story drop to the hard ground. If he fell, he would never make his way up here again. He squinted back up at the window above and flinched. It was jagged with broken glass. His fingers gripped the outer edge of the sill.

  With a sudden jerk he let go with his right hand. Then, hanging by one hand above the alley. Smith struggled to get out of his safari jacket. When he managed to tug his arm out of his right sleeve, he recaptured the ledge with his right hand, then let go with his left. "Okay, this seems to be a good plan," he muttered to himself. "Good plan."

  Sweat dripped from his hair into his eyes, but he eventually managed to pull the jacket from that arm. Then, with a desperate effort, he threw the jacket up and over the sharp glass edges. "It sure would help if I just had a credit card."

  His heart pounded as he boosted himself up and catapulted through the window, into the room. He crashed to the floor, safe at last. He kissed the floorboards.

  Smith untangled himself and stood up, shaking. He brushed his shirt and pants off as he surveyed the room. Suddenly, he sneezed violently, encountering enough perfume to poison a skunk. He wondered who the previous guest was.

  Around him, flickering candles lit the ornate cantina room. A brass double bed took up most of one wall beneath numerous knickknack shelves that displayed orname
ntal crockery and plates. The bedspread and curtains were scarlet trimmed with gold edges and small tassels. Feathered fans had been spread and fastened to the stucco wall. One shelf, higher than the top of the bed, held a huge beaten brass pitcher. On the ceiling directly above the bed hung a large bullfighting poster. Smith wondered at the decor. It was certainly a much nicer room than the previous hotel, and it had all of the old-world charm he'd expected to find in Colodor.

  Smith opened the frame of the shattered window, then fanned in some fresh air to dilute the perfume. He self-consciously looked at all the broken glass on the floor. He picked up the largest shards and dropped them in the wastebasket. He hated to leave a mess.

  When he had cleaned up some of the damage, Smith set his tan suitcase on a pink velvet footstool. He shook out the battered safari jacket and glanced around the room, searching for a closet in which to hang it. It was, after all, his only set of clothes.

  Billowing drapes covered an alcove, and Smith swept the curtains back. He extended his hand for a hanger, but halted in mid-reach.

  The closet was full of a woman's flamenco clothes and mantillas. The floor was an archipelago of fancy shoes with high heels, a hundred pairs. More perfume smell clung to everything. Smith picked up a red satin shoe, looked around the otherwise empty room.

  Did somebody live here? Perhaps the taxi driver had showed him the wrong room. Or maybe the last tenant had accidentally left her clothes. Smith shrugged and put the shoe back. On the inner wall of the closet hung a braided bullwhip.

  Well, he could talk it over with the manager, he supposed. Eventually.

  For now, though, he needed just a few minutes of rest. He pulled the paperback of Famous Naval Battles from his pocket, then threw the jacket across the pink stool.

  Aching and weary, he collapsed on the bed, his back against the brass headboard. Smith put his feet on the scarlet spread, and with a luxurious sigh began to read about the exploits of Admiral Nelson.

  "Ah," he said, "This is more like the vacation I was hoping for."