Ai! Pedrito!: When Intelligence Goes Wrong

by L. Ron Hubbard

  "Dere she is!" said Lefty. "It's dat ugly dame."

  Pedrito nonchalantly sauntered toward the rugged-looking woman. "Yer right! Dat must be her" Fats exclaimed, spitting out his matchstick.

  Leaving his partner behind, he slid through the crowd, getting into position. A waitress bustled by him, popping her gum. Momentarily fearing that it was the sound of a gun, the agent grabbed for his weapon. Once he recognized the source of the sound, he fumbled the gun back into his shoulder holster.

  Pedrito stood by the woman's table, reaching into his uniform pocket. He extended something in his right hand, while she surreptitiously placed an envelope into his left.

  In front of the coffee urns, Lefty snapped a picture of the event.

  Fats' handcuffs clamped onto Pedrito's wrists just as the woman made the trade. "Gotcha, you Commie bastard!"

  Without an instant's hesitation, Pedrito shouted, "Emergency Plan Q!"

  Gripping a microfilm capsule in her hairy-knuckled hand, the ugly woman bolted toward the coffee urns where the scare-crowish Lefty stood clicking pictures.

  Pedrito, hands cuffed and still gripping the payoff envelope, grabbed Fats' wrists and swung him counterclockwise. The enormous agent sailed around, his feet knocking the nearest table flying. At the height of his momentum, Pedrito released his grip. The bloated agent flew at the huge glass window, squalling like a baby. He crashed through, skidding across the gravel parking lot like an albatross making a crash landing.

  The customers screamed in panic. Some of them applauded.

  At the coffee urns, the rugged woman grabbed Lefty by the wrists and spun him in a similar fashion. The FBI agent's feet came off the ground.

  His camera dropped from his hands and broke open, exposing his roll of film. "Hey!" he cried. "Dose are my vacation pitchers!"

  She slammed the rail-thin agent broadside into the coffee urns, then rushed off as the urns fell on top of Lefty, spilling hot coffee and brown grounds.

  Pedrito, still confined in the cuffs, used his hands to secure his white Navy cap in place. He rushed toward the shattered window and dove through the hole in the smashed glass, all the while retaining his grip on the envelope.

  Fats lay stunned under the window, trying to get up on hands and knees. Broken glass lay all around him. Pedrito landed on top of him like an airplane crash, knocking him flat again.

  Rolling off the agent, Pedrito tore through the bloated man's pockets until he found the handcuff keys, then ran across the parking lot.

  Inside the diner, the rugged-looking woman dashed into the men's washroom, wobbling awkwardly on high heels. Her floral-print dress flew around her as she shoved the door shut. A truck driver standing at the urinal looked at her in surprise. "Wrong room, lady."

  "Shut up," she growled in a deep male voice.

  The woman yanked off her out-of-style hat, tore away the veil and wig and pulled off a plastic mask. Colonel Enrique's reedy aide from Morro Castle tossed the disguise into the trash can and began ripping open the floral-print dress, unstuffing rags from a large bra. The truck driver watched so intently that

  Enrique's aide turned his back to the man. "Can you unzip me, please?"

  The truck driver fumbled with the dress zipper, and then the aide shoved him toward the washroom door. "Thanks—now get the hell out of here!" After the truck driver had fled, the aide shucked out of the frumpy dress to reveal a Cuban military uniform.

  The door behind him opened. Lefty marched in, covered with steaming brown coffee grounds, his clothes drenched with hot liquid. He held out a heavy Colt revolver. "Dat's damned unladylike behavior!" he growled, more than half crazed. "Heads up!" He raised the Colt and blew the brains out of the Cuban aide, who fell dead backward into the urinal. "Or off—as da case may be," Lefty said.

  Pedrito tore open the door of the green FBI car, clamping the envelope in his jaws. "Hi, Joan," he leaned over and mumbled through his clenched teeth. As she squealed and flashed her claws at him, he grabbed her arm.

  Pedrito yanked her out so hard that she hit the pavement and bounced twice on her butt.

  Joan sat in the parking lot screaming at him. "You can't get away, Smith!" she shouted. "Traitor! I'll tell Daddy!"

  Pedrito used the bloated FBI agent's keys to start the car, then raced off, gripping the wheel with his cuffed hands. Pedrito fishtailed out of the diner parking lot and squealed down the road.

  Fats picked himself up from beneath the window, wheezing to catch his breath. His face purpled with anger as he stormed toward where Joan Turner sat looking very undignified on the pavement. "Hey, dem was my wheels! You let 'im get away!"

  An enormous car pulled slowly up to the diner, a big silver Cadillac that had been bought new many years before, washed often and driven little. An elderly citizen hunched like a gnome over the steering wheel, driving with such extraordinary care that he posed a safety hazard to all normal drivers.

  Fats popped open the Cadillac's door and hauled the driver out. He shoved the old man back, holding up his hand like a traffic cop.

  "Sorry, sir. FBI business!"

  Lefty ambled out of the restaurant, looking smug as he blew smoke from the barrel of his Colt and reholstered the gun, proudly holding up the confiscated microfilm canister. "Dat lady spy won't be giving us no more troubles."

  Fats honked the horn at him. "Come on. Lefty! I got us a new set of wheels!" Lefty hustled across the parking lot and leaped into the passenger-side door.

  "Get Smith!" Joan shouted, still sitting awkwardly on the pavement.

  The big Cadillac rushed off in pursuit with a scream of tires. The gnomish old man came over to Joan, extending a hand to help her up. She slapped it away.

  Pedrito tore down the highway in the green FBI sedan as he tried to work the key in the handcuffs. Frustrated, he spat the envelope out, and it showered the front of him with loose bills. He ignored the payoff money for the moment.

  "Time to reassess a few things," he said. "Women got me in trouble."

  He glanced up into the rearview mirror. The pursuing Cadillac came on madly, with the two furious agents in the front seat. With a twist of his fingers, one handcuff finally sprang open. Pedrito worked on the other, but the loose money was in his way. He angrily swept the bills aside, and they fluttered like startled pigeons around the dashboard in front of him.

  "Liquor got me in trouble, too," he said. He looked back again. The Cadillac was closing, its engine roaring like a large piece of farm equipment. Lefty leaned out, trying to draw a bead with his Colt revolver.

  Pedrito worked on the other handcuff with the tiny key as he drove. He kept missing the keyhole, and the chain from the loose cuff dangled down, clacking against the steering wheel. Money blew onto his face.

  The Cadillac closed the gap, pulling up right behind the green FBI car and attempting to pass.

  "You might say that dissipation has been the undoing of me," Pedrito groaned as the handcuff key went in at last. He got the cuff off, poised his arm to fling it out the window, then saw the pursuing Cadillac pull alongside. Lefty aimed his Colt at Pedrito and grinned as he prepared to pull the trigger.

  Pedrito hurled the handcuffs, and they shattered the windshield of the big Cadillac. The driver veered. The gunshot went wide. Fats wrestled for control, but the big car slued, skidded sideways and rolled into the ditch.

  Hubbard & Anderson

  Pedrito looked forward, driving like mad, but his face was very serious.

  "Oh, women!" He shook his head ruefully. "Oh, liquor. When I get out of the U.S. and back to a nice, pleasant tropical climate, one Pedrito Miraflores has got to reform!"

  Chapter 49

  AN OLD FREIGHTER lay at anchor in a harbor on the west coast of Colodor, silhouetted in the moonlight. Waves lapped against its rusty hull. Rats squeaked in the hold and a guard snored on the deck.

  Banana plantations filled the coastal lowlands of the country, while mangrove trees and shrimp ranches covered the edges of the wide jungle ri
ver that emptied into the Pacific. In the harbor, fishing boats and canoes clustered along the docks beside seafood shanties on the wharf.

  Panting and weary from his long, hard day of near-death and near-marriage, Smith clomped up the gangplank of the freighter and went to see the captain directly. The snoring guard didn't stir at all.

  "Captain," Smith said, banging on the door of the cluttered bridge house, "I understand you're going up along the coast and through the Panama Canal to Jacksonville, Florida."

  The captain scratched his sweaty beard stubble. "This ain't no cruise liner."

  "That doesn't matter so long as I can get out of South America and back to the United States." Smith still wore his German mountaineering clothes, but by now they were rumpled, stained and speckled with leftover flecks of hay. "I can, of course, pay my way." He held his heavy rucksack by one strap.

  On an unbalanced table in the captain's office, a half-full tequila bottle held down a stack of scattered charts. The brass porthole was so corroded it looked green in the lamplight. "Where's your passport?" asked the captain.

  "I kind of lost it," Smith said with an innocent shrug. "My baggage was mixed up when I landed in Santa Isabel. I won a free vacation, you see."

  "So why don't you go to an American Embassy? They're always eager to help." The captain wrinkled his brow.

  "The embassy blew up," he said. "But if you can land me somewhere quietly in the U.S., I'll pay you very well."

  The captain raised his eyebrows. "Five thousand dollars, or get off my ship. That's my terms—take them or leave them."

  "Okay," Smith said. "I'll pay in gold, if that's all right."

  Startled, the captain rose and made a mockingly servile bow. "In that case, I'll show you to your room, sir!"

  The shabby cabin was single-bunked, dim and smelled of old fish. "Not luxury accommodations by any means," Smith said as the captain closed the door behind him. "But right about now, a few hours of peace and quiet is worth any price. And at least nobody's shooting at me."

  Smith reached into his rucksack and fished out his paperback of Famous Naval Battles. With a long, heavy sigh he stretched out on the bunk and kicked off his shoes. "Now maybe I can finish this book at last."

  Back in the bridge house, the scruffy-looking captain sat at his desk. He juggled eight gold pieces in his hand, studying how the light glinted along their faces, along their edges; he slid them into his pocket.

  With a smile, he snapped open a drawer in his console and pulled out a sheaf of papers held together with a bent brass brad. He turned to the fourth one from the top. "Ah, there it is," he said, then yanked it out of the stack. "I knew I'd heard that red hair mentioned someplace." He scanned the words again. No doubt about it.

  U.S. COAST GUARD MERCHANT SHIP BULLETIN

  WANTED FUGITIVE

  6' 180 LBS, REDHEADED

  Lieut, (jg) TOM SMITH, USN

  ESPIONAGE AND TREASON!!!

  Wanted by the FBI, U.S. Navy, National

  Security Agency, CIA, Defense Intelligence

  Agency, State Department, Connecticut Police,

  New York Police (and perhaps others).

  P.S. A REWARD IS GRACIOUSLY OFFERED

  R.S.V.P.

  As the freighter left the port and headed northward toward Central America, the captain powered up the radio, tuning to the correct frequency.

  "Key West Coast Guard, come in! Is the reward still good for Lieutenant Tom Smith, the fugitive?" He paused to listen. "Aha! How about doubling that?" he frowned. "Well, can I talk to your supervisor then, please?"

  Much later, as the freighter plowed through choppy water approaching the Panama Canal, the captain leaned back in his chair and smiled. He glanced down at his chart, moving the tequila bottle to uncover his position. "All right, I'll deliver him right into your hands."

  Chapter 50

  AT NIGHT, ABOUT TWO MILES off Key West, Florida, Smith stood at the deck rail. The freighter had chugged its way through the Panama Canal, across the Gulf of Mexico into the Caribbean and up to the southern tip of Florida. He could see the coast nearby lit up like a swarm of fireflies. Disney World, here I come, he thought. He decided not to risk saying goodbye to the scruffy-looking captain. It was time for Smith to swim.

  He pulled down his goggles, adjusted his wet-suit seals, checked the weights on his belt. The gold-filled rucksack, waterproofed and flanked with slabs of cork, hung on his back. He was getting good at this spy business.

  Smith climbed onto the rail, prepared to go over. Maybe he would get reassigned once he was back at Navy headquarters. He hoped Admiral Turner still remembered who he was.

  Taking a deep breath and securing his mask and snorkel tube, he dived from the low deck of the battered freighter. Behind him, he couldn't see the streams of green-yellow phosphorus that trickled from a surreptitious cartridge on his wet suit, following him as he moved through the water

  The freighter captain sat at the radio, looking out the window. He saw Smith jump overboard, heard the loud splash. The redhead never suspected how his suit had been marked.

  "He took the bait," the captain said into the microphone. "Watch for him—he's on his way."

  On the dock a group of military brass and civilian law enforcement waited nervously in the Coast Guard radio room. A young sailor manned the radio, feeling the expectant eyes on his back. "Exactly what was your position when he dived?" the radio man asked, reading the prepared message one of the Navy officers had written for him.

  "Do I still get my reward if I tell you?" the freighter captain's voice answered through a crackle of static.

  A Coast Guard captain knocked the radio man to one side and grabbed the mike himself. "You'll get it, you'll get it! Just tell us where we can find that traitor. Smith. Your nation's security depends on it."

  Army and Navy high-ranking brass waited beside this week's director of the FBI, a dapper man with sunken cheeks and a gray mustache. The Coast Guard captain glared at the microphone, fuming and impatient. Everyone stared at the speaker in the ceiling, tense as cats.

  "One-point-six miles south of Key West" the freighter captain's voice said. "He'll be easy to spot. Look for the phosphorus tracer."

  Collectively, the gathered brass let out a sigh of relief.

  A snorkel tube protruded from the surface of the water, moving swiftly along. Behind it floated the cork-lined backpack, making a larger wake. Smith swam toward shore, breathing regularly, pumping his flippers.

  Soon he would be at Key West, back in the United States again, back home. He wondered if anyone would plan some sort of party for him. It would be nice to see Joan again.

  A helicopter hovered over the water, facing out toward the sea. The side of the helicopter bore an enormous shield of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the words Director of the FBI (Special Parking Privileges Allowed).

  The helicopter pilot snugged earphones over his head. "Looks like he'll reach the landing stage in another minute, Mr. Director, sir." The pilot pointed down at the swirling yellow-green line Smith unknowingly trailed behind him.

  The FBI director scowled, brushing down his neat gray mustache. "I want to make this pinch myself. Think of all the publicity I'll get! Good publicity for once! I'll be a national hero." The director leaned over to look out the helicopter's side bubble window. "I'll make millions on product endorsements."

  A barricade of bales and boxes surrounded a large cleared space on the dock area below, where Smith was expected to land. A railed stair led down to a landing stage on the calm, dark water. Everything appeared innocently empty.

  However, behind the barricade crouched a company of Marines with leveled rifles and two dozen FBI agents—including the two banged-up and bandaged agents. Fats and Lefty, who had botched the capture of the spy at the roadhouse diner in Connecticut. Now they wanted a second chance. Nobody bothered to ask how Tom Smith could have gotten all the way down to South America in only a few hours.

  Behind them, where the
y could watch without risking their skins, huddled the top brass. Even farther out of sight beyond the well-protected top brass, stood a cadre of television and newspaper reporters, cameras ready for a big story.

  "I hope those other bastards down there don't think they're going to get any credit. Goddamned publicity hogs," the FBI director snarled, scowling at the docks below. "The FBI runs this country, and don't you forget it!" He shaded his eyes in the helicopter cockpit, scanning the water below and looking for Smith.

  "Do you see the bastard yet?"

  Smith popped up out of the water, removed his snorkel from his mouth, and paddled as he stared straight ahead, toward shore. Above the sloshing sounds of the waves at his ears, he could hear the sound of a chopper's motor, but the helicopter was not in view. Everything seemed clear. He stroked harder. Of course, he should have nothing to fear once he was in his own country.

  Panting from exertion, Smith reached the landing stage at the water's level. He clutched the edge to catch his breath, then, dripping, he hauled himself onto the wooden platform. He looked at the plank stairway that led to the dock above, where a barricade of bales and boxes blocked his view. The night seemed very quiet and peaceful.

  Flopping in his swim flippers across the dock platform, Smith made his way to the sloping stairs, still wearing his goggles, still hauling his sopping rucksack filled with gold coins.

  The two bandaged FBI agents huddled with a federal executive in back of the barricade. The executive held a walkie-talkie, whispering viciously to Fats, shooting a glance up toward the distant helicopter. "The director wants you to go out there alone and identify Smith, personally. We can't afford to have any screw-ups on television."

  The bloated Fats quailed. "But he'll recognize me. He just punched me out this afternoon."

  The federal executive shoved him forward viciously. "He won't know you. That bandage covers half your face."