Convenient, thought Rubens as he got up from the computer. Stiff, he bent over and did a simple yoga stretch, loosening the muscles in his back.
The report did not name the CIA people who had been connected with the operation. But after his stretching, Rubens sat back at his computer and checked Jorge Evans’ CIA personnel file. He was a member of the operations directorate at the time, with a pay grade that suggested he would supervise the assignment. More interestingly, he was now with the Office of Military Affairs as a staff officer. His exact assignment was listed as “training consultant,” which could cover any multitude of sins.
On paper at least, this was at best a lateral move, though it could easily be a cover for something else, including an extended working vacation for an officer who had seen quite a lot of heavy action or a parking spot for someone on his way to DDO. Still, it begged the question: why did Collins send him to represent her at the meeting?
Rubens stretched again. Probably Evans was just one of her fair-haired boys, given a flexible job so he could do her bidding. His real purpose wasn’t to brief the NSA team — he hadn’t said anything of any value. He’d been sent to try to figure out what Deep Black was really up to. He was an expert in paramilitary operations; Collins probably figured he could tease out the hidden agenda.
Except, of course, that there wasn’t a hidden agenda. But Collins, being Collins, would suspect that there was.
The alarm on Rubens’ watch buzzed. He was due upstairs for a budget meeting.
Rubens picked up the phone and punched in Montblanc’s extension. He got his voice mail. “Kevin, this is Rubens. Work Ambassador Jackson through the intake process, would you please? Make it as expeditious as possible. I want him examining everything by the morning. I realize that’s not enough time, but please do your best. Remember that he was an ambassador. Have Porter do the lie detector. And have Johnny Bib find him a good office-no, no, let’s keep him down near the Art Room. Best not to spring Dr. Bibleria on him until he’s been here a few days.”
19
Lia woke to the incessant ringing of the phone. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was-Peru, France, Morocco? Her assignments blurred together, her life a kaleidoscope of danger in exotic places.
Korea, always Korea-the memory of pain permeated her confusion. A cold and barren fear rose in the room. Lia was paralyzed, unable to move.
“No,” she said aloud. “No.”
She reached over and picked up the phone. It was her wakeup call: 9:30 a.m. She was meeting Fernandez for breakfast downstairs in fifteen minutes.
She got up with a lurch, shoving herself from the bed and to the floor. She took a cold shower to push the lingering memories away and got dressed.
Fernandez was waiting in the dining room on the second-floor balcony when she arrived. Tables lined the railing, giving breakfasters a view of the wide lobby; on the other side, they could look out the window and see the city, already wide awake.
“Coffee?” asked a waiter, pulling the seat out for her.
“Yes,” said Lia.
“Sleep well?” asked Fernandez.
“OK.”
“Voter cards again?”
“I thought I would rearrange my schedule, if you don’t mind,” Lia told him. “Let’s do the voting machines today. The ones for Lima.”
“The cards will begin shipping to regional centers Friday.”
“I think I can do the rest of the tests tomorrow. If not, I have to make tests in the field anyway,” she told him. “Besides, that safe feels a little claustrophobic.”
“Yes, of course. Whatever you want. You’re in charge.” said Fernandez.
Her coffee arrived. Lia drank it quickly, then signaled for more. She was not much of a coffee drinker and ordinarily would not have liked the harsh taste of the local brew, but this morning she needed the caffeine.
The voting machines that would be used in the Lima area were stored in two warehouses on the outskirts of the city. Lia would test six at each spot. Fernandez took her first to the warehouse northeast of the city in the direction of the Huara Valley and the nearby Andes. Though the building was only a few miles out of town, the traffic in the city was so bad it took nearly two hours to get there.
Security at the warehouse was strong but not as obsessive as it was at the bank. Two dozen armed guards were scattered around the outside of the building; an armored car and a gray fire truck with a water cannon sat near the entrance as well. Water cannons were often used for crowd control in Peru and were a common sight at political rallies, though Lia wondered if the powers-that-be were expecting some sort of mass demonstration against voting that would necessitate its use. A metal detector was used at the door; a gray-haired Kenyan monitor nearby shook Lia’s hand, then went back to a card game with some of the local election officials and guards.
The machines were stacked in large black cases about half as big as a small desk. They were secured by numerical tumbler locks, but the combinations had not been changed since the boxes were packed at the factory, and so they were secured by the same combination: 1-1-1.
Fernandez complained that the election commission had not authorized him to have the combinations changed.
“So change them yourself,” suggested Lia as she arranged the machines on a pair of tables at the front for testing.
The locks were of a simple type and could be reset with a master reset tool.
“I couldn’t do that without approval. I don’t have the authority.”
“Do you have the reset key?”
“Yes, but that’s not the point.”
Lia didn’t bother to argue. Some people were destined to be flunkies their entire lives.
The voting machines looked like flat-screen TVs mounted on oversize shoeboxes. Essentially simple computers optimized to record and transmit votes, the machines’ electronic guts were hidden behind the screens, which voters simply touched to indicate their choices; the base units were there solely for ballast. Considerable engineering skill had been put to use designing units that could withstand heavy use. As with many technological achievements, success would be measured by the absence of problems; if the machine was essentially invisible to its users, it would be judged a great success.
Lia connected her laptop to the first unit with a special cable, inserted a diagnostic card into the slot where the voter card would ordinarily be placed, and put a control card in the remaining slot, just as the poll supervisor would do on the day of the election. The machine responded with a series of beeps, and an automated diagnostic procedure began. A report of the process was stored on the voting machine as well as Lia’s laptop, one of several precautions against tampering.
It took nearly as long to hook the laptop to the machine as it did to run the diagnostic. Lia entered the serial numbers of the machines she tested in her marble notebook, then added a confirmation number from the diagnostic screen when the test was completed. Within an hour and a half, she had tested six machines.
“Good timing,” said Fernandez. “We have to leave for lunch.”
Lia thought about begging out of the luncheon, even though the Art Room had asked her to get a feel for what the commission members were thinking. But she decided not to; there would be plenty of time for a nap in the afternoon. Realizing that she had failed to check in since arriving at the warehouse, she reached to the back of her belt and activated the communications system as she packed up.
Rockman had apparently been waiting for some time back in the Art Room and greeted her with a sarcastic, “Hello, lost soul.”
“Ha, ha,” muttered Lia.
“Lunch with the commission still on?”
“So where’s lunch, Julio?” she said loudly, indirectly answering the runner.
“Nice place downtown. You’ll like it. Very chic.”
They were about two blocks from the restaurant when a traffic snarl of epic proportions stranded them amid a rising chorus of honking horns. Fernandez, spotting a pa
rking area nearby, suggested they get out of the car and walk. A block later, they discovered the problem: a group of protestors had closed down the avenue in front of the restaurant where the UN election committee was having lunch. The police had lined up across the roadway, standing stoically but unemotionally as the protestors chanted “¡Claro!”, a Spanish word that might be translated as “clear” or “transparent.” In the context of this election campaign it had become a slogan for “fair and open.”
It wasn’t clear to Lia why they would be demonstrating in front of the people who had come to Peru to ensure that those demands were met, but in her experience protestors rarely exhibited any kind of logic. Less than a hundred men and women were walking back and forth across and near the roadway. They ranged from a baby in the arms of a well-dressed man of twenty to a pair of gray-haired grandmothers.
“You see the slogans?” asked Femandez, pointing to the signs. “They’re the same ones Victor Imberbe of the Peruvian Centrists uses as part of his campaign.”
“So these people are with him?”
“They’re his supporters. They’re afraid the government is going to steal the election, and they want us to do our job.”
“Fair enough,” said Lia. And though just a moment ago she’d looked on them with condescension at best, she decided that the protestors did have a point. And more than that, for the first time since coming to Peru she felt what was at stake in her mission. Felt, not intellectualized, how basic the right of democracy truly was and what was at stake for the people around her.
“Does the campaign pay these people to protest?” Lia asked.
“I doubt it. Imberbe doesn’t have the money. They’re organized, but they’re volunteers. They might be part of a church group; they have a lot of grassroots support there.” He pointed to the left. “We can go this way. Come on.”
As Lia began to follow, a black shadow loomed in the comer of her eye. She whirled around and saw two men dressed in black emerge from the building behind where she had been standing. One raised his arm, pointing something toward the crowd. He had something in his hand.
A gun.
“Get down! Get down!” yelled Lia, though in her heart she knew it was too late.
20
General Túcume had little use for the psychological games many of his fellow generals played with the North Americans, such as keeping them waiting for an appointment to demonstrate their power. So he showed up for lunch at the yacht club in Lima’s most exclusive oceanside district precisely on time.
This meant that he had to wait fifteen minutes for the CIA officer to show up. But it was time well spent. Túcume settled details with Captain Chimor on what must be done here in Lima over the next few days.
Túcume also received word from Keros that the action near the restaurant had begun. This time the police would not emerge as heroes, but that was not a problem for their allies on the force, who needed room above to advance.
“General, a pleasure to see you again,” said Greene, not bothering to apologize for his tardiness when he finally arrived. But perhaps he had taken the time to check Túcume’s file: he mentioned Miami University and the basketball team there as soon he sat. Túcume had gone to Miami but had about as much interest in basketball as he did in dressmaking. Still, he knew enough to hold up his end of the conversation for the few minutes until lunch came.
“I’m not often in Lima,” Túcume told Greene as they ate, turning the conversation toward its aim. “There is a great deal going on in the countryside with the rebels. Of course, with Ecuador active as well—”
“You’re worried about Ecuador?”
“A traditional enemy. As is Brazil. Consider, if Brazil were to develop its nuclear weapon.”
“The government renounced the program,” said Greene. “And it’s been discontinued.”
You argue too much to be a good spy, Túcume thought. But this was typical of Yankees.
“I think you’ll find that our neighbors will admit to only a portion of the sins that they actually commit,” the general told the CIA officer.
They continued in that vein for a while longer, Túcume taking care to underline the external dangers his nation faced, Greene doing more to knock them down than listen. As their plates were cleared, the general turned to the real reason for the conversation.
“We face internal threats as well,” he told Greene. “Serious ones.”
“The New Path?”
“Sendero Nuevo.” The words practically spit from Túcume’s mouth. “Communists of the old school. Why would they resurrect ideas that have failed utterly?”
“I guess there are only so many ideas to go around,” said Greene.
“It’s fascism at the core. Fascism is not the future. Democracy is.”
“The military hasn’t always believed that,” said Greene.
“You’ll find the new generals do.”
“The government and the president’s party work very closely together,” said Greene. “The military seems to be aligned with him.”
For once the American was not far off the mark, Túcume thought. The general staff surely wanted Ortez to win.
“There’s no doubt that many of us would prefer the vice president to be elected. I myself intend to vote for him,” lied Túcume. “But I can take orders from any president. And I can back most of the men running for office. Aznar for one. The candidate of the New Peru or Future, whatever he calls his party these days.”
“What about Imberbe?”
Túcume made a face. “I will take orders from him if I must. That is the law. But secretly, he is a communist.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Perhaps I exaggerate.” Túcume shrugged. “I don’t want to talk about the election. I can’t. We have sworn neutrality, every officer in the military. Not a word.”
He reached for his coffee, which had just been poured.
“You were speaking of the rebels,” said Greene.
“Yes. They’re becoming more reckless. The post office in the city was their latest outrage.”
“The police seem to have acted very quickly.”
“A miracle.” Túcume put down his coffee cup. “I’m afraid that these latest rounds of attacks are only an omen of what is to come. We have intelligence from my region of various threats being prepared. Lima itself will be targeted. The specifics have been vague.”
“The post office?”
“No, a much larger target. The rumors I hear are for a very big action. I believe they will aim to shut down the city, or worse.”
Greene was finally listening.
“Some of my colleagues don’t agree with me that we face a serious threat,” Tucume told the American. “My warnings are discounted.”
“Why?”
“My background — my heritage is entirely native. That is a serious handicap in Peru. Worse than being black in your country. And ironic, since we are the majority.”
“You’re a war hero.”
“To some. To other members of the general staff, I’m a vain and ambitious native who found himself in the right place at the right time and made the most of it.” Túcume laughed. “I am probably some of that. I am ambitious — I would not mind being head of the military someday. It would be a great honor, and yes, I believe I would do a good job. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with ambition, do you?”
“It depends.”
“Some of my colleagues are jealous because I have proven myself in battle. I make no apologies for that.”
“I don’t think you should.”
Túcume pulled his sleeve back to look at his watch. The American took the hint.
“Let me ask you, General,” said Greene, folding his napkin. “Who do you think will win the election next week?”
“I’m not good at predictions,” said the general. “But I would assume the vice president. I would think he holds all the cards.”
“His poll numbers are slipping.”
&nbs
p; “Are they?” Túcume feigned a moment of concern, then made a show of dismissing it. “I wouldn’t believe those things. In your country, people are used to dealing with surveys. But here in Peru? No.”
“Did you have something specific you wanted to bring to my attention?” asked Greene.
“Keeping allies and friends informed of volatile situations seems a good practice,” Túcume said. “Sharing views with senior partners — this can be mutually beneficial.”
Túcume knew that the CIA officer would think he was just one more general trying to cozy up to the Yankee gringos in hopes of it paying off down the line. But in a few days, after the predictions he had made came true, Greene would think of the meeting differently. He would see the general as a person to be cultivated — and feared.
Babin had warned Túcume that the warhead was bound to be recognized. This was necessary — Túcume wanted there to be no doubt that it should be taken seriously immediately before the election, and if the government had any doubt, the CIA would disabuse them. At the same time, Greene would remember this meeting and consider Túcume a friend, or at least someone he could deal with.
“I hope your information is pessimistic,” said Greene as he got up. “I would hate to see violence in Lima.”
Payback db-4 Page 8