Payback db-4

by Stephen Coonts

  “This computer can access SpyNet, and all of the secure databases and systems you’ll have access to,” said Telach, pointing at the larger screen and keyboard. “There’s also a segregated version of most of the DoD archives as well as our own, and—”

  “Excuse me,” said Jackson. “What do you mean by segregated?”

  “I mean that we have our own copies, so that our access can’t be monitored and there are no unguarded back doors into our system. DoD, the Department of Defense, and SpyNet — you know what that is?”

  “Sure. It’s our government intelligence web network. I used it at the State Department.”

  “Good. The Dell computer connects to the Internet through a dedicated line. It uses a series of anonymous servers so it can’t be traced. The data you can send out is very limited, and it’s also monitored for security reasons. You can’t buy anything,” she added lightly, “so no shopping at Amazon.com on your lunch hour.”

  “I get a lunch hour?”

  “Mr. Rubens runs a very tight ship, but it’s not that tight. We have our own lounge down the hall. It’s small, but you’re probably better off eating there today. It’ll save you some of the hassles of going back upstairs. You place an order and it will be delivered.”

  Jackson nodded. Montblanc had told him that there were very nice cafeterias — more like small commercial cafés or restaurants — upstairs, but he had no idea where they were. This would be fine.

  “Someone from our analysis section is coming down to show you how to use the systems,” Telach added. “I assume you don’t know how.”

  “I can use the Internet and e-mail.”

  “Good. This is a little different, but once you get the hang of it, it’s fairly simple.”

  “What exactly am I looking for?”

  Telach gave him an odd smile. “Mr. Rubens didn’t tell me.”

  Jackson already knew his way around SpyNet, an internal “intranet” service used by American intelligence agencies to access and share information. It was very similar to a commercial intranet, the internal Web-like systems used by many companies to allow different departments to share data easily.

  The other databases he had access to were simply mind-boggling. He could, for example, look through the government’s entire archives on World War II — the military as well as diplomatic records not only had been digitized but also were indexed and could be searched in a variety of ways. Jackson, who’d always been interested in history, felt a bit like a schoolkid introduced to the library for the first time.

  The only question was what he was supposed to do with all this information. Rubens didn’t seem to know, either — or if he did, he wasn’t telling.

  For want of a better idea, Jackson decided to start where he had left off the day before, looking at Iron Heart. The report was skimpy, but that was all right — the more things that were left out, the more places there were to look next.

  40

  Drinking her coffee in the hotel’s balcony restaurant while waiting for Fernandez to meet her, Lia watched through the window as the rest of Lima woke. The city reminded her of Los Angeles, mixing tall buildings and highways against the backdrop of the sea nearby. The contrasts were much sharper here, the colors riotous; the wall on the building across the way jammed a violent pink against the brightest yellow she’d ever seen. But the same wild mix of dreams, wealth, and desperation that made Los Angeles such a vibrant place filled Lima’s streets. From where she sat, Lia could see seven or eight cranes rising in the distance, towering over new buildings. On the street below, men and women recently arrived from the highlands to the east walked swiftly past, bundled in clothes that could have been woven four hundred years before.

  Why were these people struggling for democracy, Lia wondered. Why were their governments so chronically corrupt? Was history to blame? Had the Spanish planted some irredeemable seed here that prevented men from doing the right thing?

  “Lost in thought?” said Fernandez, startling her as he arrived.

  “Good morning,” said Lia coldly.

  “Yesterday’s storm has blown over, at least for the moment,” said Fernandez. “The president is holding a news conference this morning to ask for a full investigation and to pledge free elections. We think that will help. There’s a march to the main police station scheduled for this afternoon. I guess that will tell us how this is going to go.”

  “The police were set up,” Lia told him.

  “Latin America is different than your country and mine,” said Fernandez. He nodded as the waiter came with his coffee. “They don’t have the same traditions here.”

  Lia didn’t feel like arguing.

  “We’ll visit warehouse number two to test the voting machines after breakfast,” she told him. “Then we’ll go back to the vault and finish the checks on the voter cards.”

  “Oh.”

  “Problem?” asked Lia, pretending to be surprised.

  “We decided to rearrange the shipment schedule because of the, uh, problems yesterday. The cards are being shipped out right now.”

  “Peachy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Fernandez didn’t understand the expression, and Lia didn’t bother translating it.

  “It’s not a problem,” she told him. “I’ll finish the machines here and then go to the regional centers. I’ll need a list of the sites and where the envelopes are going so I can use the same test pattern.”

  “I don’t know if we have that,” said Fernandez. “Let me check.”

  He took out a cell phone and called over to the commission’s headquarters. Lia knew that they did have a list — the Art Room had already obtained it. She wondered what it would mean if he told her it didn’t exist — would the logical conclusion be that he was somehow involved in a scam?

  “We can get it,” he told her, glancing up from the phone. Then he went back to talking with his co-worker in rapid Spanish, complaining about all of the bureaucratic problems they had to deal with.

  “Arranging transportation may be a problem,” said Fernandez when he hung up. “Depending on where you’re going. Near the coast isn’t a problem, but once you’re up into the mountains, it can get rather tortuous.”

  “I thought there were helicopters available.”

  “There are, and we will try to get one for you. But between the weather and altitude, they sometimes can’t physically make it there and back, not safely.”

  “Well, hopefully we can figure it out,” said Lia. “Should we order? I’d like to get going.”

  41

  Rubens’ day began with a National Security Council subcommittee meeting at the White House. Given the president’s interest in the Peruvian election scheduled for the weekend, Rubens expected that a good portion of the meeting would be devoted to it

  He also expected that he would run into Debra Collins there. Which he did.

  “You look tired, Bill,” said Collins as they walked down the hall toward the conference room in the basement complex. “Thank you for the information about the riot. I always appreciate a heads-up.”

  “Yes.” Rubens glanced down the hall. No one was coming down behind them. Except for her aide, they were alone. Rubens touched her sleeve to stop her. “Why was Jorge Evans part of the briefing team on Peru?”

  “Jorge?”

  “I find it odd that he’s not a member of your staff but was representing you.”

  Collins made a face as if she didn’t understand — which, to Rubens, meant exactly the opposite. She nodded to her aide, indicating he could go on without her.

  “First of all,” she told Rubens when they were alone, “Jorge was there on behalf of the Latin American Division, not me personally. And second of all, he was the person we could spare who knows the area.”

  “There are no present operations in Peru we’re going to trip over?”

  “You know me better than that. I’m not going to jeopardize your people or our interests by playing some turf war garbage
game.”

  “Oh, that’s rich.”

  “Bill, don’t talk to me like this.” She leaned forward slightly. “Get beyond the personal.”

  “This isn’t personal. Why are you so interested in Peru?”

  “Me? You’re interested in Peru.”

  Her voice was too loud. Rubens thought this was a tactic to get him to be quiet.

  “Why are you interested in Peru?” he repeated, lowering his voice further.

  “The president is interested in Peru — in fair elections. Otherwise I don’t give a shit.”

  “Four-letter words don’t impress me, Debra.”

  “Good.”

  She started across the hall, but he grabbed her arm. Her eyes flashed; he let go.

  “Why did Evans brief us on Peru? Did he volunteer?”

  “This is what happens when I give you a heads-up about a contact that approached the agency? You go paranoid on me?”

  “If my people are in danger—”

  Collins didn’t let him finish. “I’m neither a fool nor a traitor.” She spun and strode angrily into the conference room.

  * * *

  About ten minutes of the meeting was devoted to Peru, and most of the time was taken up by the undersecretary of state for Latin America, who reviewed the election situation. The undersecretary mentioned the disturbance the day before and put it into political perspective: Vice President Ramon Ortez’s numbers in the overnight tracking polls had plummeted. Victor Imberbe of the Peruvian Centrists now had a ten-point lead. Hernando Aznar had picked up a few points as well, though he was still in third place.

  Collins chimed in with the warning that had been delivered by what she called a “high-ranking potential source.” She said his information was still being evaluated; technically, it would be up to the CIA’s analysis side to put it into perspective, though obviously events would show how trustworthy he was.

  Rubens watched her as she spoke. Maybe she was right — maybe she didn’t have an ax to grind and he was just being paranoid. Evans might have just been available, or even been sent over as part of a gradual plan to make sure he knew all the players as he climbed further up the echelon.

  Chaired by one of Hadash’s deputies in his absence, the session moved along expeditiously, and in less than thirty minutes Rubens was packing up his things to go. He thought he might actually get ahead of his daily schedule until a member of the chief of staff’s office met him outside.

  “President wants to talk to you upstairs,” said the staffer, a twenty-two-year-old fresh out of Yale. “And you, too, Ms. Collins.”

  Rubens gritted his teeth. Neither of them said anything as they made their way upstairs. The aide led them to the Oval Office, asking them to wait in the hallway. Rubens held his arms together at his chest, folded there as if they were an armored suit. Collins stood with her back to him, feigning interest in some document her aide had given her downstairs. For perhaps the millionth time, Rubens berated himself for ever having any sort of interest in her, romantic or otherwise. Truly it had been a moment of lunacy, utter lunacy.

  When they were shown in, Marcke was in the mid of a phone call, apparently with a governor whose support he was courting for a highway initiative. He motioned at them to sit down, then continued cajoling the governor, who apparently was refusing to sign off on a change in allocation formulas. It was obvious the president wasn’t getting anywhere; he finally signed off by telling the governor that they would have to agree to disagree.

  “Is Peru going to explode?” Marcke asked as soon as the call ended.

  Collins answered before Rubens could even open his mouth.

  “I don’t think so, Mr. President.”

  Rubens was tempted to ask whether she had taken over the analysis side of the agency as well as operations but knew better than to snipe in front of the president.

  “Billy?”

  “The Peruvians can be unpredictable,” he told the president. “But whatever happens, our mission will succeed.”

  “I don’t have a doubt about that.”

  Marcke got up and went over to the comer of his office, where he kept a golf club. He lined up a putt and took a shot at a target cup before speaking again.

  “George is doing very well in China. He sends his regards,” said the president. “It seems as if they will agree to cut relations with North Korea if the North doesn’t disband their nuclear weapon program and allow full inspections. I don’t know if we should give George too much credit, though. It may go to his head.”

  The president smiled, then turned his attention back to the golf ball. He took another shot.

  “George mentioned something else during our conversation. He’s thinking seriously of retiring.”

  Rubens suddenly realized why Marcke had called him upstairs: he was being considered as a replacement for his mentor.

  As was Collins.

  “I just wanted to make sure that you both knew about this,” Marcke told them. “I promised I wouldn’t try and talk him out of it. It won’t be official for a while. Hopefully, no rumors start until after he’s come back.”

  That was intended to be a warning, Rubens realized.

  Obviously aimed at Collins.

  “You tried to talk him out of it?” she asked.

  “No, he made me promise I wouldn’t,” said the president. “But if either of you want to take a shot at it, be my guest.”

  42

  THE EVENTS OF YESTERDAY WILL NOT 60 UNPUNISHED. ALL OF LIMA SHALL WITNESS THE FEROCITY OF OUR WRATH.

  THE POLICE STATE WILL BE ABOLISHED BY FORCE. FOREIGN INVADERS AND COLLABORATORS WILL BE PUNISHED, HEED OUR WARNING: YOU HAVE TWELVE HOURS TO LEAVE THE CITY, OR DIE FOR YOUR SINS.

  General Túcume couldn’t help but grin as he finished reading the copy of the unsigned communiqué from Sendero Nuevo. The general staff had ordered it distributed two hours after it had been received by e-mail at the Lima headquarters. The threat was considered so important that commanding officers were to acknowledge in writing that they had received it.

  “A bit over-the-top,” said Babin, standing on his crutches next to him.

  “Very much in their style,” said Túcume, hitting the keys on the laptop to save the message in an encrypted file.

  “You would know,” said Babin, crutching across the room.

  Túcume reflected on the Russian’s tone. Had he become more bitter since they had met?

  Certainly. And it was understandable. Babin had been happy to be alive that first afternoon. He had no idea what had happened to his body. It was only later, over much time, that the full reality sank in. Túcume could not blame him.

  Túcume intended to reward all of his people lavishly in the best Inca tradition, and Babin would be no exception. Perhaps a doctor could be found to cure his legs and back or at least ease his pain. The general made a solemn promise to himself to help his friend.

  “You’d better take care to plan your ambush for the cameras,” said Babin. “You may not get the right light for the TV cameras.”

  “There won’t be any television cameras.”

  “I can’t believe you’d miss the opportunity.”

  Actually, there would be something much better — a BBC stringer had asked to join the general on a patrol in the Amazonian jungle weeks before. They were to meet in a few hours.

  The announcement of the discovery of the weapon was critical to Túcume’s plan; keeping it a secret from the public would accomplish nothing. He had gone to great lengths to make sure the news could be broadcast and would seem spontaneous at the same time. He’d settled on the British reporter over several Peruvians because the unprejudiced words of praise from a foreigner would surely be worth more. Members of Peru’s media were commonly thought to be bribed by officers looking to advance, and Túcume did not want his discovery tarnished by such suspicions.

  * * *

  Babin watched the general’s SUV as it made its way down the mountain trail, staring after it until all th
at was left was a thick cloud of yellowish-brown dust. He admired Túcume; in many ways the Indian was like a countryman. The general had the ambition of a Slav and the ability to plan that made Russian chess masters so unbeatable. The plot he had woven to win the election for his candidate — and to cement his own hold over the country — was worthy of Peter the Great. Túcume did not possess the ruthlessness of a criminal like Stalin, who had massacred people on a grand scale; this was a flaw in a great leader, Babin thought, but not an unforgivable one. More problematic was Túcume’s loyalty to people he trusted. Not that Babin had not benefited: a truly ruthless leader would have executed him long ago. Túcume gained very little by keeping him alive, and yet Babin knew very well that he would not even entertain the thought of killing him.

  He also knew that Túcume was unlikely to help him get revenge against the people who had crippled him. Like most Latin Americans, Túcume had a love-hate attitude toward the Yankees. He might criticize the U.S. and take advantage of its foibles, but in the end he would not do anything to seriously enrage it. He was wise enough to understand that doing so would only endanger his vision for the future. Túcume lived for the time when the native peoples were once more the lords of the Andes.

  Unlike Babin, who only lived for revenge.

  Babin pushed back on his crutches, heading toward the barn where the real bomb was still stored. The truck he had sent for would be here within the hour. He had to make sure everything was ready before it arrived.

  43

  They spent the day following Lia from a distance as she inspected the second set of voting machines and then went over to the UN to meet with the board of observers. Lia’s meeting took place near an Internet café, and Karr told Dean he was tempted to send his girlfriend an e-mail.

  “So go ahead,” said Dean.

  “The problem with working for the NSA, Charlie, is that I know how easy it is to trace things.”