“You promised me full access,” said the reporter.
Finally, it was as the general had rehearsed.
“I think on this—”
“You told me you never went back on your promises.”
“This area is still dangerous,” said Túcume.
“As dangerous as being ambushed? I doubt it. Come on, General. You gave me your word.”
“Come then. Stay next to my sergeant there. He is a veteran and has a good head.”
Túcume turned and gestured to the major to show the way.
49
To Lia, La Oroya looked like an old European village dropped into the mountains, decorated with a few modem signs and lights, then populated with Indians who’d been given a ragtag assortment of clothes from a Goodwill drop-off bin.
The UN convoy drove around the outskirts, up a narrow road made of paving stones, then around a square and back down toward the countryside. Fernandez had to veer sharply twice to miss llamas in the roadway; the large animals didn’t seem to notice, standing placidly and munching on the bare vegetation at the side of the road.
A string of old buildings sat behind a long rusted chain-link fence on the way out of town, part of a mining operation abandoned some years before. The air smelled of copper, smog from the nearby processing plants clinging to the peaks. Just past the fence, the caravan of trucks and cars turned off the highway onto a hard-packed mountain road that twisted around a cliff and then entered a wide valley. A quarter of a mile later, they came to the warehouse where the area’s voting machines were stored.
A single guard in a policeman’s uniform stood at the entrance. He greeted the convoy with unabashed glee, no doubt happy to finally see someone after standing for hours or maybe days alone at his post. The workers jumped down and began unloading the trucks.
Lia had planned to get something to eat and come back once the machines and cards were settled, but she decided to go inside now and make the switch; the chaos of the group’s arrival would make it easier, and she saw no reason to wait. She took her pack and the briefcase with the laptop and walked inside, Fernandez in tow.
After the careful security of Lima, the laissez-faire was shocking — even if it did suit Lia’s purposes. There was no one at the door and no one inside. The interior consisted of a large front room and a smaller back room, divided by a thick plaster wall with windowlike openings and an arched doorway. The front had been the eating area for workers in the nearby mine complex. Except for the voting machines stacked against the wall and the box of voter cards atop one of them, it was completely empty; there was no furniture, not even a single chair. A string of work lights hung from the ceiling, their 100-watt bulbs barely enough to throw a few dim rays into the corners. The windows at the side were so caked with dirt that they might as well have been boarded over.
“Can we get more lights?” Lia asked Fernandez. “And maybe a table?”
“I’ll get something,” he told her.
The back room had been a kitchen. The lights did not extend this far, and shadows hung over most of the room. Lia took a small LED penlight from her pocket and shone it around the room. It had been stripped of its appliances and sinks; the pipes along the back wall were capped. There were two windows on either side, covered with large pieces of plywood.
Back in the main room, Lia examined one of the windows. They were secured by metal pins that were locked into the casing at the side. She pushed at it, trying to see how difficult it would be to open. The metal fell off and clanged to the floor.
“Whoops,” she said, turning and looking at the two men who were carrying tables in. Neither man paid her any attention.
“Rockman?” whispered Lia.
“I’m here,” said the runner. “Tommy and Dean are watching the warehouse from the hillside. Dean says we can get in real easy tonight.”
Lia resisted the impulse to tell Rockman that she didn’t see him standing anywhere nearby. She picked up her briefcase and pack and took them near the wall of the kitchen. Then she dragged one of the tables over, opening its legs and flipping it over.
“What’s the envelope number?” she asked Rockman, opening the laptop.
“You’re going to make the switch right now?”
“What’s the number?” she said again.
He gave her the number. Lia found the envelope. But before she could swap it with the replacement in the lining of the briefcase, a parade of workers entered with boxes. Two local government officials also came in, looking around. She nodded at them; they stared stone-faced but didn’t ask any questions.
Lia positioned her backpack so that it hid what she was doing. She turned on the computer, pressing the buttons that controlled the sound to flip it to the highest setting. A loud ba-leep filled the room.
The men were stacking the tables near the door, not paying any attention to her. One of the officials began berating the men for not being gentle enough with the tables.
“They are not sacks of flour,” complained the man in Spanish. “Be careful. This is the future of the country in your hands.”
Lia slid her hand into the case, opening the panel in the lining. She looked across at the workers, who were now being instructed by a UN supervisor who wanted the machines stored closer to the back of the room. The men looked at him with dazed expressions — he wasn’t explaining why, just telling them it had to be so.
Do it now, she told herself, and she pulled the envelope up into her hand, slipped it down behind the laptop, and reached toward the box.
As she did, Fernandez walked in through the door. She dropped the envelope on the top of the pile, leaving it there as he approached.
50
“Marie, you better look at this,” Rockman told Telach, pointing to the monitor with the feed from the Peruvian television station.
As Telach came over, he jacked the volume so she could hear. A woman in fatigues — not an army uniform but undoubtedly chosen to suggest one — was interviewing a middle-aged man whose Spanish had a decidedly British accent. He was a reporter from the BBC, and he said that he had been with the army unit that made the incredible find in the guerrilla village after heavy fighting a few hours before.
“What incredible find?” asked Telach.
“Wait,” said Rockman.
The screen flashed to a still photo of a crated cylinder in what looked like a room dug into the hillside.
“That’s a missile warhead,” Rockman told Telach. “Russian. We briefed on those eight months ago when we were looking at the Russian ABM system. They’re calling it a bomb, but that’s a nuke. I remember the assembly at the rear.”
“Are you sure?”
“I just punched the image over to the weapons people, so we’ll get something definitive, but yeah. I’m sure of it.”
“In Peru?”
“This is a pre-broadcast feed. They’re just uploading it. It’ll go over the air in a second. I haven’t had time to pin down the location, but it’s up in the north, west of Iquitos. This is a BBC affiliate. The reporter’s an English guy.”
Telach leaned over and hit a preset that took the feed back to the image thirty seconds before, freezing it so she could look at the bomb.
“It’s a warhead, but it doesn’t go on a Gorgon,” she said, referring to the Russian ABM system. “There would be a set of blisters on the right there.”
“I swear I’ve seen it,” said Rockman.
“I’ll alert Mr. Rubens. How’s Lia?”
“She decided to go ahead and make the switch herself,” said Rockman, sitting back upright at his station. “Hang on. She’s almost done.”
Rubens grabbed the dedicated phone to the Art Room as soon as it began to ring.
“Rubens.”
“Mr. Rubens, there’s a report in Peru that the military has found a nuclear weapon in the northern jungles, apparently belonging to the rebels,” said Marie Telach.
Rubens prided himself on remaining calm under any circumstance, bu
t even he had to take a moment before he could respond.
“Get me the details,” he told Telach. “I’m putting in a call to the White House right now.”
51
“What are you doing?” Fernandez asked Lia. He had found another set of work lamps similar to those strung along the ceiling.
“I figured I could get going, get done, and get out of here,” she said. She reached down and took the authentic envelope from under the replacement, slitting it open with her fingernail.
“Don’t you want something to sit on?” he asked.
“That would be nice,” said Lia.
“There are some chairs in the trucks. Do you have enough power in your battery?”
Lia remembered the excuse she had given him at the bank.
“For one or two tests, I can get away with it,” she told him. “But if not, I think I can reach the overhead cords. That’s OK, right?”
“Sure.” He glanced to her right, looking at the box of cards. Then he went to get the chair.
Once he was gone, Lia finished switching the envelopes. After the original was sealed inside the briefcase, she took another envelope from the middle of the pile and slit it open to “test” the cards. The diagnostics were just starting when Fernandez returned.
Besides the chair, he had a bottle of water and two green leaves in his fingers.
“Chew these. They’re coca leaves. The natives around here use them for energy. They carry them in little bags. I got a couple from one of the workers.”
Dubious, Lia took one of the leaves and nibbled at the corner.
Fernandez laughed. “It won’t make you a drug addict; don’t worry.”
“Maybe I’ll try it later,” she said, taking a sip of water.
52
Dean picked up the binoculars and scanned the road back toward La Oroya. A large four-door pickup was heading down the road in their direction; the rear bed was empty and it was likely that the truck was heading toward one of the mining operations farther south.
“The army?” asked Karr, settling down behind him.
“Nah. Just a truck.”
“They go to all that trouble in the city, and here anybody could walk in and take the cards, take the machines, take everything,” said Karr.
“Maybe the people are too honest to steal the election,” said Dean.
Dean rubbed his hands together. The thin air was crisp; it was at least ten degrees cooler than it had been in the city.
“Lia’s done. Switch is made,” said Rockman over the communications system. “No trouble. She’s coming out.”
“Man, she has all the fun,” said Karr.
“I told her you guys could handle it,” said Rockman.
“Tommy’s only kidding,” said Dean.
He rose, turning his glasses in the direction of the building. He could see Lia walking out with Fernandez. The UN escort put his hand on her shoulder and Dean felt a pang of jealousy.
“Hey, that pickup’s going up the road,” said Karr. “Going over to the UN people.”
Dean raised his glasses, watching. The lone policeman at the site spotted the truck and walked over to meet it.
Dean pulled up the A2 assault gun he’d slung over his shoulder. Specially designed for Desk Three, the A2 fired caseless bullets with almost no kick and with extreme accuracy, a sniper’s dream. But the gun was meant for relatively short ranges; six hundred yards was nothing for a Remington, but it was at the tail end of the A2’s reach.
Dean zeroed in on the policeman who was walking over. They’d looked him over thoroughly earlier; he was armed with an ancient revolver and had been drinking most of the morning.
One shot, he’d be dead. Lia would be on her own.
He’d put a string of bullets across the windshield of the truck. That would give Lia enough time to find cover.
“There’s a truck,” he heard Karr telling Rockman in the background. “We’re not sure what’s going on. Tell Lia to watch it. Charlie’s got ’em.”
Did he?
Absolutely.
The door to the cab opened. Dean felt his heart leap. But the man who got out didn’t have a weapon; he walked to the back of the truck and relieved himself while the other man spoke to the cop.
Karr started hee-hawing.
Dean kept his weapon aimed at the truck. The Land Rover with Lia made a U-turn and drove away. Dean waited until they were back on the highway to put his weapon down.
“Lia’s done. They’re going back to the village to get some dinner,” said Rockman.
“About time,” said Karr. “I want a beer.”
“No time for that. See if you can get over to the airfield.”
“I thought we weren’t leaving until tomorrow morning,” said Karr.
“There’s been a change in plans. We’ll give you a full brief when you get to the airfield.”
“What about backing up Lia?” said Dean.
“She can take care of herself.”
“Wait a second—”
“She’s fine, Charlie,” said Telach, breaking in. “Please just make your way to the airfield as soon as possible.”
53
Stephan Babin laughed when he heard the news report. Túcume had added a delicious twist to his plan: not only had the army discovered that the terrorists possessed a nuclear weapon, but documents indicated that they had been in contact with the campaign director for Victor Imberbe — Victor Imbecile, as the general called him.
All across the country, people would be scampering through their garbage to find the government’s printed guides to the election. Vice President Ramon Ortez was unacceptable because he couldn’t protect Lima and had told the police to fire into a crowd of protestors. Imberbe was a terrorist.
Who could they turn to? Túcume’s chosen puppet, Hernando Aznar, of the Party of the Future.
Túcume had told Babin that Aznar would do much better than the polls showed, because he had strong support among the natives, who were rarely polled. Yesterday he had been within eight points of Imberbe officially; by the general’s rough estimate, this meant he was actually within four of the leader. By tomorrow morning, even the polls would show Aznar ahead.
Babin’s own plan was proceeding as well. The real warhead—his warhead — was aboard a ship that had left a few hours ago from Chimbote on the coast. Babin would meet the ship in Mexico. Then he would take the warhead on its final journey.
His satellite phone rang. Worried that the man who was to pick him up in the morning had been delayed, Babin answered quickly — and found himself talking to the general, not the soldier he had bribed to take him to the coast.
“Stephan, have you been listening to the news?” asked Túcume.
“Of course. Congratulations.”
“I owe you a great deal, my friend. After the election, you will have a villa, and a driver, and perhaps a girl or two to keep you company.”
“I’m touched.” said Babin.
“A driver is on his way. He’ll take you to the helicopter — we have a suite for you in Lima. No more exile. And I’ve arranged for new doctors. We are grateful people, Stephan.”
Babin didn’t know what to say.
“There were rebels in the area, and they struck just at the right time,” continued Túcume. “My ancestors protected me — I have never felt so optimistic. And you are the cause.”
“Perhaps I should stay here until after the election,” said Babin. “I don’t want the Americans putting two and two together.”
“Don’t worry about them,” said the general. “You’ll be safe with me in Lima.”
Babin had not foreseen this. Refusing the ride, that wasn’t an option; he couldn’t afford to do anything that would make the general suspicious. Shooting the driver or hiding — once Túcume realized something was wrong, Babin would have a difficult time escaping.
If he went to Lima, could he escape from there? Could he get to Ecuador and then Mexico, where the cargo container would land?<
br />
There was some leeway, but…
“Stephan, are you there?”
Babin heard a vehicle approaching. “I’m here, General.”
“My aide will take care of you. He should be there any minute.”
“I hear him.”
“Excellent. I’ll see you when I get to Lima.”
“Godspeed,” said Babin. “Godspeed.”
54
Rubens swiveled in his desk chair, listening as Jackson detailed what he had discovered over the course of the last two days. When he had asked to speak to Rubens, the weapon had not been discovered. Now the images from Peru seemed a graphic verification of Jackson’s work, though he apparently had not been told about them yet. Rubens listened to the ambassador, trying not to interrupt or prejudice him; he wanted as much raw information as possible before saying anything that might influence the researcher’s opinion or presentation of the facts.
“The arms dealer worked in Russia and the Middle East, traveling back and forth,” Jackson told him. “He must have been planted or cultivated around the time of Bosnia, because there are no references to him earlier than that. There are two different possibilities for the program that he was part of, but wherever he started, he quickly became more important. There’s a reference to someone working with the CIA in Moscow in 1999. They used the code word Sholk or ‘silk’ in Russian, which is from ‘IIIëJIK.’” Jackson spelled the Cyrillic letters out. “I’m not very good with Cyrillic letters.”
“That’s quite all right.”
“You see, the Cyrillic is important, because they use that for an operative in Syria the next year,” explained Jackson. “And it’s in several intercepts a few months before Iron Heart begins — the Russians may have been on to him by then.”
“You don’t think that’s a coincidence?”
“Unlikely, given the way they were assigning identities at the time. But possible. Notice the parallels — again in Afghanistan after the American action there, and then in Moscow.”
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