She adjusted the strap and tucked it under her arm like an oversize purse. Then she went to the doorway, hoping to overhear Servico talking to her guards. But he was gone; only the sentries remained, and when she bent her head close to the opening to see beyond them, one of the men turned and asked what she was doing.
“Nature calls,” she said in English, sarcastic at first, then more diplomatically in Spanish. The guard frowned but beckoned for her to follow. Lia felt a twinge of fear as she passed the second guard — it would have been easy for him to hit her with the butt end of his gun. But the moment passed.
They went all the way across the compound to the last hut in the semicircle. The man put his hand up and ordered her to stop. He leaned inside and yelled, checking to see if there was anyone else inside.
The house had been converted into a shower and latrine. The toilets consisted of a row of plywood boxes over a pit in the ground; fortunately, she really didn’t have to use them.
Lia looked around the room. The showers — there were two, with no curtains, on the right — had some sort of running water, because one of the faucets was dripping. There were windows at the side of the room and another pair at the rear; they held screens but no glass. The screens hung on hinges at the top and were secured by simple hooks at the bottom.
“I’d like to take a shower,” Lia announced in Spanish, stepping out of the latrine building. “Can you get me a towel?”
Her minder seemed perplexed by the request.
“A shower, to wash,” she told him. “I need a towel.”
“I understand what you said,” replied the guard.
“So?”
“What are you doing, Lia?” asked Rockman.
“You would need permission from Comrade Paolo.”
“For a towel?”
“Yes.”
“So let’s ask him.”
“No.”
“Is he in here?” asked Lia, starting toward the next cottage.
The guard ran in front of her and blocked her way with his rifle.
“Well, if you don’t want me to ask him, you do it,” she said. “Can I take a shower or not?”
The man frowned and gestured that she should go back to her cottage.
“Are you going to ask?” she insisted.
“Maybe.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Lia, don’t push it,” warned Rockman.
“All right,” said the guard. “But you go back first. I will ask.” He gestured with his rifle. “Back with me, and then I will ask.”
80
Paul “Paolo” Servico was a member of the New Path’s ruling committee, by some accounts the number three man in the organization. He was also wanted in England in connection with raising money for terrorist groups.
He was worth capturing for several reasons, but kidnapping foreigners was expressly forbidden by U.S. law without prior authorization from the president. While he could say that Servico was merely taken in the course of an operation to free one of his agents, Rubens greatly preferred playing it straight and vetting the decision beforehand. So he called Hadash, who was on a plane en route to Japan from China.
“Will taking him compromise your operative, or your original mission?” asked Hadash when Rubens finished briefing him.
“I don’t believe so.”
“Hold on.”
As he waited on hold, Rubens couldn’t help thinking of Hadash’s decision to resign. It had utterly blindsided him. Surely it must be something personal; he’d have heard political whisperings. Nor was there any noticeable animosity between Marcke and Hadash.
But if it was personal, surely Hadash would have mentioned it. So perhaps it was a scandal that Rubens was somehow blind to. In that case, Hadash’s reluctance would make a great deal of sense.
George Hadash involved in a scandal? Impossible.
How ironic, Rubens thought, to have the machinery of one of the greatest intelligence agencies in the world at his fingertips and to be powerless to use it in this instance.
“Bill, the president would like to speak to you,” said Hadash. “I’m talking with him on another line. I’m going to connect us all.”
“Of course,” said Rubens.
“Billy, what are you proposing to do with Servico?” asked Marcke as soon the connection came through.
“Debrief him. Then turn him over to Peru or even to London. It is still remotely possible that he has information about the warhead.”
“Billy, your person comes first,” said Marcke. “But if you can get him without jeopardizing the operative or your mission, do it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Find a safe place to confine him. But I don’t want this ending up on 60 Minutes. Determine whether he has anything useful or not; then we’ll arrange to turn him over to London. Or Peru, depending on the situation.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was there anything else?” Hadash asked Rubens.
“Not at the moment.”
“We’ll talk to you during the conference call,” said Hadash, and the line snapped clear.
81
Dean closed his eyes as the floatplane pitched toward the blacktop, its wings fluttering up and down. The aircraft seemed to be having second thoughts — its nose pitched up as the ground came closer. The trees were so close on either side that when Dean opened his eyes for a last-second peek all he saw was green.
The motor roared. Sure that the pilot had pulled off at the last possible second, Dean braced himself. Finally he opened his eyes and realized they were stopping.
“This space ahead is more open,” said the pilot. “I need it to take off. I don’t like feeling hemmed in when I leave a place. Landing is one thing, but to take off — a bird needs an open sky.”
Dean was not about to argue with him. He reached into his pocket and took out the agreed-to five hundred-dollar bills — and then added five more, along with some sols.
“This will cover whatever other expenses you have,” he said, holding the money out. His other hand gripped one of his pistols. “And buy silence.”
“Silence is a very necessary quality in my profession,” said the pilot, taking the bills as the plane halted, straining against its brakes.
Dean grabbed his gear and jumped out, running to the nearby field. The aircraft began to move instantly, and by the time he reached the field it was roaring up the road. The airplane pulled up easily, banking off to the east.
Dean trotted parallel to the road a few hundred feet, then zigged farther into the field, angling toward a high spot he could use to survey the area. The relatively flat parcel had been used until recently as a farm field; he passed an old iron plow overgrown in the weeds.
“How we doing, Charlie?” asked Rockman as Dean stopped to get his bearings.
“I’m fine. Yourself?”
“Bit of a cold. I’m going to take you from here. Sandy’s staying with Tommy.”
“How’s Lia?”
“Still in the compound, but she’s setting up something to slip away.”
“Tell her to hold on.”
“I’ve only said that five hundred times. The first landing site we need you to look at is two miles due north of where you are. Parallel the road for a mile; then we’ll tell you where to turn. We have a U-2 overhead, but we want you to double-check the jungle perimeter. Lia thinks there are mines near the village. The trees that show the safe path are marked with a notch. See if there’s anything like that near the landing site.”
“All right. I know the drill.”
Dean checked his weapons, bent to retie his shoes, then started walking double time in the direction of the guerrilla compound.
82
Between Jackson’s information about Sholk and Tommy’s Indian housekeeper, Rubens now had no doubt that the arms dealer had survived the crash. The link to General Túcume was irrefutable. And the old woman’s story confirmed Rubens’ suspicion that there was another bomb.
> Ambassador Jackson’s surprise identification of one of the post office hostage takers as an army soldier was not just another intriguing connection with Túcume. While Rubens realized that it was not definitively proven that the man was working on the general’s behalf — as Mr. Dean so recently illustrated, an underling could easily act on his own — it suggested that at least some of the guerrilla operations in the capital and elsewhere might have been staged by the general. Until now, all of the military was believed to favor Vice President Ortez. Túcume in his meeting with the CIA station chief some days before had come as close as he was allowed by military policies to endorsing Ortez.
But the guerrilla attacks had had hurt the current government and Ortez. While this might have been the result of miscalculations at first, surely someone running a clandestine campaign to bolster Ortez would have stopped them when he saw that the results were the opposite of what he wanted.
The “discovery” of documents linking the guerrillas with Imberbe at the same time the bomb was found — a matter of considerable importance in Peru — told Rubens that Túcume was not trying to help Imberbe, either. So what was Túcume’s agenda?
A coup?
Túcume did not have enough soldiers under his control to pull one off; his units were spread thin over a vast area hundreds of miles from the capital, where forces loyal to the general staff were stationed. Even the Peruvians on the general staff who hated Túcume were having trouble scaring up any evidence of that — though the latest intercepts from the country indicated they were spreading rumors and probably laying the groundwork for such accusations.
Whatever Túcume was up to — assuming he was the mastermind and not being used by someone else — the U.S. needed to find where he might have the bomb hidden. Aside from obvious places like the military bases under his command and the village where his relatives lived, the list was rather short. Johnny Bib’s people were trying to expand it, so that it could be turned over to the Peru Task Force as it searched for the bomb, but when Rubens met him in one of the Art Room conference centers for an update, Johnny’s demeanor made it clear there had been little progress before he even began to speak.
“The problem is, we don’t really know all that much about Túcume,” said Ambassador Jackson, who along with Segio Nakami had accompanied Johnny Bib to the session. “The CIA dossier is far too brief. His military records are extensive. His finances, for example: clearly he must have access to more money than it would appear.”
“Yes,” said Rubens. “Have we looked at the finances of his relatives?”
“We have the bank accounts,” said Segio. “They have money from mining interests. We haven’t finished tracing all of the various family members and company holdings. But the flow to him — that’s what we’re missing.”
“Drug money?” asked Rubens.
“Supposedly very honest, incredibly honest,” said Jackson. “I’m relying on the CIA assessment, but his statements and military career would seem to back it up. And his name never appears in the various files on the narco trade in the north.”
“The assessment is skimpy,” said Rubens. “There’s not even mention of a girlfriend in the backgrounder.”
“According to the State Department backgrounder, the man is a military saint, brave, honest, and celibate. In a world as big as ours, there must be at least one, and apparently he’s it,” Jackson said sourly.
Rubens rubbed his forehead, trying to think of some shortcut to make their work, if not easier, at least more expedient. Much of the agency’s available manpower was being used to examine different intercepts and electronic data relating to army movements and the government. Desk Three had showered several of Túcume’s camps as well as suspected guerrilla strongholds with satellite-launched listening devices to help gather intelligence. Even with computers doing a large part of the work, however, collating and interpreting the information took considerable time and energy. It was a brute-force solution to the problem, a necessary approach certainly, but it couldn’t be expected to yield immediate results.
And they needed immediate results.
“The candidate who has benefited most from recent events,” said Jackson, “has been Aznar. He’s been something of a lightweight in the past. Perhaps there’s a connection between him and Túcume.”
“We haven’t seen one,” said Johnny Bib.
“Obviously they’d have to hide it,” Jackson murmured.
“There must be a connection,” Rubens insisted. “There are many ways to help a campaign. Companies provide in-kind services — telephone banks for example. You have to look beyond financial records.”
“Silver,” said Johnny Bib.
“What about silver?”
“The Incas had silver.” Johnny Bib jumped up and ran to the door. “I’ll update you,” he said, disappearing.
“Odd duck,” said Jackson.
“More than odd,” said Rubens.
Segio simply smiled.
“What do we have new on Babin?” Rubens asked.
“There are no photos of him,” said Jackson. “We have a description based on Mr. Karr’s interview with the housekeeper. Someone who uses crutches or a cane, although he can walk some on his own. Rough idea of his height, hair color, weight. It can be passed on to Peruvian intelligence.”
“Yes,” said Rubens, though doing so would beg the question of why the Americans were looking for Babin.
“We’re looking at intercepts related to the radar station near the farm where he was,” added Segio. “There is a faint possibility that there might be something there, such as money transfers in the region, that sort of thing. Nothing has come up yet. If they used messengers, if he handled things himself, it will be difficult to find any of that.”
“Let’s find out everything we can,” said Rubens. “I’m sure there are other things we don’t know.”
“What is the CIA doing to find their prodigal son?” said Jackson.
“They’re looking,” said Rubens, refusing to be more specific.
The agency would leave no stone unturned. What they did with Babin once they found him — well, that was hardly a matter for speculation, was it?
If Rubens’ people grabbed Babin, what tales might the Russian tell? The CIA, and by extension Collins, would be embarrassed, possibly worse. A leak to the right Senate staffer and Collins’ candidacy for national security adviser would be torpedoed, no matter how cleverly she tried to distance herself from the initial operation.
Rubens winced internally. He liked to think of himself as someone who did not play political games, certainly not with the president and national security. Sholk — Babin — had to be found, but not because doing so would benefit Rubens. If there was a real nuke, Babin would know. And he would probably know where it was.
“Do you think the agency was operating under presidential orders to shoot down Babin’s plane?” Jackson asked as he and Segio got up to go.
“I have to say, Ambassador, you would be in a better position than me to make that judgment. You were closer to that administration than I.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say I was close. Different parties, among other things.” Jackson smiled, or was it a grimace? “I’d say it’s a good possibility that the agency had marching orders. Of course, they will have to take the rap now.”
“No way to avoid it,” Rubens agreed.
Jackson zeroed in. “You don’t particularly like the agency, do you, Dr. Rubens?”
“We’ve had our differences,” Rubens admitted, then felt compelled to add, “We are carrying heavy burdens, and we’re only human.”
“You’re sure there’s another bomb?”
“Highly likely.”
“Will we find it?”
Peru was being crisscrossed by a growing armada of U-2s, Global Hawks, and other reconnaissance aircraft, searching for hiding places and trucks similar in size to those that would have left the tracks Karr had found. Army personnel, CIA officers, a number of experts
from the State Department and other agencies were working with the Peruvians to watch their ports, airports, and borders. NSA teams were sorting through mounds of signal intelligence, looking for different links with the bomb. Thousands of people were working on this.
But the task was immense. Peru was about the size of California, Oregon, Washington, Nevada, and Utah put together. It was covered with thick tropical forests and inhospitable mountains. The warhead was smaller than an office desk.
“You’ll have to excuse me, gentlemen; I have a phone call that I must make.”
* * *
General Spielmorph, the officer appointed to head the task force dealing with the weapon in Peru, moderated the secure conference call with the president and others directly involved with the American response. The general briefly summarized the situation in his native Oklahoma drawl, starting with Karr’s discovery, which had been shared with the task force commander minutes after it had been made. The general informed his listeners that the search grids, already concentrated in the north, were being shifted to focus around the houses. Ground-penetrating radar would be used to map possible underground bunkers and hiding places. He was sending a Delta team to inspect the house and barn a second time — unnecessary in Ruben’s opinion, though he didn’t say a word.
“We don’t want this to look too much like an American operation,” the secretary of state said. “It’s better for Peru to be perceived as dealing with this very forcefully — it’s not only a model for similar crises, God forbid, but it removes some political problems.”
“It’s a matter of efficiency,” the general replied. “The Peruvians are very, shall we say, deliberate.”
“Are they dragging their feet?” the president asked.
“No. This is all happening very quickly. They’re used to a slower pace than we are, generally speaking. From their perspective, they may think they’re rushing right along. Major General Maduro, the chief of staff, has been cooperative. Prickly, but cooperative. They don’t want us talking directly to Túcume, although we are. They have the equivalent of a reinforced battalion physically protecting the warhead. That’s actually the largest concentration of troops in the region. The guerrillas can’t get it, at least. I’m certain of that.”
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