“Is there a second warhead?” George Hadash asked from Japan. He sounded tired.
“Mr. Rubens?”
“We haven’t turned up any hard evidence,” Rubens said. “If handled properly, a warhead doesn’t leave radiation behind. In fact, to detect nuclear material, one has to be very close, generally within nine meters, in some cases less. That said, we can state positively that whatever else was done in that barn, the pit of a weapon was not disassembled there.”
“Or was never there in the first place,” Collins said.
“That is correct. We simply don’t know. These things don’t tie themselves into very neat knots.”
“I’d like as much of the search as possible completed before the Peruvian public learns that the known weapon lacks nuclear material,” the president interjected. “After that comes out, political pressure will build quickly for us to leave the country. Build… it’ll go up like a rocket.”
“The international team of inspectors will probably get around to examining that weapon on Saturday,” the general said. “I can’t guarantee our search will be complete by then.”
“I appreciate your frankness, General. Still, do everything humanly possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rubens’ computer beeped, signaling an alert on his secure messaging system. He tapped the keys to bring the note onto the screen.
TUCUME FAMILY OWNS INTEREST IN MINERALE INTERNATIONALE, WHICH HAS WORKER ON AZNAR PAYROLL. WE HAVE FOUND DONATIONS TO AZNAR THAT APPEAR TO HAVE BEEN WASHED THROUGH THIRD PARTIES. PERHAPS HALF AZNAR’S FUNDS IN QUESTION. GALLO CHECKING FOR MORE.
— BIB
So the link between Túcume and the candidate was silver, and Johnny Bib found it. Gallo had probably hacked into the company records and begun comparing what they found to what they knew of Aznar’s finances.
Rubens informed the conferees of the message and filled them in on the silver mining company. “Any contributions from a soldier or his family to a political candidate would be contrary to Peruvian law,” Rubens explained. “This could be part of a sophisticated plot to get Aznar elected, or part of a plot to discredit him.”
“That’s obvious,” Collins said. “It would be nice to know which possibility is the correct one.”
Blanders ignored Collins. “Getting Aznar elected might be one reason that a fake bomb would surface at this time,” he said.
“Be nice if we had some evidence for that,” someone retorted.
“What if Túcume has a real bomb?” Hadash asked.
“Having a weapon and using it are two completely different things,” the president said. “Which may be the reason we are looking at a fake bomb on the world news. Billy, how good is the Túcume-Aznar connection?”
“We’re getting it nailed down.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
“I don’t know yet. Perhaps half Aznar’s campaign money.”
“That’s enough to buy most of the politicians I grew up with,” the president said thoughtfully. “Of course, sometimes the bastards didn’t stay bought — that was always the risk. Do we have any evidence that the candidate knows Túcume is giving him money?”
“No, sir.”
“OK. And the Peruvians are having an election on Sunday. Well, I know a thing or two about politics. State, have the ambassador in Lima find Aznar and inform him of the connection.”
“It’d be better to keep this at arm’s length,” said the secretary of state. He had spent a career in politics, too. “This way we can deny it if blows up in our face.”
“All right,” said the president. “Billy, can one of your people deliver the message convincingly?”
Someday, Rubens thought, he was going to have to tell the president that he hated to be called Billy.
“I have someone who might be credible,” said Rubens. “Hernes Jackson, the former ambassador to Chile.”
“Fine. Leak it to the Peruvian press after Aznar is informed. Don’t get caught doing it.”
“Yes, sir.”
The conference ended on that note. Two minutes later Rubens’ line buzzed with another call. Expecting Hadash, he picked it up. It was Collins.
“You’re just full of surprises today,” she said.
“How so?”
“You parceled out that info on the Túcume connection as if you were Santa Claus handing out presents. You were lucky it wasn’t a videoconference; they would have seen you gloating. How long have you known?”
“I reported the information within sixty seconds of the time I received it.”
“I’ll bet. Stop playing games.”
Rubens couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“All you do is play games,” she continued. “You want Hadash’s job and you’re trashing the agency to get it. You’re manipulating information. You are playing with lives and careers here.”
He hung up without answering.
83
Roughly an hour passed before the guard returned to Lia’s cottage. He carried a small towel and soap.
“This is the best I can do,” he told her. “The water is not very warm.”
“It’ll be fine,” said Lia. “No bag?”
The guard didn’t understand what she meant.
“To put the towel and soap in? Oh, never mind,” she said, stuffing the towel and soap into the briefcase. “I’ll use this.”
She walked with the guard to the shower building. He went inside, pointing out the faucets and soap, as if these weren’t obvious.
“Yes, very good,” she told him finally. She reached down and untied her ankle-high hiking boots. He didn’t take the hint.
“Excuse me. You’re not going to watch me take a shower,” she told him.
“I have to take your shoes.”
“My shoes?”
“You won’t need them in here.”
Lia rolled her eyes, but this had no effect on him.
“Take them. You want my bra, too?”
The guard turned red, embarrassed, but he still took her shoes. He also left the door wide open. Lia went to it and closed it just enough to block the view of the shower and window. She stepped back and threw her socks where they could be seen.
“I’m going for it,” she told Rockman.
“We’d prefer you wait until dark.”
“That’s four hours from now. I can get out right now.” Lia saw no reason to stay in the compound until nightfall. For one thing, it was very possible that the rest of the rebels would return, beefing up the defenses.
And for another — she didn’t need to be rescued like a damsel in distress. She could take care of herself.
“All right,” said Rockman, his tone still slightly disapproving. “Charlie’s about four hundred yards away, coming toward the front of the compound. They’re down to six people total in the hamlet and nearby, counting your friend Paolo. You have just that one guard in front of the building. Two others on the perimeter — we don’t have exact locations on them because of the foliage. They were at the north side three minutes ago.”
Lia slipped the envelope with the voter cards out of the briefcase and tucked it into her waistband below her shirt and sweater. She slipped back, turned on the water, and yelped.
“C-old,” she said, stepping back and watching the door. “Oh. Whoa.”
She stepped over to the window and pushed it open.
“Here we go,” she whispered to Rockman, and she pulled herself up and out. The screen smacked against the frame as she slipped to the ground. It sounded almost like an explosion to her, but she was committed now — with two quick steps she was in the brush behind the building.
As she started to slip into the larger trees, something moved twenty or thirty yards away. Lia froze as a pair of guards ambled through the jungle, guns raised toward the sky. They walked a few paces and stopped, chattering about some sort of food they’d recently eaten.
Lia backtracked to the hut, heart pounding. She slipped along the wall
to the front, dropping to a knee to peer around the corner. The guard was still at his post, eyes cast down on the ground.
Lia had her pistol in her hand and could take him down easily. But the gunshot would bring the others, and she decided to wait until he went inside to check on her. At that point, she could cross the open area to the jungle opposite the settlement.
The young guerrilla was extremely patient. Lia crouched for five, then ten minutes. She was starting to doubt her strategy when finally he went to the door, knocking and then asking if it was OK to come inside.
Lia took off from a sprinter’s position, keeping herself as low to the ground as possible in case anyone else came out of the buildings. As she dove into the foliage on the other side of the path, she heard the guard yelling the alarm from the window she had used to escape from. She crawled forward, rolled in the dirt, then jumped to her feet.
As she did, something caught her from behind and threw her to the ground.
A hand clamped over her mouth.
“Sshh,” hissed a familiar voice. “You’re making way too much noise.”
It was Charlie Dean.
84
General Túcume squinted at the video monitor, trying to decide which of the reporters in the audience outside were actually spies, for either other countries or his own government. He had already given a briefing to the general staff and Peru’ s president on the discovery of the weapon; it was clear from their questions that they were in favor of allowing a thorough examination by “neutral observers” as soon as possible. Túcume had feigned indifference.
The fake bomb was currently at a small base southwest of Puerto América under heavy — and well-trusted-guard. He had proposed moving it by water to a regional base near Santa Cruz, which would still be under his jurisdiction. The president seemed willing to go along with this, but some members of the general staff wanted it airlifted to the air-base at Iquitos, where it would fall under the air force’s jurisdiction. Túcume had turned this aside by pointing out that the field was part of an international airport and inconveniently close to Brazil, which surely would be interested in acquiring such a powerful weapon.
Túcume wanted to delay giving over custody of the bomb for another twenty-four hours. That would guarantee that it wouldn’t be discovered to be a fake until voting was under way.
When the weapon was found out to be phony, his reputation would suffer slightly. There would be some carping — he envisioned headlines declaring he was “General Duped.” So his real goal at the press conference today was to lay out his future defense, cautioning everyone that “real tests” would have to be made.
“They’re getting restless,” said Chimor, his aide.
“The powerless often are.”
Túcume went to the mirror and inspected his uniform, making sure his ribbons were in place. His ancestors would have done the same with their garments made of cumi, the fine weave reserved for rulers. A ruler was supposed to look the role.
“Let us talk to the press,” he said, striding toward the hall.
* * *
Babin arrived at the hotel in time to see Túcume’s press conference on TV in the suite room. It was a revelation. In person, the man was rather short and, while hardly a stuttering fool, not given to poetic turns of phrase. But here he commanded the stage. He looked regal, and the reporters scribbled frantically to take down his words about the importance of Peru and its future. There was no question in the Russian’s mind that the stories Túcume had told of his ancestors were true.
Túcume fended off questions about the discovery. He said that he had personally shot several Maoist scum just a half hour before the bomb was discovered. He was shocked by the discovery of the warhead and claimed not to have believed his weapons expert when he told him what it was. He still had doubts, he added, because “one does not want to believe a countryman can be so evil.”
As the camera panned the crowded room, Babin thought he recognized one of the low-life CIA slimes who had been involved in the operation to double-cross him. Was it Jones? Was it really him? Babin’s anger flared, but he couldn’t be sure.
The one face that had been burned into his memory was that of Jorge Evans. Evans he would never forget. He knew much about Evans — enough to ensure that his wrath would be fully requited.
The CIA would undoubtedly aim its weapons at Túcume next. They’d be watching the press conference; whether Babin was right about the man or not, someone would be here. Someone would be plotting to get the general’s warhead and to kill the general in the process.
Babin would have an easier time if the Americans succeeded; the general was the only person who knew enough to stop him. But as he watched Túcume and listened to him talk about his heritage, Babin felt his emotions aroused. He liked the general and wanted him to succeed.
Babin could not afford to feel sentimental. He steeled himself, and by the time Túcume found him waiting with some of his aides, Babin would have shot the general himself if he thought it would bring him closer to his goal.
“Good, you managed to make the trip quickly,” said Túcume as he came in. “I have some things to discuss. Technical concerns.”
Babin nodded. The general dismissed the others.
“Would the warhead pass an inspection by the International Atomic Energy Agency?” asked Túcume.
“No, I’ve told you that several times. They check for a specific isotope. They have to be very close to the device, but they come prepared and they know what to look for. And then of course they will dismantle it.”
“What about the real warhead? Would they damage the warhead if they examined it?”
Babin’s heart jumped.
“The bomb would not be damaged, but letting anyone close to it is the last thing you should do.” Babin reached to his right leg, which hung off the couch at an odd angle. “Whoever is sent to inspect will include American agents.”
“CIA?”
“Of course. I recognized a man at your press conference. He stood at the back and didn’t say anything.”
“I’ll get a tape. You can point them out.”
“Yes. I will. But it’s not going to end there.”
Babin’s lower back began to spasm — this sometimes happened when he sat in one place for a long time. He tried to relax, pushing a slow breath through his teeth. Túcume waited patiently.
“The CIA will have people trying to recover the bomb,” Babin said finally. “It’s just a question of when. They’ll use — I would suspect that they would use the cover of an international inspection team. Then they will strike.”
“They can have that weapon. The president has already volunteered to turn it over to the Atomic Energy people.”
“It’s the other one I’m talking about, General. Don’t even think of showing it to them.” Babin reached for his crutches. “Do you mind if I move around a little? My back is in knots.”
Túcume gave him a hand, supporting him while he found his balance. For just that moment, Babin felt sorry for the general and wished the circumstances were different. But their courses were set.
“After the election, any difficulties will be swept away,” said Túcume. “You’ll see. The Americans will not dare to move against me then — it will be like declaring war on the country.”
Babin crutched his way around the room slowly, bending his neck to stretch his muscles, as this sometimes helped relieve the pain farther down.
“You’re sure your opponents will allow a fair result?” said Babin. He had to force the words through his teeth; even the muscles in his mouth were knotting.
“The army will guarantee it,” said Túcume. “And with UN observers, the process will be fair.”
Had he not been in so much pain, Babin might have laughed at the irony of someone who was trying to steal the election calling it fair. He maneuvered himself so his back was against the wall, then pushed his head to flex the muscles. The pain relented ever so slightly, then surged up his spine, cr
amping his shoulders.
He would endure. Only a few more days. Then it would be gone forever.
85
Dean kept his hand clamped over Lia’s mouth as two guerrillas ran up the path in front of the houses and turned toward the back, going in the direction they thought she had taken. They shouted back and forth. Someone on the other side of the buildings apparently thought he saw something and began firing.
“You all right?” asked Dean, letting her go.
“I’m fine.”
“Where are your shoes?”
“I left them in the shower.”
“Get on my back,” he told her. “I’ll carry you.”
“No.”
“You are the most stubborn human being in the world.”
“My feet are fine,” insisted Lia.
“Then come on, for cryin’ out loud. Before they figure out which way you went.”
86
“They’re out of the camp,” Telach told Rubens as soon as he entered the Art Room. “Lia saw a chance and she took it. She’s with Charlie. We’ve launched the helicopters.”
Rubens nodded.
“You still want Servico, the comandante?”
“Yes,” said Rubens — and then immediately he second-guessed himself, realizing that he hadn’t entirely considered the situation before speaking.
He’d told the president that he could get Servico, and now Rubens didn’t want to disappoint him. His prestige would be dented, or at a minimum he would be losing a chance to enhance it.
It was ego. And it was more than that — it was chits to become national security adviser.
Was that going to color every decision he made now? That is not who I am, Rubens told himself. I am above those sorts of political games. I have no need for them.
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