Lia unpacked slowly, remembering how claustrophobic she had become in the Lima vault. She needed a ruse to get the guard away; she certainly didn’t want him hanging over her shoulder — he smelled like a rat fresh from the nearby jungle.
There was an electrical outlet right next to the table, so she couldn’t use her old standby of needing an extension cord.
“Are you in the army?” Lia asked the guard, in Spanish, trying to make conversation.
He shook his head.
“The army — and the police — helped me yesterday. They saved me from the rebels,” she said.
There was no reaction from the guard. Lia booted up her computer and fussed with the equipment.
“It’s kind of stuffy in here,” she said. “Could you get me a drink of water?”
“I cannot leave my post,” said the guard.
Heaven forbid, Lia thought.
She had the replacement envelope with its voter cards in the lining of the briefcase. She thought of just going ahead and pulling it out; the guard wouldn’t know what she was doing anyway. But she worried that he might have some reason to tell the deputy mayor.
And the stench was really starting to get to her. She fingered the top of her computer, trying to think.
“Do you want water or not?” said the guard.
“Yes, I do.”
“You can get it down the steps at the back of the hall. There is a machine there.”
“I can’t leave my laptop,” she told him. “It’s against the rules.”
“So take it.”
Lia was about to tell him that she had changed her mind, but then realized that if she had the card in her hand when she did the check, it would be easy to make the switch while she worked, even with him nearby. She could go downstairs and take the cards from the envelope, returning with them in her hand or even her briefcase. The only problem was that she wouldn’t know in advance which card was which; she’d have to test them all.
“Hallway at the back?” she asked, packing up. “Are you going to show me?”
“I have to guard this room.”
“That’s what you should do,” said Lia. “Don’t be offended, but I have to take my laptop with me. Those are the rules that I have.”
“Of course.”
“Tommy’s moving to the back of the room to cover you,” Rockman told her. “Are you really that thirsty?”
“Oh, parched,” she whispered as she walked down the hall.
93
The Art Room arranged a hotel room in Lima where Dean could take a shower and shave. He even managed a nap. The nap might have been a mistake, however: it left him feeling as if he had a hangover.
His new clothes were stiff, and while they fitted perfectly, they weren’t exactly his style — a dark black suit with a crisp red shirt, fancy brownish shoes, and socks so thin they felt as if they weren’t there. At least there was no tie.
Two Heckler & Koch P7 pistols had come with the clothes. They were easier to hide than the bulky Glock pistols he’d been carrying, but as he stepped into the terminal at Lima’s Jorge Chavez Airport, Dean suddenly felt as if everyone were staring at the barely perceptible bulges at his ribs. He took careful note of the security people scattered around as he walked briskly toward the new arrivals board. And he made sure confusion registered on his face as he looked at it.
Ambassador Jackson had flown into Bolivia a few hours before. There he’d caught a flight bound for Lima on a commercial regional carrier for a modicum of cover. Peru’s state-owned airline was not renowned for being on time, and the plane was reported fifteen minutes late. Dean folded his arms, made a show of looking put out — this wasn’t hard — then went in search of coffee. He downed his first cup in a quick gulp, then ordered a second and found a small table to sit at. He took out his satellite phone, pretending to use it as he checked in with Rockman.
“The plane’s about five minutes out,” the runner told him.
“That’s good.”
“How you doing? You sound like you have a cold.”
“Just tired. I’m all right.” Dean took a nonchalant glance around him. Two men in brown suits were watching him from across the terminal. They’d be Peruvian intelligence agents. “How’s Lia?”
“Sandy’s running her,” said Rockman, referring to Sandy Chafetz. “She’s fine.”
“I thought you always got the hot jobs.”
“I do.”
Dean glanced at his watch, a bit of stage action for the spies. “I thought this was a piece of cake.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not important.”
“Yeah.” He drained the last of his coffee. It hadn’t made a dent in his fatigue. He decided he’d get another cup and rose. “Listen, I’m going to get some more joe. Anything is up, give me a shout.”
“I don’t think mineral salesmen use the word ‘shout.’ ”
Jackson’s plane had landed and the passengers were just starting to clear customs by the time Dean ambled over to the gate area. Even though he’d only been given a verbal description, he had no trouble picking out the ambassador. Besides being a good ten or twenty years older than the other passengers getting off the plane, he wore the casually dressy clothes Dean associated with prep schools and the foreign service — a two-buttoned blue blazer, slightly rumpled khaki pants, and well-worn loafers.
“Ambassador?” said Dean, approaching him as he walked onto the concourse.
“That was a long time ago,” said Jackson.
“I have an uncle who’s a painter.”
“One of the great masters?”
“Yes,” said Dean, completing the authentication process.
“Mr. Dean?”
“Charlie,” said Dean, taking the ambassador’s hand. The spotted fingers clasped his in a firm grip. “Have a good flight?”
“Yes, I did. It’s been so long since I was in an aircraft, I’d forgotten the pleasure of flying.”
“We have a car this way,” said Dean, taking his bag. He noticed the brown-suit pair watching across the way. “A lot of eyes are watching us.”
“I would imagine there would be. Peru has always been known for its secret service. Very obtrusive. But I guess you get used to that sort of thing if you live here.”
94
Karr walked around the outside of the building, toward a window he thought would give him a good view of the hallway that led to where Lia was going. He guessed — as Rockman clearly hadn’t — that she was going to take the cards out of the envelope before swapping them. The guard was obviously standing over her shoulder making the swap difficult.
School was out today, but there were plenty of people inside. A nurse was holding some sort of clinic at the back of the first floor. As Karr watched through the vertical blinds, three people entered the room — a young girl, seventeen or eighteen at most; a nurse; and a well-dressed man whom Karr took to be a doctor. They closed the door, blocking off his view of the hall.
As Karr pulled back from the window, he saw the doctor take what looked like a pair of small balloons from a drawer at the side. His imagination stuttered; he couldn’t quite piece together what was going on.
When he saw the girl take one of the balloons and hold it to her mouth, Karr finally got it — the kid was being prepped to take drugs to smuggle north to the U.S. The actual drugs weren’t handed over here; it was more on the order of a job interview, with the applicants being screened.
Beautiful world, he thought to himself, moving on.
95
General Túcume did not like the news. Members of the general staff had spent the night calling every officer in his command, some four or five times, reminding them where their ultimate duty lay. As far as he knew — and Túcume had spoken to as many men as he could — no one had actually accused him of plotting a coup, but these sorts of calls were the first step; no one who had lived through the confusion and madness of the nineties could see it otherwise.
In today’s Peru, to be acc
used of plotting a coup was a great slander. The new generation of military men — Túcume’s generation and the colonels and majors they led — had grown up on the model of the U.S. military. They’d also learned from the failures of the past. His opponents were clever; he had anticipated jealousy but perhaps not with this vehemence.
Túcume had assigned one of his colonels to liaise with the U.S. Delta Force people, who were ostensibly here to help look for rebels. This was a major problem for the officer, since he had to check and double-check everything with the general staff. Túcume had no doubt that the U.S. soldiers’ real aim was to be close to the bomb, though so far they had not made a request to see it — or rather, if they had, he had not been informed of it.
The U.S. had aircraft flying over the units guarding the weapon, and other airplanes were steadily crisscrossing the region, ostensibly searching for other rebel hideouts. The Peruvian air force was flying its own missions as well. It seemed ironic — for years he had begged for more helicopters and attack planes to support his fights against the rebel slimes; now practically the entire air force was in his region.
By 10:00 a.m. Saturday, Túcume had put two calls in to General Maduro, asking whether the general would accompany him when he returned to the unit that afternoon. The general’s chief of staff was polite but could not say when the general would get back to Túcume.
When he hung up the phone after the second call, Túcume sat motionless for a few moments, contemplating the situation. Would the revelation that the bomb was not a real warhead diffuse some of the American pressure? If so, would that be enough to mollify Maduro?
It didn’t matter. Aznar would win the election tomorrow, and after that, he would be fine. He had only to wait out his enemies to declare victory.
There was a sharp rap on Túcume’s suite door.
“Come,” said the general.
“There are more newspeople downstairs,” said his aide, Chimor. “What should I do with them?”
“Tell them I don’t have a statement.”
“You ought to talk to them,” said Babin, entering the suite behind the servant pushing in breakfast. “Public relations are important.”
“Stephan. Good morning.”
Chimor, who had not yet met Babin, looked at him crossly. He took him as a rival, Túcume realized.
“Señor Babin is a consultant who knows about nuclear weapons,” the general told his aide. “He understands how they work. This is Captain Chimor, my most valuable officer.”
Chimor preened for a moment, then lowered his head slightly.
“Your voice is very gravelly today, Stephan,” Tucume said. “Did you stay up late last night?”
“I checked out the bar.”
“And you used a car.”
“I wanted to see the sights.”
Túcume interpreted this to mean that Babin had spent time with a prostitute. He’d been shut up in exile for nearly three years. A man needed to be a man.
“Have breakfast with us,” the general told him. “Captain, you, too. Please. Sit.”
“If I may be excused, General. The press is waiting,” Chimor explained. “What should I tell them?”
“Tell them that I do not have a statement now. I’ve told the story already, and there’s really nothing to add. The army will defend the people of Peru until the death. I will defend the people of Peru until the death. I’m leaving for the base at three,” Túcume added. “The defense ministry was to have arranged for experts from the International Atomic Energy Agency — perhaps they can join us. Contact the ministry.”
“Directly? Or through the general staff?”
Túcume hesitated. “Directly.”
“The American general, Spielmorph, is in Lima at the embassy,” said Chimor. “He landed last night.”
“If he calls, then we must share the request with General Maduro,” said Túcume. “Personally, I would have no objection, but that is the major general’s decision to make.”
Chimor nodded, then left.
“Very politic,” said Babin.
“Yes. Maduro is not pleased with me. He’s jealous.”
“The Yankees?”
“They are a problem. Nervous old aunts in the next room.” Túcume smiled.
“Those experts will know as soon as they’re close to the bomb that it’s not real.”
“That may be just as well now.”
Babin scowled at him, obviously not understanding his point, Túcume thought.
“You should have spoken to the press,” said Babin. “You need the people on your side, and the press will help you do that.”
“I don’t need a middleman. The newspeople are liars. Most are owned by the government anyway.”
Babin seemed as if he were going to say something more but instead changed the subject. “I’d like to use a car today. I’d like to get some new clothes.”
“I can send someone.”
“I’d really like to move around, if you know what I mean.”
“I have no objection,” said Túcume. “Be careful where you spend your energy.”
“I’m careful.”
“The CIA has been sending many people into the city. I fear for your safety.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“I can protect you after the election,” said Túcume. “But until Aznar takes office, things will be difficult. You must be careful.”
“Let me worry about that.” Babin struggled to his feet.
“You must have a hangover. You’re very disagreeable.” Túcume watched the Russian crutch his way to the door. “Be careful.”
“Good advice,” said Babin, opening the door. “You should take it, too.”
96
Lia leaned against the wall next to the water cooler and took a piece of elastic from her pocket, pushing it over her fist and up her wrist. Then she opened her briefcase and reached her nail beneath the top of the lining. She pulled, gently at first, and finally with a tug so hard she worried her nail would come off. The lining gave way and she pulled the envelope out, opening it just as she heard footsteps approaching. She pushed the cards up her sleeve, hooking them beneath the elastic. Closing the briefcase, she went to the water cooler and began pouring herself a drink.
A young girl approached her, a worried look on her face. The girl’s hands trembled as she reached for the water.
“Are you all right?” Lia asked her in Spanish.
The girl turned suddenly, as if she hadn’t even noticed that Lia was there.
“Are you OK?” Lia asked again.
The girl said nothing.
“Do you need something? Can I help you?”
The girl stared at her, still surprised.
“Quechua,” said Lia, talking to Rockman.
She heard him sigh beneath his breath before the language expert came on the line.
“Are you OK?” Lia asked again in Spanish. And then she repeated the words the translator gave her.
“I am OK,” said the girl, speaking in Spanish. “Thank you.”
“Who are you?”
“Calvina.”
“You should sit down, Calvina,” said Lia. “Come on.” She took the girl by the arm and led her into the hallway, but there were no chairs there. She turned back and led her to the stairway. As she sat the girl down, the deputy mayor’s voice bellowed from the second-floor landing.
“What are you doing?” he asked in Spanish.
“This young lady seems sick,” answered Lia.
“That’s none of your concern.”
Lia ignored him. “Are you all right?” she asked the girl.
Calvina nodded. Lia left her and climbed back up the stairs, where the deputy mayor was waiting, as if he were the principal and she an errant schoolgirl.
“Your guard wouldn’t get me a drink of water. So I helped myself.”
Lia ignored his glower and walked back down the hall to the room where the voter cards were. The guard stared stoically down the hallway.
This time, he didn’t follow her in. Lia made the switch quickly, expecting that either the guard or the mayor would come in at any moment. She sealed the old cards in her briefcase, then went through the testing procedure, relaxed now, confident that she had succeeded at her mission, happy to be done.
* * *
Calvina’s hands trembled so badly she spilled some of the water on her dress. She finally managed to get up and went looking for the women’s room to wipe it.
As she entered, she caught sight of her face. She seemed pale, another person. Until now it had seemed that she had stepped into another body, that the whole trip here had been a dream — a surrealistic nightmare, with leering strangers at every turn. But now she saw that it really was her, that she was neither dreaming nor inhabiting another body — it was her face in the mirror.
A pale, ghostly face. Fearful and worried. And sad.
What had she expected? Of course the people she was dealing with were cruel. That was their nature. Hadn’t she expected that?
She would be taken to a border town near Ecuador, where she would take a bus to the capital. There she would go to the airport, where a man would meet her with balloons like the one she had been shown and she would be given a plane ticket.
If she tried to run away or made a mistake from that point on, she would be killed and her family would be killed.
Just looking at the balloons had made her sick.
The Chinawoman had appeared as if from a dream. Calvina wondered where she had come from — clearly she did not belong here.
She spoke many languages, including the Quechua, the tongue of Calvina’s grandparents. She seemed… an apparition. Or an angel, trying to help? Calvina’s guardian angel?
Just a kind woman, Calvina decided. She had only asked what was wrong, as anyone would.
Much was wrong. But these were the choices she had to make. She would be successful, like Senor DeCura. And when she returned to Lima and told the story of her younger days, she would not mention today.
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