Or the balloon.
Calvina fixed her dress, then crossed herself. She was to walk two blocks, where a woman in a red shawl would meet her. Then her journey would begin in earnest.
* * *
“Hey, stranger, fancy meeting you here,” said Karr when Lia walked into the café two blocks from the school.
“Real coincidence,” said Lia.
A waiter approached with a drink. “Same for her,” Karr told the man in English.
The waiter swirled away before she could stop him.
“A lot of tourists come here,” Karr told her. “They go into the jungle from here. That your idea of a vacation?”
“What are you drinking?”
“Bourbon.”
“Oh jeez.”
“Hey, we’re done. Time to celebrate.” He laughed and gave her one of his goofy smiles. “Who were you talking to inside?”
“Deputy mayor had a serious attitude.”
“No, who were you asking if they were OK?”
“Just a girl in the hall.”
“Drug smuggler.”
“What do you mean?”
“That place is being used as a clinic by one of the local drug lords. The government officials are probably in on it. They get these young girls to swallow dope for them right before they get on the airplane to the U.S. or Canada. When they get there…” He made a face.
“What?”
“You know.” He made the same face. “Terrible world out there, Princess.”
“She’s just a kid.”
“Yeah,” said Karr, looking up as the drinks came. “Life stinks.”
97
Peruvian presidential candidates were as hard to schedule time with as American ones at the climax of a campaign but, like them, had an overwhelming need for campaign money. And so when Hernes Jackson was presented to Hernando Aznar, it was as something more than “just” a former ambassador to South America. His current connection as the international representative of Clyve Mining, a large conglomerate that owned several mines in Peru, was emphasized as well.
A connection that the Art Room had arranged, with considerable help from the State Department.
Jackson had mixed feelings about the charade. He had learned as a diplomat that lying could be an unpardonable sin. On the other hand, it was he who had suggested the specific cover story. It allowed him to mention his past while remaining distant from it.
Aznar was in Lima to give a speech at a local college. The talk had been planned more than a month ago; at the time, Aznar was running a very distant third and the organizers probably worried that he would have trouble filling the twelve hundred-seat auditorium. But by now Aznar was the most popular candidate in the race. The street outside the building was lined with media vans, and the crowd overflowed onto the front steps.
Dean and Jackson were led around to a basement door, then up a back flight of stairs and into a small room near the stage. When they got there, Aznar had already begun his speech.
Jackson stood by the doorway, listening to the candidate speak. Dean disappeared for a moment, then reappeared with a chair.
“Thank you,” said Jackson, sitting down. “I see what they’re responding to.”
“What’s that?”
“He gives them hope. He talks of the future. Lifting them toward the future. That’s a powerful message,” said Jackson.
As Aznar wrapped up his speech, the auditorium exploded with applause. Jackson watched him soak it up for a moment — the candidate wasn’t entirely comfortable with the adoration, he realized.
That could be a good thing.
Something in Aznar’s expression reminded Jackson of his son. It unnerved him, made him lose track of where he was. Dean touched Jackson’s shoulder and he got up just as Aznar was walking past.
“Señor Aznar, I–I have something critical to tell you,” said Jackson, stammering, his throat suddenly dry.
He was Bobby’s age, wasn’t he?
“Who are you?” asked an aide who had been onstage behind him.
“I am Hernes Jackson,” he said. Jackson pressed his hands together, pushed everything but the present away. “I have something critical to say. I was a U.S. ambassador.”
They were the wrong words — his approach was far too tentative, completely off-balance. He came off like a flake, not the confident messenger he needed to be.
Aznar squinted, as if he was not sure whether to take the meeting or not.
“It’s about General Túcume,” added Jackson.
“What?”
Jackson looked into his face. He had Bobby’s forceful gaze, but this wasn’t his son.
“We should speak in a private place,” Jackson told him, his voice firming as his confidence returned. “You would find it extremely valuable. And it will only take a moment.”
“This is about the bomb?”
“No,” said Jackson.
* * *
Dean walked up the steps, his eyes practically revolving around his head. They were surrounded by men armed with rifles and submachine guns. He could feel sweat running down his neck.
They reached the landing and walked into a hall of small classrooms. The vanguard of the candidate’s group turned into one of the rooms. Dean closed the short gap between himself and Jackson, but as he stepped into the room behind him, two of Aznar’s goons barred his way.
“No. You stay in the hall,” one said.
“I’m with Jackson,” said Dean.
“No.” Another man stepped out, his hand close to his suit — obviously reaching for a pistol.
“What’s the problem?” said Jackson.
“You don’t need a bodyguard inside,” said one of the aides.
“My friend is more than a bodyguard,” said Jackson. “But if he makes you nervous, he can wait in the hall. All right, Charlie?”
“Yeah, all right,” he said, stepping back.
* * *
Jackson watched Aznar’s frown grow as he examined the copy of the bank transcripts. The sheets were not, as the analysts would say, “transparent”—in order to decipher what the sheets said, you had to know not only the bank codes but also which accounts the numbers referred to. And the page was half-filled with them. But they were definitive.
“This proves nothing,” said Aznar finally.
“Oh, you and I know that’s not true,” said Jackson. Until now he had been speaking in Spanish; now he changed to English to make it difficult for the others to decipher. “I could go through it line by line with you if you wish. But perhaps it would be easier to talk in confidence.”
“I trust these men with my life,” responded Aznar.
In English. A good sign.
“Naturally,” said Jackson. “But candor — that’s a thing for privacy.”
Aznar looked at one of the aides and nodded. Jackson noted that two of the men did not move quite as quickly as the others, but finally he and the candidate were alone in the room.
“What is the meaning of this?” Aznar demanded in Spanish when they were alone. He waved the paper in his hand. “Where did this come from? Are you with the CIA?”
“Señor Aznar, where the information came from is not very important. You surely can check it yourself, if you need to. Consider this: you’ve reached the point where you don’t need anyone’s help. You can free yourself.”
There was a flash in Aznar’s eyes. A recognition of the truth, or simply anger?
“These transfers are against Peruvian law. That alone is a serious matter.” Jackson took out another paper. “This sheet shows that some of your people have been paid by these companies as well. Without your knowledge?”
Aznar studied the list. It seemed to Jackson that some surprise registered on his face, though the candidate fought to hide it.
“If you believe that speech you just gave,” said Jackson, “now is the time to take the opportunity. There are newspeople downstairs. They’ll broadcast anything you say. If you believe in a fre
e future, as you told your supporters, you must take the decisive step.”
98
Three years ago, it would have taken close to a half bottle of vodka to make Stephan Babin feel drunk and more than that to give him a hangover. Now his head pounded despite his having had only two drinks the night before. The pain seeped into unlikely places: his jaw ached, and his eyes felt as if they had been poked. And then there were the usual places, the spots where it always hurt: His back felt as if it had been trampled and then welded into a twisted knot. His right leg was immobile and his left throbbed with each breath he took.
Babin had already tried three of the four hangover cures he knew — strong coffee, aspirin, and a small dose of vodka. The first two had little effect; the third made him nauseated.
The final remedy — sleep — he could not afford. Instead, he made his way downstairs to the lobby. The driver was not due for another two hours; Babin decided that he could arrange a bank transfer in the meantime, using a local bank. But the pain overwhelmed him only a few crutched steps from the elevator. He struggled to the lobby and dropped onto the couch like a felled tree.
The scene before him blurred, and so did his sense of time. He stared across the large open room, watching shadows swarm and flit away.
Anger restored him, finally — bitterness at what he had lost, the rage at betrayal. He had given the Americans everything, and how had they repaid him? By shooting a missile at his airplane, trying to assassinate him. Their attempt had proven that he was right to hold on to the third warhead.
His mistake was not being paranoid enough. He’d trusted his so-called case officer and the officer who had approached him on the warhead matter, the lying prince of Satan, Jorge Evans.
Evans would pay — not with his life or even merely with his family’s lives, but with his city’s.
Four soldiers emerged from the blurred shadow entering the lobby as Babin’s vision sharpened. One mentioned Captain Chimor — Túcume’s aide. The clerk at the desk offered to phone.
Babin took hold of his crutches and pushed himself to his feet. The pain in his head had subsided slightly, but his back felt even worse. His legs — his right leg today seemed almost strong, and he crutched to the door steadily, surprising himself.
The door flew back. There were more soldiers outside, soldiers everywhere.
“Taxi,” he said, stopping and holding up his hand, though there were none nearby.
One of the soldiers nearby mentioned Túcume. His tone sounded bitter. Babin understood Spanish, but their accents and the speed of their words made it difficult to decipher what they were saying until he heard the word traición—treason.
He turned his head. The two men looked at him. A taxi pulled around the comer and Babin yelled at it, crutching into the roadway. Right until the moment the cab turned the block, he thought the soldiers would stop him.
“A bank,” Babin told the driver. “The nearest HSBC branch.”
The driver nodded.
“What was that business with the soldiers?” Babin asked him.
The driver glanced back in Babin’s direction, then shrugged, as if to say, You were there; you tell me.
When they reached the bank, Babin leaned over the front seat. “I need you to wait. This should only take a minute.”
“The meter will run.”
“I understand,” said Babin, crutching out.
There were four policemen in front of the bank, and inside, Babin noticed several more. The receptionist’s desk was empty, and he didn’t see anyone in the open bullpen area behind her. Rather than simply waiting, he decided to try to make a withdrawal from one of his old accounts.
The number came too slowly. He had always been good with numbers, but this was one of the accounts he never used, relying on its secrecy for an emergency. He had arranged years ago to keep it active, but after so much time thought his odds of getting any money at best one out of ten. But a problem would bring a bank executive immediately, and he would be able to complete the wire transaction.
To Babin’s surprise, the teller quickly counted out the equivalent of five hundred euros without even asking a question.
“Who would I speak to about a wire transfer?” Babin asked, taking the money.
“It’s not possible today,” said the teller.
“Why not?” said Babin.
“On Saturday, the officers are gone. You must come back on Monday.”
“Is there another branch?”
“Not in Lima. Monday.”
Babin smiled, then crutched away, angry with himself for not realizing that might be a problem. He reassured himself that not every bank would have such limited staff; it was just a question of finding a larger bank. As he approached the door, a security guard nearby stepped toward him, keys in his hand.
“Closing early, sir,” said the guard. “Because of the political rally.”
“Expecting trouble?”
The guard simply shrugged and held the door for him.
Outside, Babin heard sirens. As he approached the car, two army vehicles turned around the comer and sped past.
“What’s going on?” he asked the driver.
“The radio says there was an attempted coup. They’re calling for calm.”
“A coup?” Babin felt his heart grab. “I want to find a large bank that would be open. Where would be the closest?”
The driver shook his head. “I’m not sure. The state bank in Miraflores, I would guess.”
“How far is it?”
“In distance, not much. But with the traffic, because of the rally and with this now on the radio, it could be hours.”
99
Túcume’s first hint that the army had moved against him came when Captain Chimor failed to answer either the phone at the hotel or his secure satellite phone. Still, the general remained so focused on his morning tasks that he did not truly sense the danger until his three-car motorcade turned onto the road near the restaurant where he was to meet Aznar’s Argentinean speechwriter, Geraldo Stein. Túcume caught sight of two large olive-drab buses, typically used to cart soldiers around. He rapped his knuckles on the glass divider to the front of the car and told his driver not to stop. Then he called Stein on his civilian cell phone.
“Aznar’s denouncing you,” said Stein, who answered on the first ring. “The bodyguards you hired have been dismissed. Don’t call me.”
The line went dead.
Stein was on his payroll, and hanging up on him was an incredible insult. It was also completely out of character for the Argentinean, whose prose was florid but whose actions were normally timid. The only explanation was that things were much worse than Túcume could have supposed.
Aznar denounce him?
That seemed impossible. It was impossible. He told the driver to take him to Plaza San Martin, a large downtown park where Aznar was scheduled to hold a rally. As they approached the area, Túcume was amazed — the streets were packed with people rushing to hear the presidential candidate. Supporters with signs clogged the streets, and the daily gridlock was several times worse than normal. Finally there was no question of forging ahead and Túcume decided to get out of the car. With his six bodyguards — he’d decided on the precaution before he knew there was real trouble — he began threading his way forward on Jirón Belén, wading through the flood of Peruvians.
Ordinarily his uniform would have engendered a certain respect and distance, but today he might have been wearing a peddler’s rags for all the deference he received. They were still two blocks from the park and quite a way from the actual rally when the candidate’s high-pitched voice reached Túcume’s ears through a set of outdoor speakers set up on the streets nearby. The opening was pure Stein — thanking the people for their faith, invoking the past, and then looking toward the future, all in the space of two sentences. Even Túcume, who had heard the basic formula many times, was stirred.
But with the third sentence, the tone changed abruptly. For the first
time, Túcume heard his own name mentioned.
Not as a hero but as a blackmailer and villain.
“He came to me not a week ago, threatening to ruin me unless I went along with him, which I would not do. And when I told him this, he hinted that all Peru would bow to him soon. He did not spell it out, but I realize now that he was speaking of this bomb he claims to have wrested from the guerrillas’ hands. I suspect he has made demands to all of the other candidates — let them come forward and admit it….
“I tell you what I believe, though as yet there is no proof: General Túcume has been working with these guerrillas all along. Tell me, friends: Why has a puny guerrilla group not been defeated despite two years of pursuit? How could a man who vanquished Ecuador not defeat a dozen lawless guerrillas? He must be stopped, and stopped now. I call on the other candidates to join me — I call on the government to join me. We stand as one against this general. If this is not a coup by one general, let the army prove its goodwill by arresting him and seizing his weapon. It belongs to the people of Peru, not a blackmailing general who clearly is planning a coup….”
Each word felt like a hot poker jabbed against Túcume’s temple. They were lies, incredible lies!
But the crowd sopped them up, roaring approval.
Túcume raged, but there was no place to vent his anger. Even the speakers were out of sight, a block or more away.
“We must seize this weapon as we seize the future,” continued Aznar. “We will not be blackmailed by the past. The people of Peru move onward!”
Túcume changed direction as the crowd continued to erupt with cheers. Fear mixed with anger, true fear — he had miscalculated badly; utterly surprised by Aznar’s betrayal, Túcume had no plan to deal with it. The only thing he could do was retreat.
As he reached the block where he had left his car, he saw a phalanx of green uniforms surrounding it.
Was he to be arrested? On what charges?
Maduro wouldn’t need charges. Any lie would be believed, as Aznar was now showing.
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