Cursing, Túcume quickened his pace and reached into his jacket for the small pistol he carried for protection; for the first time in his life he thought of using the gun on himself.
He dismissed the idea and continued moving. A half block later, his satellite phone rang. He took it from his belt, but then hesitated, wondering if it was a trap: the phone might be used to locate him.
I am not a coward, he told himself, and he pressed the receive button and held the phone to his ear.
“They’ve betrayed you. The Americans have pressured them, and they have betrayed you.”
“Stephan?”
“Try to get to Avenida Roosevelt where it meets Cotabamas. Don’t go to your hotel.”
“Stephan?”
The line went dead.
* * *
Babin hung up the pay phone, then crutched back to the cab. Soldiers and policemen were flooding all over the city. The radio in the cab reported that presidential candidate Aznar — now declared the “favorite” for president — had denounced Túcume, charging that he had tried to blackmail him by making illegal contributions without his knowledge. It was believed that this had happened to other candidates as well, the commentator added, but that Aznar was the only one with the courage to admit it.
This was only the tip of the iceberg for this general, continued the commentator, mixing speculation with malicious lies.
People would believe what they wanted to believe, Babin thought to himself. Once they had chosen a villain, they would weave whatever facts supported their view. Intellect followed emotion, not the other way around.
In his case as well, perhaps. Babin told himself that he was trying to help the general because he needed him to get out of Peru. Even if the situation had not been so chaotic in the city, Babin’s plan to get the gun and phone and leave the country was fraught with peril. Túcume would be grateful at worst, willing perhaps to give Babin money or the names of others who could help. And at best, Túcume would be a useful ally, certainly better than a driver selected largely by chance.
But Babin’s decision went beyond the logic. Not only did he feel that he owed the general a debt; Babin was sorry for him as well. Túcume had succumbed to the same flaw Babin had: he had trusted people he should not. He had failed to be paranoid enough.
“We’ll wait here only a half hour,” Babin told the cab-driver. But it was forty-five minutes before Babin spotted the general, and in truth he might have waited until nightfall.
“My men?” Túcume said as he approached the taxi, gesturing to his bodyguards.
“If you think they’re loyal to you, release them,” said Babin. “Otherwise, shoot them. Better yet, shoot them no matter what you think.”
Túcume frowned. He turned back and waved the men away before he got into the cab.
100
By the time Dean and Ambassador Jackson returned to Dean’s hotel room, the army had decided to arrest Túcume on charges that he was fomenting a coup. Knots of businessmen stood around the hotel lobby, trading rumors of coups, countercoups, and rebel uprisings.
Dean and the ambassador went up to their room. Tired from the long flight, Jackson took a nap while Dean checked for bugs — only one, in the TV — and then checked in with the Art Room.
“Mission accomplished,” he told Telach.
“In spades,” she replied. “The army has decided to arrest Túcume.”
“Are they shutting down the city?” said Dean. “Should we go to the embassy?”
“That shouldn’t be necessary. We’ll keep an eye on it here. There are two army helicopters at the Lima airport that can grab you if it comes to that. The Peruvian army has moved a battalion’s worth of men into the city area, but everything’s calm. The units Túcume commanded in the north have already made it clear that they’re not rebelling and are following orders from the general staff. Air traffic has been temporarily shut down, but we expect it to resume in a few hours. We’ll update you on that.”
Dean flipped on the TV when they were done. The reports varied wildly. Some claimed a coup had been under way since the night before. Others said that the New Path guerrillas were rising all across the country. Several stations carried a taped message from the country’s commanding general announcing that “certain rebel forces within the armed forces’ ranks” had tried to force their way into the election. The “people of Peru must not worry. The army will preserve our institutions.”
Dean, who’d never put much trust in either politicians or the media, smirked as the reports continued. There were rumors that Túcume had been arrested in the city, others that he had threatened to detonate the nuclear bomb if captured. Politicians appeared one after another, assuring the public in almost hysterical tones that there was no need to panic.
As far as Dean could see, no one had. Every image of crowds on TV showed peaceful, smiling faces. The highway beyond the hotel remained about as busy as it had been when they arrived.
Dean checked in with the Art Room every half hour. By nightfall, it was clear that the immediate crisis had passed. The election was going forward. Túcume had been discredited, though he remained at large.
An international inspection team had gone north to inspect the nuclear weapon. Once that was done and the bomb announced to be a phony, the crisis would be diffused completely — on the surface. Meanwhile, the U.S. would continue scouring the country for a second warhead, this one believed to be real. The search was being coordinated by the U.S. military and State Department; the NSA would play a supporting role.
“The ban on air travel is going to be lifted at nine p.m.,” Telach told Dean at six. “We’ve arranged a ticket for Ambassador Jackson on the first flight out. It’s first class and it’s direct to Miami.”
“All right.”
“We’d like you to stay in country for the next twenty-four hours or so, just in case you’re needed. This isn’t our show anymore, Charlie, but if you’re needed…”
“Yeah, that’s not a problem. How are Lia and Tommy?”
“They’re fine. They’re going to stay in the north for now. Things are in flux.”
Dean thought of asking Telach to put him in touch with Lia but decided not to.
He woke the ambassador a few hours before the flight. Traffic was light on the way to the airport. There were army vehicles parked on the roads, and soldiers in twos and threes patrolled the entrances to the parking lots and terminal. Dean took off his holsters but kept one of his pistols in his belt before leaving the car.
“I’ll wait with you at the gate,” he told Jackson. “We’re a little early.”
“Can you get your gun past?”
“Probably. But I’m not going to try.”
“Have you been doing this long?” asked Jackson as they walked through the lot.
“Awhile.”
“You were in the Marines.”
“Yes.”
“Someone mentioned it. But I think I would have known. You hold yourself like a Marine.”
“I didn’t realize there was a Marine way of walking,” said Dean, amused.
“Oh, absolutely. And standing. I remember the young men who guarded our embassies. You remind me of them.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s quite all right, son. You’re in good company.”
Amused at being called “son,” Dean led Jackson through the building, walking by the empty airline desk, then over to a café area, where they were the only customers. Dean ordered coffee; the ambassador had water. Two of the workers were talking about the election and the tumult in the city. After listening for a moment Jackson got up and went over to talk to them. Dean watched, not sure whether to be impressed or alarmed by the older man’s calm matter-of-factness. By the time Jackson came back, Dean had finished his coffee.
“They think Aznar is going to win,” said the ambassador. “They’re voting for him.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“That depends entirely on your perspective,�
� said Jackson.
“From our perspective.”
“From our perspective, it’s not as good as we would like. Imberbe’s a better candidate. Not just because he’s pro-U.S., either. I think it highly likely Aznar knew that Túcume was helping him. Maybe he didn’t want to be beholden to him, and saw this as the perfect opportunity to get rid of him. Or maybe he just saw that his hand was being forced, both by us and the Peruvian military.”
Dean nodded.
“On the other hand, with Túcume neutered and the vice president on the way out, it’s not as bad as it could have been,” said Jackson. “We’re dealing with a difficult situation, so complicated that the implications of what we do are sometimes not knowable until long after we’ve acted.”
“Yeah.” Dean leaned back in the chair.
“But there are times you can feel what you have to do in your stomach,” said Jackson. “To do anything else would make you feel sick.”
“Yes,” said Dean, surprised. “I feel that way sometimes.”
“But then you worry afterward whether you were right or not,” said Jackson. “It’s not easy.”
The ambassador stared at the table. He seemed to have aged another decade; the energy that had followed his nap had dissipated.
“Come on, let’s go find a place to park my metal,” Dean told him. “Then swing by the airline counter and get your ticket. They should have gotten the all clear to open up by now.”
* * *
Jackson waited while Dean cleared the metal detector at the gate entrance. He’d stashed his gun at the bottom of a waste can in one of the men’s rooms while Jackson played lookout; it seemed like an apt coda to the caper. The cloak-and-dagger mission surpassed anything he had ever done at the State Department, and Jackson knew he’d be on a high for days, if not weeks.
Dean pulled on his shoes and joined him, and together they walked toward the gate where the plane would board. Dean had a ticket but was not going to join Jackson on the plane. Though curious, he knew better than to ask Dean what he was doing next.
The attendants were calling for first-class passengers when they arrived.
“You better get going,” Dean told him.
Jackson gave Dean his hand. “Thank you very much, Mr. Dean.”
“You’re welcome.”
Jackson started away but then stopped. He turned back to Dean. “It bothers you a great deal, doesn’t it?”
“What’s that?”
“Your problem earlier. You’re worried about something specific.”
“I guess I am.”
“I think the fact that it bothers you is a good thing,” said Jackson. “But I wouldn’t let it paralyze you. You have to move on. Don’t let it consume you.”
“Thanks.” Dean’s face remained a stoic mask — the Marine way, thought Jackson. Emotion swirled behind it, but the face revealed nothing.
“I hope to see you again,” said Jackson, waving and heading toward the door to the boarding tunnel.
101
The twenty-four hours that followed Túcume’s decision to get into the taxi with Babin passed like the landscape viewed from a jet dashing over mountainous terrain. It was pock-marked with humiliations, large and small..
The first came at a bus station in a small town a few miles west of Lima. Mindful of the inherent risks in Peruvian military politics, Túcume had stashed money, clean credit cards, a small pistol, and — most important — passports in several places around the country, including the ancient lockers in this small building. When they arrived, Babin told Túcume he must stay in the car with the driver; he was still wearing his uniform and might be recognized. Reluctantly, Túcume gave Babin the locker number and the combination, then gritted his teeth and waited in the car like a common criminal escaped from jail.
The second humiliation came a few hours later, on the road west in the mountains. Babin had promised the taxi driver a good sum to keep his mouth shut, and, though wary, the driver initially believed him. He grew more nervous as night fell, however. Finally the man’s hands began to shake when Babin told him he must pull off the road so that he could relieve himself. Tears fell from the man’s eyes as he stopped. Babin took out the small pistol he had removed from Túcume’s box and ordered the man out to the nearby brush.
Túcume didn’t say a word, remaining silently in the car. Two shots resounded against the nearby mountainside, long, thin echoes that stung Túcume’s conscience. But louder and more painful still was the knock on his window — Túcume turned to see Babin’s face leering at him.
“Take his clothes. They will do for a short while. We must find another car.”
Túcume did as he was told.
They used no fewer than six cars, beginning with the stolen taxi and ending with one bought with cash in a mountain town in the Andes. For Túcume, the journey was a succession of revelations showing how deeply he had miscalculated. The worst came Sunday morning, when a radio station aired an interview with Captain Chimor claiming Túcume had prepared a coup.
Túcume insisted on listening to it as they drove, wincing at every lie and falsehood. Clearly, Chimor had made some sort of deal with the general staff, either to save himself from whatever charges they were inventing or to salvage his career.
Chimor did not know of the bomb plot, but he knew of much else. And sooner or later the handful of men who did know what had happened would be pressured to tell more. Túcume clung to the hope that he might reach the barn before the warhead was discovered. What he would do then he did not contemplate.
He and Babin made their way westward and then north through the Andes. They changed their clothes and dyed their hair, dressing in simple garb to fit in. Only Túcume’s shoes suggested that he was not a simple peasant; he scuffed them to make them appear older than they were, tokens of a prosperous past now distant.
Túcume’s fluency with Quechua and his native accent were advantages, but they did not guarantee safety. They had plenty of money: besides ten thousand euros from the box, Túcume maxed out cash advances on his legitimate credit cards in Lima, then left them in the machines at Babin’s advice, hoping some thief would take them and confuse the authorities with a false trail. Babin spoke of other sums that he might get, arranged through wire transfers with foreign accounts. In the areas where they were, however, such arrangements would be difficult at best, and for the moment they had no need of them. At the border, they would have the choice of using either Peruvian or Spanish passports; they would only have to get photos made at one of the many cheap shops nearby to establish their new identities.
Túcume, naturally, did the driving. Babin spent much of the time sleeping, worn out by exhaustion and pain.
Sometime after three on Sunday, General Túcume decided to stop for lunch. He found a small town several miles from the highway and parked the car. He left Babin sleeping and went to negotiate some food. The local restaurant sold french fries and chicken, and Túcume managed to persuade the owner to make some plates “for a picnic.” He found Babin awake in the car when he returned.
“I thought you abandoned me,” said Babin as he got in.
“I would not leave you, Stephan.”
The Russian shook his head when Túcume offered him some food.
“You need to keep up your strength,” the general told him. He started to eat himself and soon was glad Babin wanted nothing; his hunger was much greater than he’d reckoned.
“Put on the radio,” said Babin.
“It’s only bad news.”
“We need to know what’s going on.”
Reluctantly, Túcume agreed.
“They turn against you quickly,” said Babin as the radio finished replaying a bit about Aznar.
“Very.”
“The CIA helped them. The Yankees were behind everything. They decided they had to stop you at all costs.”
“Do you think they’ll find the real bomb?” the general asked, changing the subject.
“It’s only a matte
r of time before they go to the barn,” said Babin.
Túcume knew this was true and didn’t argue. “If we beat them, we can sell it.”
“The Americans will never let it be sold,” continued Babin. “The only thing to do with it is to use it to get revenge. There’s no other choice.”
“I can’t kill my countrymen,” said the general softly. “If the traitors alone were gathered — Aznar, Chimor, the general staff, the president, the defense minister. If they were put together, those people I would gladly kill. But not the innocent.”
He shook his head. His stomach had begun to revolt at the very idea.
“I wasn’t talking about Peru,” said Babin. “The CIA. The Yankees, General. They are who did you in. Your countrymen were only pawns. The Americans are your enemy.”
Túcume pushed his unfinished lunch back into the bag.
“I only wish that were true,” he said, starting the car.
* * *
While Babin knew it was only a matter of time before Túcume agreed with him about what must be done, time was an extremely limited quantity. From what he could determine by looking at the map, within four or five hours they would reach a juncture in the highway where they would have to either proceed northward toward Ecuador or turn right toward the region of Túcume’s military district and the barn where the warhead had been kept. Proceeding eastward toward the barn was suicidal, and in no way would Babin do so. In the worst case, he would insist that the general help him find a driver to take him to Ecuador, and he had the general’s small pistol to use if absolutely necessary.
It would be considerably more convenient to convince Túcume that he should join in Babin’s own plan to take revenge on the U.S. To do this, Babin had to tell him that he had the warhead. But he needed the right moment.
Babin watched the general as they drove, staring surreptitiously at his drooping cheeks and heavy frown. Túcume looked different, not just because of his dyed hair and clothes, but also because something inside him had dramatically changed. He had lost the thing that had driven him. More than that, he had seen that his own instincts to trust people close to him had led to his downfall. In a sense, he had betrayed himself. If he couldn’t trust his judgment, he couldn’t trust anything. He had lost his dream, and he had lost his own sense of who he was.
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