Babin knew the feeling intimately. He had not begun to climb from the deep hole the crash had ejected him into until his plan for revenge took shape.
The general had cared for Babin then, arranging his hiding place and home, bringing Rosalina to watch him. It was partly in the general’s interests, surely; he did not know much about the warhead, and Babin wasn’t even sure at what point the general realized it was a nuke. But killing Babin would have been easy to do at any point; instead, Túcume’s instincts led him to a role more like that of a father or uncle.
Or Inca, to hear Túcume describe his ancestors.
Now their roles were reversed. Though his body was racked with pain, Babin was the strong one. Túcume was now a shell, crippled within.
They stopped around five to get gas in a village that looked like something that came out of the eighteenth century. The station was modem enough, but there were two burros tied to a pole near the building, and just beyond the gas pumps sat a row of huts that from a distance seemed to be made of straw and dried mud.
“Are you hungry?” Túcume asked.
“No, but I could use something to drink,” said Babin.
“There will be food and drink over there,” Túcume said, gesturing across the street. To Babin, the building looked the same as the other hovels, but it proved to be a restaurant, and they were soon eating a kind of casserole of potatoes mixed with tiny bits of chicken. The dining room was open to the kitchen; a TV played in a comer above the stove. Babin winced as the general’s face was flashed on the screen.
Túcume ignored the program, devouring his food.
“They’ll be looking for you in your military district,” said Babin, his voice almost a whisper.
“Sshh,” said Túcume.
He’d found a woven hat to wear, and it made him look like one of the locals. Still, it was not a complete disguise.
The picture changed — there was a shot of Inca ruins from the distance, then the house where Babin had stayed for more than two years.
“This is where the weapon was stored, intelligence agents believe,” said a voice off-camera.
“Rosalina,” said Túcume, but she didn’t appear and there was no mention of her as the program continued. The original footage that had been shot when the bomb was discovered followed, with the commentator describing some of the authentic combat with the rebels that had taken place in the region over the past several months. The scene then changed to a military base in the region, and Babin realized that he’d been watching a lead-in for what the newspeople thought was the main event: a live press conference with the head of the military and several experts who had examined the bomb. Immediately behind the podium were two American military people in freshly starched fatigues.
“The snake,” said Túcume as Major General Maduro stepped to the podium.
Words flashed on the bottom of the screen; Channel 37 exclusive — the bomb is a fake.
“We must leave,” Babin told Túcume.
Túcume stayed motionless as Maduro announced that experts from the International Atomic Energy Agency had discovered that there was no uranium or plutonium warhead in the weapon.
“The Yankees have the warhead,” whispered Túcume.
“No, they don’t,” said Babin. “Let’s pay and go, before someone recognizes you.”
102
After Jackson got on the airplane, Dean went to a new hotel a mile away, got a room, and went to sleep. He slept so soundly that the Art Room became worried about him and finally had someone from the embassy go over and check on him. The woman they sent knocked on the door for so long that someone from hotel security was sent to investigate; the detective was just getting off the elevator when Dean finally opened the door.
“Charles Dean?” asked the woman.
“Yeah?”
“The embassy sent me. Are you OK?”
Dean saw the detective eyeing them suspiciously. “Come in,” he told her, pushing the door closed so he could undo the chain. He kept his gun behind his back as she came in, not sure who she was.
“What’s up?” he said to her, letting the door close.
“Someone back home wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“Who are you?”
“Lisa Tomari. I’m with the embassy.”
“Which means what?”
The woman glanced around the room, obviously trying to indicate to him that she was afraid it might be bugged.
“I got it already,” said Dean.
She was in her midtwenties, very pretty. Looking at her made him ache for Lia.
“I guess you should call home,” Tomari said. Her face blanched white; she’d finally realized he had a gun behind his hip.
“All right. Sit in the chair,” he told her.
He went and got the sat phone, using it rather than pulling on his shirt with the wiring for the com system. Sandy Chafetz answered immediately.
“You wanted me?” Dean asked.
“We hadn’t heard from you.”
“I was sleeping.”
“Can you talk now?”
“Somebody from the embassy is with me.”
“Tell you what — why don’t you go over to the embassy and we’ll update you there?” Chafetz said. “There’s a fresh ID and a credit card waiting for you. Don’t use the rental car; the Peruvian intelligence service has it staked out.”
“All right.”
Dean slapped off the phone.
“Can you give me a ride to the embassy?” Dean asked Tomari.
She nodded, her eyes still fixed on the pistol.
“Just a precaution,” he told her, putting it in his belt. “Let me take a shower first. All right?”
Dean was done in under five minutes. Tomari had flipped on the TV and was watching a news report. Dean went over and looked at the screen. Hernando Aznar was holding his hands over his head in victory.
“He won, huh?” said Dean.
“Yes, quite a surprise. This is from one of the celebrations last night,” Tomari said. “They had quite a celebration in Lima. People were partying in the streets. They really seem to like him.”
“Feel like some breakfast?”
“It’s six in the evening.”
“How about dinner then?”
“OK.”
“I’m not going to shoot you. Don’t worry.”
He could tell by the way she laughed that she was attracted or at least intrigued by him. If he was the kind of man who indulged in casual affairs, finding a way to bed her would not have been difficult. But he wasn’t that kind of man.
* * *
When they arrived at the embassy, the newly elected president was finishing a courtesy call to the U.S. ambassador. Aznar and the ambassador had just concluded a press conference, but the media continued to press him as he walked toward the door. Dean stood to the side, watching the politician make his way forward. He seemed even more tired than he had been the other day, fatigued, already weighed down by the office he had won. Yet when he stopped to give a statement and the television lights were flipped on, he straightened and seemed invigorated. His words were just as assured as they had been the other day when Dean saw him from the side of the stage.
“Peru’s election stands as an example to the rest of South America,” said Aznar in Spanish. “The people have been heard. My administration will work closely with the United States on economic issues, and to combat the spread of drugs. We will be more aggressive than our predecessors; I guarantee you that.”
Dean watched with a jaundiced eye, wondering how long it would be before Aznar fell back on the much easier line of America-bashing. The new president answered a few more questions, then pushed on.
He saw Dean as he came down the steps. After a moment’s hesitation, he came over to Dean.
“Tell your friend I won’t forget the service he’s done for me,” whispered Aznar.
Dean nodded, and Peru’s newly elected president moved on.
*
* *
The embassy was packed with CIA officers, military people, and State Department experts. Dean collected his new ID and credit card, then called the Art Room using one of the secure lines in the communications center.
Telach filled him in, saying Jackson had gotten back safely and congratulating Dean on a good mission.
“What do I do next?” Dean asked.
“General Spielmorph is in charge of the task force that’s conducting the search. He’d like you to brief some Delta people at the embassy tonight; they’re heading north as soon as you’re done. They want to know about the area where the bomb was found.”
“I can go with them if they want.”
“At this point, they’re spearheading the search down there.”
“What about a recovery operation if there’s another bomb?”
“Again, that’s going to be a Delta mission most likely. Tommy and Lia are in country to help out. Mr. Rubens would like you back in the States.”
“Time to face the piper?”
“I’m sorry?”
“That’s all right, Marie. Tell me what flight you want me on, and then I’ll go find the Delta people.”
103
Calvina Agnese pulled the thin sweater tighter around her shoulders, more to move her stiff limbs than to ward off the early-morning cold. The Ecuador-bound bus wasn’t due for another three hours, but the line for spots already stretched well past the stones that marked the spot where people were usually turned away. Calvina was two people beyond the stones, but the veterans in the line around her said it was likely she would get in anyway. A small bribe to the driver might help, they’d added, and Calvina had allocated a few soles from her meager supply for that.
Calvina had had to pay for the boat and bus from Nevas and would have to spend her own money to get to Quito, the capital of Ecuador, and the airport, where the man with the balloons would meet her. She did not know which city she was going to and would not until she was at the airport. Nor had the details on what would happen when she arrived been explained.
The passport she’d been given had spelled her name wrong and gave as her address the school in Nevas where she had gone. They had not even bothered to ask her real address, and she thought it better not to question them about the name.
“What are you doing in Ecuador?” asked an older gentleman near her as she waited.
“I have a job,” she lied.
“A young girl like you should go to the North,” he said, meaning the U.S. “There are many rich people there, if you work hard.”
She smiled at him.
“You’re not so pretty,” the man added. “But a hard worker would make a good bride.”
Calvina felt her face flush red as she turned away.
* * *
“All the others I could accept, but to lose Rosalina as well — that is the final blow,” Túcume told Babin as they waited for petrol.
“I don’t think she would betray you,” Babin replied. “Not Rosalina. Why do you say that?”
“She did.”
Túcume threw his head back on the seat. Babin thought he wore the look of a man crushed by the world.
“She was a descendant of the people who had sheltered my ancestors,” said the general, his voice almost a moan. “Now even they turn against the Inca.”
Depression made Túcume compliant, but Babin worried that the general was sinking too deep. He had hardly said anything as Babin explained his plan to take the weapon to the North and extract revenge; the Russian had had to ask point-blank whether he would do it before getting a “yes.”
“Why would Rosalina give me up?” Túcume asked.
“I don’t think she did.”
“This is just like the natives — like all of our people. You see from the vote — no one came to the polls. Did you even hear talk of an election in any town we stopped in?”
“No,” said Babin. The news reports had said that turnout in the native regions had been low, running at about 10 percent — far under Túcume’s expectations, though actually in keeping with most elections in the past.
“This is how the conquistadors won,” said Túcume. “They used our people against us.”
“Perhaps you should sleep,” suggested Babin. “We don’t want to cross until nightfall anyway.”
“Sleep. I cannot sleep.”
“What do you think about getting another driver?”
“Who would we trust?”
Babin nodded. It would be risky to take someone with them, too tempting — even if the man could not see beyond the general’s ill-fitting clothes and realize who he was, he would know they had money, and they would have to be on their guard constantly.
But another helper, someone to get them food even, to buy tickets when they went to Ecuador and Mexico — above all, someone to distract the general even slightly — that would be most useful.
“I think I will stretch my back and legs,” said Babin, getting out of the car. Túcume said nothing.
Though tiny, the town was something of a way station for travelers. A long line snaked in front of the local café: a mixture of workers, northern tourists, would-be emigrants, and adventurers waited for the daily bus to Ecuador.
A helper might be found here. Not a driver — it occurred to Babin that most of these peasants probably had never driven in their lives.
They’d lie, of course, if asked.
He couldn’t trust a man, not even an old one.
A woman?
Babin crutched forward, pondering the idea, its risks and rewards, even as he eyed the crowd. A woman might be trusted. Certainly a pretty one would take Túcume’s mind off his problems.
Or not. That would be too obvious.
An older woman was out of the question. Anyone who reminded him of Rosalina would be a terrible choice.
A girl, barely out of her teens, not quite experienced enough to cause too many problems but smart enough to do as she was told.
A good idea? Or more complications?
Babin saw two, maybe three girls who would do in line. It was hard to judge ages without staring, and staring would make them suspicious. He turned and crutched back toward the car.
He would send Túcume to choose.
* * *
The gray-haired gentleman who approached the line at the bus stop reminded Calvina of Señor DeCura even before he began to speak. He was taller than Señor DeCura, bigger, more clearly native by birth. But his accent was the same. The first words from his mouth were Spanish, asking if everyone here was going north across the border, when the bus was expected, and when the ride was due. Then he began speaking in Quechua, repeating the questions.
No one answered. Calvina saw a look of hurt cross his face and felt sad for him; she glanced to her left and right and, when she was sure that no one else would speak, told him in the language of her grandparents that yes, it was a long wait until the bus came.
“You live nearby?” asked the man.
She shook her head, then added, “Lima.”
“Why are you going to Ecuador?”
She felt her face flush. “Work.”
“Where?”
“The capital.”
“When do you need to be there?”
“The work begins when I arrive.”
The man paused, considering something. Then he said, “I need someone to help me with my friend, who is a cripple. The work is not hard, and I will pay with a ride to Ecuador as well as a modest sum.”
At the mention of a job — even though the words were in Quechua — Calvina felt several of the people around her stir.
Should she go with him? Perhaps it was a trap. But he seemed so reassuring, so much like Señor DeCura.
Hadn’t Señor DeCura proved to be less than he seemed?
No. Whatever trouble he had gotten into was not his fault. Señor DeCura was too kind, too wise. Others had been jealous and brought him down.
“What sort of job, señor?” said an olde
r woman in Quechua.
As the gentleman turned to her, Calvina stepped forward and touched his arm. “What is it I should do?” she said.
104
The Art Room told Dean he didn’t have to report back until Wednesday, and he took them at their word, going straight home Monday night and planning to sleep in Tuesday. But he woke up around two in the morning, restless. He kept thinking about Lia and leaving Karr.
Leaving Karr was the wrong thing to do. It had been a mistake — he should have let the Art Room handle it. It had been a dumb kid mistake, something he should have grown out of years ago, around the time he was hunting Fu Manchu with Turk.
Worse than that was the fact that it had felt like the right thing to do. It still did.
Could he trust his judgment anymore?
Dean got up and turned on the TV. The news channels had nothing about Peru.
Around five he decided to go for a run. He pulled on his baggy sweats, laced his sneakers up, stretched out front, and began jogging lazily through the still-slumbering neighborhood.
Maybe it was Lia he couldn’t trust. Not her — his feelings for her.
If it was a struggle between doing his job and protecting her — not even protecting, simply loving — she won.
She won.
How did that jibe with his duty to his country? When you were a member of Deep Black, a Marine, a soldier, you had a responsibility to your country first. Or you should.
You had to. And you had to feel it in your gut.
He did feel it in his gut. That was the problem. What he felt for her was stronger.
He pushed himself through the streets, hoping the sweat would help provide an answer.
105
Tuesday’s morning brief included a long list of the searches that had been conducted in Peru, but the bullet summary at the top said it all: no second weapon found.
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