Rubens killed the e-mailed newsletter. It was barely four and a half days since the weapon had first been sighted, and by any realistic measure, the search had a long way to go. But by nature, these sorts of missions tended to play out in one of two ways: very quick results, based on hard work and perhaps a break or two; and long-drawn-out, often inconclusive operations where energy flagged over time.
While the search was only a few days old, already the most likely places to find the bomb had been carefully inspected. The Peruvians were already chafing at the continued U.S. presence, especially as the search agenda deviated from the war against the New Path rebels.
The CIA analysis — and for once Rubens actually agreed — was that the general would follow the lead of his ancestors and hide in the jungle. Vast stretches of Amazonian jungle in the far northeast were essentially outside of the central government’s control; he might stay there forever and not be found.
A bomb might as well. The NSA had tried various data searches to try to re-create movement in and out of the region, but the primitive nature of the transportation and communications system there meant there were few records to look at.
As for Babin, he, too, had disappeared. Or more accurately, had never appeared in the first place. They had put together a reasonably decent description of him, and several Army Special Forces soldiers fluent in Spanish had been detailed to search the slums of Lima for him. The Peruvian intelligence service and military had been given his description and told that he was a technical expert who’d helped Túcume fake the warhead. They, too, were looking for Babin, though with somewhat less urgency than Rubens would have liked.
There was a knock on his door.
“Come in,” said Rubens, pushing the blanket over the top of his desk.
“I was to report to you this morning,” said Ambassador Jackson, shuffling tentatively into the office.
“Yes. Take a seat, Mr. Ambassador.”
Jackson pulled over a chair. He had an inquisitive expression on his face.
“You’re rested from your trip to Peru?” asked Rubens.
“Quite.”
“And it went well.”
“My small part went as required, I think. Beyond that, I’m not in a position to say.”
A measured, thoughtful answer. It did not make things easier.
“Ambassador, I find that I have to talk to you about a matter of grave concern,” Rubens said. “I find that you were not completely candid with our interviewers during your intake sessions.”
“Intake?”
“During some of our routine screening,” said Rubens. “Specifically, you omitted the controversy regarding your son. The district attorney’s office kindly filled us in yesterday afternoon.”
“Kindly?” Jackson’s voice was almost inaudible.
“They claim that they haven’t decided whether to press charges or not. Though they gave me to understand that, given the time that has now passed, it’s unlikely.”
* * *
Jackson stared at the carpet in front of Rubens’ feet. He was under no obligation to explain what happened; nor did he think that Rubens — that anyone, really — would understand if he did. And yet the impulse to speak was very strong.
“It’s a wonderful thing to see a young man grow from an infant to an adult,” he said. “He was a very fine young man. Due to my wife, I’d say. More than me. After college, we became much closer. A few years ago, he introduced me to instant messaging on computers and cell phones. We would talk several times a day while he was in law school. I like to think I may have helped him with his studies. He was a wonderful young man.” He raised his eyes to meet Rubens’. “If you have specific questions, I’ll answer them.”
“Did you use any influence at all with the district attorney?” Rubens asked.
“Not at all.”
“He knew you had been an ambassador?”
“I don’t think it was a secret,” said Jackson. “I never asked for any special consideration. And I told the truth.”
“You spoke to the DA without an attorney present?” asked Rubens.
“I didn’t see the need for one.”
Jackson waited to be asked if he had killed his son. He hadn’t, not in a moral sense; his boy had gone on long before that long night Jackson cried over him as the heart monitor began to sound. But if he was asked, he would describe exactly what he did, step-by-step. It was a simple matter of changing a setting on the machine. He knew the night well; it replayed regularly in his head.
But Rubens didn’t say anything.
“Should I get to work?” Jackson asked finally. “I have to leave at eleven for my Meals on Wheels route. But I will be back.”
“We’ll speak again,” said Rubens, dismissing him.
* * *
What struck Rubens was the fact that Jackson had not tried to justify himself or excuse his actions.
Rubens had spoken personally to the district attorney. Jackson’s son had been on life support for more than two years before he died of an apparent overdose of his painkilling medication. The circumstances strongly suggested that Jackson had administered it, though as the district attorney admitted, the evidence might not rise to the level of “beyond reasonable doubt” in the eyes of a jury which could gauge in person the suffering of a distinguished and anguished father.
Montblanc’s investigators said there was no evidence of Jackson’s having used any sort of political influence with the DA. For one thing, the district attorney was a Democrat and Jackson a registered Republican. Nor did Jackson have any roots in the community where his son had been taken for treatment.
Montblanc told Rubens that if the young man had been at a different hospital in another state or even county, very likely he would have been removed from the respirator long before. And the astronomical cost of the care did not seem to have been a factor — the hospital hadn’t even considered that Jackson might pay the bills until after the young man died. Jackson himself insisted on it.
And yet the agency had always avoided even the potential for scandal.
Had Rubens not intervened, Jackson would not have been brought on until the investigation was completed. In that case, he wouldn’t have helped Desk Three reach the conclusions it had — no one might have undertaken the mission in Peru that discredited General Túcume.
Would he have taken Jackson on, knowing this?
If there were no charges, then it wasn’t a crime. But…
But…
And what would Rubens say if Collins or someone else brought it up with the president to embarrass him?
Did you know, Mr. President, that you sent a murderer to Peru to speak to a candidate on your behalf?
Or worse—pulled strings to have a grand jury convened and charges filed?
What would he do then? What would it change?
Nothing — and yet everything, as far as politics were concerned. The battle lines would be drawn instantly. The controversy would have nothing to do with national policy and yet everything to do with it. Could he afford that risk? Not if he wanted higher office.
Rubens hated this. He hated parsing decisions into political pluses and minuses. If this was the price of being national security adviser… then he didn’t want it.
He didn’t want it.
Rubens rose from his desk. Jackson had proved his worth. If the matter came up, Rubens would do the thing that should be done — he would admit that he had installed Jackson before the vetting procedure had been complete and had made the judgment that he should be kept on. It was the right decision given the larger circumstances, and he would stand by it.
Rubens also made another decision. He didn’t want to be national security adviser. He didn’t want to deal with the politics. They would corrupt him. He would do things not because they were right or wrong, but because of how they would look and whom they would influence.
“I’m not going to take the job,” he told himself out loud. “I’ll send a message to
the president that I’m not interested.”
People said that when you made the right decision, you felt like a great weight had been removed from your back. But Rubens didn’t feel any freer now. If anything, he felt a little depressed.
106
Babin put his hand on the back of the plastic chair in the waiting area at the Manta airport, waiting for their flight to begin boarding. They had driven much of the night and nearly all the day to get to Manta, in the northeastern comer of Ecuador, but Babin thought it far safer than Quito or any of the smaller airports in the south. The police here seemed to take little notice of them. He was not so sure it would have been the same near the capital.
Túcume sat in the next row, stony eyed and tired. But at least he had not deteriorated any further.
The girl was to thank for that. She had proven useful, not only in buying food and then tickets, but also at the bank a few hours before, where with the help of a new dress she had posed as Babin’s secretary as he arranged the final money transfers and a sizable withdrawal.
He had decided not to kill her for several reasons, all practical. She was what some people called simple and lacked the mental capability to betray them. More important, he did not think the general could withstand the shock. Here was a man who had probably killed hundreds during his military career, and yet he had been trembling after the taxi driver was executed.
As the attendant moved to the desk to announce the flight, Babin took up his crutches and went over to the girl.
“Calvina, here,” he said, taking the ticket for Quito from his pocket. “Your flight leaves in two hours. Go back into the terminal, past the shop with the shawls. Match the number of the gate to this number here. That is where you should go.”
She nodded as she took it.
“Why don’t you come with us?” said Túcume, looking up from his seat.
“I—”
“You want to go to the North, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure that would be the best for all of us,” said Babin.
“I think she should come. You had to buy a ticket for her to get to the gate area,” added the general. “It’s no more of an expense.”
“Money has nothing to do with it,” said Babin.
“I don’t know if I can,” said Calvina.
“You’re scared of the men who gave you the passport?” asked Túcume.
“Might I suggest we discuss this nearer to the aisle, where there are no ears to listen in?” said Babin.
Túcume got up and walked to the opposite end of the waiting area. By the time Babin reached them, tears were slipping from the girl’s eyes.
“Now what?” he asked Túcume.
“She was supposed to bring drugs to the United States. I told her what would happen in the North, when she arrived.”
Though she hadn’t said, Babin had easily guessed why she wanted to go to Quito. The general must have as well.
“Of course,” said Babin.
“She didn’t understand everything.”
There was little time to argue.
“Won’t they kill her family if she doesn’t go?” said Babin.
“Not if she hasn’t taken money from them. They are cowards.”
Túcume’s voice was forceful — not its old self but a shadow of it at least.
“Why not?” said Babin, hearing their aisle called behind him. “We’ll keep her with us, and perhaps she’ll be of some use.”
* * *
Calvina looked out the window of the airplane. Señor Oroya said they were nearing Mexico, but all she could see were the tufted gray tops of clouds — a wondrous, incredible sight, the sight angels would see when they looked down at earth.
Señor Oroya — she believed that was not his real name, though it fit him — had proven very kind. He and the other man, the one with the crutches called Stephan, had asked her to do almost nothing, and in return had fed her and bought her clothes, been so very kind. She felt she could trust Señor with her life. He seemed like a protector, a true godfather.
He told her the men who had given her the passport were evil. Not because of the drugs but because of what they did to souls.
Calvina believed him. He was the sort of man who knew many things and could make much happen. He was rich and wise, and if they came for her now, he would protect her.
Calvina’s thoughts went back to the school and the man with the balloons. And then she thought of the Chinawoman, the apparition that had appeared, talking in many tongues so Calvina could understand.
Like an angel would.
Just a woman. A kind woman.
Sent by the Blessed Virgin, perhaps. To find out how to help. Nothing occurred by accident.
Calvina continued to gaze at the clouds, wondering what the future would bring.
107
Lia gripped the side of the MH60G Blackhawk as it sped along the river west of Iquitos. The drumming rotor overhead numbed her head, mixing with the heavy fatigue of the last week. She knew today was Wednesday only because WE was underlined on her watch face.
She thought about Charlie, missing him. Every cross word she’d ever said to him came back to her, rumbling in the roar of the blades.
The helicopter banked sharply. It was at the end of a six-helicopter procession speeding toward a former Baptist missionary compound deep in the Amazonian jungle. The compound was occupied by a dozen natives the Peruvian intelligence service believed were part of a group called Sacred Right, dedicated to returning native land to native tribes. Though obscure, the group had issued a communiqué praising General Túcume eight or nine months before, calling him a “pure hero for the people.” The proximity of the river would have made it relatively easy to transport a warhead here. Beyond that, though, there was no evidence that this raid was anything but a long shot, one of several the Army had been on in the past thirty-six hours. Karr had been asked to come because of his expertise in nuclear weapons. Lia was simply backing him up; she herself knew very little about the weapon’s hardware.
“Up and at ’em!” yelled Karr as the helicopter shifted for its final approach. The big blond giant rising from the nearby jump seat, standing with Lia as the helo pirouetted toward the landing zone. The Air Force crewman manned a machine gun at the door, grim-faced and determined as he scanned the jungle. An AC-130U gunship was circling overhead, covering the landing area.
The special operations radio channel began buzzing with chatter. There were flares on the ground. The first team was down. No opposition had been encountered. The three Special Forces pathfinders who’d infiltrated into the area earlier that morning were reporting in — everything is good; everything is good; everything is good.
Lia flashed back to an incident when she’d been on a Delta mission before coming over to Deep Black. As a woman, she’d been part of the officially nonexistent “Funny Squadron”—an all-female Delta unit that mostly undertook undercover missions in foreign urban areas. On this occasion, however, she happened to have been part of a team assisting locals trying to apprehend terrorists who’d taken refuge at an African elementary school. One of the people at the school used that very same phrase, “everything is good,” to say they hadn’t meant any resistance and the hostages were free.
A second later, the school blew up.
“Let’s go, Princess,” shouted Karr, leaping from the helo as it touched down.
Lia jumped out after him, pistol ready, trotting behind him as he strode toward the buildings, laid out in a horseshoe. The captain commanding the unit met them near the opening of the horseshoe, signaling for them to wait while the Army Rangers and Special Forces troops secured the buildings.
There was a certain rhythm to entering a dangerous and unknown space. The soldiers didn’t take any chances, dropping flash-bang grenades through windows, blowing off the door hinges, moving inside quickly. Two Peruvian army officers were with them, acting as translators. Lia and Karr kept their distance from them, not wanting to have to answer an
y questions.
“Looks good,” said Rockman over the communications system. He was watching a feed from a Predator unmanned aerial vehicle that had been launched to provide reconnaissance earlier.
“It’s too easy,” said Lia.
Gunfire erupted from one of the buildings near the head of the horseshoe. Two, three men with automatic weapons began firing from one of the windows. One of the American soldiers launched a grenade into the window; it burst with a cut-off boom and smoke curled out.
Lia glanced at Karr nervously. The experts said the warhead couldn’t explode if it was jostled by another explosion. She wasn’t so sure.
“Clear!” yelled someone in the building.
There were some more pops and rattles, but the main resistance was over. Six of the native guerrillas were dead; five others had surrendered or been captured after being wounded. They denied any knowledge of Túcume.
It took an hour for the troops to search the buildings. Karr was his usual good-natured self, waiting with his arms folded and his rucksack hanging off his shoulder. The ruck had the nuclear testing equipment — and tools he could use to dearm the bomb if necessary.
Finally cleared, they walked to join the soldiers searching the buildings.
* * *
Karr kicked at the metal door covering the cellar entrance in the old tool building.
“What do you think?” asked the sergeant in charge of the detail searching the place.
“It ain’t nowhere else,” said Karr. “Hang on.”
He bent down and ran his PDA around the side, looking for electrical or magnetic currents.
“What’s that thing?” said the sergeant.
Karr smiled but didn’t answer.
“There’s no electrical booby traps,” he said when he finished. “But I have a bad feeling about this. You got a rope? We’ll rig it so we can yank it open from outside.”
The soldiers quickly rigged the rope. Karr pulled; the door opened; nothing blew up.
“So much for feelings, huh?” said Karr, easing in.
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