Ai! Pedrito! When Intelligence Goes Wrong

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Juan lowered his voice and leaned forward in his chair. "Me, I think the CIA place is full of gold or secret papers, and he wants us to snatch them." He cleared his throat. "Uh, after you blow up the installation, that is."

  "So, we'll just relax here at the hotel and listen for when the CIA installation goes boom," Felipe said, raising his hands to show the explosion.

  Juan heaved himself out of the creaking lounge chair and spun a big revolver on his finger. "Felipe and I will be in the bar. Charging the tab to your room." He shoved the gun firmly in his belt. The two exited through the door, swaggering side by side.

  Brushing dried mud off his suit jacket at the balcony rail, Smith frowned. He couldn't blow the whistle while those two goons were breathing down his neck. There must be some way to contact that place directly.

  Smith saw an old black telephone on the side table, and his face lit up. "Of course!" He grabbed the receiver and dialed the operator. "Hello? Get me the number for the secret CIA communications installation in town."

  On the other end of the line, he heard a switchboard operator with a sweet Spanish accent. "I'm sorry, sir," she said. "We've got no number for the CIA in this town."

  "Then just connect me to the United States," Smith said, exasperated. "Anyplace will do."

  "Sorry, sir," the operator said. "We've got no lines for that."

  Hours later, Smith still stood on his balcony, still staring at the round hill. A native goat herder in a felt hat and colorful poncho shooed a group of goats under the satellite reflectors.

  Smith sat down heavily on the bed, once again spreading out the diagrams of the Colodor CIA Centrale. His hero. Nelson, would study the enemy plans, learn every nuance about the opponent. He traced the layout with his fingers, and suddenly a realization came to him. "Why, the whole place is automated!"

  "That's right," Bolo said, striding through the open door in a gray policeman's uniform. "And that could be their weakness."

  Smith looked up in shock at Bolo, who stood just inside the door. "Excuse me? Am I under arrest?"

  "Not yet," Bolo said, polishing his knuckles against his brass badge.

  "Say, haven't I seen you someplace before?" Smith said. Over the weeks that he'd been in this country, he was sure he'd encountered those dark features before. "Weren't you a cabdriver once? Or a waiter?"

  Bolo walked toward him, casually picking up the CIA blueprints to scrutinize them. "No. I got lots of brothers. I'm a very average-looking Colodoran."

  "Oh," Smith said. "Then what do you want?"

  Bolo turned the plans the other way around, tracing his finger along a conduit, then scribbled something in the margin. "Very good. Just checking." He handed them back to the lieutenant and turned to leave.

  Smith stared after him, scratching his head. He knew he'd seen that fellow before, and had the vague notion the man was following him. He then looked back at Bolo's suggestion penciled in the margin of the plans.

  It was a design for a device—an extremely complex electronic device of the kind that a Navy contractor might have dreamed up. Only a secret agent would have scrawled those notes. But a secret agent for whom?

  "Aha! I should have thought of this myself," Smith crowed. "I'll just build an electronic induction cross-feed molecular cancelifier and throw it down the air hole. That'll send a neuro-magnetic pulse to paralyze the automatic circuits!" Smith grinned. "Then I'll just walk right into the place and get on the radio so I can report to the U.S.!"

  He nodded. The plan was set.

  Chapter 40

  SMITH BOUGHT A MOUND of wire and high-tech gadgets at the local electronics boutique in the small Andean farming village. He still had the espionage equipment from the secret compartment in his tan suitcase, but he needed specific items for his new idea.

  Working at the courtesy table in his hotel room, Smith built a circular device the size of a basketball, its red case filled with coils and cables and a battery. He wiped sweat off his brow, set one of his laser pistols aside, then glanced again at his Russian wristwatch. Time to get moving.

  Singing cheerily, he hefted the gadget, testing its weight as he double-checked the plans of the CIA Centrale. For this mission, he would have to use his best skills as both Smith and Pedrito.

  Inside CIA Communications Centrale, O'Halloran demanded answers. Spittle flew at the microphone as he shouted. "I need Pedrito Miraflores dead—now, or sooner! Why can't you just take care of him?" Then he realized the microphone was switched off, and he had to bellow his demands all over again.

  "Any more reports on his location?" his contact in Langley, Virginia, asked over the radio, unruffled by the CIA man's anger. He had heard it all before.

  "Fifteen sightings in five different countries so far," O'Halloran said, sulking. "But one thing's for certain: he's miles away from here. I'm not going to get a piece of the action."

  Dressed in a native felt hat and costume. Smith hid his device under his poncho. He walked stealthily toward the crown of the hill accompanied by a herd of goats he had borrowed from a local farmer. The man had seemed only too happy to loan his herd so that he could have an afternoon siesta. Smith kept his eyes open for the automatic machine guns. But the goats seemed to give him all the cover he needed

  Peering through his field glasses from town, Bolo recognized Smith and the goats on the hill. He grinned his secretive smile. "It's time to add a little more chaos." He sprinted off, holding down his policeman's cap to keep it from blowing away.

  The town's electrical plant was a modest building with insulators sprouting out of the roof. Inside the shack, a diesel generator stuttered and smoked, unattended. A huge busbar stood out on the corner of the building: not locked, not barred, not guarded in any way. Trusting folks, these locals—just the way Bolo liked it. He put his hand on the handle of the busbar, then watched Smith's movements. He had to choose his moment carefully.

  In the distance, the disguised Smith trudged up the round hill, a simple shepherd surrounded by goats. The satellite reflectors stood like huge metal umbrellas, pivoting on their axes as they searched the sky for secret transmissions.

  Beneath one of the satellite dishes, exactly as shown on the blueprints. Smith found a round air shaft four feet in diameter. He glanced around, tugging the straw hat down over his eyes. With no one watching, he removed the bright red gadget from under his poncho and tossed it down the hole....

  "Good, good," Bolo muttered. As the red gadget vanished into the shaft, he yanked the busbar down, shielding his eyes from the shower of sparks. Still grinning secretly, he looked up at the hill.

  Now Smith wouldn't have any trouble at all getting inside.

  The lights went out at the radio console in the Colodor CIA Centrale. Everything was swallowed in pitch-black.

  "What the hell?" O'Halloran bellowed. "We're under attack! An invasion force—every man for himself!" But then he realized he was the only man in the base, since he had sent everyone else off on a coffee break.

  Smith stood beside the air shaft. Inside, he could tell that all the power had gone out. The lights shining up from the air shaft had dimmed, and the antennas had all quit moving. Even the Uttle red electronic eyes by the automatic guns had gone dim.

  "Well, that was easy," he said, throwing off' his hat and poncho to reveal riding boots, breeches and a wide-collar white shirt. He took a long breath, then dove headfirst into the hole.

  "I see you over there!" O'Halloran snarled.

  The flash of his gun went off, but illuminated nothing else.

  "Come on out and fight like a man!" Another shot flashed. A bullet ricocheted off a wall. One of the surveillance monitors exploded. "Hah! I got you!"

  Another shot flashed, then another, until the CIA man had emptied his handgun. "Take that, you bastard!" he said, swinging hard with his fist. The sound of his knuckles slapping into the concrete wall echoed in the darkness. "And that!"

  He could feel the fresh air of the air shaft above him, and O'Halloran lo
oked up, heard the sound of something heavy sliding toward him. He tried to glimpse some sunlight shining through the hole but saw nothing.

  Then, after a huge thud, the CIA man fell unconscious.

  The two thugs, Felipe and Juan, sat at the bar of the hotel, drinking rum and signing the tab over to Smith's room. "Did you hear all that gunfire a minute ago?" Felipe asked.

  "Been quiet for a while," Juan said, gulping directly from the bottle. "Pedrito's finished all the hard work, I suppose."

  "We better go collect those secret documents the colonels want," Felipe said, finishing his own shot. "Maybe we'll get a promotion."

  They slid off their barstools, adjusted the guns in their belts and swaggered out.

  Bolo stood at the busbar, cupping his ear, but he heard no more shots. It was time for the next step, time to keep Smith off-balance.

  He turned and pushed the busbar in with a grunt.

  Deep underground, all the lights flickered on and off, then went on again.

  O'Halloran lay on the floor, out cold. Smith himself had fallen on top of him like a ton of bricks. Beside the CIA man, his red gadget lay broken on the floor.

  Smith brushed himself off, surprised but satisfied. "Looks like my device handled all the lights," he said. "Must have been a flawless design."

  He unreeled a length of wire from the red metal case and used it to tie O'Halloran's hands behind his back until yards and yards were wrapped all around the CIA man's head and body. "Double use. Good for the environment."

  He dragged O'Halloran by the feet into a closet, closed the door and propped a chair up against it. "This way I won't get hurt," Smith said. "And maybe you won't hurt yourself either. I remember the problems you had with my banana truck."

  Then he went exploring. He would find some way to contact the authorities and explain his situation.

  The huge control board of the communications center had many switches and levers. Smith read the labels on every system, particularly the ones marked AUTOMATED DEFENSES and TOTAL DISARM. He tugged down the long lever. Good. Now he could walk out of here as soon as he had sent his message. Piece of cake.

  Chapter 41

  AS THEY APPROACHED the satellite-covered hillside, reeling a bit from drinking too much rum, Juan nudged his partner ahead of him. "You go first."

  Felipe stopped short, swaying on his feet. "No, you go first. I've seen those automatic machine guns."

  "Don't worry about them—Pedrito took care of everything." Juan gave him a less gentle shove. "What are you waiting for? Somebody to roll out the welcome mat?"

  In front of them the large earth-disguised front door raised up, silently waiting for them.

  "Well, look at that," Felipe said.

  "See, I told you. Let's go." Together they staggered toward it.

  Deep underground Smith sat at a huge console, glancing up at the sign International Communication Links. This looked like the right place. He hoped he could make a collect call.

  He scanned a series of labeled switches: Langley, Europe, White House Emergency, as well as a few for local pizza delivery. Smith reached for the White House Emergency switch and pulled the microphone toward him, clearing his throat.

  The President of the United States stood in the Oval Office. A large desk with numerous different-colored phones had been moved aside to make room for a putting dish.

  The President spoke over his shoulder to an aide. "If I can just get my handicap raised, I'll beat Senator Twaddle. After humiliating him on the golf course, I'll have no trouble getting that appropriations bill through."

  He swung for another putt at exactly the same moment one of his phones rang. The shot went wide, bouncing off an umbrella stand in the corner. He glared at the assorted phones on the desk. "Oh, which the hell one of these is ringing?"

  The aide pointed to the purple phone. "I think it's that one, sir. Must be important—I don't recall ever hearing the purple phone ring."

  Annoyed, the President looked at the label. "CIA, South America?" He looked up at the aide, set his putter aside and stalked toward the desk. "Why the hell is it ringing? Are we even doing anything in South America? I bet they want more funding."

  "Maybe you better answer it," the aide said. "That's the best way to find out."

  In CIA Centrale, Smith gripped the shiny microphone, swallowing nervously. "Hello, Mr. President? You don't know me but I, uh, I voted for you in the last election." He hesitated, afraid the President would hear the lie in his voice, then rattled on. "There's a secret Commie missile base here in the Andes, in a country called Colodor. Here are the coordinates." He rattled off numbers from the map on the console.

  The President's expostulation came over the speaker. "Colodor! Never heard of it."

  The two thugs, Felipe and Juan, stopped in the entrance tunnel, thunderstruck as they overheard Smith. They had found their way through the weird maze of tunnels easily, drawn by the smell of stale Doritos. "What is Pedrito doing?" Juan gasped. "Why is he betraying our beloved missile base?"

  Felipe slapped his forehead in dismay, but kept his voice low. "Ai! Pedrito! He is a spy, a double agent!" Drawing their weapons, they crept forward, behind the redheaded lieutenant.

  Smith tried to reassure the President. "Don't worry, sir, it's all right. I changed the missiles' auto-directors to fire on the principal cities of Cuba and Russia, not on the United States. Our country is perfectly safe."

  The President was furious, and the speaker jumped as he yelled, "You idiot! If you destroy Russia, we'll have no place to export wheat!"

  Stepping up behind the chair, Juan pushed his ancient revolver against Smith's head. Felipe picked up the microphone. "I'm sorry, sir, we've got another call. Please hold." Then he cut the White House Emergency switch.

  "Turn around slow, Pedrito!" Juan said. "And keep your hands up, you greasy traitor."

  Juan stood back with the drawn revolver still pointing toward Smith. Smith looked cross-eyed at Felipe's gun muzzle just in front of his nose.

  "You don't understand," Smith said.

  "It don't take no understanding," Felipe said.

  "We're not good at understanding things anyway," Juan snapped.

  "We're delivering you right now to Colonel Enrique back at the missile base!" Felipe gloated. "Uh, I mean at the wheat farm."

  "March!" Juan said.

  Chapter 42

  IN THE OVAL OFFICE, the President threw the purple phone onto the desk with a loud jangle; then he picked up his putter and tossed it across the room. Still not satisfied, he snatched up one of the golf balls from the carpet and hurled it through the window. The glass smashed, and the ball sailed out into the rose garden, nearly striking a tabloid reporter who was trying to eavesdrop on the President's putting practice.

  The aide hurried to the window and called out apologetically, "Fore!"

  The President paced about. "The CIA is going to bomb Russia and Cuba. How can they do such a thing? And who was that fool agent?" He grabbed the dark blue and silver phone from the rainbow of phones on his desk. "Air Force! I'm ordering a preemptive bombing raid on Colodor! Wipe out that missile base before they can launch. Check your own maps for the coordinates. I'll clear the strike with the government down there—they owe us a few favors anyway. Most of those South American countries do."

  Bolo stood on the village street not far from a mud-spattered and dented old jeep. He had chosen to disguise himself as a local cable TV repairman, so no one noticed that he stood in the same place for a long time, doing nothing.

  Without a glance at him, Juan jumped behind the wheel of the jeep while Felipe pushed Smith into the back. He swung into the passenger seat, still holding his gun on their redheaded prisoner. "Head back to the secret missile base," he said to Juan. "Our friend Pedrito's got a lot of explaining to do—and I'm sure will get to do some of it under torture."

  At the U.S. Air Force Strategic Air Command, a colonel sat at his console, trying to remember how to react in a real emergency ins
tead of just another training drill. He covered his uncertainty by raising his voice.

  "SAC 32! Scramble, scramble! Target the secret Commie missile base in Colodor. You all know where it is—and if you don't know, make your best guess and bomb the whole countryside. Get going!"

  A fleet of bombers streaked across the runway and then leaped into the air like silver dolphins. They roared into the sky, heading for South America.

  In a clothes shop near the Cathedral of Our Lady of Mercy, Yaquita preened herself in front of a mirror. This was the ninth wedding dress she had tried on, but she had to find the perfect gown no matter how long it might take. Everything had to be perfect for her special day.

  She smoothed the fine white lace across her breasts, turning sideways to see how well it revealed her figure. A stack of similarly gorgeous dresses lay piled across a chest and a chair in the back of the store. Yaquita had already tried them on and set them aside for a second look. The shopkeeper stood away from the door of the dressing room. He had learned the folly of trying to suggest anything to Yaquita when she was concentrating.

  She nodded appreciatively. "I think this dress might indeed be the one," she said, as she had said each time before. But she still had a few others to try on. Her redheaded young beau would be here any time now....

  The jeep sped along a road in a gorge through the Andes, bouncing over potholes and swerving close to the cliff's edge. In the back, Smith groaned, green and carsick from Juan's driving. The thug tromped down on the accelerator.

  In the missile compound office at the Hungry Mouth Wheat Company, Colonel Ivan stood up to receive a heavy attache case from a red-faced courier. He grinned, stubbing out his big cigar. "It's finally here!"