Ai! Pedrito! When Intelligence Goes Wrong

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Smith gazed out the balcony door, grinning. "Now I can buy my way home."

  Shaking the attache case. Smith poured a cascade of gold into his open rucksack. After the last coin dropped inside. Smith ran his fingers along the grooves of the case, making sure he hadn't missed any gold pieces.

  From behind him, a voice said, "Message for you, sir."

  Smith almost broke his neck snapping his head around in surprise. Bolo stood in a bellman's red uniform. Smith thought he recognized the man, but by now he knew better than to ask.

  "A senorita named Yaquita telephoned to remind you that she is waiting for you at the cathedral in Sangredios. I suggest you do not disappoint the lady."

  Still in shock. Smith kept a protective hand on the gold-filled rucksack.

  "Yaquita? Oh, yeah, that's right. Thanks."

  "Just routine service from your friendly hotel staff." Bolo turned about and went silently through the door. In the hallway he stopped and smiled his secret smile, as usual. From his belt Bolo pulled out a radio, adjusted its frequency, then pressed the transmit button. He liked to keep things interesting.

  In CIA Centrale a bruised O'Halloran cringed as a big metal speaker boomed above his head. The loud words made his skull ache.

  Bolo's voice crackled with static; his whisper transmitted at such a high volume that the windows rattled. "This is a concerned Colodoran citizen. If you watch the Montana Hotel de Lujo in the town, you get surprise—a Pedrito surprise!"

  O'Halloran's bloodshot eyes widened. "Call out all the troops!" he bellowed to the empty communications room, then sank back into his chair, holding his throbbing head.

  Smith came out of the hotel and walked jauntily toward his jeep, dressed again in his German mountain-climbing clothes and Tyrolean hat. None of the locals paid any attention to him, accustomed by now to strange tourists. He carried his gold-heavy backpack, trying to keep it from dragging on the ground or jingling.

  Across in the alley, O'Halloran peered out, focusing a pair of opera glasses. He sucked in a quick, astonished breath. "Pedrito Miraflores! He's fallen right into my hands!" A feral chicken pecked at his ankle, but the CIA man kicked it away, in no mood for fowl harassment.

  O'Halloran chuckled, rubbing his hands together. The redhead drove the jeep down the street and turned left at the corner. He was taking the road to Sangredios, and the CIA man knew he could trap his quarry there for sure. On stumpy legs O'Halloran ran toward the round hill with the satellite reflectors.

  Before he could get to the door, though, the whole hill blew up in a huge gout of orange flame. The shock front knocked the CIA man backward on his butt. Clods of dirt and sod thumped down in the streets like a meteor shower.

  With a creaking, slow-motion groan, the metal satellite dishes collapsed through rising clouds of smoke. The hill, riddled with CIA tunnels, slumped in on itself like an ant mound.

  O'Halloran sat in the dust of the street, staring at the collapsing hill. His strip of hair dangled down in front of his eyes. He knew with utter certainty that Pedrito Miraflores had caused the disaster.

  He bounced to his feet and grabbed a top-secret radio out of his pocket. "Gimme the army!" he shouted. "The whole goddamned army of Colodor."

  Chapter 46

  A HUNCHBACKED PRIEST pulled the bell rope in the landmark cathedral in Sangredios. He reveled in the resonant clang, then tugged the rope again.

  Yaquita paced back and forth before the ornately carved altar in her dazzling wedding dress. Exasperated, Yaquita clapped her hands to get the priest's attention. "Father, I demand that we get started."

  "No, my daughter," he said. "We'd have to post the banns, first."

  "How long will that take? I'm sure he'll be here any minute."

  "The banns take three days."

  "Oh, no you don't!" Yaquita crossed her arms over her chest and gave the man a glare that would have ignited coals. "You'll have to do better than that!"

  "I... I'll take another look in the book," the priest said.

  Smith drove down the road, scanning the village ahead until he finally spotted the towering cathedral. "Aha! I knew I could trust my instincts."

  He drove down a narrow alley into the main village square in front of the cathedral arches. Clay flowerpots overflowing with multicolored blooms stood on the wide marble steps, brightening the narrow plaza. A central fountain splashed greenish water near a few stalls where vendors hawked necklaces, handmade sweaters and ponchos, souvenir maps, bouquets of roses, and savory Inca corn fried with pork.

  A train of burros went by bearing German tourists holding cameras. Every one of the tourists took a snapshot of redheaded Smith as he pulled up in his jeep—perhaps they liked his Tyrolean outfit. He waved for the cameras.

  After parking in front of the marble steps, Smith admired the enormous white cathedral before him. "Just like one of the places Admiral Nelson shot up," he said. He hauled his heavy rucksack across the seat and, with a grunt, threw one strap over his shoulder. He plodded toward the cathedral, bent over from the weight of the gold coins.

  Inside the church, Yaquita and the hunchbacked priest stood before the altar. The priest diligently lit candles while Yaquita continued to bargain with him. "If I steal three goats and give them to the church, would that speed up the process? You are a man of God—there must be some room for negotiation."

  "Oh, dear, no," said the priest. "I'm sorry!"

  Yaquita pursed her lips. "I have some money in another country. Could I write a check?"

  The magnificent entrance to the cathedral was blocked by a huge, ornately carved double door with a smaller inset door that stood open in the afternoon heat. At the top of the marble stairs. Smith smelled the perfume of petunias in a big flowerpot, then turned to look back along the road he had driven.

  Most of the vendors and the entire burro train of tourists were fleeing for their very lives, squealing in terror. Smith removed his Tyrolean cap and shaded his eyes, frowning. Though he had never heard of the country before, Colodor certainly seemed to be an exciting place.

  Three lorry loads of armed government soldiers lurched toward the plaza at a halting speed. They drew their guns, ready for military action. Seeing new customers, a churro vendor hurriedly returned to the plaza and tried to sell his treats to the soldiers.

  A smartly uniformed Colodoran general and CIA chief O'Halloran (now sporting a lovely purplish-black eye) bounced in the front seat of the lead truck beside the driver. "That's him!" O'Halloran shouted hysterically. "On the cathedral steps!"

  The driver jammed the brakes in terror. O'Halloran clawed for his gun as the sudden stop thumped him forward into the dash. Other soldiers piled out and began firing at anything that moved—stray dogs, chickens, pedestrians.

  Seeing the attack. Smith dived through the open portal. "Not again!" He shouted through the door, "What about due process?" A bullet twanged the doorpost.

  He slammed the small door shut behind him, barring it hastily and throwing his back against it, panting. He ran down the center aisle of the cathedral. Stained-glass windows flashed color into the magnificent sanctuary. Most of the pews were empty.

  Up at the altar Yaquita turned to Smith, beaming. "Oh, there you are, my darling!" She rounded on the priest and drew out a large, ancient revolver. "I've bargained long enough! Marry us!"

  The priest, in total shock, stared at the blunderbuss, then cringed as if trying to hide behind his own hunchback.

  Smith had lost his wits and power of speech. Cakn and businesslike, Yaquita tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder. She motioned to a spot beside her and in front of the hunchbacked priest. Candles gleamed off the gold leaf that covered the carved woodwork. "Stand right there, dearest. The priest is about to begin."

  Outside the cathedral, O'Halloran whipped his gun out, drawing down on the arches. The Colodoran general gripped O'Halloran's wrist with both hands like a vise. "I tell you! Do not fire on a church!"

  Yaquita adjusted her gown. She had
waited long enough for this day.

  Instead, Smith ran sideways to one of the stained-glass windows, glancing out toward the town square through a riot of color. He saw uniformed soldiers piling out of the military vehicles, drawing their weapons for a massacre.

  The priest began intoning words, but he stopped when Smith ran to another window, breathing heavily. Yaquita glared daggers at the priest. "Don't slow down," she growled. "He's listening to every word."

  The priest gulped, then continued with his ceremony, mumbling the words in Latin, Spanish, English or any language that came to mind.

  Meanwhile outside, the general still wrestled with O'Halloran, who was desperate to open fire on the cathedral.

  Through the upper stained-glass window, Smith saw an old Model-T truck piled high with hay chugging along a road behind the town plaza. An Indian farmer wearing dingy white clothes drove it along at a slow speed, taking his hay to market in the central square. Smith spotted his chance for escape. He sprinted for a small side alcove, with a curving stairway that led up to a balcony and a higher window.

  "Come back here!" Yaquita yelled, her hands clenched. "What are you doing?" She stalked toward him in her wedding dress. "This is no way to start a marriage!"

  Smith got both straps of his backpack over his shoulders, and its weight made him hunch over just like the priest. "Look outside!" he stammered. "I see an escape vehicle."

  "Escape? You're just like all other men!" Yaquita shouted. "Trying to run out on me!"

  The Colodoran general finally managed to secure O'Halloran's gun, snatching it from the CIA man's hand. Pointing the pistol at O'Halloran, the general backed away from the military vehicle. The other uniformed soldiers stood around, not knowing what to do or whom they should shoot. There were no longer any pedestrians in sight.

  The general gestured toward the cathedral, his face florid and sweating.

  "We cannot enter that sacred place," he said. "We must wait till he comes out! It may be that Pedrito will demand sanctuary, but until then we lay siege to the church."

  O'Halloran stood behind the windshield of the vehicle, apoplectic at the general's stupidity. "You dumb bastard!" he shouted. With a sweep of his hand, O'Halloran snatched his gun back from the general, who gasped at his now empty hands.

  In a savage motion the CIA man slid behind the steering wheel of the truck and engaged the gears. "I'll get him myself!" He tromped down on the accelerator, heading directly for the marble steps of the church.

  As the lorry surged forward, O'Halloran yelled back after the general, "Colodor will never be more than a third-world country if you can't solve a simple little personnel problem."

  Chapter 47

  OBLIVIOUS TO THE MILITARY assault outside, Yaquita's rage towered in the cathedral. "I knew it! You can't toss me aside like a helpless flower, after you've had your way with me, Pedrito ... or whoever you are!"

  Smith tried to talk, backing away toward a small alcove, a stairway and escape—escape from Yaquita as well as from O'Halloran's attack. He just wanted to get out of this crazy country.

  At the altar, the hunchbacked priest tried to look very small and unobtrusive as he continued mumbling the marriage ceremony. He didn't know what else to do.

  Outside, the roar of the oncoming military truck grew louder, wheels clattering on the marble steps as it knocked the big flowerpots aside. The engine backfired, echoing like gunshots, then O'Halloran fired real shots.

  Yaquita fumed, wondering how best to get back at Smith. With a sudden idea, she rushed to a stone slab on the floor and grabbed a heavy iron ring set in its center. Heaving and straining so hard that seams popped on her wedding dress, Yaquita lifted up the trapdoor to reveal the entrance to a crypt. With her white wedding dress billowing around her, Yaquita dropped into the dank tomb.

  She knew exactly what to do now.

  The hunchbacked priest looked up as O'Halloran's truck crashed through the immense front doors of the cathedral, splintering wood and knocking candles aside. Its engine roaring full bore, O'Halloran drove headlong into the sanctuary.

  Smith, his gold-filled backpack sagging on his shoulders, climbed the belfry rope, swinging back and forth, increasing his arc and preparing to dive out the balcony.

  On the floor below, O'Halloran jumped from the driver's seat and pointed his gun at Smith. Bullets ricocheted off the domes overhead, the confessionals, the holy water basins. The hunchbacked priest stumped forward and scolded O'Halloran for all the damage he had done in the house of God.

  Smith continued to swing like Admiral Nelson in the rigging of a man-o'-war, watching the hay truck through the window and choosing his time carefully. Finally, he released his grip and sailed out through the open arched window.

  The Model-T truck chugged just alongside the church. With a yelp, Smith landed feet-first in the piled hay and vanished from view, swallowed up in the dry bales. The Indian farmer drove complacently, chewing on a piece of straw, as if red-haired men leaped from cathedrals into his hay truck every day.

  O'Halloran's lorry wheezed in the church, cluttered with the remains of the splintered door and fallen beams. The CIA man stood next to the vehicle, frowning at his now empty pistol. "Pedrito got away. He got away!"

  Peasants from the square swarmed into the church, carrying clubs and shaking their fists. The churro vendor set up his stand near the altar. The Colodoran general stood beside him. "Sacrilege in a church! Tsk, tsk, tsk. Now you'll be cursed by God, Seiior O'Halloran. You'll never know what torment fate may have in store for you."

  Beneath the floor of the ancient cathedral, bones and skulls cluttered the crypt chambers. Tomb plaques hung on the walls, engraved with names now obscured by thick growths of mold.

  By candlelight, Yaquita sat on a stool at a card table set up in the crypt. She hunched forward to a shiny radio and pulled headphones down over her wedding veil.

  "Roger-Echo-Dog Eighteen to Havana, direct," she said into the microphone, her voice trembling with fury. A bitter, cruel smile grew on her face. "Emergency message to report. Pedrito Miraflores is an enemy agent! He is a double agent!" After giving particulars, Yaquita sat back among the skulls and bones, hoping she never saw anyone who looked like Pedrito again.

  On the other hand, she thought, that bandaged CIA chief looked somewhat attractive. He had seemed so powerful when he crashed into the cathedral after his quarry. At least O'Halloran had ambition, and connections. Besides, with his black eye and his injuries, the man would no doubt need some tender care.

  Yaquita smiled. Perhaps she could catch him before he left the country.

  Near Havana, in the Cuban operations room deep inside Morro Castle, Maria, the radio operator, busily wrote down a decoded message. Sweat glistened on her forehead as she scribbled, her hard eyes wide in disbelief. She yanked off her headset as she turned to rush away. She brought the message to another set of Russian and Cuban colonels, who had taken over the operation from their predecessors, Ivan and Enrique.

  The Russian colonel read the message. "By the night light in Lenin's tomb!" he said. "This explains why our missile site was blown up! We have a double agent in our midst!"

  The Cuban colonel grabbed the message out of the Russian's hand and began to read. "By all the saints whose names I can't remember!"

  Both raced to the center of the room. Paper flew in the commotion; aides dashed out of the way as the two colonels crossed to different radios, hammering at the operators in Spanish and Russian.

  "Radio Moscow!" bellowed the Russian. "Comrade Pedrito

  Miraflores is a traitor!"

  "Cuban Navy—get out an all-points on Pedrito Miraflores!" shouted the other colonel. "Kill him on sight!"

  Chapter 48

  BACK IN THE UNITED STATES, things were no calmer for the real Pedrito. He had bundled up all his microfilm and stolen documents and marched away from the office. He drove to his rendezvous, anxious to be out of this country and back to his own interesting life.

  Uns
een behind him, a green, unmarked sedan eased to a stop alongside the road. Three people sat crammed in the front seat, the bloated Fats stuffed behind the wheel. Lefty crushed against the passenger door, both of them pleased to have Joan Turner crowded in the center and pressed against them.

  Joan, though, was more intent on the object of her vengeance than on her discomfort. "That's him," she said bitterly.

  Pedrito Miraflores, in a starched naval uniform and formal white-topped cap, parked his car and strode briskly up the steps of a Connecticut roadside restaurant. Buzzing pink neon letters proclaimed EAT!

  "Dat long surveillance paid off, Lefty," said Fats in his overblown convict accent. He chewed on a matchstick.

  "He goin' to make de drop," said Lefty, imitating his partner's mode of speech.

  Like two gangsters, the bloated and scarecrowish federal agents elbowed their way through the crowded diner, knocking customers aside while trying to remain unobtrusive. "Oh, boy!" Fats said. "We're going to get promoted if we catch dis sucker. Lefty."

  They were grim-faced and discourteous as they made a bee-line across the dining room toward a pair of tall coffee urns where they could survey the crowd.

  A jukebox played country-and-western songs about broken-down trucks and hound dogs that died before their time. Back in the kitchen a potbellied short-order cook added extra dollops of grease to his culinary creations, then set them to steam under the heat lamps.

  When the two agents reached the coffee machines, they turned around, ready for action. Lefty carried a standard-issue 35-mm camera, intent as a hawk. "Dere he is. Boss." He took pictures.

  Unaware of the surveillance, Pedrito took a seat by the huge colonial glass window. He looked deeper into the diner, scanning the booths and counter, as if waiting for someone. "Where's his contact?" Fats asked.

  A rugged-looking woman in a hat, veil and flowered-print dress sat alone at a table about a third of the way into the restaurant. She batted her eyelashes at Pedrito, who looked away.