“I get a lunch hour?”
“Mr. Rubens runs a very tight ship, but it’s not that tight. We have our own lounge down the hall. It’s small, but you’re probably better off eating there today. It’ll save you some of the hassles of going back upstairs. You place an order and it will be delivered.”
Jackson nodded. Montblanc had told him that there were very nice cafeterias — more like small commercial cafes or restaurants — upstairs, but he had no idea where they were. This would be fine.
“Someone from our analysis section is coming down to show you how to use the systems,” Telach added. “I assume you don’t know how.”
“I can use the Internet and e-mail.”
“Good. This is a little different, but once you get the hang of it, it’s fairly simple.”
“What exactly am I looking for?”
Telach gave him an odd smile. “Mr. Rubens didn’t tell me.”
Jackson already knew his way around SpyNet, an internal “intranet” service used by American intelligence agencies to access and share information. It was very similar to a commercial intranet, the internal Web-like systems used by many companies to allow different departments to share data easily.
The other databases he had access to were simply mind-boggling. He could, for example, look through the government’s entire archives on World War II — the military as well as diplomatic records not only had been digitized but also were indexed and could be searched in a variety of ways. Jackson, who’d always been interested in history, felt a bit like a schoolkid introduced to the library for the first time.
The only question was what he was supposed to do with all this information. Rubens didn’t seem to know, either — or if he did, he wasn’t telling.
For want of a better idea, Jackson decided to start where he had left off the day before, looking at Iron Heart. The report was skimpy, but that was all right — the more things that were left out, the more places there were to look next.
40
Drinking her coffee in the hotel’s balcony restaurant while waiting for Fernandez to meet her, Lia watched through the window as the rest of Lima woke. The city reminded her of Los Angeles, mixing tall buildings and highways against the backdrop of the sea nearby. The contrasts were much sharper here, the colors riotous; the wall on the building across the way jammed a violent pink against the brightest yellow she’d ever seen. But the same wild mix of dreams, wealth, and desperation that made Los Angeles such a vibrant place filled Lima’s streets. From where she sat, Lia could see seven or eight cranes rising in the distance, towering over new buildings. On the street below, men and women recently arrived from the highlands to the east walked swiftly past, bundled in clothes that could have been woven four hundred years before.
Why were these people struggling for democracy, Lia wondered. Why were their governments so chronically corrupt? Was history to blame? Had the Spanish planted some irredeemable seed here that prevented men from doing the right thing?
“Lost in thought?” said Fernandez, startling her as he arrived.
“Good morning,” said Lia coldly.
“Yesterday’s storm has blown over, at least for the moment,” said Fernandez. “The president is holding a news conference this morning to ask for a full investigation and to pledge free elections. We think that will help. There’s a march to the main police station scheduled for this afternoon. I guess that will tell us how this is going to go.”
“The police were set up,” Lia told him.
“Latin America is different than your country and mine,” said Fernandez. He nodded as the waiter came with his coffee. “They don’t have the same traditions here.”
Lia didn’t feel like arguing.
“We’ll visit warehouse number two to test the voting machines after breakfast,” she told him. “Then we’ll go back to the vault and finish the checks on the voter cards.”
“Oh.”
“Problem?” asked Lia, pretending to be surprised.
“We decided to rearrange the shipment schedule because of the, uh, problems yesterday. The cards are being shipped out right now.”
“Peachy.”
“Excuse me?”
Fernandez didn’t understand the expression, and Lia didn’t bother translating it.
“It’s not a problem,” she told him. “I’ll finish the machines here and then go to the regional centers. I’ll need a list of the sites and where the envelopes are going so I can use the same test pattern.”
“I don’t know if we have that,” said Fernandez. “Let me check.”
He took out a cell phone and called over to the commission’s headquarters. Lia knew that they did have a list — the Art Room had already obtained it. She wondered what it would mean if he told her it didn’t exist — would the logical conclusion be that he was somehow involved in a scam?
“We can get it,” he told her, glancing up from the phone. Then he went back to talking with his co-worker in rapid Spanish, complaining about all of the bureaucratic problems they had to deal with.
“Arranging transportation may be a problem,” said Fernandez when he hung up. “Depending on where you’re going. Near the coast isn’t a problem, but once you’re up into the mountains, it can get rather tortuous.”
“I thought there were helicopters available.”
“There are, and we will try to get one for you. But between the weather and altitude, they sometimes can’t physically make it there and back, not safely.”
“Well, hopefully we can figure it out,” said Lia. “Should we order? I’d like to get going.”
41
Rubens’ day began with a National Security Council subcommittee meeting at the White House. Given the president’s interest in the Peruvian election scheduled for the weekend, Rubens expected that a good portion of the meeting would be devoted to it
He also expected that he would run into Debra Collins there. Which he did.
“You look tired, Bill,” said Collins as they walked down the hall toward the conference room in the basement complex. “Thank you for the information about the riot. I always appreciate a heads-up.”
“Yes.” Rubens glanced down the hall. No one was coming down behind them. Except for her aide, they were alone. Rubens touched her sleeve to stop her. “Why was Jorge Evans part of the briefing team on Peru?”
“Jorge?”
“I find it odd that he’s not a member of your staff but was representing you.”
Collins made a face as if she didn’t understand — which, to Rubens, meant exactly the opposite. She nodded to her aide, indicating he could go on without her.
“First of all,” she told Rubens when they were alone, “Jorge was there on behalf of the Latin American Division, not me personally. And second of all, he was the person we could spare who knows the area.”
“There are no present operations in Peru we’re going to trip over?”
“You know me better than that. I’m not going to jeopardize your people or our interests by playing some turf war garbage game.”
“Oh, that’s rich.”
“Bill, don’t talk to me like this.” She leaned forward slightly. “Get beyond the personal.”
“This isn’t personal. Why are you so interested in Peru?”
“Me? You’re interested in Peru.”
