Her voice was too loud. Rubens thought this was a tactic to get him to be quiet.
“Why are you interested in Peru?” he repeated, lowering his voice further.
“The president is interested in Peru — in fair elections. Otherwise I don’t give a shit.”
“Four-letter words don’t impress me, Debra.”
“Good.”
She started across the hall, but he grabbed her arm. Her eyes flashed; he let go.
“Why did Evans brief us on Peru? Did he volunteer?”
“This is what happens when I give you a heads-up about a contact that approached the agency? You go paranoid on me?”
“If my people are in danger—”
Collins didn’t let him finish. “I’m neither a fool nor a traitor.” She spun and strode angrily into the conference room.
About ten minutes of the meeting was devoted to Peru, and most of the time was taken up by the undersecretary of state for Latin America, who reviewed the election situation. The undersecretary mentioned the disturbance the day before and put it into political perspective: Vice President Ramon Ortez’s numbers in the overnight tracking polls had plummeted. Victor Imberbe of the Peruvian Centrists now had a ten-point lead. Hernando Aznar had picked up a few points as well, though he was still in third place.
Collins chimed in with the warning that had been delivered by what she called a “high-ranking potential source.” She said his information was still being evaluated; technically, it would be up to the CIA’s analysis side to put it into perspective, though obviously events would show how trustworthy he was.
Rubens watched her as she spoke. Maybe she was right — maybe she didn’t have an ax to grind and he was just being paranoid. Evans might have just been available, or even been sent over as part of a gradual plan to make sure he knew all the players as he climbed further up the echelon.
Chaired by one of Hadash’s deputies in his absence, the session moved along expeditiously, and in less than thirty minutes Rubens was packing up his things to go. He thought he might actually get ahead of his daily schedule until a member of the chief of staff’s office met him outside.
“President wants to talk to you upstairs,” said the staffer, a twenty-two-year-old fresh out of Yale. “And you, too, Ms. Collins.”
Rubens gritted his teeth. Neither of them said anything as they made their way upstairs. The aide led them to the Oval Office, asking them to wait in the hallway. Rubens held his arms together at his chest, folded there as if they were an armored suit. Collins stood with her back to him, feigning interest in some document her aide had given her downstairs. For perhaps the millionth time, Rubens berated himself for ever having any sort of interest in her, romantic or otherwise. Truly it had been a moment of lunacy, utter lunacy.
When they were shown in, Marcke was in the mid of a phone call, apparently with a governor whose support he was courting for a highway initiative. He motioned at them to sit down, then continued cajoling the governor, who apparently was refusing to sign off on a change in allocation formulas. It was obvious the president wasn’t getting anywhere; he finally signed off by telling the governor that they would have to agree to disagree.
“Is Peru going to explode?” Marcke asked as soon as the call ended.
Collins answered before Rubens could even open his mouth.
“I don’t think so, Mr. President.”
Rubens was tempted to ask whether she had taken over the analysis side of the agency as well as operations but knew better than to snipe in front of the president.
“Billy?”
“The Peruvians can be unpredictable,” he told the president. “But whatever happens, our mission will succeed.”
“I don’t have a doubt about that.”
Marcke got up and went over to the comer of his office, where he kept a golf club. He lined up a putt and took a shot at a target cup before speaking again.
“George is doing very well in China. He sends his regards,” said the president. “It seems as if they will agree to cut relations with North Korea if the North doesn’t disband their nuclear weapon program and allow full inspections. I don’t know if we should give George too much credit, though. It may go to his head.”
The president smiled, then turned his attention back to the golf ball. He took another shot.
“George mentioned something else during our conversation. He’s thinking seriously of retiring.”
Rubens suddenly realized why Marcke had called him upstairs: he was being considered as a replacement for his mentor.
As was Collins.
“I just wanted to make sure that you both knew about this,” Marcke told them. “I promised I wouldn’t try and talk him out of it. It won’t be official for a while. Hopefully, no rumors start until after he’s come back.”
That was intended to be a warning, Rubens realized.
Obviously aimed at Collins.
“You tried to talk him out of it?” she asked.
“No, he made me promise I wouldn’t,” said the president. “But if either of you want to take a shot at it, be my guest.”
42
THE EVENTS OF YESTERDAY WILL NOT 60 UNPUNISHED. ALL OF LIMA SHALL WITNESS THE FEROCITY OF OUR WRATH.
THE POLICE STATE WILL BE ABOLISHED BY FORCE. FOREIGN INVADERS AND COLLABORATORS WILL BE PUNISHED, HEED OUR WARNING: YOU HAVE TWELVE HOURS TO LEAVE THE CITY, OR DIE FOR YOUR SINS.
General Tucume couldn’t help but grin as he finished reading the copy of the unsigned communique from Sendero Nuevo. The general staff had ordered it distributed two hours after it had been received by e-mail at the Lima headquarters. The threat was considered so important that commanding officers were to acknowledge in writing that they had received it.
“A bit over-the-top,” said Babin, standing on his crutches next to him.
“Very much in their style,” said Tucume, hitting the keys on the laptop to save the message in an encrypted file.
“You would know,” said Babin, crutching across the room.
Tucume reflected on the Russian’s tone. Had he become more bitter since they had met?
Certainly. And it was understandable. Babin had been happy to be alive that first afternoon. He had no idea what had happened to his body. It was only later, over much time, that the full reality sank in. Tucume could not blame him.
Tucume intended to reward all of his people lavishly in the best Inca tradition, and Babin would be no exception. Perhaps a doctor could be found to cure his legs and back or at least ease his pain. The general made a solemn promise to himself to help his friend.
“You’d better take care to plan your ambush for the cameras,” said Babin. “You may not get the right light for the TV cameras.”
“There won’t be any television cameras.”
“I can’t believe you’d miss the opportunity.”
Actually, there would be something much better — a BBC stringer had asked to join the general on a patrol in the Amazonian jungle weeks before. They were to meet in a few hours.
The announcement of the discovery of the weapon was critical to Tucume’s plan; keeping it a secret from the public would accomplish nothing. He had gone to great lengths to make sure the news could be broadcast and
