would seem spontaneous at the same time. He’d settled on the British reporter over several Peruvians because the unprejudiced words of praise from a foreigner would surely be worth more. Members of Peru’s media were commonly thought to be bribed by officers looking to advance, and Tucume did not want his discovery tarnished by such suspicions.
Babin watched the general’s SUV as it made its way down the mountain trail, staring after it until all that was left was a thick cloud of yellowish-brown dust. He admired Tucume; in many ways the Indian was like a countryman. The general had the ambition of a Slav and the ability to plan that made Russian chess masters so unbeatable. The plot he had woven to win the election for his candidate — and to cement his own hold over the country — was worthy of Peter the Great. Tucume did not possess the ruthlessness of a criminal like Stalin, who had massacred people on a grand scale; this was a flaw in a great leader, Babin thought, but not an unforgivable one. More problematic was Tucume’s loyalty to people he trusted. Not that Babin had not benefited: a truly ruthless leader would have executed him long ago. Tucume gained very little by keeping him alive, and yet Babin knew very well that he would not even entertain the thought of killing him.
He also knew that Tucume was unlikely to help him get revenge against the people who had crippled him. Like most Latin Americans, Tucume had a love-hate attitude toward the Yankees. He might criticize the U.S. and take advantage of its foibles, but in the end he would not do anything to seriously enrage it. He was wise enough to understand that doing so would only endanger his vision for the future. Tucume lived for the time when the native peoples were once more the lords of the Andes.
Unlike Babin, who only lived for revenge.
Babin pushed back on his crutches, heading toward the barn where the real bomb was still stored. The truck he had sent for would be here within the hour. He had to make sure everything was ready before it arrived.
43
They spent the day following Lia from a distance as she inspected the second set of voting machines and then went over to the UN to meet with the board of observers. Lia’s meeting took place near an Internet cafe, and Karr told Dean he was tempted to send his girlfriend an e-mail.
“So go ahead,” said Dean.
“The problem with working for the NSA, Charlie, is that I know how easy it is to trace things.”
“You can’t figure a way around it?”
“Somebody’s always watching. No matter how good you are.”
“How’s your girlfriend?” asked Dean.
Karr’s face flushed. He’d met Deidre Clancy during their last mission in Europe several months before. She was the daughter of the American ambassador to Great Britain and one of the most beautiful women Dean had ever seen.
After Lia, of course.
“She laughs at all my jokes. There’s something in that,” said Karr.
“There’s a
“You ever been married, Charlie?”
Dean smiled — not at the memory of his own marriage but at the fact that Karr was thinking about it.
“Didn’t work out,” Dean told him. “Doesn’t mean it wouldn’t work out for you. Probably would be pretty good.”
“What happened?”
“Long story.”
“We got time.”
Karr was right, but Dean didn’t feel like talking about his marriage. He glanced across the street at the restaurant where the UN people were meeting with Lia.
It wasn’t a thing to talk about — wasn’t important at all, just a passing mistake. Fortunately, it was one without many consequences — they hadn’t had kids, and no money to squabble over. Just something best forgotten.
“So?” prodded Karr.
Dean changed the subject, provoked by another billboard proclaiming Vice President Imberbe as THE HERO OF THE PEOPLE.
“You think of yourself as a hero, Tommy?”
Karr laughed. “I think of myself as a mathematician.”
Dean stared at him. It was hard to know with Karr how sincere he was being. “A mathematician?”
“That’s what I went to school for. I’m just a big geek.” Karr laughed. “I’m not old enough to be a hero. Heroes are the guys in the reviewing stands at the end of the parade.”
“Yeah,” said Dean.
Karr gave him a look. “Ah, you’re not old enough to have served in Vietnam. I know your war record’s phony.”
Coming from Karr, the joke somehow felt like a great compliment, and Dean laughed along with him.
44
Rubens’ car had just turned off the highway when the phone that connected him directly to the Art Room began to ring. He pulled the phone from his pocket and flipped it open, carefully placing his thumb at the side where it could be read by the unit’s biometric security device.
“Rubens. What is it, Ms. Telach?”
“The Peruvian rebels have issued an ultimatum threatening Lima. Their military is on full alert.”
“I’ll be down as soon as I arrive,” he told her.
By the time Rubens made it to the Art Room forty minutes later, the analysts had prepared a fresh report on Peru’s military, showing where its various units were deployed. Satellite photos revealed that two battalion-sized groups of soldiers and materiel had been dispatched to the central Andes where the rebels had been active in the past. A much larger force had gone to the south. Logically, this did not make much sense, and the analysts concluded that the military might be thinking of using the alert as a pretext to settle a local score.
Rubens noted that no reinforcements had been sent to the Amazon and northeastern areas of the country — the ones with the heaviest activity. The forces there were widely spread out. They were also under the command of the general who had warned the CIA earlier that the rebels were planning something.
Either the general staff wanted him to fail or didn’t care if he succeeded. The briefing showed that his force was undermanned to begin with — he wasn’t trusted, probably because of the prejudice against natives.
The UN election committee was alarmed about the developments and had sent several messages back to the UN Security Council, in effect asking for direction. So far they had not received an answer.
Rubens put in a call to the White House and got through to the chief of staff; he gave him a quick update. He also called the secretary of state and the U.S. ambassador to the UN, neither of whom was available to take his call.
Ordinarily, Rubens would have called Hadash first. But he didn’t want to talk to the national security adviser from the Art Room. Rubens wanted to speak someplace where he felt free to ask why Hadash hadn’t told him he was quitting.
As he started to leave, though, it occurred to Rubens that delaying was exactly the wrong thing to do. For one thing, he would be letting a personal consideration interfere with his job — a gross violation of his responsibility. And second, he didn’t particularly
Rubens pushed the buttons and sent the call through. Most likely, he thought, Hadash would be sleeping and
