“There is quite a lot of poverty here,” said the reporter, Charles Ross. “The government can’t do more to help?”
“A question, I’m afraid, beyond my scope,” said Tucume.
“But you come from this area. These are your people, the Indians.”
“True,” said Tucume. He liked Ross; he was not as condescending as many journalists he’d met and not stupid, either. The man recognized that Tucume was a man of the people and felt a strong bond to them. Ross’ questions were actually good ones, though answering with candor was inconvenient for Tucume, who knew that the general staff would be sure to study what he said.
Then again, in a short while it wouldn’t matter what the general staff thought, would it?
“Native people want only fairness,” said the general, deciding to answer honestly. “You have to remember that since the days of the Spanish — the early days of the Spanish — the people you call Indians have been treated very badly. Even those who were leaders of the people, they were hounded and persecuted, made to give up their beliefs and convert to Catholicism. Even then, it wasn’t enough. Many were killed or reduced to peasants.”
“History is more complicated than that,” said Ross.
“More complicated than what you’ve read in books, yes. I would agree. Some Incas were allowed to remain on as leaders under the Spanish, as long as they kowtowed to their real masters. My people remained true, and they suffered greatly for it. For many generations they lived in hiding, in the jungles, far from the Spanish and the cities. That was a blessing in disguise, for it kept them pure.”
“Pure genetically?”
“In thought,” said the general. “In the way they lived. To be an Inca — to be a ruler — is not an easy thing.”
“If you feel that way, why don’t you run for political office?”
“Politics.” Tucume waved his hand dismissively. But then he grew serious, once more speaking with as much candor as possible. “I could get many votes. Here. In the country among native peoples, I believe I would have a landslide. You saw them in the village.”
“They worship you.”
“That’s too strong a word. And don’t be mistaken: they flocked around the Jeep because they know we give out presents and bring money, and they would act the same way to anyone, to even you, Senor Ross. But you noticed the respect from the little boys? Their fathers have spoken of me to them. That is something that one cannot buy with a few sols or dollars. Respect for my ancestors. That is a serious honor.”
“So why don’t you run for office?”
“You didn’t let me finish. I could do well here. But in the cities, never. I would be isolated in Parliament.” He shook his head. “I would not have my position if it were not for the war with Ecuador in 1995 and again in 1998. If others had done well, I would not be here.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“It’s true. It’s also part of the reason that my command is so far from Lima.”
As he spoke, gunfire began echoing through the canyon. Tucume cursed to himself — the encounter was supposed to be over when they arrived; he did not wish Ross to think it had been prearranged. But there was nothing to be done about that now.
Tucume grabbed his driver’s arm as the gunshots continued.
“To the side,” he said. He turned around to his aide who had the communications gear, but the man’s blank face answered his question: there had been no warning.
As the truck skidded to a stop, Tucume jumped out. He pulled his pistol from its holster, then helped Ross from the back, pulling him down and pushing him against the side of the truck for cover, as if he were the reporter’s bodyguard.
“General, what is going on?” asked Ross.
“I’m not sure. The peaks around us make the radios almost impossible to use at times. At the moment we’re out of communication. Don’t worry; we will bring this under control.”
The soldiers in the vehicle behind them had fanned out along the narrow shoulder of the road. One of them began firing.
This was definitely not part of Tucume’s plan. Seething with anger, he turned to the communications man, who had been with him for many years.
“Stay with Senor Ross,” Tucume said. “Guard him with your life.”
The aide hesitated before nodding. Belatedly, Tucume realized that he had pointed the pistol in the man’s face and he had probably thought he was threatening him. Without apologizing, Tucume turned to the reporter and handed him the pistol.
“Be careful and stay here.”
Ross looked at him doubtfully but took the weapon. Tucume rose and trotted up the road in the direction of the soldier who had started to fire. By the time Tucume reached the man, three other soldiers had joined him.
“What are you shooting at?” the general demanded.
The man didn’t hear him, squeezing off another three-round burst. Tucume put up his hand, warning the others not to fire.
“What are you shooting at?” Tucume asked again.
The man began to explain that he had seen something moving through the high grass off the side of the road.
Tucume saw nothing.
“You’ve chased him off,” he told the soldier. “I need a gun. Give me yours.”
The man handed over his rifle, then dug into his combat vest for a fresh magazine. The general took it, then began up the road. The soldiers — they were all privates — followed.
The road dipped to the right, turning around sheer rock, which formed a wall on that side of the road. A sparse field sat on the other side; its width varied from ten or fifteen yards to just a couple of feet as it followed the road around the curve. Beyond the field was a cliff.
Tucume darted across the road to the scraggly grass, then began moving ahead toward the curve. As he reached the apex of the turn, gunfire began again; it was too far away to be aimed in his direction, though the surrounding geography made it difficult to get a precise sense of where it was coming from. He signaled to the men to move with him, then trotted around the turn, pausing a moment before heading to the next, a sharp cutback that would have made the road look like an inverted 5 from the air. As he gained the straight-away, he heard the echo of voices ahead. Tucume dropped to his knee, steadying his rifle. He wasn’t a general now; his quick-beating heart had made him a young soldier again, a bold lieutenant eager to prove himself.
Two men appeared on the road, coming up from a shallow dip. They had bandanas tied around their heads, the blue scarves guerrillas here sometimes used to identify themselves to one another in battle.
Tucume sighted up his rifle but did not fire. Were they real guerrillas? Or part of the sham force that was supposed to stage the attack farther up the valley?
One of the men stopped, spotting him.
“Surrender!” he yelled.
The man squared the AK-47 to fire.
Tucume squeezed his trigger. Three bullets leapt from his M 16. Two hit their target, striking the guerrilla in the face. The soldiers behind Tucume began to fire, and the man’s companion was cut down in a hail of bullets.
“Stop,” yelled Tucume as the man went down. “Conserve your bullets! Discipline! Discipline!”
The soldiers ran forward to the downed bodies. Tucume huffed to keep up.
“There will be more!” he warned, and within seconds they heard voices and fresh gunfire. “Our people will be fighting with them,” said Tucume. “Be careful that we do not shoot our comrades. Take positions in the field. Spread out.”
Tucume knelt down next to the man he had shot, taking the guerrilla’s AK-47 and the spare magazines from his bandolier. Tucume preferred the M 16, but the Russian-made assault gun was a serviceable second choice.
Three men with bandanas ran around the bend. Tucume rose and yelled at them to surrender. One of the men began to throw down his rifle, but it was too late; one of the soldiers with Tucume began to fire. In a few seconds all three men were lying in the dust of the road.
