Ross nodded and put the notebook away.
“There is a bunker a hundred meters beyond the village,” said Major Sican. “It is an incredible find.”
“How incredible?” asked the general.
“There is a large bomb there, with curious figures. It is a large bomb, in a crate. There was a truck nearby. We suspect it was to have been loaded and we interrupted them. The villagers say there has been no one here in some time, so we think it was a hiding place.”
“Show me this,” said Tucume.
They started up the road. After a few paces, Tucume turned to Ross and told him that he should wait near the truck.
“You promised me full access,” said the reporter.
Finally, it was as the general had rehearsed.
“I think on this—”
“You told me you never went back on your promises.”
“This area is still dangerous,” said Tucume.
“As dangerous as being ambushed? I doubt it. Come on, General. You gave me your word.”
“Come then. Stay next to my sergeant there. He is a veteran and has a good head.”
Tucume turned and gestured to the major to show the way.
49
To Lia, La Oroya looked like an old European village dropped into the mountains, decorated with a few modem signs and lights, then populated with Indians who’d been given a ragtag assortment of clothes from a Goodwill drop-off bin.
The UN convoy drove around the outskirts, up a narrow road made of paving stones, then around a square and back down toward the countryside. Fernandez had to veer sharply twice to miss llamas in the roadway; the large animals didn’t seem to notice, standing placidly and munching on the bare vegetation at the side of the road.
A string of old buildings sat behind a long rusted chain-link fence on the way out of town, part of a mining operation abandoned some years before. The air smelled of copper, smog from the nearby processing plants clinging to the peaks. Just past the fence, the caravan of trucks and cars turned off the highway onto a hard-packed mountain road that twisted around a cliff and then entered a wide valley. A quarter of a mile later, they came to the warehouse where the area’s voting machines were stored.
A single guard in a policeman’s uniform stood at the entrance. He greeted the convoy with unabashed glee, no doubt happy to finally see someone after standing for hours or maybe days alone at his post. The workers jumped down and began unloading the trucks.
Lia had planned to get something to eat and come back once the machines and cards were settled, but she decided to go inside now and make the switch; the chaos of the group’s arrival would make it easier, and she saw no reason to wait. She took her pack and the briefcase with the laptop and walked inside, Fernandez in tow.
After the careful security of Lima, the laissez-faire was shocking — even if it did suit Lia’s purposes. There was no one at the door and no one inside. The interior consisted of a large front room and a smaller back room, divided by a thick plaster wall with windowlike openings and an arched doorway. The front had been the eating area for workers in the nearby mine complex. Except for the voting machines stacked against the wall and the box of voter cards atop one of them, it was completely empty; there was no furniture, not even a single chair. A string of work lights hung from the ceiling, their 100-watt bulbs barely enough to throw a few dim rays into the corners. The windows at the side were so caked with dirt that they might as well have been boarded over.
“Can we get more lights?” Lia asked Fernandez. “And maybe a table?”
“I’ll get something,” he told her.
The back room had been a kitchen. The lights did not extend this far, and shadows hung over most of the room. Lia took a small LED penlight from her pocket and shone it around the room. It had been stripped of its appliances and sinks; the pipes along the back wall were capped. There were two windows on either side, covered with large pieces of plywood.
Back in the main room, Lia examined one of the windows. They were secured by metal pins that were locked into the casing at the side. She pushed at it, trying to see how difficult it would be to open. The metal fell off and clanged to the floor.
“Whoops,” she said, turning and looking at the two men who were carrying tables in. Neither man paid her any attention.
“Rockman?” whispered Lia.
“I’m here,” said the runner. “Tommy and Dean are watching the warehouse from the hillside. Dean says we can get in real easy tonight.”
Lia resisted the impulse to tell Rockman that she didn’t see
“What’s the envelope number?” she asked Rockman, opening the laptop.
“You’re going to make the switch right now?”
“What’s the number?” she said again.
He gave her the number. Lia found the envelope. But before she could swap it with the replacement in the lining of the briefcase, a parade of workers entered with boxes. Two local government officials also came in, looking around. She nodded at them; they stared stone-faced but didn’t ask any questions.
Lia positioned her backpack so that it hid what she was doing. She turned on the computer, pressing the buttons that controlled the sound to flip it to the highest setting. A loud
The men were stacking the tables near the door, not paying any attention to her. One of the officials began berating the men for not being gentle enough with the tables.
“They are not sacks of flour,” complained the man in Spanish. “Be careful. This is the future of the country in your hands.”
Lia slid her hand into the case, opening the panel in the lining. She looked across at the workers, who were now being instructed by a UN supervisor who wanted the machines stored closer to the back of the room. The men looked at him with dazed expressions — he wasn’t explaining why, just telling them it had to be so.
Do it now, she told herself, and she pulled the envelope up into her hand, slipped it down behind the laptop, and reached toward the box.
As she did, Fernandez walked in through the door. She dropped the envelope on the top of the pile, leaving it there as he approached.
50
“Marie, you better look at this,” Rockman told Telach, pointing to the monitor with the feed from the Peruvian television station.
As Telach came over, he jacked the volume so she could hear. A woman in fatigues — not an army uniform but undoubtedly chosen to suggest one — was interviewing a middle-aged man whose Spanish had a decidedly British accent. He was a reporter from the BBC, and he said that he had been with the army unit that made the incredible find in the guerrilla village after heavy fighting a few hours before.
“What incredible find?” asked Telach.
“Wait,” said Rockman.
The screen flashed to a still photo of a crated cylinder in what looked like a room dug into the hillside.
“That’s a missile warhead,” Rockman told Telach. “Russian. We briefed on those eight months ago when we
