“All right,” said Rockman, his tone still slightly disapproving. “Charlie’s about four hundred yards away, coming toward the front of the compound. They’re down to six people total in the hamlet and nearby, counting your friend Paolo. You have just that one guard in front of the building. Two others on the perimeter — we don’t have exact locations on them because of the foliage. They were at the north side three minutes ago.”
Lia slipped the envelope with the voter cards out of the briefcase and tucked it into her waistband below her shirt and sweater. She slipped back, turned on the water, and yelped.
“C-old,” she said, stepping back and watching the door. “Oh. Whoa.”
She stepped over to the window and pushed it open.
“Here we go,” she whispered to Rockman, and she pulled herself up and out. The screen smacked against the frame as she slipped to the ground. It sounded almost like an explosion to her, but she was committed now — with two quick steps she was in the brush behind the building.
As she started to slip into the larger trees, something moved twenty or thirty yards away. Lia froze as a pair of guards ambled through the jungle, guns raised toward the sky. They walked a few paces and stopped, chattering about some sort of food they’d recently eaten.
Lia backtracked to the hut, heart pounding. She slipped along the wall to the front, dropping to a knee to peer around the corner. The guard was still at his post, eyes cast down on the ground.
Lia had her pistol in her hand and could take him down easily. But the gunshot would bring the others, and she decided to wait until he went inside to check on her. At that point, she could cross the open area to the jungle opposite the settlement.
The young guerrilla was extremely patient. Lia crouched for five, then ten minutes. She was starting to doubt her strategy when finally he went to the door, knocking and then asking if it was OK to come inside.
Lia took off from a sprinter’s position, keeping herself as low to the ground as possible in case anyone else came out of the buildings. As she dove into the foliage on the other side of the path, she heard the guard yelling the alarm from the window she had used to escape from. She crawled forward, rolled in the dirt, then jumped to her feet.
As she did, something caught her from behind and threw her to the ground.
A hand clamped over her mouth.
“Sshh,” hissed a familiar voice. “You’re making way too much noise.”
It was Charlie Dean.
84
General Tucume squinted at the video monitor, trying to decide which of the reporters in the audience outside were actually spies, for either other countries or his own government. He had already given a briefing to the general staff and Peru’ s president on the discovery of the weapon; it was clear from their questions that they were in favor of allowing a thorough examination by “neutral observers” as soon as possible. Tucume had feigned indifference.
The fake bomb was currently at a small base southwest of Puerto America under heavy — and well-trusted- guard. He had proposed moving it by water to a regional base near Santa Cruz, which would still be under his jurisdiction. The president seemed willing to go along with this, but some members of the general staff wanted it airlifted to the air-base at Iquitos, where it would fall under the air force’s jurisdiction. Tucume had turned this aside by pointing out that the field was part of an international airport and inconveniently close to Brazil, which surely would be interested in acquiring such a powerful weapon.
Tucume wanted to delay giving over custody of the bomb for another twenty-four hours. That would guarantee that it wouldn’t be discovered to be a fake until voting was under way.
When the weapon was found out to be phony, his reputation would suffer slightly. There would be some carping — he envisioned headlines declaring he was “General Duped.” So his real goal at the press conference today was to lay out his future defense, cautioning everyone that “real tests” would have to be made.
“They’re getting restless,” said Chimor, his aide.
“The powerless often are.”
Tucume went to the mirror and inspected his uniform, making sure his ribbons were in place. His ancestors would have done the same with their garments made of
“Let us talk to the press,” he said, striding toward the hall.
Babin arrived at the hotel in time to see Tucume’s press conference on TV in the suite room. It was a revelation. In person, the man was rather short and, while hardly a stuttering fool, not given to poetic turns of phrase. But here he commanded the stage. He looked regal, and the reporters scribbled frantically to take down his words about the importance of Peru and its future. There was no question in the Russian’s mind that the stories Tucume had told of his ancestors were true.
Tucume fended off questions about the discovery. He said that he had personally shot several Maoist scum just a half hour before the bomb was discovered. He was shocked by the discovery of the warhead and claimed not to have believed his weapons expert when he told him what it was. He still had doubts, he added, because “one does not want to believe a countryman can be so evil.”
As the camera panned the crowded room, Babin thought he recognized one of the low-life CIA slimes who had been involved in the operation to double-cross him. Was it Jones? Was it really him? Babin’s anger flared, but he couldn’t be sure.
The one face that had been burned into his memory was that of Jorge Evans. Evans he would never forget. He knew much about Evans — enough to ensure that his wrath would be fully requited.
The CIA would undoubtedly aim its weapons at Tucume next. They’d be watching the press conference; whether Babin was right about the man or not, someone would be here. Someone would be plotting to get the general’s warhead and to kill the general in the process.
Babin would have an easier time if the Americans succeeded; the general was the only person who knew enough to stop him. But as he watched Tucume and listened to him talk about his heritage, Babin felt his emotions aroused. He liked the general and wanted him to succeed.
Babin could not afford to feel sentimental. He steeled himself, and by the time Tucume found him waiting with some of his aides, Babin would have shot the general himself if he thought it would bring him closer to his goal.
“Good, you managed to make the trip quickly,” said Tucume as he came in. “I have some things to discuss. Technical concerns.”
Babin nodded. The general dismissed the others.
“Would the warhead pass an inspection by the International Atomic Energy Agency?” asked Tucume.
“No, I’ve told you that several times. They check for a specific isotope. They have to be very close to the device, but they come prepared and they know what to look for. And then of course they will dismantle it.”
“What about the real warhead? Would they damage the warhead if they examined it?”
Babin’s heart jumped.
“The bomb would not be damaged, but letting anyone close to it is the last thing you should do.” Babin reached to his right leg, which hung off the couch at an odd angle. “Whoever is sent to inspect will include American agents.”
“CIA?”
“Of course. I recognized a man at your press conference. He stood at the back and didn’t say anything.”
“I’ll get a tape. You can point them out.”
“Yes. I will. But it’s not going to end there.”
Babin’s lower back began to spasm — this sometimes happened when he sat in one place for a long time. He tried to relax, pushing a slow breath through his teeth. Tucume waited patiently.
“The CIA will have people trying to recover the bomb,” Babin said finally. “It’s just a question of when. They’ll use — I would suspect that they would use the cover of an international inspection team. Then they will
