Payback

Jackson.

“The president is not convinced. And in any event, Aznar would not know that we know. And that it’s going to be made public.”

“So we break the alliance when it’s still vulnerable,” said Jackson, “by putting Aznar on the spot. And best case, he ends up grateful to us, since we warned him.”

He had seen this sort of play before. It could be very effective — or it could fall flat on its face. A lot depended on the person delivering the message.

“Please have some dinner,” added Rubens. “We will get a driver for you, who’ll take you to your home for a light bag, then deliver you to the airplane.”

Rubens turned to go.

“There is one thing,” added Jackson.

“Ambassador?”

“My Meals on Wheels assignment Tuesday.”

“You’ll be back in plenty of time. But just in case, I will arrange for a driver to substitute for you. Please give the contact information to Mr. Montblanc.”

89

The helicopter dropped Dean, Lia, and their prisoner off at a mining complex to the east, dust swirling in the darkness. Two of the paramilitaries stayed behind as well. A team medic had seen to the guerrilla’s knee, cleaning and bandaging the wound after knocking him out with synthetic morphine. It was likely that he would never walk properly again; Dean thought he was getting off easy. Servico was to be delivered to a U.S. Navy cruiser off the coast, part of the advance squadron of the carrier task force headed by the Reagan. His chariot, a Navy Seahawk helicopter that had run a transport sortie to northern Peru as a cover, was due in ten minutes.

The two PMs, or paramilitaries, helping them with the prisoner were former “blanket huggers”—Army Special Forces soldiers. They had gone to work with the CIA after their Army careers; Dean guessed both men were in their forties, not quite as old as he was, but definitely on the “mature” side. Both were taciturn, even for PMs. They stood quietly, each man holding his Colt submachine gun ready as he scanned the desolate landscape of the strip mine with his night glasses.

Servico, propped up against a huge rock nearby, shook off his drug-induced stupor.

“Where are you taking me?” he demanded.

“A helicopter’s coming. It’ll take you to a ship.”

“Then where?”

“That hasn’t been decided,” said Dean. “You seem to be very popular with both the British and the Peruvians.”

Servico’s whole body shook. His voice cracked as he spoke. “I’d prefer to go to the British.”

“You would, huh?” said Dean.

“Send me to Dartmoor,” pleaded Servico, referring to the British prison. While not known as an “easy” jail, it was undoubtedly miles ahead of any place the Peruvians would put him.

“Not up to me,” said Dean.

The guerrilla’s lower lip quivered. Dean studied Servico, aware that he was at the very edge of breaking. His eyes swelled and his mouth hung open, his jaw not entirely under his control. But he managed to pull himself back from the edge, pressing his teeth together and raising his head.

Whatever he was holding on to inside wouldn’t last, Dean knew. It would crumble soon, as the pain and pressure continued to build.

“You want more morphine?” said Dean.

A tear slipped from Servico’s eye, but he shook his head.

“No,” he said.

His stubbornness impressed Dean. He didn’t admire Servico, much less pity him, but recognized the man’s struggle to remain true to what he believed, as misguided as that might be.

“If you cooperate with the Americans,” Dean told him, “they’ll be more likely to give you to Britain than Peru. You understand?”

Servico frowned but then bobbed his head up and down twice.

“You oughta take the morphine now.”

“No.”

“Fair enough.”

Dean walked away, thinking sometimes you had to hold on to whatever you thought would make you whole, even if it was just pain. He walked up the ridge, surveying the area with his glasses. Satisfied they were alone, he found a large rock to sit on. He got a sports bar out of his backpack and nibbled at it, vainly hoping it might restore some of his energy. The adrenaline of the day had washed out of his body. He was beyond tired. His legs felt like they’d been worked over by someone with a baseball bat, and his fingers were cold and stiff.

Lia seemed like a bundle of energy, stalking around the area, taking it upon herself to make sure no one was lurking in the shadows somewhere.

Dean wanted to talk to her, but not about the mission — he wanted to talk to her about a lot of things, but this wasn’t the time or place.

“Mr. Dean, this is Rubens. Lia, are you there?”

“Yes,” she said, coming closer to Dean. He took out his phone, pretending to use it as Rubens continued.

In his usual bureaucratic cadence, Rubens began telling them the PMs would take the prisoner to the Navy ship. Their helicopter was ninety seconds away. The two Deep Black ops would not be joining them. Lia was to continue her mission at Nevas; Tommy Karr was already en route there. And Dean was to go to Lima, where he would meet a special envoy who was to talk with one of the presidential candidates. Civilian helicopters were on their way to pick them up.

Dean watched Lia. She’d been mad at him for helping her at the guerrilla compound, he knew; for coming to rescue her.

Well, tough.

“We’ll be ready,” Dean heard Lia tell Rubens. “And it would be nice if you could get me some new shoes.”

“I’m sure Ms. Telach will see to that.”

“She thinks of everything,” snapped Lia. “Like my mom.”

“You shouldn’t be angry with the Art Room,” Dean told her while they waited for Telach to come back on the line.

“What do you mean?”

“I came for you on my own. I heard you were in trouble, and I came.”

“You left the mission?”

“Tommy didn’t need me. You were in trouble.”

“Bull.”

Telach’s voice boomed in, updating them on Karr. When she told them that the other op had found the place where the nuclear weapon had been, Dean felt a stab of guilt.

What if the weapon had still been in the barn?

He hadn’t really considered that, not really, not thoroughly, not the way he should have. Not the way his duty demanded him to.

His duty. Who had a greater call on him? His country or his lover?

The Navy helo appeared above; Dean took up a post in the direction of the road, more for form’s sake than out of any sense of danger.

“Wait,” Dean said, grabbing Lia by the shoulders as she started for the chopper. “We have to straighten this