Payback

out. You’ve been messed up since Korea.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Listen, I know that because of what happened you’ve been edgy. And I know I can’t make it better. But I still love you. And—”

“I’m not edgy. And I’m past Korea.” She stopped talking.

“Why are you being so hard?”

“I just am. And you — I can’t believe you did that. I can’t believe you left your mission.”

“What?” he shouted over the whine of the helicopter blades.

“You have to do your job. People are depending on you — an entire damn country. We don’t matter, you and I — we don’t matter.”

“That’s baloney.”

“No, Charlie Dean, that isn’t baloney. That’s what Desk Three is about.” Lia pulled away from his grip so fiercely he couldn’t stop her. “I can take care of myself. Thank you very much.”

Dean put his hand around the barrel of his MP5, tightening it in frustration as if to crush the metal. “I didn’t jeopardize the mission. Tommy had it under control. You were in trouble.”

Lia didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and ran to the helicopter.

90

Certain things become ingrained in a man’s being. Moving through a city, finding the alleys where people would do anything for the right amount of money — these had been an intimate part of Babin’s life for nearly two decades before the accident, and even in his crippled state they were instinctual. The most difficult task was slipping from the hotel suite. But this proved easier than he had expected — the general himself had gone out, and the men guarding the rooms did not think Babin a prisoner.

As indeed he wasn’t. Babin simply rode the elevator to the main floor and went to the concierge, who easily found him a car and driver whose fee could be tacked onto his hotel bill. Once in the car, he was tempted to keep going — to have the driver simply take him to the airport. But Babin had little money, barely enough to accomplish what he wanted to do tonight. A sizable amount of cash waited in Ecuador and more might be gotten from bank accounts, but it all might just as well be back in Russia at the moment.

He had the driver take him to the business area of old Lima — not a good section at night.

“Are you sure, senor?”

“Yes,” Babin told him.

Babin leaned next to the window, watching the people and shops as he passed. Finally he saw what he wanted — a prostitute standing near a shuttered storefront.

“Stop here,” said Babin.

“Senor—”

“I’m not going to do anything I’ll regret,” Babin told him. He pressed the button to lower the window, then held out a U.S. twenty-dollar bill. It was the only twenty he had — his two other bills were hundreds.

The twenty got the woman’s attention, and she sashayed toward the car.

“Come with me,” he told her, pulling the bill away.

The woman glanced at the driver. “I’ll meet you at my hotel.”

Babin rolled up the window. “Drive on,” he said.

It took a half hour before they found a woman desperate or perhaps stoned enough to get into the car.

“I need to purchase a pistol,” Babin told her.

The woman looked at him as if he were crazy.

“Your pimp—” he struggled over the word in Spanish, saying it in Russian and then finally settling for hombre, or man, not exactly a good translation, though it got the job done. “Maybe he can help us.”

The woman started shaking her head and saying no. Babin calmed her and finally got the name of a club named Hopo, where he could look for a man named Jimenez. He gave her the twenty dollars and dropped her off.

Hopo in Spanish meant the wooly tail of a fox or a sheep; it was also an expression in some dialects for working hard — and an interjection along the lines of “get out.” The place looked quiet on the outside, but the street was dark and narrow. Babin had frequented such places in Russia only to recruit toughs and laborers. He hesitated for a moment, then pushed open the car door.

“Senor, perhaps there is another way to get what you want,” said the driver.

“What way is that?” said Babin, pulling himself out.

“Guns are illegal, but—”

“I’m interested in more than a gun,” Babin told the driver. “I need some phones and other items. And I need them from someone who does not ask questions.”

“Perhaps that could be arranged.”

“Then come inside with me for a drink,” said Babin, pushing the car door closed. He turned and began crutching toward the club. He heard the car move down the street but didn’t look after it; either the driver would park and come behind him or he would be stranded here. To look back, he decided, would be an act of cowardice, as would deciding not to go in.

There was a bouncer at the door. Babin returned his snarling look. “Search me, if you want,” he said in Spanish. The man waved him inside dismissively.

There were no more than a dozen people inside, scattered at tables and a long bar of dark wood. The interior was classier than Babin expected, its glory not quite faded.

Babin stopped near the middle of the bar. He saw from the bartender’s look that his crutches were a curiosity; more than that, they made most people see him as someone who was not capable of threatening them.

A bad thing here.

“Vodka,” he said. He pulled out some of the Peruvian bills he’d been given. “A shot.”

The bartender put down a glass.

“I need to see a man named Jimenez about a business proposition,” Babin said. “One of his girls said I would find him here.”

The bartender glanced across the room but said nothing. Babin took his vodka and brought it to his lips, swallowing it in a gulp.

As he did, one of the men at the table the bartender had looked toward got up and came over behind him.

“What do you want?” said the man.

Before the accident that had left his back crippled, Babin would have dealt with the man simply — he would have stomped down on the man’s foot and sent his elbow into his stomach, bending him in half. Now such a maneuver was impossible. So Babin chose another tactic.

“A drink for my friend,” he told the bartender, pushing more of the money forward. “Whatever he wishes.”

The bartender glanced at the man, then quickly got a glass of American whiskey for him.

“I would like you to tell Jimenez that I need to buy a pair of handguns. I can pick them up tomorrow.”

“What makes you think he sells guns?”

Babin turned to smile in the man’s face, then turned around and faced the two men at the table. “I hope you don’t have the impression that I’m with the police. I wouldn’t think they’d stoop to sending cripples to trick you.”

One of the men frowned. By now, everyone in the room was either looking at Babin or pretending not to.

“Come here,” said the thinner of the two men. He had a goatee, and a scar on his cheekbone.

Babin crutched his way over and sat. The pain had ratcheted up, but he was not going to admit it now. He