was intoxicated, not by the small amount of vodka he’d drunk but by the
“What is it you need?” said Jimenez.
“Two Walthers would be perfect. Failing that, Glocks. Or Berettas.”
“When?”
Babin reached into his pocket and pulled out the hundred-dollar bill. He dropped it on the table.
“Tomorrow. Here. At two p.m.”
“The guns cost more than this.”
“I understand.”
“Ten times as much.”
“That’s not a very fair price,” said Babin.
“I don’t give handicapped discounts.”
The man and everyone else in the bar began laughing. Babin felt his rage flicker, but he mastered himself.
“Perhaps in the future you will,” he said, getting up. “I will be here at two, and pay your price.”
“Wait,” said Jimenez. “Tomorrow is too soon.”
“For a thousand dollars, I would think tomorrow is not soon enough.”
When Babin turned, he saw that his driver had come in and was standing near the bar, arms folded. He was a good-sized man, bigger than the bouncer, and looked suitably intimidating, though in a fight he would have been quickly overwhelmed by superior numbers and the bat the bartender had on the shelf above the back of the bar.
“You took a hell of a risk,” said the driver, following Babin outside.
“I used to deal with trash like that every day. At heart he’s a coward.”
“He’ll try to rob you tomorrow. How will you deal with that?”
“He won’t rob me,” said Babin. “You learn to judge these things. There are some other items I want. A satellite phone. Some tickets.”
“I could help you.”
“Yes, I thought you could. Come, let’s go back to the hotel. I’ve spent all my money, but I believe the bar there will allow me to run a tab and charge it to my room.”
“Are you sure,
“A crueler lie has never been told,” said Babin. “Come.”
General Tucume’s late-night meeting with the chief of staff did not go smoothly. Major General Hector Maduro had never fired a gun in battle, but he had cut down countless rivals, and he clearly saw Tucume as one. Maduro started by asking pointed questions and within ten minutes was accusing Tucume of manufacturing a crisis to hurt the government and the army. The United States had shown far more interest in the weapon than Tucume had predicted, and this was causing considerable problems for Maduro. Peru’s president and other members of the government were blaming the army for every imaginable problem in the country, saying its war against the rebels had been corrupt and ineffective. The criticism was nearly as bad as if the revolutionaries had exploded a nuclear device in Lima.
“The government may lose this election,” said Maduro. “The polls are against Ortez. You’ve hurt him, and the army.”
“The government I do not care about,” said Tucume, waving his hand. “But I have spent my life in the army, and I have shed my blood for the army. How have I hurt it? By stopping the rebels? By doing my job?”
“You should not have allowed the newsperson to come. This should not have been announced to the world.”
Tucume pressed his lips together. It was necessary for his plan that it was announced to the world, though obviously he wasn’t about to tell the general that.
“The northerners are insisting on looking over our shoulder,” said Maduro, referring to the U.S. “They want a team of their Delta Force to ‘help’ guard the warhead. They’ve already landed in Lima.”
“We don’t need any help,” said Tucume. “It’s in my custody.”
“That is going to change. It must be under my direct control by noon tomorrow.”
“There is no need to make new arrangements,” said Tucume, taking a more diplomatic tack. “As the entire army is under your command, the warhead is already in your control. Perhaps you will accompany me to inspect it tomorrow. You might wish to bring guests, diplomats; naturally that would be your prerogative, as military commander.”
Maduro’s grimace did not melt entirely, but Tucume knew he was on the right track.
“You might bring this U.S. general, if you wished. But you, as the head of our military, would be the one to invite him. These Yankees — they assume sometimes we are children. We have control of our destiny.”
“That is what is important.”
“Their ambassador himself might also come with you,” said Tucume. “That would be fitting. Not someone of a low level. The lower levels would work with me. You are head of the army, and deserve respect.”
By the time the interview was ended, Tucume felt that he had mollified the general somewhat. Maduro was taking his suggestion of an inspection trip “under advisement,” a phrase Tucume interpreted to mean he simply didn’t want to admit right away that it was a good idea.
The meeting with the defense minister was far worse, though he began by congratulating Tucume on effectively dealing with the rebels. Within a few minutes, however, the minister was questioning how the revolutionaries could have built such a bomb under Tucume’s nose. He pointed out that the weapon was not built by the revolutionaries but purchased. He hinted that perhaps one of their enemies such as Ecuador or Brazil had helped the New Path, but the minister dismissed this, saying that either country would have far preferred keeping such a weapon to itself.
By the time the session ended, Tucume realized he had miscalculated the reaction to the weapon by the U.S. It was the North’s pressure that was making these people cross with him, turning him from a hero into a villain.
His confidence that he could control events had slipped, so much so that when the two guards at the door did not snap immediately to attention as he approached, Tucume took their momentary inattention as a personal insult and perhaps the result of orders from above. They finally stiffened, but still, he fought against a rising sense of unease and apprehension. Ordinarily he would have made a point of stopping and speaking with the men about their experiences; tonight he simply hurried out to his waiting car.
91
As most Deep Black missions progressed, Rubens began to lose track of the time. The rhythm of his days — meetings, conferences, meals — gradually fell by the wayside as he spent more and more time in the Art Room. There always came a point when he had no idea what time of day it was. Often, he lost track of the day as well. So he wasn’t terribly surprised when Kevin Montblanc stuck his head in his office and said good morning.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“I suppose I would,” Rubens told the Desk Three operations personnel director.
“Good, because I brought you some.”
The coffee was freshly made and very strong. Rubens felt his sinuses tingle as he took a sip.
“You really should be getting more rest,” suggested Montblanc.
“I suppose I will in a few days. What’s on your mind?”
Montblanc’s mustache drooped slightly. “Ambassador Jackson. He was holding something back during the interviews.”
Rubens put his coffee down. Jackson was about two hours from touching down in Lima.
“What did he lie about?” asked Rubens.
