“We should speak in a private place,” Jackson told him, his voice firming as his confidence returned. “You would find it extremely valuable. And it will only take a moment.”
“This is about the bomb?”
“No,” said Jackson.
Dean walked up the steps, his eyes practically revolving around his head. They were surrounded by men armed with rifles and submachine guns. He could feel sweat running down his neck.
They reached the landing and walked into a hall of small classrooms. The vanguard of the candidate’s group turned into one of the rooms. Dean closed the short gap between himself and Jackson, but as he stepped into the room behind him, two of Aznar’s goons barred his way.
“No. You stay in the hall,” one said.
“I’m with Jackson,” said Dean.
“No.” Another man stepped out, his hand close to his suit — obviously reaching for a pistol.
“What’s the problem?” said Jackson.
“You don’t need a bodyguard inside,” said one of the aides.
“My friend is more than a bodyguard,” said Jackson. “But if he makes you nervous, he can wait in the hall. All right, Charlie?”
“Yeah, all right,” he said, stepping back.
Jackson watched Aznar’s frown grow as he examined the copy of the bank transcripts. The sheets were not, as the analysts would say, “transparent”—in order to decipher what the sheets said, you had to know not only the bank codes but also which accounts the numbers referred to. And the page was half-filled with them. But they were definitive.
“This proves nothing,” said Aznar finally.
“Oh, you and I know that’s not true,” said Jackson. Until now he had been speaking in Spanish; now he changed to English to make it difficult for the others to decipher. “I could go through it line by line with you if you wish. But perhaps it would be easier to talk in confidence.”
“I trust these men with my life,” responded Aznar.
In English. A good sign.
“Naturally,” said Jackson. “But candor — that’s a thing for privacy.”
Aznar looked at one of the aides and nodded. Jackson noted that two of the men did not move quite as quickly as the others, but finally he and the candidate were alone in the room.
“What is the meaning of this?” Aznar demanded in Spanish when they were alone. He waved the paper in his hand. “Where did this come from? Are you with the CIA?”
“Senor Aznar, where the information came from is not very important. You surely can check it yourself, if you need to. Consider this: you’ve reached the point where you don’t need anyone’s help. You can free yourself.”
There was a flash in Aznar’s eyes. A recognition of the truth, or simply anger?
“These transfers are against Peruvian law. That alone is a serious matter.” Jackson took out another paper. “This sheet shows that some of your people have been paid by these companies as well. Without your knowledge?”
Aznar studied the list. It seemed to Jackson that some surprise registered on his face, though the candidate fought to hide it.
“If you believe that speech you just gave,” said Jackson, “now is the time to take the opportunity. There are newspeople downstairs. They’ll broadcast anything you say. If you believe in a free future, as you told your supporters, you must take the decisive step.”
98
Three years ago, it would have taken close to a half bottle of vodka to make Stephan Babin feel drunk and more than that to give him a hangover. Now his head pounded despite his having had only two drinks the night before. The pain seeped into unlikely places: his jaw ached, and his eyes felt as if they had been poked. And then there were the usual places, the spots where it always hurt: His back felt as if it had been trampled and then welded into a twisted knot. His right leg was immobile and his left throbbed with each breath he took.
Babin had already tried three of the four hangover cures he knew — strong coffee, aspirin, and a small dose of vodka. The first two had little effect; the third made him nauseated.
The final remedy — sleep — he could not afford. Instead, he made his way downstairs to the lobby. The driver was not due for another two hours; Babin decided that he could arrange a bank transfer in the meantime, using a local bank. But the pain overwhelmed him only a few crutched steps from the elevator. He struggled to the lobby and dropped onto the couch like a felled tree.
The scene before him blurred, and so did his sense of time. He stared across the large open room, watching shadows swarm and flit away.
Anger restored him, finally — bitterness at what he had lost, the rage at betrayal. He had given the Americans everything, and how had they repaid him? By shooting a missile at his airplane, trying to assassinate him. Their attempt had proven that he was right to hold on to the third warhead.
His mistake was not being paranoid enough. He’d trusted his so-called case officer and the officer who had approached him on the warhead matter, the lying prince of Satan, Jorge Evans.
Evans would pay — not with his life or even merely with his family’s lives, but with his city’s.
Four soldiers emerged from the blurred shadow entering the lobby as Babin’s vision sharpened. One mentioned Captain Chimor — Tucume’s aide. The clerk at the desk offered to phone.
Babin took hold of his crutches and pushed himself to his feet. The pain in his head had subsided slightly, but his back felt even worse. His legs — his right leg today seemed almost strong, and he crutched to the door steadily, surprising himself.
The door flew back. There were more soldiers outside, soldiers everywhere.
“Taxi,” he said, stopping and holding up his hand, though there were none nearby.
One of the soldiers nearby mentioned Tucume. His tone sounded bitter. Babin understood Spanish, but their accents and the speed of their words made it difficult to decipher what they were saying until he heard the word
He turned his head. The two men looked at him. A taxi pulled around the comer and Babin yelled at it, crutching into the roadway. Right until the moment the cab turned the block, he thought the soldiers would stop him.
“A bank,” Babin told the driver. “The nearest HSBC branch.”
The driver nodded.
“What was that business with the soldiers?” Babin asked him.
The driver glanced back in Babin’s direction, then shrugged, as if to say,
When they reached the bank, Babin leaned over the front seat. “I need you to wait. This should only take a minute.”
“The meter will run.”
“I understand,” said Babin, crutching out.
There were four policemen in front of the bank, and inside, Babin noticed several more. The receptionist’s desk was empty, and he didn’t see anyone in the open bullpen area behind her. Rather than simply waiting, he decided to try to make a withdrawal from one of his old accounts.
The number came too slowly. He had always been good with numbers, but this was one of the accounts he never used, relying on its secrecy for an emergency. He had arranged years ago to keep it active, but after so much time thought his odds of getting any money at best one out of ten. But a problem would bring a bank executive immediately, and he would be able to complete the wire transaction.
To Babin’s surprise, the teller quickly counted out the equivalent of five hundred euros without even asking a
