Payback

question.

“Who would I speak to about a wire transfer?” Babin asked, taking the money.

“It’s not possible today,” said the teller.

“Why not?” said Babin.

“On Saturday, the officers are gone. You must come back on Monday.”

“Is there another branch?”

“Not in Lima. Monday.”

Babin smiled, then crutched away, angry with himself for not realizing that might be a problem. He reassured himself that not every bank would have such limited staff; it was just a question of finding a larger bank. As he approached the door, a security guard nearby stepped toward him, keys in his hand.

“Closing early, sir,” said the guard. “Because of the political rally.”

“Expecting trouble?”

The guard simply shrugged and held the door for him.

Outside, Babin heard sirens. As he approached the car, two army vehicles turned around the comer and sped past.

“What’s going on?” he asked the driver.

“The radio says there was an attempted coup. They’re calling for calm.”

“A coup?” Babin felt his heart grab. “I want to find a large bank that would be open. Where would be the closest?”

The driver shook his head. “I’m not sure. The state bank in Miraflores, I would guess.”

“How far is it?”

“In distance, not much. But with the traffic, because of the rally and with this now on the radio, it could be hours.”

99

Tucume’s first hint that the army had moved against him came when Captain Chimor failed to answer either the phone at the hotel or his secure satellite phone. Still, the general remained so focused on his morning tasks that he did not truly sense the danger until his three-car motorcade turned onto the road near the restaurant where he was to meet Aznar’s Argentinean speechwriter, Geraldo Stein. Tucume caught sight of two large olive-drab buses, typically used to cart soldiers around. He rapped his knuckles on the glass divider to the front of the car and told his driver not to stop. Then he called Stein on his civilian cell phone.

“Aznar’s denouncing you,” said Stein, who answered on the first ring. “The bodyguards you hired have been dismissed. Don’t call me.”

The line went dead.

Stein was on his payroll, and hanging up on him was an incredible insult. It was also completely out of character for the Argentinean, whose prose was florid but whose actions were normally timid. The only explanation was that things were much worse than Tucume could have supposed.

Aznar denounce him?

That seemed impossible. It was impossible. He told the driver to take him to Plaza San Martin, a large downtown park where Aznar was scheduled to hold a rally. As they approached the area, Tucume was amazed — the streets were packed with people rushing to hear the presidential candidate. Supporters with signs clogged the streets, and the daily gridlock was several times worse than normal. Finally there was no question of forging ahead and Tucume decided to get out of the car. With his six bodyguards — he’d decided on the precaution before he knew there was real trouble — he began threading his way forward on Jiron Belen, wading through the flood of Peruvians.

Ordinarily his uniform would have engendered a certain respect and distance, but today he might have been wearing a peddler’s rags for all the deference he received. They were still two blocks from the park and quite a way from the actual rally when the candidate’s high-pitched voice reached Tucume’s ears through a set of outdoor speakers set up on the streets nearby. The opening was pure Stein — thanking the people for their faith, invoking the past, and then looking toward the future, all in the space of two sentences. Even Tucume, who had heard the basic formula many times, was stirred.

But with the third sentence, the tone changed abruptly. For the first time, Tucume heard his own name mentioned.

Not as a hero but as a blackmailer and villain.

“He came to me not a week ago, threatening to ruin me unless I went along with him, which I would not do. And when I told him this, he hinted that all Peru would bow to him soon. He did not spell it out, but I realize now that he was speaking of this bomb he claims to have wrested from the guerrillas’ hands. I suspect he has made demands to all of the other candidates — let them come forward and admit it….

“I tell you what I believe, though as yet there is no proof: General Tucume has been working with these guerrillas all along. Tell me, friends: Why has a puny guerrilla group not been defeated despite two years of pursuit? How could a man who vanquished Ecuador not defeat a dozen lawless guerrillas? He must be stopped, and stopped now. I call on the other candidates to join me — I call on the government to join me. We stand as one against this general. If this is not a coup by one general, let the army prove its goodwill by arresting him and seizing his weapon. It belongs to the people of Peru, not a blackmailing general who clearly is planning a coup….”

Each word felt like a hot poker jabbed against Tucume’s temple. They were lies, incredible lies!

But the crowd sopped them up, roaring approval.

Tucume raged, but there was no place to vent his anger. Even the speakers were out of sight, a block or more away.

“We must seize this weapon as we seize the future,” continued Aznar. “We will not be blackmailed by the past. The people of Peru move onward!”

Tucume changed direction as the crowd continued to erupt with cheers. Fear mixed with anger, true fear — he had miscalculated badly; utterly surprised by Aznar’s betrayal, Tucume had no plan to deal with it. The only thing he could do was retreat.

As he reached the block where he had left his car, he saw a phalanx of green uniforms surrounding it.

Was he to be arrested? On what charges?

Maduro wouldn’t need charges. Any lie would be believed, as Aznar was now showing.

Cursing, Tucume quickened his pace and reached into his jacket for the small pistol he carried for protection; for the first time in his life he thought of using the gun on himself.

He dismissed the idea and continued moving. A half block later, his satellite phone rang. He took it from his belt, but then hesitated, wondering if it was a trap: the phone might be used to locate him.

I am not a coward, he told himself, and he pressed the receive button and held the phone to his ear.

“They’ve betrayed you. The Americans have pressured them, and they have betrayed you.”

“Stephan?”

“Try to get to Avenida Roosevelt where it meets Cotabamas. Don’t go to your hotel.”

“Stephan?”

The line went dead.

* * *

Babin hung up the pay phone, then crutched back to the cab. Soldiers and policemen were flooding all over the city. The radio in the cab reported that presidential candidate Aznar — now declared the “favorite” for president — had denounced Tucume, charging that he had tried to blackmail him by making illegal contributions without his knowledge. It was believed that this had happened to other candidates as well, the commentator added, but that Aznar was the only one with the courage to admit it.

This was only the tip of the iceberg for this general, continued the commentator, mixing speculation with malicious lies.

People would believe what they wanted to believe, Babin thought to himself. Once they had chosen a villain, they would weave whatever facts supported their view. Intellect followed emotion, not the other way around.