Jackson waited while Dean cleared the metal detector at the gate entrance. He’d stashed his gun at the bottom of a waste can in one of the men’s rooms while Jackson played lookout; it seemed like an apt coda to the caper. The cloak-and-dagger mission surpassed anything he had ever done at the State Department, and Jackson knew he’d be on a high for days, if not weeks.
Dean pulled on his shoes and joined him, and together they walked toward the gate where the plane would board. Dean had a ticket but was not going to join Jackson on the plane. Though curious, he knew better than to ask Dean what he was doing next.
The attendants were calling for first-class passengers when they arrived.
“You better get going,” Dean told him.
Jackson gave Dean his hand. “Thank you very much, Mr. Dean.”
“You’re welcome.”
Jackson started away but then stopped. He turned back to Dean. “It bothers you a great deal, doesn’t it?”
“What’s that?”
“Your problem earlier. You’re worried about something specific.”
“I guess I am.”
“I think the fact that it bothers you is a good thing,” said Jackson. “But I wouldn’t let it paralyze you. You have to move on. Don’t let it consume you.”
“Thanks.” Dean’s face remained a stoic mask — the Marine way, thought Jackson. Emotion swirled behind it, but the face revealed nothing.
“I hope to see you again,” said Jackson, waving and heading toward the door to the boarding tunnel.
101
The twenty-four hours that followed Tucume’s decision to get into the taxi with Babin passed like the landscape viewed from a jet dashing over mountainous terrain. It was pock-marked with humiliations, large and small..
The first came at a bus station in a small town a few miles west of Lima. Mindful of the inherent risks in Peruvian military politics, Tucume had stashed money, clean credit cards, a small pistol, and — most important — passports in several places around the country, including the ancient lockers in this small building. When they arrived, Babin told Tucume he must stay in the car with the driver; he was still wearing his uniform and might be recognized. Reluctantly, Tucume gave Babin the locker number and the combination, then gritted his teeth and waited in the car like a common criminal escaped from jail.
The second humiliation came a few hours later, on the road west in the mountains. Babin had promised the taxi driver a good sum to keep his mouth shut, and, though wary, the driver initially believed him. He grew more nervous as night fell, however. Finally the man’s hands began to shake when Babin told him he must pull off the road so that he could relieve himself. Tears fell from the man’s eyes as he stopped. Babin took out the small pistol he had removed from Tucume’s box and ordered the man out to the nearby brush.
Tucume didn’t say a word, remaining silently in the car. Two shots resounded against the nearby mountainside, long, thin echoes that stung Tucume’s conscience. But louder and more painful still was the knock on his window — Tucume turned to see Babin’s face leering at him.
“Take his clothes. They will do for a short while. We must find another car.”
Tucume did as he was told.
They used no fewer than six cars, beginning with the stolen taxi and ending with one bought with cash in a mountain town in the Andes. For Tucume, the journey was a succession of revelations showing how deeply he had miscalculated. The worst came Sunday morning, when a radio station aired an interview with Captain Chimor claiming Tucume had prepared a coup.
Tucume insisted on listening to it as they drove, wincing at every lie and falsehood. Clearly, Chimor had made some sort of deal with the general staff, either to save himself from whatever charges they were inventing or to salvage his career.
Chimor did not know of the bomb plot, but he knew of much else. And sooner or later the handful of men who did know what had happened would be pressured to tell more. Tucume clung to the hope that he might reach the barn before the warhead was discovered. What he would do then he did not contemplate.
He and Babin made their way westward and then north through the Andes. They changed their clothes and dyed their hair, dressing in simple garb to fit in. Only Tucume’s shoes suggested that he was not a simple peasant; he scuffed them to make them appear older than they were, tokens of a prosperous past now distant.
Tucume’s fluency with Quechua and his native accent were advantages, but they did not guarantee safety. They had plenty of money: besides ten thousand euros from the box, Tucume maxed out cash advances on his legitimate credit cards in Lima, then left them in the machines at Babin’s advice, hoping some thief would take them and confuse the authorities with a false trail. Babin spoke of other sums that he might get, arranged through wire transfers with foreign accounts. In the areas where they were, however, such arrangements would be difficult at best, and for the moment they had no need of them. At the border, they would have the choice of using either Peruvian or Spanish passports; they would only have to get photos made at one of the many cheap shops nearby to establish their new identities.
Tucume, naturally, did the driving. Babin spent much of the time sleeping, worn out by exhaustion and pain.
Sometime after three on Sunday, General Tucume decided to stop for lunch. He found a small town several miles from the highway and parked the car. He left Babin sleeping and went to negotiate some food. The local restaurant sold french fries and chicken, and Tucume managed to persuade the owner to make some plates “for a picnic.” He found Babin awake in the car when he returned.
“I thought you abandoned me,” said Babin as he got in.
“I would not leave you, Stephan.”
The Russian shook his head when Tucume offered him some food.
“You need to keep up your strength,” the general told him. He started to eat himself and soon was glad Babin wanted nothing; his hunger was much greater than he’d reckoned.
“Put on the radio,” said Babin.
“It’s only bad news.”
“We need to know what’s going on.”
Reluctantly, Tucume agreed.
“They turn against you quickly,” said Babin as the radio finished replaying a bit about Aznar.
“Very.”
“The CIA helped them. The Yankees were behind everything. They decided they had to stop you at all costs.”
“Do you think they’ll find the real bomb?” the general asked, changing the subject.
“It’s only a matter of time before they go to the barn,” said Babin.
Tucume knew this was true and didn’t argue. “If we beat them, we can sell it.”
“The Americans will never let it be sold,” continued Babin. “The only thing to do with it is to use it to get revenge. There’s no other choice.”
“I can’t kill my countrymen,” said the general softly. “If the traitors alone were gathered — Aznar, Chimor, the general staff, the president, the defense minister. If they were put together, those people I would gladly kill. But not the innocent.”
He shook his head. His stomach had begun to revolt at the very idea.
“I wasn’t talking about Peru,” said Babin. “The CIA. The Yankees, General. They are who did you in. Your countrymen were only pawns. The Americans are your enemy.”
Tucume pushed his unfinished lunch back into the bag.
“I only wish that were true,” he said, starting the car.
