“I think I will stretch my back and legs,” said Babin, getting out of the car. Tucume said nothing.
Though tiny, the town was something of a way station for travelers. A long line snaked in front of the local cafe: a mixture of workers, northern tourists, would-be emigrants, and adventurers waited for the daily bus to Ecuador.
A helper might be found here. Not a driver — it occurred to Babin that most of these peasants probably had never driven in their lives.
They’d lie, of course, if asked.
He couldn’t trust a man, not even an old one.
A woman?
Babin crutched forward, pondering the idea, its risks and rewards, even as he eyed the crowd. A woman
Or not. That would be too obvious.
An older woman was out of the question. Anyone who reminded him of Rosalina would be a terrible choice.
A girl, barely out of her teens, not quite experienced enough to cause too many problems but smart enough to do as she was told.
A good idea? Or more complications?
Babin saw two, maybe three girls who would do in line. It was hard to judge ages without staring, and staring would make them suspicious. He turned and crutched back toward the car.
He would send Tucume to choose.
The gray-haired gentleman who approached the line at the bus stop reminded Calvina of Senor DeCura even before he began to speak. He was taller than Senor DeCura, bigger, more clearly native by birth. But his accent was the same. The first words from his mouth were Spanish, asking if everyone here was going north across the border, when the bus was expected, and when the ride was due. Then he began speaking in Quechua, repeating the questions.
No one answered. Calvina saw a look of hurt cross his face and felt sad for him; she glanced to her left and right and, when she was sure that no one else would speak, told him in the language of her grandparents that yes, it was a long wait until the bus came.
“You live nearby?” asked the man.
She shook her head, then added, “Lima.”
“Why are you going to Ecuador?”
She felt her face flush. “Work.”
“Where?”
“The capital.”
“When do you need to be there?”
“The work begins when I arrive.”
The man paused, considering something. Then he said, “I need someone to help me with my friend, who is a cripple. The work is not hard, and I will pay with a ride to Ecuador as well as a modest sum.”
At the mention of a job — even though the words were in Quechua — Calvina felt several of the people around her stir.
Should she go with him? Perhaps it was a trap. But he seemed so reassuring, so much like Senor DeCura.
Hadn’t Senor DeCura proved to be less than he seemed?
No. Whatever trouble he had gotten into was not his fault. Senor DeCura was too kind, too wise. Others had been jealous and brought him down.
“What sort of job,
As the gentleman turned to her, Calvina stepped forward and touched his arm. “What is it I should do?” she said.
104
The Art Room told Dean he didn’t have to report back until Wednesday, and he took them at their word, going straight home Monday night and planning to sleep in Tuesday. But he woke up around two in the morning, restless. He kept thinking about Lia and leaving Karr.
Leaving Karr was the wrong thing to do. It had been a mistake — he should have let the Art Room handle it. It had been a dumb
Worse than that was the fact that it had felt like the right thing to do. It still did.
Could he trust his judgment anymore?
Dean got up and turned on the TV. The news channels had nothing about Peru.
Around five he decided to go for a run. He pulled on his baggy sweats, laced his sneakers up, stretched out front, and began jogging lazily through the still-slumbering neighborhood.
Maybe it was Lia he couldn’t trust. Not her — his feelings for her.
If it was a struggle between doing his job and protecting her — not even protecting, simply loving — she won.
How did that jibe with his duty to his country? When you were a member of Deep Black, a Marine, a soldier, you had a responsibility to your country first. Or you should.
You had to. And you had to feel it in your gut.
He did feel it in his gut. That was the problem. What he felt for her was stronger.
He pushed himself through the streets, hoping the sweat would help provide an answer.
105
Tuesday’s morning brief included a long list of the searches that had been conducted in Peru, but the bullet summary at the top said it all: no second weapon found.
Rubens killed the e-mailed newsletter. It was barely four and a half days since the weapon had first been sighted, and by any realistic measure, the search had a long way to go. But by nature, these sorts of missions tended to play out in one of two ways: very quick results, based on hard work and perhaps a break or two; and long-drawn-out, often inconclusive operations where energy flagged over time.
While the search was only a few days old, already the most likely places to find the bomb had been carefully inspected. The Peruvians were already chafing at the continued U.S. presence, especially as the search agenda deviated from the war against the New Path rebels.
The CIA analysis — and for once Rubens actually agreed — was that the general would follow the lead of his ancestors and hide in the jungle. Vast stretches of Amazonian jungle in the far northeast were essentially outside of the central government’s control; he might stay there forever and not be found.
A bomb might as well. The NSA had tried various data searches to try to re-create movement in and out of the region, but the primitive nature of the transportation and communications system there meant there were few records to look at.
As for Babin, he, too, had disappeared. Or more accurately, had never appeared in the first place. They had put together a reasonably decent description of him, and several Army Special Forces soldiers fluent in Spanish had been detailed to search the slums of Lima for him. The Peruvian intelligence service and military had been given his description and told that he was a technical expert who’d helped Tucume fake the warhead. They, too, were looking for Babin, though with somewhat less urgency than Rubens would have liked.
