She would be a ripe target in America. She was too naive, too young, to survive on her own. The predators would snatch her up in a moment. Tucume didn’t think she was pretty enough to be a whore, but that wouldn’t save her; she would end up being used in some other way.
As he drove, he fantasized about how he might protect her. He could let Babin take the weapon and go on without him. But that made no sense; his course was set. Sooner or later, the Peruvians and their CIA collaborators would hunt him down. Most likely, they were already on his trail. The CIA had its tentacles everywhere.
Tucume glanced in his mirror, looking at the sparse headlights behind him. Maybe they were behind him already.
Babin stimed. “Where are we?” he asked.
“The border is a few miles ahead. What do you want to do?”
The Russian glanced at his watch. “Near midnight. We will cross now.”
“Do you think the passports look good?” asked Tucume.
“They’re fine. I’ve used much worse.”
Tucume was not so sure. They had bypassed the border controls to get into Ecuador — not very difficult in the mountainous jungle — and getting into Mexico had been easy. The Spanish passports they had used were of the highest quality; even the holographic laminate they pasted over the photos looked perfect. The only comment the passport official had made was one of condolence to the alleged Senor Oroya on the graying of his hair.
But the United States would be another matter entirely. Babin had obtained his own documents for their use and insisted they use them. They would appear to be two long-distance drivers who had picked up a paying passenger.
“What about the girl?” Tucume asked.
“We can leave her if you wish,” said Babin. “But here is what is likely to happen if she is with us. If we are stopped, the agents will spend their time questioning her story, not ours. Her documents are excellent, and they will have to let her go. They won’t even bother us.”
“The truck—”
“You worry too much.”
“Maybe a little rest before we continue.”
“No, we go now. If you’re worried, waiting will only make you more nervous. Once we’re past the border, you will feel much better.”
113
Even in the CIA’s custom-built Gulfstream V, it took roughly six hours to fly from Lima to Manzanillo, on the western coast of Mexico. Karr spent the whole time sleeping. Lia, sitting next to Adam Winkle, the head of the CIA working group on the warhead, spent the whole time thinking about Dean. The Art Room told her that he’d decided to take a week off. Telach made it sound like he had gone at Rubens’ urging, but it all seemed too out of character for Dean.
Less than eight hours before, NSA analysts had located a cargo container apparently connected with Stephan Babin in a transport yard in Manzanillo’s port. The container and the yard were under surveillance, with two CIA teams hidden nearby and ready to pounce if the truck was moved. A third team, which included U.S. drug enforcement agents and Mexican police, as well two CIA liaisons, was stationed at the entrance to the lot, inspecting every cargo truck that left.
In the meantime, the NSA had been using the shippers’ records to check on the trailers that had left the yard. On paper at least, all of the container trucks checked out. Most belonged to a company that made mining equipment about thirty miles to the north; the company was being inspected by another strike team, this one organized by the FBI.
Winkle checked in with the ground teams as they approached the airport. The cargo container had not been moved or approached overnight. Lia heard the disappointment in his voice — while the teams had been ordered not to move in until bomb experts were nearby, there had also been some hope that Babin or even Tucume would come by to pick up the container.
“It’ll be dawn soon. We’ve got to move in,” said Winkle. “I have two Department of Energy people with me, along with another bomb expert. We’re five minutes from the airport. Helicopters are waiting for us. Go ahead and move in.”
He snapped off the phone and turned to Lia. “We have to find out if it’s real, or if we should look somewhere else.”
“Absolutely,” she told him.
114
Babin’s prediction about the border agents had proven correct, and Tucume felt himself relaxing as they continued north toward Houston. The girl had fallen asleep and lay slumped against his shoulder.
“We should change vehicles again,” said Babin. “Sooner or later they will look for this one.”
“We can’t unload all the boxes,” said Tucume.
“We only have to unload one.”
“Two hundred kilos—”
“Two hundred and fifteen.”
“Too much weight, and no one to help this time.”
“That we can change easily. What we will need is a suitable vehicle.” Babin stared out the window. “Take the next exit. I know what we can do.”
Babin surveyed the vehicles parked in front of the bar two stores down from a large all-night supermarket. There were pickup trucks, but they were too obvious a choice, as bad, he thought, as another tractor trailer. A large station wagon on the other hand — that would be perfect, as long as he could find one with a rear hatch large enough to accommodate the crate.
He had listened to the radio religiously on the way north. There was no news about Peru, let alone his warhead. Still, he thought it possible that the Americans would be looking for him. He had the advantage of knowing where he was going — the conceited Yankees would no doubt think he would strike at Washington, D.C., a symbolic gesture against the world’s tyrant. But he was not so simple; he had never believed in symbols.
Still, if they were on his trail, they would be looking for a large truck. It was best to find something completely different.
There were no station wagons near the bar. He was just about to tell Tucume to start up the truck and move on when a small SUV pulled up in front of the bar. Two men got out — young men, Babin thought, though he couldn’t get more than a glimpse.
“Let’s try with those two,” said Babin, pulling open the cab. “Wait for me at the old building we saw. If I am not there in an hour and a balf, come back. I will be in the supermarket.”
Getting down from the truck was a struggle, but the pain made him more determined. He crutched across the parking lot, avoiding the puddles left by a recent rain. He examined the rear of the car, noted the license plate number, and went inside.
The room was almost empty. The two men who had just come in from the lot were sitting at the bar.
“Bartender, there was a car outside with its lights on,” he said out loud. “A red vehicle.” He gave the license plate.
“Yo, I left my lights on?” said one of the men, starting to get up.
“I turned them off for you,” said Babin.
“Good thing I don’t lock it, huh?”
“Nice car,” said Babin. He found English awkward after having gone so long without using it very much, and
