superintelligent math prodigies might as well have been walking cold into a seminar on medieval art. They could supply plenty of facts but had trouble putting them into a wider, deeply nuanced historic context.
What Rubens needed — what Deep Black needed — was memory. Not the simple memory of archives, as Johnny Bib’s team had provided, but an interpretive memory, the sort that could be provided by a human being who had lived through at least part of it.
Rubens got up from his desk, stalking back and forth. Collins’ innocent remarks at lunch earlier — were they truly innocent? Was there something in the background his people should know?
If the mission were in Europe or Russia, he would feel much more confident. But he’d only been to South America himself a few times.
Was he missing something?
Rubens found himself standing in the middle of the room, arms folded, eyes gazing at his blank computer screen.
I am overly concerned with Collins, he told himself. But perhaps there is something there that I should know. At the very least, a fuller perspective on Peru would be useful after the election if the vice president does not win.
Rubens berated himself for not thinking of this sooner. The mission had come up suddenly, but still — he had failed to anticipate the situation.
Who could supply a perspective without an ax to grind?
Hernes Jackson came to mind.
Jackson had served as the American ambassador to Chile before retiring only last year. Rubens thought most career diplomats were soft intellectually and naive pragmatically, but Hernes was an exception. His ambassadorship capped a distinguished career that included several different posts in the State Department Intelligence Agency. Virtually unknown outside of the diplomatic corps, he didn’t have the sort of smooth patter and distinguished looks it took to be a talking head and so had never made the jump to the media or consulting circuit — points in his favor as far as Rubens was concerned.
Rubens found Jackson’s phone number himself and dialed it. He was pleasantly surprised when the ambassador picked up on the second ring.
“This is William Rubens, Mr. Ambassador. I would like an opportunity to pick your brain,” he said, plunging in.
“Dr. Rubens. At the NSA?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of course. When?”
“As soon as would be convenient.”
“I was on my way to the library, but I suppose I could put that off until tomorrow,” said Jackson with the casual ease of someone who really was retired. “Sometime this afternoon?”
“Actually, I expect to be tied up for the rest of the day,” said Rubens. He checked his watch. The report on the cards should be ready within the hour; he would head to the White House as soon as he had it.
They could meet after that. Jackson lived near Alexandria.
“Perhaps for dinner?” said Rubens. “Seven or so.”
“Dinner? Well, I suppose it would be possible. Yes. Dinner would be good, Dr. Rubens.”
“Few people call me doctor,” said Rubens. He had two PhDs, a fact he had been somewhat egotistical about when he was younger and at a junior government rank. Now he found the doctorates mostly useful to remind some of the younger mathematicians he employed that he was not simply an empty suit. “I’d be more comfortable if you called me William or Bill. Give me directions and I’ll pick you up at your house at seven.”
11
Neither Karr nor Dean was at the cafe when Lia arrived for the rendezvous. She decided to have a glass of red wine, something she almost never did, especially when she was on an operation. She was about halfway through the glass when Dean showed up, pretending not to know her.
“You’re an American, right?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Mind if I ask you for a few directions? My Spanish isn’t too good.” He took out a guidebook, thumbing through it.
Oh, Charlie, just sit down, Lia thought. No one’s paying any attention.
“I’m a little lost,” said Dean.
“You may sit if you wish.”
Dean pulled out the chair and asked a question about how to get to the Museo de la Inquisici6n, which was located in Lima’s historical district.
“Let me see your book.” Lia slid the card from her sleeve into the book, then passed it back. “That’s not a very good neighborhood at night,” she told him.
“I can take care of myself.” Dean began folding up the map. “Thank you very much,
“That would be
Dean smiled. “Where’s Julio?”
“That’s the best pickup line you can come up with?”
“What happened to him? I thought he was supposed to escort you all day.”
“He’s not my bodyguard.” Lia frowned. “I told him I had a headache. An oldie but a goldie.”
“I’ll remember that. Thanks for the information.”
“Wait,” she said as he turned away. “Stay and have dinner.”
“Can’t.”
“Charlie. I mean it. Stay and have dinner.”
He shook his head. He had to send the data back to the Art Room as soon as possible.
“I got scared in there. Really scared.”
“When?”
“In the vault. I can’t-it was nothing, but I just, I almost freaked for a minute. It was weird. I was scared.”
Lia felt the sensation again, her throat tightening.
“Do you think I’m losing it?” she asked.
“I don’t think you’re losing it.”
I came close, she thought to herself. I really did.
Instead of saying that, she told him that she loved him.
He nodded.
Watching him go, Lia berated herself for mentioning her fear. She’d known he wouldn’t understand. He never got scared of anything.
12
“How’d the food look?” asked Karr as Dean slid into the front seat of the car outside the cafe.
“I didn’t notice.”
“Jeez, Charlie. You have to work on your powers of observation. How are we supposed to gather intelligence, if you’re not watching?”
Karr put the little Toyota in gear and began talking about how hungry he was. Dean didn’t pay attention. He’d heard the complaint many times.
He’d never heard Lia say she was scared.
