Payback

100

By the time Dean and Ambassador Jackson returned to Dean’s hotel room, the army had decided to arrest Túcume on charges that he was fomenting a coup. Knots of businessmen stood around the hotel lobby, trading rumors of coups, countercoups, and rebel uprisings.

Dean and the ambassador went up to their room. Tired from the long flight, Jackson took a nap while Dean checked for bugs — only one, in the TV — and then checked in with the Art Room.

“Mission accomplished,” he told Telach.

“In spades,” she replied. “The army has decided to arrest Túcume.”

“Are they shutting down the city?” said Dean. “Should we go to the embassy?”

“That shouldn’t be necessary. We’ll keep an eye on it here. There are two army helicopters at the Lima airport that can grab you if it comes to that. The Peruvian army has moved a battalion’s worth of men into the city area, but everything’s calm. The units Túcume commanded in the north have already made it clear that they’re not rebelling and are following orders from the general staff. Air traffic has been temporarily shut down, but we expect it to resume in a few hours. We’ll update you on that.”

Dean flipped on the TV when they were done. The reports varied wildly. Some claimed a coup had been under way since the night before. Others said that the New Path guerrillas were rising all across the country. Several stations carried a taped message from the country’s commanding general announcing that “certain rebel forces within the armed forces’ ranks” had tried to force their way into the election. The “people of Peru must not worry. The army will preserve our institutions.”

Dean, who’d never put much trust in either politicians or the media, smirked as the reports continued. There were rumors that Túcume had been arrested in the city, others that he had threatened to detonate the nuclear bomb if captured. Politicians appeared one after another, assuring the public in almost hysterical tones that there was no need to panic.

As far as Dean could see, no one had. Every image of crowds on TV showed peaceful, smiling faces. The highway beyond the hotel remained about as busy as it had been when they arrived.

Dean checked in with the Art Room every half hour. By nightfall, it was clear that the immediate crisis had passed. The election was going forward. Túcume had been discredited, though he remained at large.

An international inspection team had gone north to inspect the nuclear weapon. Once that was done and the bomb announced to be a phony, the crisis would be diffused completely — on the surface. Meanwhile, the U.S. would continue scouring the country for a second warhead, this one believed to be real. The search was being coordinated by the U.S. military and State Department; the NSA would play a supporting role.

“The ban on air travel is going to be lifted at nine p.m.,” Telach told Dean at six. “We’ve arranged a ticket for Ambassador Jackson on the first flight out. It’s first class and it’s direct to Miami.”

“All right.”

“We’d like you to stay in country for the next twenty-four hours or so, just in case you’re needed. This isn’t our show anymore, Charlie, but if you’re needed…”

“Yeah, that’s not a problem. How are Lia and Tommy?”

“They’re fine. They’re going to stay in the north for now. Things are in flux.”

Dean thought of asking Telach to put him in touch with Lia but decided not to.

He woke the ambassador a few hours before the flight. Traffic was light on the way to the airport. There were army vehicles parked on the roads, and soldiers in twos and threes patrolled the entrances to the parking lots and terminal. Dean took off his holsters but kept one of his pistols in his belt before leaving the car.

“I’ll wait with you at the gate,” he told Jackson. “We’re a little early.”

“Can you get your gun past?”

“Probably. But I’m not going to try.”

“Have you been doing this long?” asked Jackson as they walked through the lot.

“Awhile.”

“You were in the Marines.”

“Yes.”

“Someone mentioned it. But I think I would have known. You hold yourself like a Marine.”

“I didn’t realize there was a Marine way of walking,” said Dean, amused.

“Oh, absolutely. And standing. I remember the young men who guarded our embassies. You remind me of them.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s quite all right, son. You’re in good company.”

Amused at being called “son,” Dean led Jackson through the building, walking by the empty airline desk, then over to a café area, where they were the only customers. Dean ordered coffee; the ambassador had water. Two of the workers were talking about the election and the tumult in the city. After listening for a moment Jackson got up and went over to talk to them. Dean watched, not sure whether to be impressed or alarmed by the older man’s calm matter-of-factness. By the time Jackson came back, Dean had finished his coffee.

“They think Aznar is going to win,” said the ambassador. “They’re voting for him.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“That depends entirely on your perspective,” said Jackson.

“From our perspective.”

“From our perspective, it’s not as good as we would like. Imberbe’s a better candidate. Not just because he’s pro-U.S., either. I think it highly likely Aznar knew that Túcume was helping him. Maybe he didn’t want to be beholden to him, and saw this as the perfect opportunity to get rid of him. Or maybe he just saw that his hand was being forced, both by us and the Peruvian military.”

Dean nodded.

“On the other hand, with Túcume neutered and the vice president on the way out, it’s not as bad as it could have been,” said Jackson. “We’re dealing with a difficult situation, so complicated that the implications of what we do are sometimes not knowable until long after we’ve acted.”

“Yeah.” Dean leaned back in the chair.

“But there are times you can feel what you have to do in your stomach,” said Jackson. “To do anything else would make you feel sick.”

“Yes,” said Dean, surprised. “I feel that way sometimes.”

“But then you worry afterward whether you were right or not,” said Jackson. “It’s not easy.”

The ambassador stared at the table. He seemed to have aged another decade; the energy that had followed his nap had dissipated.

“Come on, let’s go find a place to park my metal,” Dean told him. “Then swing by the airline counter and get your ticket. They should have gotten the all clear to open up by now.”

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.