Payback

123

One of the things that had made the SA-10 warheads easy to get out of Russia was their compact size and weight. But these were relative qualities: the crated warhead was so heavy that it snapped the makeshift wooden ramp Babin had Túcume place between the back of the car and the cargo van he wanted to transfer it to. He saw the disaster happening in slow motion — the wood splintered, the front of the crate tipped, and the crate fell between the two vehicles.

Babin closed his eyes as it slipped. When he opened them, he realized it wasn’t quite as bad as he had feared: the bomb had enough downward momentum to slide halfway into the van, where it got stuck, wedged more in than out. The front of the crate, which he’d taken off to get the bomb in, had come apart, but the weapon itself was still firmly in its skeleton cradle.

Túcume cursed. It was the first time Babin could remember him using any profanity since they had met.

Babin peered into the van, then moved to the crate, pushing against the side in the vain hope that it might slide in. It was a useless gesture; it didn’t even help him vent his frustration.

“Let me see one of your crutches,” said Túcume.

Babin gave it to him, and the general climbed into the van. He tried using the crutch as a lever, but the crate didn’t move.

When Túcume came out, he was holding the top of the crutch in his hand. The bottom had broken and was still lodged between the box and the side of the truck.

“I’m sorry,” said Túcume.

“I have another idea,” Babin said, ignoring the now-useless stick. “Get in the car.”

Calvina watched the two men as they maneuvered the vehicles and the large crate, trying to push the box into the van.

The van did not belong to them. She knew this because of the way they had had to start it, jiggling with something under the hood and dashboard. She realized now that the trucks and the red car probably had not belonged to them as well and wondered if the papers were stolen, too.

Until that moment, she had trusted the señor. Not the foreigner — she could tell just by looking at him that his soul was twisted. It wasn’t a matter of his legs; something in his face and eyes spoke of hatred and worse, and though he had never threatened her, she knew he would be capable of strangling her in a moment.

Calvina thought of the woman she had seen in Peru, the Chinawoman who had been able to speak in Quechua as well as Spanish.

The woman had asked if she wanted help, and Calvina had refused. Truly she must have been an angel sent by the Vrgin to warn her. She’d been a fool not to understand.

She remembered the woman so vividly that it almost seemed that she was here with her.

“What should I do?” Calvina whispered.

There was no one to answer, but as the words left her mouth, Calvina knew: run!

She turned and bolted toward the highway.

“Good! Good!” yelled Babin. “Stop.”

Túcume set the parking brake and got out of the car. He’d managed to push the crate another foot into the van, and it now hung about a fifth of the way out. They could turn the car around and use it to push it the rest of the way.

“The girl!” yelled Babin. “She’s running!”

Túcume looked up and saw her going up the ramp toward the highway. He started after her, running up the grass in-field to the ramp and cutting the distance between them in half. He had to stop momentarily at the highway, unsure of which way she had gone. Finally the lights of a passing car silhouetted her moving along the shoulder. Túcume threw himself forward, running steadily. The mountains he had grown up in had inadvertently trained him to be a good long-distance runner; his lungs and heart were naturally big, and he got a natural boost from the richer oxygen of the lower altitude where he found himself. His legs began to tire, but he pushed on, continuing to gain. Before he had gone twenty yards he had cut the distance between them once more in half; another twenty and she was only ten from him. A car passed and he saw her look back, glancing over her shoulder toward him.

He’d never seen such fear before. It stopped him cold.

Go, he thought. I won’t harm you. Go.

Túcume waited until he no longer could see her in the shadows; then he turned around and went back.

Babin struggled to get the crate the rest of the way in, clawing and pushing at it but not budging it. All that was needed was another push from the car, but he didn’t trust his legs enough to try it. He’d have to wait for the general to return.

The effort exhausted Babin; finally he gave up, leaning against the crate, chest heaving.

After a few moments, he forced himself to move. He took out his knife and pried open the top of the crate, carefully removing one part of the top layer of lead foil and sliding it aside so he could reach to the trigger panel at the top of the bomb.

The timer mechanism was easily set. Once it was started, the fail-safe system could not be unlocked and the weapon defused without entering a release code. Babin didn’t even know what it was, since it was keyed to the weapon, not the timer.

How much time should he set it for?

He wanted it to explode in Philadelphia, where the CIA officer who had betrayed him lived. From the map, Babin thought it might take two hours to get there, perhaps more, since they would not use the highways.

Explode it now — be done with it.

Babin resisted the temptation. With the phone he could always set the bomb off. The timer was just a fail-safe.

Should he give Túcume a chance to run if he wanted?

That seemed absurd. Why would the general choose to save himself? He was not a coward.

How long would he need to escape?

Days really. It was impossible.

Babin tapped the small button on the timer. The digits moved forward, filling the dial, but not smoothly—1 appeared, and then a 0.

Ten minutes?

Ten minutes was not what he wanted. He pushed his finger against the small button, but nothing happened. He felt himself starting to sweat.

If it must be ten, he said to himself, then ten will be all right. Let it be whatever it is.

The numbers began draining on the timer.

They were seconds.

He pushed the button quickly.

The timer was set to work in increments. From ten seconds it went to sixty seconds, then three minutes, then a hundred.

Too soon. He pressed again. Three hundred.

Five hours. Good enough.

Even if he did nothing, the bomb would explode at 4:03 a.m.

He put the top back on the crate and lowered himself to the ground. He was so exhausted that he simply collapsed, lying flat on his back until the general returned.

“What happened?” Túcume asked, standing over him.

“I couldn’t push the crate in by myself. We need another push from the car.”

The general extended his hand.

“The girl?” said Babin.

Instead of answering, the general stared at him for a moment, then went to get in the cab.

“We don’t need her. It’s OK,” said Babin. He picked up his crutch and went toward the van, steadying himself against the fender. “Take the road atlas. And maybe we can find a place open to get gas and something to eat.”

He stood back as Túcume started the Subaru. Hobbling with one crutch was very difficult, but he wouldn’t have to do it for very much longer.