Payback

97

Peruvian presidential candidates were as hard to schedule time with as American ones at the climax of a campaign but, like them, had an overwhelming need for campaign money. And so when Hernes Jackson was presented to Hernando Aznar, it was as something more than “just” a former ambassador to South America. His current connection as the international representative of Clyve Mining, a large conglomerate that owned several mines in Peru, was emphasized as well.

A connection that the Art Room had arranged, with considerable help from the State Department.

Jackson had mixed feelings about the charade. He had learned as a diplomat that lying could be an unpardonable sin. On the other hand, it was he who had suggested the specific cover story. It allowed him to mention his past while remaining distant from it.

Aznar was in Lima to give a speech at a local college. The talk had been planned more than a month ago; at the time, Aznar was running a very distant third and the organizers probably worried that he would have trouble filling the twelve hundred-seat auditorium. But by now Aznar was the most popular candidate in the race. The street outside the building was lined with media vans, and the crowd overflowed onto the front steps.

Dean and Jackson were led around to a basement door, then up a back flight of stairs and into a small room near the stage. When they got there, Aznar had already begun his speech.

Jackson stood by the doorway, listening to the candidate speak. Dean disappeared for a moment, then reappeared with a chair.

“Thank you,” said Jackson, sitting down. “I see what they’re responding to.”

“What’s that?”

“He gives them hope. He talks of the future. Lifting them toward the future. That’s a powerful message,” said Jackson.

As Aznar wrapped up his speech, the auditorium exploded with applause. Jackson watched him soak it up for a moment — the candidate wasn’t entirely comfortable with the adoration, he realized.

That could be a good thing.

Something in Aznar’s expression reminded Jackson of his son. It unnerved him, made him lose track of where he was. Dean touched Jackson’s shoulder and he got up just as Aznar was walking past.

“Señor Aznar, I–I have something critical to tell you,” said Jackson, stammering, his throat suddenly dry.

He was Bobby’s age, wasn’t he?

“Who are you?” asked an aide who had been onstage behind him.

“I am Hernes Jackson,” he said. Jackson pressed his hands together, pushed everything but the present away. “I have something critical to say. I was a U.S. ambassador.”

They were the wrong words — his approach was far too tentative, completely off-balance. He came off like a flake, not the confident messenger he needed to be.

Aznar squinted, as if he was not sure whether to take the meeting or not.

“It’s about General Túcume,” added Jackson.

“What?”

Jackson looked into his face. He had Bobby’s forceful gaze, but this wasn’t his son.

“We should speak in a private place,” Jackson told him, his voice firming as his confidence returned. “You would find it extremely valuable. And it will only take a moment.”

“This is about the bomb?”

“No,” said Jackson.

Dean walked up the steps, his eyes practically revolving around his head. They were surrounded by men armed with rifles and submachine guns. He could feel sweat running down his neck.

They reached the landing and walked into a hall of small classrooms. The vanguard of the candidate’s group turned into one of the rooms. Dean closed the short gap between himself and Jackson, but as he stepped into the room behind him, two of Aznar’s goons barred his way.

“No. You stay in the hall,” one said.

“I’m with Jackson,” said Dean.

“No.” Another man stepped out, his hand close to his suit — obviously reaching for a pistol.

“What’s the problem?” said Jackson.

“You don’t need a bodyguard inside,” said one of the aides.

“My friend is more than a bodyguard,” said Jackson. “But if he makes you nervous, he can wait in the hall. All right, Charlie?”

“Yeah, all right,” he said, stepping back.

Jackson watched Aznar’s frown grow as he examined the copy of the bank transcripts. The sheets were not, as the analysts would say, “transparent”—in order to decipher what the sheets said, you had to know not only the bank codes but also which accounts the numbers referred to. And the page was half-filled with them. But they were definitive.

“This proves nothing,” said Aznar finally.

“Oh, you and I know that’s not true,” said Jackson. Until now he had been speaking in Spanish; now he changed to English to make it difficult for the others to decipher. “I could go through it line by line with you if you wish. But perhaps it would be easier to talk in confidence.”

“I trust these men with my life,” responded Aznar.

In English. A good sign.

“Naturally,” said Jackson. “But candor — that’s a thing for privacy.”

Aznar looked at one of the aides and nodded. Jackson noted that two of the men did not move quite as quickly as the others, but finally he and the candidate were alone in the room.

“What is the meaning of this?” Aznar demanded in Spanish when they were alone. He waved the paper in his hand. “Where did this come from? Are you with the CIA?”

“Señor Aznar, where the information came from is not very important. You surely can check it yourself, if you need to. Consider this: you’ve reached the point where you don’t need anyone’s help. You can free yourself.”

There was a flash in Aznar’s eyes. A recognition of the truth, or simply anger?

“These transfers are against Peruvian law. That alone is a serious matter.” Jackson took out another paper. “This sheet shows that some of your people have been paid by these companies as well. Without your knowledge?”

Aznar studied the list. It seemed to Jackson that some surprise registered on his face, though the candidate fought to hide it.

“If you believe that speech you just gave,” said Jackson, “now is the time to take the opportunity. There are newspeople downstairs. They’ll broadcast anything you say. If you believe in a free future, as you told your supporters, you must take the decisive step.”