Payback

98

Three years ago, it would have taken close to a half bottle of vodka to make Stephan Babin feel drunk and more than that to give him a hangover. Now his head pounded despite his having had only two drinks the night before. The pain seeped into unlikely places: his jaw ached, and his eyes felt as if they had been poked. And then there were the usual places, the spots where it always hurt: His back felt as if it had been trampled and then welded into a twisted knot. His right leg was immobile and his left throbbed with each breath he took.

Babin had already tried three of the four hangover cures he knew — strong coffee, aspirin, and a small dose of vodka. The first two had little effect; the third made him nauseated.

The final remedy — sleep — he could not afford. Instead, he made his way downstairs to the lobby. The driver was not due for another two hours; Babin decided that he could arrange a bank transfer in the meantime, using a local bank. But the pain overwhelmed him only a few crutched steps from the elevator. He struggled to the lobby and dropped onto the couch like a felled tree.

The scene before him blurred, and so did his sense of time. He stared across the large open room, watching shadows swarm and flit away.

Anger restored him, finally — bitterness at what he had lost, the rage at betrayal. He had given the Americans everything, and how had they repaid him? By shooting a missile at his airplane, trying to assassinate him. Their attempt had proven that he was right to hold on to the third warhead.

His mistake was not being paranoid enough. He’d trusted his so-called case officer and the officer who had approached him on the warhead matter, the lying prince of Satan, Jorge Evans.

Evans would pay — not with his life or even merely with his family’s lives, but with his city’s.

Four soldiers emerged from the blurred shadow entering the lobby as Babin’s vision sharpened. One mentioned Captain Chimor — Túcume’s aide. The clerk at the desk offered to phone.

Babin took hold of his crutches and pushed himself to his feet. The pain in his head had subsided slightly, but his back felt even worse. His legs — his right leg today seemed almost strong, and he crutched to the door steadily, surprising himself.

The door flew back. There were more soldiers outside, soldiers everywhere.

“Taxi,” he said, stopping and holding up his hand, though there were none nearby.

One of the soldiers nearby mentioned Túcume. His tone sounded bitter. Babin understood Spanish, but their accents and the speed of their words made it difficult to decipher what they were saying until he heard the word traición—treason.

He turned his head. The two men looked at him. A taxi pulled around the comer and Babin yelled at it, crutching into the roadway. Right until the moment the cab turned the block, he thought the soldiers would stop him.

“A bank,” Babin told the driver. “The nearest HSBC branch.”

The driver nodded.

“What was that business with the soldiers?” Babin asked him.

The driver glanced back in Babin’s direction, then shrugged, as if to say, You were there; you tell me.

When they reached the bank, Babin leaned over the front seat. “I need you to wait. This should only take a minute.”

“The meter will run.”

“I understand,” said Babin, crutching out.

There were four policemen in front of the bank, and inside, Babin noticed several more. The receptionist’s desk was empty, and he didn’t see anyone in the open bullpen area behind her. Rather than simply waiting, he decided to try to make a withdrawal from one of his old accounts.

The number came too slowly. He had always been good with numbers, but this was one of the accounts he never used, relying on its secrecy for an emergency. He had arranged years ago to keep it active, but after so much time thought his odds of getting any money at best one out of ten. But a problem would bring a bank executive immediately, and he would be able to complete the wire transaction.

To Babin’s surprise, the teller quickly counted out the equivalent of five hundred euros without even asking a question.

“Who would I speak to about a wire transfer?” Babin asked, taking the money.

“It’s not possible today,” said the teller.

“Why not?” said Babin.

“On Saturday, the officers are gone. You must come back on Monday.”

“Is there another branch?”

“Not in Lima. Monday.”

Babin smiled, then crutched away, angry with himself for not realizing that might be a problem. He reassured himself that not every bank would have such limited staff; it was just a question of finding a larger bank. As he approached the door, a security guard nearby stepped toward him, keys in his hand.

“Closing early, sir,” said the guard. “Because of the political rally.”

“Expecting trouble?”

The guard simply shrugged and held the door for him.

Outside, Babin heard sirens. As he approached the car, two army vehicles turned around the comer and sped past.

“What’s going on?” he asked the driver.

“The radio says there was an attempted coup. They’re calling for calm.”

“A coup?” Babin felt his heart grab. “I want to find a large bank that would be open. Where would be the closest?”

The driver shook his head. “I’m not sure. The state bank in Miraflores, I would guess.”

“How far is it?”

“In distance, not much. But with the traffic, because of the rally and with this now on the radio, it could be hours.”