Payback

101

The twenty-four hours that followed Túcume’s decision to get into the taxi with Babin passed like the landscape viewed from a jet dashing over mountainous terrain. It was pock-marked with humiliations, large and small..

The first came at a bus station in a small town a few miles west of Lima. Mindful of the inherent risks in Peruvian military politics, Túcume had stashed money, clean credit cards, a small pistol, and — most important — passports in several places around the country, including the ancient lockers in this small building. When they arrived, Babin told Túcume he must stay in the car with the driver; he was still wearing his uniform and might be recognized. Reluctantly, Túcume gave Babin the locker number and the combination, then gritted his teeth and waited in the car like a common criminal escaped from jail.

The second humiliation came a few hours later, on the road west in the mountains. Babin had promised the taxi driver a good sum to keep his mouth shut, and, though wary, the driver initially believed him. He grew more nervous as night fell, however. Finally the man’s hands began to shake when Babin told him he must pull off the road so that he could relieve himself. Tears fell from the man’s eyes as he stopped. Babin took out the small pistol he had removed from Túcume’s box and ordered the man out to the nearby brush.

Túcume didn’t say a word, remaining silently in the car. Two shots resounded against the nearby mountainside, long, thin echoes that stung Túcume’s conscience. But louder and more painful still was the knock on his window — Túcume turned to see Babin’s face leering at him.

“Take his clothes. They will do for a short while. We must find another car.”

Túcume did as he was told.

They used no fewer than six cars, beginning with the stolen taxi and ending with one bought with cash in a mountain town in the Andes. For Túcume, the journey was a succession of revelations showing how deeply he had miscalculated. The worst came Sunday morning, when a radio station aired an interview with Captain Chimor claiming Túcume had prepared a coup.

Túcume insisted on listening to it as they drove, wincing at every lie and falsehood. Clearly, Chimor had made some sort of deal with the general staff, either to save himself from whatever charges they were inventing or to salvage his career.

Chimor did not know of the bomb plot, but he knew of much else. And sooner or later the handful of men who did know what had happened would be pressured to tell more. Túcume clung to the hope that he might reach the barn before the warhead was discovered. What he would do then he did not contemplate.

He and Babin made their way westward and then north through the Andes. They changed their clothes and dyed their hair, dressing in simple garb to fit in. Only Túcume’s shoes suggested that he was not a simple peasant; he scuffed them to make them appear older than they were, tokens of a prosperous past now distant.

Túcume’s fluency with Quechua and his native accent were advantages, but they did not guarantee safety. They had plenty of money: besides ten thousand euros from the box, Túcume maxed out cash advances on his legitimate credit cards in Lima, then left them in the machines at Babin’s advice, hoping some thief would take them and confuse the authorities with a false trail. Babin spoke of other sums that he might get, arranged through wire transfers with foreign accounts. In the areas where they were, however, such arrangements would be difficult at best, and for the moment they had no need of them. At the border, they would have the choice of using either Peruvian or Spanish passports; they would only have to get photos made at one of the many cheap shops nearby to establish their new identities.

Túcume, naturally, did the driving. Babin spent much of the time sleeping, worn out by exhaustion and pain.

Sometime after three on Sunday, General Túcume decided to stop for lunch. He found a small town several miles from the highway and parked the car. He left Babin sleeping and went to negotiate some food. The local restaurant sold french fries and chicken, and Túcume managed to persuade the owner to make some plates “for a picnic.” He found Babin awake in the car when he returned.

“I thought you abandoned me,” said Babin as he got in.

“I would not leave you, Stephan.”

The Russian shook his head when Túcume offered him some food.

“You need to keep up your strength,” the general told him. He started to eat himself and soon was glad Babin wanted nothing; his hunger was much greater than he’d reckoned.

“Put on the radio,” said Babin.

“It’s only bad news.”

“We need to know what’s going on.”

Reluctantly, Túcume agreed.

“They turn against you quickly,” said Babin as the radio finished replaying a bit about Aznar.

“Very.”

“The CIA helped them. The Yankees were behind everything. They decided they had to stop you at all costs.”

“Do you think they’ll find the real bomb?” the general asked, changing the subject.

“It’s only a matter of time before they go to the barn,” said Babin.

Túcume knew this was true and didn’t argue. “If we beat them, we can sell it.”

“The Americans will never let it be sold,” continued Babin. “The only thing to do with it is to use it to get revenge. There’s no other choice.”

“I can’t kill my countrymen,” said the general softly. “If the traitors alone were gathered — Aznar, Chimor, the general staff, the president, the defense minister. If they were put together, those people I would gladly kill. But not the innocent.”

He shook his head. His stomach had begun to revolt at the very idea.

“I wasn’t talking about Peru,” said Babin. “The CIA. The Yankees, General. They are who did you in. Your countrymen were only pawns. The Americans are your enemy.”

Túcume pushed his unfinished lunch back into the bag.

“I only wish that were true,” he said, starting the car.

While Babin knew it was only a matter of time before Túcume agreed with him about what must be done, time was an extremely limited quantity. From what he could determine by looking at the map, within four or five hours they would reach a juncture in the highway where they would have to either proceed northward toward Ecuador or turn right toward the region of Túcume’s military district and the barn where the warhead had been kept. Proceeding eastward toward the barn was suicidal, and in no way would Babin do so. In the worst case, he would insist that the general help him find a driver to take him to Ecuador, and he had the general’s small pistol to use if absolutely necessary.

It would be considerably more convenient to convince Túcume that he should join in Babin’s own plan to take revenge on the U.S. To do this, Babin had to tell him that he had the warhead. But he needed the right moment.

Babin watched the general as they drove, staring surreptitiously at his drooping cheeks and heavy frown. Túcume looked different, not just because of his dyed hair and clothes, but also because something inside him had dramatically changed. He had lost the thing that had driven him. More than that, he had seen that his own instincts to trust people close to him had led to his downfall. In a sense, he had betrayed himself. If he couldn’t trust his judgment, he couldn’t trust anything. He had lost his dream, and he had lost his own sense of who he was.

Babin knew the feeling intimately. He had not begun to climb from the deep hole the crash had ejected him into until his plan for revenge took shape.

The general had cared for Babin then, arranging his hiding place and home, bringing Rosalina to watch him. It was partly in the general’s interests, surely; he did not know much about the warhead, and Babin wasn’t even sure at what point the general realized it was a nuke. But killing Babin would have been easy to do at any point; instead, Túcume’s instincts led him to a role more like that of a father or uncle.

Or Inca, to hear Túcume describe his ancestors.

Now their roles were reversed. Though his body was racked with pain, Babin was the strong one. Túcume was now a shell, crippled within.

They stopped around five to get gas in a village that looked like something that came out of the eighteenth century. The station was modem enough, but there were two burros tied to a pole near the building, and just beyond the gas pumps sat a row of huts that from a distance seemed to be made of straw and dried mud.

“Are you hungry?” Túcume asked.

“No, but I could use something to drink,” said Babin.

“There will be food and drink over there,” Túcume said, gesturing across the street. To Babin, the building looked the same as the other hovels, but it proved to be a restaurant, and they were soon eating a kind of casserole of potatoes mixed with tiny bits of chicken. The dining room was open to the kitchen; a TV played in a comer above the stove. Babin winced as the general’s face was flashed on the screen.

Túcume ignored the program, devouring his food.

“They’ll be looking for you in your military district,” said Babin, his voice almost a whisper.

“Sshh,” said Túcume.

He’d found a woven hat to wear, and it made him look like one of the locals. Still, it was not a complete disguise.

The picture changed — there was a shot of Inca ruins from the distance, then the house where Babin had stayed for more than two years.

“This is where the weapon was stored, intelligence agents believe,” said a voice off-camera.

“Rosalina,” said Túcume, but she didn’t appear and there was no mention of her as the program continued. The original footage that had been shot when the bomb was discovered followed, with the commentator describing some of the authentic combat with the rebels that had taken place in the region over the past several months. The scene then changed to a military base in the region, and Babin realized that he’d been watching a lead-in for what the newspeople thought was the main event: a live press conference with the head of the military and several experts who had examined the bomb. Immediately behind the podium were two American military people in freshly starched fatigues.

“The snake,” said Túcume as Major General Maduro stepped to the podium.

Words flashed on the bottom of the screen; Channel 37 exclusive — the bomb is a fake.

“We must leave,” Babin told Túcume.

Túcume stayed motionless as Maduro announced that experts from the International Atomic Energy Agency had discovered that there was no uranium or plutonium warhead in the weapon.

“The Yankees have the warhead,” whispered Túcume.

“No, they don’t,” said Babin. “Let’s pay and go, before someone recognizes you.”