Payback

112

Driving the 18-wheeler took Túcume back to his earliest days in the army, when he worked with a supply company in the southern Andes and made sure to familiarize himself with the equipment his men used. Their trucks had been geared differently but were very similar to drive. He knew he would not do well in a city or parking the rig, but on the highway he was mostly all right, lurching a bit when in traffic and probably driving a bit too slow overall, but certainly all right.

The girl slept between him and Babin. Her weight felt pleasant on Túcume’s shoulder, even reassuring. In their short time together, he’d come to like her very much. It wasn’t a sexual attraction; it was more as if she were the child he would have had if he’d married. It was clear from what she had said that she had intended to sell herself as a drug mule; he was glad to have saved her from that.

She would be a ripe target in America. She was too naive, too young, to survive on her own. The predators would snatch her up in a moment. Túcume didn’t think she was pretty enough to be a whore, but that wouldn’t save her; she would end up being used in some other way.

As he drove, he fantasized about how he might protect her. He could let Babin take the weapon and go on without him. But that made no sense; his course was set. Sooner or later, the Peruvians and their CIA collaborators would hunt him down. Most likely, they were already on his trail. The CIA had its tentacles everywhere.

Túcume glanced in his mirror, looking at the sparse headlights behind him. Maybe they were behind him already.

Babin stimed. “Where are we?” he asked.

“The border is a few miles ahead. What do you want to do?”

The Russian glanced at his watch. “Near midnight. We will cross now.”

“Do you think the passports look good?” asked Túcume.

“They’re fine. I’ve used much worse.”

Túcume was not so sure. They had bypassed the border controls to get into Ecuador — not very difficult in the mountainous jungle — and getting into Mexico had been easy. The Spanish passports they had used were of the highest quality; even the holographic laminate they pasted over the photos looked perfect. The only comment the passport official had made was one of condolence to the alleged Señor Oroya on the graying of his hair.

But the United States would be another matter entirely. Babin had obtained his own documents for their use and insisted they use them. They would appear to be two long-distance drivers who had picked up a paying passenger.

“What about the girl?” Túcume asked.

“We can leave her if you wish,” said Babin. “But here is what is likely to happen if she is with us. If we are stopped, the agents will spend their time questioning her story, not ours. Her documents are excellent, and they will have to let her go. They won’t even bother us.”

“The truck—”

“You worry too much.”

“Maybe a little rest before we continue.”

“No, we go now. If you’re worried, waiting will only make you more nervous. Once we’re past the border, you will feel much better.”