Payback

14

“The FBI information was right,” Segio told Rubens over the phone line connecting him to the Desk Three analysis center. “The cards are programmed to increase the votes of the candidate in the first position on the ballot-Ramon Ortez. They pull off the votes under a complicated formula to make it harder to detect a pattern, and they spread it out over the whole network, taking advantage of the fact that the machines are all connected as a security feature.”

“Is removing one card enough to disrupt the effect?” Rubens asked.

“We’re debating that. We don’t think so. It looks like even one card would add votes. I would get them all.”

“Good work, Segio. Please extend my gratitude to the staff.” Rubens reached to the telephone console, switching into the Art Room.

“Telach.”

“This is Rubens. The cards have been tampered with. I’m on my way to the White House. I expect we will have authorization from the president to proceed within a few hours.”

“We’ll be ready,” she said.

Thirty minutes later, Rubens’ helicopter set down on the lawn of the White House. The wash from the blades pushed at his suit as he walked toward the building, his pace so brisk that his leg muscles stiffened. An aide met him, telling him that President Marcke wanted to meet him in the national security adviser’s office.

“I thought Mr. Hadash was still in China.”

“He is, sir. But the President wanted to talk to you there. Mr. Hadash will be calling in as well.”

They went up the stairs to Hadash’s office, which was just around the comer from the president’s. The national security adviser was working on a set of strategic agreements with the Chinese and trying to get them to increase their pressure on North Korea to disarm. He was supposed to visit Japan afterward; he wasn’t expected back for another week and a half.

Rubens nodded to Hadash’s secretary and went into the inner office. He had no sooner sat down in one of the chairs in front of the desk than the president walked in.

“How are you, Billy?”

“Very well, sir.”

“I’m stealing George’s office because we’re shuffling delegations in and out of the Oval Office today. I have a group of third graders and their teacher waiting for me inside.”

Marcke sat down behind Hadash’s desk. “I’m not sure we’d want them listening in,” said the president. Then he chuckled. “On the other hand, I suppose their advice might be as insightful as Congress’s. And twice as useful.”

Rubens smiled. Marcke’s party controlled Congress, but in some ways that made it harder to deal with.

“The FBI information on Peru was correct, I gather?” said Marcke.

“Yes, sir. The voting cards are rigged to put a worm in the computers, delivering the election to Ortez.”

The president glanced at his watch. “I expect George to check in any moment. The call will come here. You’re ready to move ahead?”

“Yes, sir. We can replace all of the cards that we believe have been altered. There are only a dozen of them.”

The telephone buzzed. Marcke snagged it with a practiced motion. “How are our Chinese friends, George?” he said.

Rubens couldn’t hear the answer, but it may have been off-color, because Marcke roared with laughter. “I have Billy here. I’m going to put you on the speakerphone.” The president punched a button. “Hear us?”

“I hear you, Mr. President,” said Hadash. His voice echoed slightly. “Bill?”

“I’m here, George.”

“The Peruvian election cards were compromised, as we thought,” the president said. “I want to revisit the question of where to go from here.” He had snagged a paper clip from the desk in front of him, and he began straightening it as he talked.

“I still think we should swap out the crooked cards, as we discussed the other day,” the national security adviser said. “Let the election proceed.”

“Lincoln thinks we should let the UN handle it,” the president said and looked at the speakerphone. Lincoln was James Lincoln, the secretary of state.

Rubens took a deep breath. He had a long list of objections to working with the UN on a matter like this, starting with the fact that it would put one of his covert ops in the spotlight. Nor would the hack of the voter cards be easy to explain: the hack could not be detected by normal diagnostic tools, which was how it had gotten this far in the first place. And the politicians at the UN would wring their hands and dither….

“Even assuming that we wanted to trust that crowd,” Hadash said, “UN meddling in Peru will only result in postponing the election. All indications are that the president will retire as he said he would-he’s a damned sick man — and Ortez will take over. Lincoln knows that. Once Ortez is in, he’s in and that’s that. There will be no election.”

The president had the paper clip completely straight. Now he began twisting it. “Thanks for your thoughts, George,” he said abruptly, and his hand shot out to the telephone. The tinny hiss stopped. “What are your thoughts?” he said to Rubens, looking him in the eye.

“I think we can pull off a card switch and the election can go forward.”

The president got out of his chair and came around the desk. He sat in a chair beside Rubens and leaned toward him. Marcke was still twisting the paper clip, which had taken on the shape of a pretzel.

“If the United States gets caught with its fingers in a ballot box in Peru, the shit is going to hit the fan,” he said softly. “That would be the biggest American foreign policy disaster since Pearl Harbor. We’re trying to encourage democratic regimes all over the globe, and we would instantly lose all credibility. My assessment is that Latin America would become too hot to hold us. The countries in South America owe so much money to the World Bank that they could bankrupt it if they renounced their debts. With the Chinese economy slowing, oil prices rising, the Middle East bubbling, and North Korea ranting about nukes, that would be one more disaster than we could handle.”

“My team won’t get caught,” Rubens said.

“The prisons are full of people who thought that.” The president concentrated on the wire as he manipulated it. “By God, they had better not. If they do, this government never heard of them.” He eyed Rubens. “Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Marcke lowered his gaze back to the wire. “My gut tells me that we should tell the president of Peru that we think the election computers are compromised and let the Peruvians figure it out. After all, it’s their country.”

He tossed the paper clip onto the desk and stood up. “The truth is that it doesn’t make a hill of beans’ difference who gets elected down there.” He went to the window and stood looking out. He stretched and scratched his head.

Rubens sat silently.

“It’s been a bad year for Latin American democracies,” the president mused. “Not that they’ve had many good ones. Still, until the folks in Latin America learn to have honest elections and live with the results, the place is always going to be a breeding ground for tyrants.”

When the silence that followed that remark had dragged on too long, Rubens said, “I believe it was Abe Lincoln who pointed out that it’s difficult to drain the swamp when you’re up to your ass in alligators. Lincoln or Confucius.”

Marcke turned to look at Rubens, Hashed a smile, and headed for the door. “Switch the cards,” he said in passing, “and don’t get caught.”