Payback

42

General Túcume couldn’t help but grin as he finished reading the copy of the unsigned communiqué from Sendero Nuevo. The general staff had ordered it distributed two hours after it had been received by e-mail at the Lima headquarters. The threat was considered so important that commanding officers were to acknowledge in writing that they had received it.

“A bit over-the-top,” said Babin, standing on his crutches next to him.

“Very much in their style,” said Túcume, hitting the keys on the laptop to save the message in an encrypted file.

“You would know,” said Babin, crutching across the room.

Túcume reflected on the Russian’s tone. Had he become more bitter since they had met?

Certainly. And it was understandable. Babin had been happy to be alive that first afternoon. He had no idea what had happened to his body. It was only later, over much time, that the full reality sank in. Túcume could not blame him.

Túcume intended to reward all of his people lavishly in the best Inca tradition, and Babin would be no exception. Perhaps a doctor could be found to cure his legs and back or at least ease his pain. The general made a solemn promise to himself to help his friend.

“You’d better take care to plan your ambush for the cameras,” said Babin. “You may not get the right light for the TV cameras.”

“There won’t be any television cameras.”

“I can’t believe you’d miss the opportunity.”

Actually, there would be something much better — a BBC stringer had asked to join the general on a patrol in the Amazonian jungle weeks before. They were to meet in a few hours.

The announcement of the discovery of the weapon was critical to Túcume’s plan; keeping it a secret from the public would accomplish nothing. He had gone to great lengths to make sure the news could be broadcast and would seem spontaneous at the same time. He’d settled on the British reporter over several Peruvians because the unprejudiced words of praise from a foreigner would surely be worth more. Members of Peru’s media were commonly thought to be bribed by officers looking to advance, and Túcume did not want his discovery tarnished by such suspicions.

Babin watched the general’s SUV as it made its way down the mountain trail, staring after it until all that was left was a thick cloud of yellowish-brown dust. He admired Túcume; in many ways the Indian was like a countryman. The general had the ambition of a Slav and the ability to plan that made Russian chess masters so unbeatable. The plot he had woven to win the election for his candidate — and to cement his own hold over the country — was worthy of Peter the Great. Túcume did not possess the ruthlessness of a criminal like Stalin, who had massacred people on a grand scale; this was a flaw in a great leader, Babin thought, but not an unforgivable one. More problematic was Túcume’s loyalty to people he trusted. Not that Babin had not benefited: a truly ruthless leader would have executed him long ago. Túcume gained very little by keeping him alive, and yet Babin knew very well that he would not even entertain the thought of killing him.

He also knew that Túcume was unlikely to help him get revenge against the people who had crippled him. Like most Latin Americans, Túcume had a love-hate attitude toward the Yankees. He might criticize the U.S. and take advantage of its foibles, but in the end he would not do anything to seriously enrage it. He was wise enough to understand that doing so would only endanger his vision for the future. Túcume lived for the time when the native peoples were once more the lords of the Andes.

Unlike Babin, who only lived for revenge.

Babin pushed back on his crutches, heading toward the barn where the real bomb was still stored. The truck he had sent for would be here within the hour. He had to make sure everything was ready before it arrived.