Payback

73

The guerrillas took Lia over the face of a cliff about fifty yards from the trail, then almost straight down a chimney in the rocks where metal ladders had been anchored into the stone. She’d managed to conceal her pistol but had to give up the briefcase with her laptop and the replacement voter cards; it dangled precariously from the shoulder of one of the guerrillas as they descended to a ledge along the rocks. Every so often Rockman would say something he thought was encouraging; Lia would grunt in response. There were eight guerrillas, all armed with AK-47s.

She’d be able to get away eventually. It was just a matter of patience.

Unfortunately, patience was not one of her virtues.

Roughly three hours after her capture, they reached a hamlet about a half mile from the valley the helicopter had been flying along when it crashed. One of the guerrillas whistled loudly, apparently alerting a sentry, who responded with a similarly shrill call. The procession stopped for a moment to allow the group’s commander to pass to the front. He led the way off the trail through a small copse of trees and underbrush. Lia tried to memorize the surroundings, realizing that the footpath ahead must be booby-trapped. She saw ax cuts low on the trunks of the trees — obviously guides, but they’d be difficult to spot in the dark.

The group emerged at the end of a semicircle of eight small paste-gray houses built of some sort of masonry material or maybe even mud. They fronted an overgrown cobblestone street. There were ruins on the other side of the road, all overgrown by vegetation. Lia could tell from the lack of trees in the distance that the path extended down the mountainside.

The guerrillas led her to one of the houses with a large satellite dish in the side yard.

“You watch TV?” she said aloud, giving the Art Room a readily identifiable, landmark. “Satellite TV?”

“Television can be useful,” said the guerrilla leader, who’d stopped at the threshold of the house.

“You get pointers from reruns of Mao Knows Best?” snapped Lia.

“You have a good sense of humor for a UN employee,” said the man.

“And you speak English pretty well for a Peruvian Indian.”

“I studied at Cambridge. And I am not a member of the native tribes. Please, come inside.”

The interior was dark and dank. A small table filled almost half of the front room; six chairs were crowded around it, and another half dozen were pushed against the walls. There were two doorways to other rooms at the right. Blankets hung across them instead of doors.

“Did you shoot down the helicopter?” Lia asked.

“That was an accident,” said the man. “The army was conducting operations against us, and we believed your aircraft was a military one. Only after the weapon was fired was the mistake recognized. We were on our way to help.”

“I’ ll bet.”

“The army patrol that found you killed my men before they could rescue you. Our intentions were peaceful.”

“Rescue or kidnap?”

“You aren’t a prisoner. Our war is against the army. Not the people.”

“So I can leave?”

“You would not do well on your own here. We will arrange for transportation.”

“Maybe I ought to take my chances.” Lia glanced at the door. Two men were blocking her way.

“Let him play the magnanimous warlord,” said Rockman in her ear.

“We’re not against the United Nations,” said the guerrilla leader.

“What about the U.S.?”

“Why’d you tell him you were American?” asked Rockman. “Lay back, Lia. Lay back.”

Shut up, Rockman, she thought to herself. He knows I’m American.

“The U.S. exploits the entire world,” said the guerrilla. “I have nothing but disdain toward your leadership. The metals here are ripped from the ground for who? Yankees. But since you work for the United Nations, we will give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“Thanks.”

The guerrilla smiled. “Empty your pockets.”

“I pulled them inside out for your man on the trail.”

“Please do it for me.”

Lia took out her PDA and placed it on the table, along with some change. The guerrilla picked up the handheld computer.

“It’s a handheld computer. If you know what that is.”

“I told you I went to Cambridge.” He turned it over. “Is it a Palm?”

“Try and get a name,” said Rockman. “We’re searching the Peruvian intelligence databases.”

“It’s not a Palm. It’s a cheap knockoff,” she said. “I can’t afford the real thing.”

“It doesn’t seem to be working,” he said when it failed to boot up after he pushed the power switch.

“It broke in the crash.” Actually, the unit would not activate without reading her thumbprint on the back. “Two hundred bucks up in smoke.”

He slid it back to her. “So what do you have in your bag?”

“A laptop.” Lia took it out. “When did you go to Cambridge?”

“Why?” asked the guerrilla. “Did you go there, too?”

“No. I’m afraid my family wasn’t rich enough to send me to Cambridge.” She just barely stopped herself from adding or any college, remembering her cover story — she was supposed to be a computer expert.

The rebel turned on the laptop. The computer beeped and booted into a safe mode designed for exactly this sort of situation. It would operate exactly as a normal machine running Microsoft Windows XP; any serious attempt to access the hidden programs and data would erase them.

“What’s your name?” Lia asked. “Or should I just call you El Comandante?”

“What’s yours?”

“Li Shanken. I work for a company that supplies diagnostics for the voting machines.”

“You are one of the army of hundreds here to make sure the election is fair. According to the television, yes?”

“It will be fair.”

“You’re very naive, Li. The international corporations have already decided who will win the election. Will it be Imberbe, or Ortez, the Stone Age vice president? The dark horse Aznar? He is coming up from behind. That is an attractive story line, the underdog who comes from nowhere. Peruvians love such fairy tales. I predict he will be the winner. What does it matter? The corporations will still run things, with your country’s help.”

“He still hasn’t told you his name,” said Rockman.

“So when can I go?” said Lia.

“We will take you to the village when the time comes.”

“When is that? Five minutes from now?”

“You have a sharp sense of humor.”

“I try, Comandante.”

“You may call me Paolo. I am not a commander. Those sorts of titles are not of use among us.”

“How did you get to Cambridge? You don’t look English.”

“I’m not. I was born in Chala, Peru. This is my country.”

“Bingo,” said Rockman. “All right. We can get it.”

“Where’s Chala?” asked Lia.

“On the coast, south of Lima. A pleasant place to grow up. But if you recognize the struggle of the peasants, you cannot live with yourself there. Or anywhere.”

“And you’re on the peasants’ side?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you were going to destroy Lima?”

“I wasn’t going to destroy Lima,” said the guerrilla.

“Your movement was. With a nuclear bomb.”

“No. Those reports are false. The government is trying to spread false rumors to discourage people from joining us. They’re lies. Terrible lies.”

“He’s a lot more important than he claims,” said Rockman. “One of the three or four leaders.”

“Prove that they’re lies,” said Lia, trying to shut Rockman out.

“There are many ways. We would not turn such a weapon against our own people.”

“You use bombs all the time.”

“Not such as this.” The guerrilla shook his head.

“That’s the best you can do?”

He slammed the table with his fist. “It’s a plot by the government. You’ll see.”

“Give me evidence to bring back to the people,” said Lia, sensing an opening. “I’ll spread the word for you. Give me proof.”

Still angry, the guerrilla leader slapped the laptop closed and stuffed it into her briefcase. He took it with him as he walked to the front door. Lia started to follow, but the guards kept her inside.

“I thought I was free to go,” she said sarcastically.