Payback

84

General Túcume squinted at the video monitor, trying to decide which of the reporters in the audience outside were actually spies, for either other countries or his own government. He had already given a briefing to the general staff and Peru’ s president on the discovery of the weapon; it was clear from their questions that they were in favor of allowing a thorough examination by “neutral observers” as soon as possible. Túcume had feigned indifference.

The fake bomb was currently at a small base southwest of Puerto América under heavy — and well-trusted-guard. He had proposed moving it by water to a regional base near Santa Cruz, which would still be under his jurisdiction. The president seemed willing to go along with this, but some members of the general staff wanted it airlifted to the air-base at Iquitos, where it would fall under the air force’s jurisdiction. Túcume had turned this aside by pointing out that the field was part of an international airport and inconveniently close to Brazil, which surely would be interested in acquiring such a powerful weapon.

Túcume wanted to delay giving over custody of the bomb for another twenty-four hours. That would guarantee that it wouldn’t be discovered to be a fake until voting was under way.

When the weapon was found out to be phony, his reputation would suffer slightly. There would be some carping — he envisioned headlines declaring he was “General Duped.” So his real goal at the press conference today was to lay out his future defense, cautioning everyone that “real tests” would have to be made.

“They’re getting restless,” said Chimor, his aide.

“The powerless often are.”

Túcume went to the mirror and inspected his uniform, making sure his ribbons were in place. His ancestors would have done the same with their garments made of cumi, the fine weave reserved for rulers. A ruler was supposed to look the role.

“Let us talk to the press,” he said, striding toward the hall.

Babin arrived at the hotel in time to see Túcume’s press conference on TV in the suite room. It was a revelation. In person, the man was rather short and, while hardly a stuttering fool, not given to poetic turns of phrase. But here he commanded the stage. He looked regal, and the reporters scribbled frantically to take down his words about the importance of Peru and its future. There was no question in the Russian’s mind that the stories Túcume had told of his ancestors were true.

Túcume fended off questions about the discovery. He said that he had personally shot several Maoist scum just a half hour before the bomb was discovered. He was shocked by the discovery of the warhead and claimed not to have believed his weapons expert when he told him what it was. He still had doubts, he added, because “one does not want to believe a countryman can be so evil.”

As the camera panned the crowded room, Babin thought he recognized one of the low-life CIA slimes who had been involved in the operation to double-cross him. Was it Jones? Was it really him? Babin’s anger flared, but he couldn’t be sure.

The one face that had been burned into his memory was that of Jorge Evans. Evans he would never forget. He knew much about Evans — enough to ensure that his wrath would be fully requited.

The CIA would undoubtedly aim its weapons at Túcume next. They’d be watching the press conference; whether Babin was right about the man or not, someone would be here. Someone would be plotting to get the general’s warhead and to kill the general in the process.

Babin would have an easier time if the Americans succeeded; the general was the only person who knew enough to stop him. But as he watched Túcume and listened to him talk about his heritage, Babin felt his emotions aroused. He liked the general and wanted him to succeed.

Babin could not afford to feel sentimental. He steeled himself, and by the time Túcume found him waiting with some of his aides, Babin would have shot the general himself if he thought it would bring him closer to his goal.

“Good, you managed to make the trip quickly,” said Túcume as he came in. “I have some things to discuss. Technical concerns.”

Babin nodded. The general dismissed the others.

“Would the warhead pass an inspection by the International Atomic Energy Agency?” asked Túcume.

“No, I’ve told you that several times. They check for a specific isotope. They have to be very close to the device, but they come prepared and they know what to look for. And then of course they will dismantle it.”

“What about the real warhead? Would they damage the warhead if they examined it?”

Babin’s heart jumped.

“The bomb would not be damaged, but letting anyone close to it is the last thing you should do.” Babin reached to his right leg, which hung off the couch at an odd angle. “Whoever is sent to inspect will include American agents.”

“CIA?”

“Of course. I recognized a man at your press conference. He stood at the back and didn’t say anything.”

“I’ll get a tape. You can point them out.”

“Yes. I will. But it’s not going to end there.”

Babin’s lower back began to spasm — this sometimes happened when he sat in one place for a long time. He tried to relax, pushing a slow breath through his teeth. Túcume waited patiently.

“The CIA will have people trying to recover the bomb,” Babin said finally. “It’s just a question of when. They’ll use — I would suspect that they would use the cover of an international inspection team. Then they will strike.”

“They can have that weapon. The president has already volunteered to turn it over to the Atomic Energy people.”

“It’s the other one I’m talking about, General. Don’t even think of showing it to them.” Babin reached for his crutches. “Do you mind if I move around a little? My back is in knots.”

Túcume gave him a hand, supporting him while he found his balance. For just that moment, Babin felt sorry for the general and wished the circumstances were different. But their courses were set.

“After the election, any difficulties will be swept away,” said Túcume. “You’ll see. The Americans will not dare to move against me then — it will be like declaring war on the country.”

Babin crutched his way around the room slowly, bending his neck to stretch his muscles, as this sometimes helped relieve the pain farther down.

“You’re sure your opponents will allow a fair result?” said Babin. He had to force the words through his teeth; even the muscles in his mouth were knotting.

“The army will guarantee it,” said Túcume. “And with UN observers, the process will be fair.”

Had he not been in so much pain, Babin might have laughed at the irony of someone who was trying to steal the election calling it fair. He maneuvered himself so his back was against the wall, then pushed his head to flex the muscles. The pain relented ever so slightly, then surged up his spine, cramping his shoulders.

He would endure. Only a few more days. Then it would be gone forever.