Payback

90

Certain things become ingrained in a man’s being. Moving through a city, finding the alleys where people would do anything for the right amount of money — these had been an intimate part of Babin’s life for nearly two decades before the accident, and even in his crippled state they were instinctual. The most difficult task was slipping from the hotel suite. But this proved easier than he had expected — the general himself had gone out, and the men guarding the rooms did not think Babin a prisoner.

As indeed he wasn’t. Babin simply rode the elevator to the main floor and went to the concierge, who easily found him a car and driver whose fee could be tacked onto his hotel bill. Once in the car, he was tempted to keep going — to have the driver simply take him to the airport. But Babin had little money, barely enough to accomplish what he wanted to do tonight. A sizable amount of cash waited in Ecuador and more might be gotten from bank accounts, but it all might just as well be back in Russia at the moment.

He had the driver take him to the business area of old Lima — not a good section at night.

“Are you sure, señor?”

“Yes,” Babin told him.

Babin leaned next to the window, watching the people and shops as he passed. Finally he saw what he wanted — a prostitute standing near a shuttered storefront.

“Stop here,” said Babin.

“Señor—”

“I’m not going to do anything I’ll regret,” Babin told him. He pressed the button to lower the window, then held out a U.S. twenty-dollar bill. It was the only twenty he had — his two other bills were hundreds.

The twenty got the woman’s attention, and she sashayed toward the car.

“Come with me,” he told her, pulling the bill away.

The woman glanced at the driver. “I’ll meet you at my hotel.”

Babin rolled up the window. “Drive on,” he said.

It took a half hour before they found a woman desperate or perhaps stoned enough to get into the car.

“I need to purchase a pistol,” Babin told her.

The woman looked at him as if he were crazy.

“Your pimp—” he struggled over the word in Spanish, saying it in Russian and then finally settling for hombre, or man, not exactly a good translation, though it got the job done. “Maybe he can help us.”

The woman started shaking her head and saying no. Babin calmed her and finally got the name of a club named Hopo, where he could look for a man named Jimenez. He gave her the twenty dollars and dropped her off.

Hopo in Spanish meant the wooly tail of a fox or a sheep; it was also an expression in some dialects for working hard — and an interjection along the lines of “get out.” The place looked quiet on the outside, but the street was dark and narrow. Babin had frequented such places in Russia only to recruit toughs and laborers. He hesitated for a moment, then pushed open the car door.

“Señor, perhaps there is another way to get what you want,” said the driver.

“What way is that?” said Babin, pulling himself out.

“Guns are illegal, but—”

“I’m interested in more than a gun,” Babin told the driver. “I need some phones and other items. And I need them from someone who does not ask questions.”

“Perhaps that could be arranged.”

“Then come inside with me for a drink,” said Babin, pushing the car door closed. He turned and began crutching toward the club. He heard the car move down the street but didn’t look after it; either the driver would park and come behind him or he would be stranded here. To look back, he decided, would be an act of cowardice, as would deciding not to go in.

There was a bouncer at the door. Babin returned his snarling look. “Search me, if you want,” he said in Spanish. The man waved him inside dismissively.

There were no more than a dozen people inside, scattered at tables and a long bar of dark wood. The interior was classier than Babin expected, its glory not quite faded.

Babin stopped near the middle of the bar. He saw from the bartender’s look that his crutches were a curiosity; more than that, they made most people see him as someone who was not capable of threatening them.

A bad thing here.

“Vodka,” he said. He pulled out some of the Peruvian bills he’d been given. “A shot.”

The bartender put down a glass.

“I need to see a man named Jimenez about a business proposition,” Babin said. “One of his girls said I would find him here.”

The bartender glanced across the room but said nothing. Babin took his vodka and brought it to his lips, swallowing it in a gulp.

As he did, one of the men at the table the bartender had looked toward got up and came over behind him.

“What do you want?” said the man.

Before the accident that had left his back crippled, Babin would have dealt with the man simply — he would have stomped down on the man’s foot and sent his elbow into his stomach, bending him in half. Now such a maneuver was impossible. So Babin chose another tactic.

“A drink for my friend,” he told the bartender, pushing more of the money forward. “Whatever he wishes.”

The bartender glanced at the man, then quickly got a glass of American whiskey for him.

“I would like you to tell Jimenez that I need to buy a pair of handguns. I can pick them up tomorrow.”

“What makes you think he sells guns?”

Babin turned to smile in the man’s face, then turned around and faced the two men at the table. “I hope you don’t have the impression that I’m with the police. I wouldn’t think they’d stoop to sending cripples to trick you.”

One of the men frowned. By now, everyone in the room was either looking at Babin or pretending not to.

“Come here,” said the thinner of the two men. He had a goatee, and a scar on his cheekbone.

Babin crutched his way over and sat. The pain had ratcheted up, but he was not going to admit it now. He was intoxicated, not by the small amount of vodka he’d drunk but by the game—being at the edge, negotiating what he wanted. The fact that he was at such a disadvantage added to the thrill and, somehow, to his confidence.

“What is it you need?” said Jimenez.

“Two Walthers would be perfect. Failing that, Glocks. Or Berettas.”

“When?”

Babin reached into his pocket and pulled out the hundred-dollar bill. He dropped it on the table.

“Tomorrow. Here. At two p.m.”

“The guns cost more than this.”

“I understand.”

“Ten times as much.”

“That’s not a very fair price,” said Babin.

“I don’t give handicapped discounts.”

The man and everyone else in the bar began laughing. Babin felt his rage flicker, but he mastered himself.

“Perhaps in the future you will,” he said, getting up. “I will be here at two, and pay your price.”

“Wait,” said Jimenez. “Tomorrow is too soon.”

“For a thousand dollars, I would think tomorrow is not soon enough.”

When Babin turned, he saw that his driver had come in and was standing near the bar, arms folded. He was a good-sized man, bigger than the bouncer, and looked suitably intimidating, though in a fight he would have been quickly overwhelmed by superior numbers and the bat the bartender had on the shelf above the back of the bar.

“You took a hell of a risk,” said the driver, following Babin outside.

“I used to deal with trash like that every day. At heart he’s a coward.”

“He’ll try to rob you tomorrow. How will you deal with that?”

“He won’t rob me,” said Babin. “You learn to judge these things. There are some other items I want. A satellite phone. Some tickets.”

“I could help you.”

“Yes, I thought you could. Come, let’s go back to the hotel. I’ve spent all my money, but I believe the bar there will allow me to run a tab and charge it to my room.”

“Are you sure, señor? It is getting late. There’s always tomorrow.”

“A crueler lie has never been told,” said Babin. “Come.”

General Túcume’s late-night meeting with the chief of staff did not go smoothly. Major General Hector Maduro had never fired a gun in battle, but he had cut down countless rivals, and he clearly saw Túcume as one. Maduro started by asking pointed questions and within ten minutes was accusing Túcume of manufacturing a crisis to hurt the government and the army. The United States had shown far more interest in the weapon than Túcume had predicted, and this was causing considerable problems for Maduro. Peru’s president and other members of the government were blaming the army for every imaginable problem in the country, saying its war against the rebels had been corrupt and ineffective. The criticism was nearly as bad as if the revolutionaries had exploded a nuclear device in Lima.

“The government may lose this election,” said Maduro. “The polls are against Ortez. You’ve hurt him, and the army.”

“The government I do not care about,” said Túcume, waving his hand. “But I have spent my life in the army, and I have shed my blood for the army. How have I hurt it? By stopping the rebels? By doing my job?”

“You should not have allowed the newsperson to come. This should not have been announced to the world.”

Túcume pressed his lips together. It was necessary for his plan that it was announced to the world, though obviously he wasn’t about to tell the general that.

“The northerners are insisting on looking over our shoulder,” said Maduro, referring to the U.S. “They want a team of their Delta Force to ‘help’ guard the warhead. They’ve already landed in Lima.”

“We don’t need any help,” said Túcume. “It’s in my custody.”

“That is going to change. It must be under my direct control by noon tomorrow.”

“There is no need to make new arrangements,” said Túcume, taking a more diplomatic tack. “As the entire army is under your command, the warhead is already in your control. Perhaps you will accompany me to inspect it tomorrow. You might wish to bring guests, diplomats; naturally that would be your prerogative, as military commander.”

Maduro’s grimace did not melt entirely, but Túcume knew he was on the right track.

“You might bring this U.S. general, if you wished. But you, as the head of our military, would be the one to invite him. These Yankees — they assume sometimes we are children. We have control of our destiny.”

“That is what is important.”

“Their ambassador himself might also come with you,” said Túcume. “That would be fitting. Not someone of a low level. The lower levels would work with me. You are head of the army, and deserve respect.”

By the time the interview was ended, Túcume felt that he had mollified the general somewhat. Maduro was taking his suggestion of an inspection trip “under advisement,” a phrase Túcume interpreted to mean he simply didn’t want to admit right away that it was a good idea.

The meeting with the defense minister was far worse, though he began by congratulating Túcume on effectively dealing with the rebels. Within a few minutes, however, the minister was questioning how the revolutionaries could have built such a bomb under Túcume’s nose. He pointed out that the weapon was not built by the revolutionaries but purchased. He hinted that perhaps one of their enemies such as Ecuador or Brazil had helped the New Path, but the minister dismissed this, saying that either country would have far preferred keeping such a weapon to itself.

By the time the session ended, Túcume realized he had miscalculated the reaction to the weapon by the U.S. It was the North’s pressure that was making these people cross with him, turning him from a hero into a villain.

His confidence that he could control events had slipped, so much so that when the two guards at the door did not snap immediately to attention as he approached, Túcume took their momentary inattention as a personal insult and perhaps the result of orders from above. They finally stiffened, but still, he fought against a rising sense of unease and apprehension. Ordinarily he would have made a point of stopping and speaking with the men about their experiences; tonight he simply hurried out to his waiting car.