Ai! Pedrito!
Other Selected Works by the Authors
L. Ron Hubbard
The Automagic Horse
Battlefield Earth
Buckskin Brigades
Empty Saddles
Fear
Final Blackout
The Guns of Mark Jardine
Hot Lead Payoff
The Mission Earth dekalogy:
Volume 1: The Invaders Plan
Volume 2: Black Genesis
Volume 3: The Enemy Within
Volume 4: An Alien Affair
Volume 5: Fortune of Fear
Volume 6: Death Quest
Volume 7: Voyage of Vengeance
Volume 8: Disaster
Volume 9: Villainy Victorious
Volume 10: The Doomed Planet
Ole Doc Methuselah
Six-Gun Caballero
Slaves of Sleep &
The Masters of Sleep
Kevin J. Anderson
Afterimage (with Kristine Kathryn Rusch)
Blindfold
Climbing Olympus
Fallout (with Doug Beason)
Gamearth
Ignition (with Doug Beason)
III Wind (with Doug Beason)
Lifeline (with Doug Beason)
Resurrection, Inc.
Jedi Academy series
Young Jedi Knights series (with Rebecca Moesta)
The Trinity Paradox (with Doug Beason)
Virtual Destruction (with Doug Beason)
X-Files Novels:
Antibodies
Ground Zero
Ruins
An original story by
L.Ron Hubbard
Novelized by
Kevin J. Anderson
Ai! Pedrito!
—When Intelligence Goes Wrong
Bridge Publications, Inc.
Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
About the Authors
Foreword
"Just as Ian Fleming drew from his real experience in British Intelligence to create James Bond, Ai! Pedrito! is based on a true story, but in this case it was comedy."
L. Ron Hubbard
To which we might add: that true story is just as enthralling as the fictional, and tells volumes about the life of an author who knew of what he wrote. All begins in 1932 when, among other adventures later to figure in his celebrated stories, a twenty-one-year-old (and significantly red-haired) L. Ron Hubbard set out for a then still remote Puerto Rico to conduct that island's first complete mineralogical expedition under United States' protectorship. There, in the literal "wake of conquistadors," and on the "hunting ground of pirates," he sluiced many an inland river for traces of alluvial gold. He also scaled many a cliff with a sample pick, probed many a tunnel at the end of an improvised harness and left many "bits of khaki which have probably blown away from the thorn bushes long ago."
But quite in addition to expected adventures—the near fatal collapse of a San German mine, for example, or a raging bout with malaria—there was that curious business of Senor Pedrito.
As a first and seemingly innocuous brush with the man, Ron writes of exiting a Cuban embassy in early October 1932 to hear a Spanish gentleman cry: "Ai! Pedrito! Como ested.'"'When he reasonably pleaded mistaken identity, the accosting Spaniard offered only a savvy "Oh, that's all right, Pedrito. I won't tell anybody you're here."
Next, and rather more significantly, he writes of three engineers on a Puerto Rican mining trail, and their similarly exuberant "'Ai! Pedrito! Como ested?" While in reply to his plea of mistaken identity: "You can tell us. We won't write anybody. We won't let anybody know we saw you."
Then came the proverbial stranger in a bar with a pistol in his pocket—"and if I hadn't kicked him in the shins, I would have been a dead man"—and the equally unfamiliar Panamanian woman, who caught one glimpse of the red-haired profile and indignantly crossed the street. By which point, he could only conclude "Pedro's been here."
Thereafter, and particularly through the opening months of the Second World War when a then Lieutenant L. Ron Hubbard served United States Naval Intelligence in the South Pacific and elsewhere, this Pedrito remained a peripheral phantom. Most intriguingly, Ron speaks of encountering reports on his own supposed activities in places he had never even visited— specifically, running with Nazi spies in Brazil. Eventually, however, and like a figure first glimpsed from the corner of the eye and only gradually assuming shape, this Pedrito grew fairly definite as the prodigal son of a wealthy Brazilian clan. The man was also apparently on the lam from authorities in half a dozen nations, and further fleeing the fathers/brothers of at least a dozen jilted ladies.
Now, while we may find many an adventure from L. Ron Hubbard's fabulous years of exploration woven into earlier works for which he is now famous— Fear, for example, was partially crafted from tales heard within that Puerto Rican hinterland—Pedrito continued to simmer. By the early 1980s, however, and the author's much applauded return to popular fiction with the internationally best-selling Battlefield Earth, that curious case of mistaken identity began to plot itself into a story. As originally conceived, the story became a full-length L. Ron Hubbard screenplay, complete with detailed notes on direction, characterization, sets and sound. In accordance with his life-long commitment to younger authors, however, and fully appreciating just how difficult it is to break into the world of writing, he granted the novelization to another in what amounted to a golden opportunity.
In either case, the underlying theme of the story has since proven fully on the mark: the dark reality of a United States Central Intelligence Agency as anything but a slick and sophisticated stable of spies. To underscore the point, L. Ron Hubbard story notes reference an original agency failure to impede a flow of arms to Castro prior to the fall of Batista; while we might further reference all the agency has finally come to represent in terms of myopic bureaucracy or—as underscored by later revelations from an Iran-Contra affair—sheer buffoonery. As the reader will soon also discover, however, the L. Ron Hubbard view of an equally myopic and overbearing Soviet intelligence machine is hardly more flattering.
Yet Ai! Pedrito! is a story of far more than two dimensions, i.e., far more
than the tale of two look-alike spies in the midst of a looking-glass war. Rather, here is the world in which those spies dwell, replete with muddled politics, convoluted schemes and highly ephemeral loyalties. Needless to say, this world of Pedrito is not only a place of devilishly clever gadgets, highly seductive women and wholly unpredictable situations; it is also a place that is real—where the wine is not always vintage and cigars are not always Cuban. By the same token, however, here is a world where action never flags, deception never ends and anything can follow from such seemingly innocuous questions as, Ai! Pedrito! Como estd?
—Dan Sherman
Dan Sherman is the author of several highly acclaimed works on Cold War espionage. Mr. Sherman is presently engaged in the definitive biography of L. Ron Hubbard.
—The Publisher
Chapter 1
IN THE JUNGLES outside of Havana, Cuba, a squadron of black ducks crossed the sky at dusk, like bats. According to the tourist guidebooks it was considered a very bad omen. The ducks arrowed together, seeking evening prey among the numerous gnats and insects rising from the island's steaming jungles.
Then, as one, the flock of black ducks veered, quacking in instinctive fear as they skirted the imposing edifice of a grim fortress perched atop sheer, rugged cliffs high above the sea. Curling ocean waves crashed against the rocks below with a roar like a lion, guarding the citadel.
The treacherous road that led up to the spiked front gate of Morro Castle stopped in an ancient courtyard. Knotted vines protruded from the ground, buckling the flagstones. No welcome mat lay at the foot of the barred wooden doors; the daily newspapers had not been delivered in some time. An ominous sign announced in Spanish No Soliciting.
Over the years, the dark fortress had been used by an endless stream of torturers, mad scientists, and megalomaniacs with their tiresome schemes of taking over the world. By now, the locals had stopped paying much attention to Morro Castle, tending instead to their cane or tobacco fields, knowing that in an emergency some hero would eventually rectify the situation and all would go back to normal again.
As the sun set across the Caribbean, and soupy clouds gathered for an evening squall, Morro Castle's new inhabitants were up to the usual hi-jinks....
"Asombroso!" cried the Cuban intelligence colonel, astounded as he sat back in a creaking wooden chair, clapping a hand to his head to hold his beret in place.
His hair was black and thick, his bloodshot eyes dark and flashing. He wore a rumpled khaki uniform, adorned with numerous stars and medals he had pinned on himself Some of them hung crookedly from his uniform, because when in front of a mirror, the Cuban colonel spent more time admiring his huge black beard than studying the neatness of his dress.
Across the stone-walled tower room, the Russian colonel said placidly, "Da, Comrade Enrique." Unlike his companion's, his own olive uniform was immaculate and well pressed. He used a ruler and a level every morning to make sure his medals hung straight. "Here, see for yourself."
The Russian stood up to place a SECRET folder on the rugged wooden table in the center of the chamber. Rusty manacles dangled from the edges of the table, and faded reddish stains adorned the hewn boards. Other torture instruments hung from hooks on the walls, available for the use of any of the castle's tenants; all of the equipment had been left behind as a courtesy by the castle's former inhabitants, before the revolution.
The Russian colonel knocked a jingling manacle out of the way, more interested in the photographs he removed from the folder. He held them up to the flickering light. The Cuban colonel hurried over to see the photo of the redheaded man—a face he had observed many times on WANTED posters, arrest warrants, propaganda leaflets. "Ai! It is him!" Astonished, he said, "Sacred mother of a dog, Ivan! This is incredible!"
"Our peerless KGB has verified it utterly," Ivan said with a sniff.
"I thought the KGB was disbanded with the fall of the Soviet Union," Enrique said.
The Russian shrugged. "It is now part of the Ministry of Mapmaking. New department, same job." He held a second photograph up to the flickering light. "See for yourself. Comrade."
As he looked more closely, Enrique saw that it couldn't be the same man, not in the same place, not with the same clothes. Could it be some hoax ... or was it exactly what they had been hoping for?
"Come," said Ivan, gathering his photos and clapping a hand on the Cuban's shoulder, "this is our chance. They say that Communism is dead, just because it is in a coma. But you and I know better: There are millions of loyalists toiling around the world, ashamed to admit their true feelings, their longings for the glory days of the Soviet Empire, their innermost hopes for a glorious future. All they need is a little victory to make them feel better, just one small country to topple in a revolution—like in the old days, when everyone was eager to embrace the loving principles of Stalinism—"
Ivan had a faraway look in his eyes, and he stared off at the wall, as if gazing at some glorious, distant sunrise. Enrique was lighting a cigar. Ivan's voice then took on a hard, intense quality as he continued: "Once we bring one country down, my friend, the loyalists of the world will rise up with their hammers and their pitchforks and their Molotov cocktails and their nerve gas and their intercontinental ballistic missiles, and they will throw off the intolerable shackles of their horrible capitalist tormentors!"
Enrique shook his head in wonder. He was frankly baffled by capitalists and their strange way of life. The only time he'd ever seen a real, horrible capitalist tormentor was when he'd once been assigned to a firing squad detail, and he hadn't really gotten a good look at the man through the gunsights.
"Sacred nostril of a yak!" Enrique said, puffing his cigar smoke into Ivan's face. Ivan coughed. "Are you sure this will work? Pedrito Miraflores is a madman"—he decided he'd better quickly cover himself—"a loyal Communist madman, but a madman nonetheless. If we put your plan into effect, we could get into more trouble than we bargain for."
The Russian shook his head with a smile. "Or it might be an opportunity we cannot afford to pass up."
Just then, the single bulb that lit the dim room buzzed and died with a pop. The only light came from Enrique's cigar.
"Come," Ivan said. "Let us go down to the Operations Office, where there is better light."
Deeper inside Morro Castle, switchboards and radar receivers were strung along a fortified outside wall that opened to the churning sea. Uniformed operators moved about. Everyone paused to look up as the two colonels entered, then they briskly went back to work with redoubled efforts. (Rumors of impending layoffs had rippled through the staff of the evil fortress.)
A reedy, nervous-looking aide hustled over to hover beside Colonel Enrique, awaiting his orders. Enrique ignored him.
"I have more evidence that Miraflores has a double," Colonel Ivan said. "We have an espionage photographer in New York. He operates as an undercover mime near the Office of Naval Intelligence. He took these photographs." The Russian snapped his fingers, indicating an attache case on a console.
The reedy aide dashed over to the case, rummaging through papers and folders and antacid wrappers until he dragged out a sheaf of photographic enlargements, labeled Other Evidence.
"There, Comrade, is the proof!" the Russian colonel said. "Is it not wonderful?"
The aide handed the photos to Colonel Enrique, who fanned them out, staring at the top image. The curious aide crept close enough to peer over the Cuban colonel's shoulder, but Enrique elbowed him sharply in the ribs; the aide scuttled away, holding his side.
The color portrait showed a roguish man in stained jungle combat clothes and a big red star upon his cap. The cap covered shaggy red hair, as if he had sawed it to the proper length with a serrated knife. Two guns hung at his hips, a bandolier of bullets crisscrossed his chest, and several grenades had been clipped to his belt.
"I am already quite familiar with our man Pedrito Miraflores," Colonel Enrique growled.
Colonel Ivan said smugly, "Now look at
the other one closely."
It was a formal studio portrait of what appeared to be the same person, the same red hair and blue eyes, but some sort of alter ego—this young man was an American naval officer holding his cap under his arm and staring with wide, bewildered eyes toward the camera. His red hair had been neatly cut and combed.
"Tom Smith," Enrique read the label below the portrait. "Lieutenant junior grade." He looked up in astonishment. "Holy brother of a lemur! They do look just alike, even side by side. That is too much to wish for. Don't tell me they're both the same height and weight!"
"They are," said the Russian colonel. "They also both speak Spanish and English perfectly. It would be ideal for us to make a switch."
Enrique shuffled up two more snapshots, one of each: Pedrito Miraflores swinging into a sports car on a Havana street, grinning hugely as if he knew he was posing for a spy camera. In the other photo, his spitting image. Lieutenant Tom Smith, stood looking somewhat mystified as he received an engineering award amongst top Navy brass.
"Sacred tailbone of a mollusk," Enrique said, scratching his huge beard and shaking his head in disbelief. His dark eyes shone with the possibilities. "The good God bless the KGB, or the Ministry of Mapmaking, or whatever they're called these days! This could be the greatest intelligence coup of all time! What if we could make a switch? By putting Pedrito in his place, we could infiltrate the United States intelligence service, while using Smith as a scapegoat down here. That Navy buffoon could take the fall for all of Pedrito's crimes."
"I thought you'd like my idea," the Russian colonel said. "We will get our best man, Bolo, to oversee all the details." He raised his bushy eyebrows over watery gray eyes, then lowered his voice. "Now how about another case of those cigars, Enrique? Monte Cristo No. 2. My, uh, wife likes them very much."
Ignoring the request, the Cuban colonel whirled to snap at his aide, who still stood nursing his sore ribs. "Quick, quick—get Maria! We must begin immediately. This is a marvelous plan for us to set in motion."
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