Ai! Pedrito!: When Intelligence Goes Wrong

by L. Ron Hubbard

  Thirty vaqueros lounged around on the split-rail fence, taking a break from the day's chores in hopes of hearing some of Pedrito's adventures, or at least hoping to see what the wild redheaded revolutionary would do next. The other horsemen applauded his arrival, clapping him on the back and shouting encouragement.

  Inside the corral, a buckskin stallion reared and plunged and squealed, circling like a hungry shark that smelled blood. A daring or foolish vaquero had managed to saddle and bridle the fuming stallion—but the reins hung loose and the hapless vaquero was even now receiving medical attention.

  Smith stood ten feet from the snorting horse, on the other side of the fence, swallowing hard. The vaqueros wanted him to ride that monster—and he had trouble keeping himself upright on a bicycle!

  The obese major-domo also sat on the fence, barely keeping his balance. The split rails creaked under the burden. "Go on, Pedrito. You're the only one who could ever sit in his saddle. Show us you haven't lost your touch."

  "He's your own horse, after all!" another vaquero called. "A wild stallion for a wild horseman!"

  "He, uh, doesn't seem to want company at the moment," Smith said. He wished he had turned around and run back to the plane with Yaquita the day before. Now he was trapped here in this ranch with people who thought he was part of the family. All the attention was nice, but the responsibilities were troublesome.

  '"Aww, that horse has just forgotten you!" the major-domo said, nudging Smith toward the corral gate. "You must remind him who is the boss."

  Smith backed away from the rail, mincing his feet to avoid piles of horse manure as the vaqueros egged him on. "I think you'd better take him away. I'm a sailor, not a cowboy."

  The vaqueros on the fence exploded with laughter. The major-domo slapped his knee. "That is the best joke I have ever heard, Pedrito!"

  During the laughter, a new vaquero darted into the corral like a matador confronting an angry bull. He wore a floppy hat that hid his dark Turkish features. He managed to grab the dangling reins of the rearing horse, then yanked its head down. Bolo secretly slipped his palm against the horse's snorting nostrils. With a sniff, the stallion wolfed a small lump the mysterious vaquero held in his hand—and then looked suddenly cross-eyed.

  The two colonels might want Smith dead, but Bolo had other plans—at least for the moment. Beaming, Bolo gestured for Smith to climb into the corral. "Come on, Pedrito—see, he is a pussycat after all."

  Smith was too frightened to recognize the man. He diffidently approached the horse and reached out a trembling hand for the reins. Everyone here expected this of him, and if they grew angry, they might make Smith walk back to the Santa Isabel airport. He didn't have a single friend here ... not even Yaquita.

  The mysterious vaquero nudged him toward the saddle, and Smith swung himself up. He gripped the pommel desperately for balance. The stallion weaved and crossed his legs, blitzed by whatever drug Bolo had slipped him.

  As the lieutenant sat up in the saddle, looking almost like he belonged there, the vaqueros cheered. "Ai! Pedrito! Ai! Pedrito! Ai! Pedrito!"

  Smith lifted his hat to them, swayed backward, then held the saddle to keep his balance. "Hey, I did it!"

  Later, Smith rode with the lovely Bonita across an expanse of grassy, rolling plains, far from human habitation. Isolation wasn't hard to find on the five thousand square kilometers of the Miraflores ranch. Bonita seemed to have a destination in mind as she guided them toward the steep hills thick with cloud forest.

  Smith's vaquero clothes felt more natural to him now, though he still missed his Navy uniform. Fresh and smiling, Bonita wore a black riding habit and a top hat tied down with a white gauze scarf. The young woman refused to ride sidesaddle, choosing instead a voluminous split skirt that allowed her to wrap her legs around the horse's ribs.

  Smith's stallion ambled erratically in the grip of the tranquilizers. Despite the easy pace, Smith rode with far too much bounce, as if standing on the deck of a ship in a severe storm.

  "There's something you really need to know. Miss Bonita," Smith said earnestly. "I am pretty sure I'm not really Pedrito Miraflores Santa Garcia ... oh, I forget the rest of the name. I might look like him, but I'm a completely different person. I've never even met the man."

  Bonita let out a silvery laugh and looked at Smith with her emerald-green eyes. "Oh, you poor thing. I can see it all now, the terrible fights you've had, the close escapes, the death-defying feats. It must be battle shock! Or mental fatigue. But don't worry, Pedrito my love, I'll take care of you until your mind is all healed."

  Smith tried to convince her, raising his hands so that he nearly fell from the saddle. "I’m not Pedrito!"

  Bonita tried to calm him. "Don't say things like that—they'll send you to a psychiatrist and make you into a vegetable. Santa Isabel has some of the best lobotomy clinics in all of South America, and the doctors there are always searching for new victims. Even dogs in the street are not safe." Then she brightened. "I've got my own treatment to restore your memory." Bonita pointed ahead toward the edge of the cloud forest. "Come! I'll race you to that grove, and there you'll see what I mean."

  She laid on her quirt, and her horse bounded ahead. Pedrito's stallion ran drunkenly after her, and Smith had all he could do just to hold on.

  They followed a thin trail into the thick, dark trees. A few lichen-covered boulders protruded from the tall grasses, but the shade inside the forest seemed very inviting. Huge banana leaves drooped like umbrellas. A colorful green toucan with a scarlet rump sat in one of the trees, watching them with impenetrable eyes as he patiently ate green berries from a bush.

  "Here's the place!" Bonita said brightly. She paused, waiting for his reaction. "Don't you recognize it, Pedrito? It's where you caught and ravished me when we were young. You were just a kid, too, but very precocious! Look, there's the very log."

  Smith glanced around uncomfortably. The jungle was filled with a profusion of colorful flowers and flitting butterflies. They stopped their horses near the mossy log and dismounted. "I'm sorry. Miss Bonita, but—"

  Bonita pulled a large Indian blanket with triangle patterns from her saddlebag and spread it on the damp, weed-covered ground. She threw off her hat and began to unbutton her jacket. "Well, I'm not a little girl anymore, Pedrito. I'll try to make the experience a bit more memorable this time." She arched her eyebrows.

  Smith stood there, staring in disbelief as she undressed. Who was this Pedrito, and what sort of hold did he have on so many women? Swallowing hard, he looked around huntedly, searching for some way to escape.

  "Well, come on!" Bonita said. "Only this time you don't have to pull my hair, you naughty boy." She smoothed the blanket. "Remember, if you're not nice to me, 1 can always tell your father, and he'll be mad at you again."

  Smith wondered, what were the chances that another man who looked just like him and who spoke both English and Spanish flawlessly was living in New York? The odds seemed incredible.

  Maybe it really was all a delusion. I, Pedrito Miraflores, was mugged in Santa Isabel and lost my memory. That's all that happened. Maybe.

  Smith gave up and with a sigh began to unbuckle his wide leather belt. If he had to play the part, then he would do his best.

  The toucan in the tree looked down, watching curiously. Its huge black beak cracked down hard on a seed.

  Bonita smiled as he finished undressing. "I see you're not a little boy anymore, either!"

  Before it could be embarrassed further, the toucan squawked and flew away.

  Afterward, Smith and Bonita let the horses trot home. Smith continued to bounce badly, sore in numerous places from so much enthusiastic riding.

  Beside him, Bonita looked at him as satisfied as a cat that had eaten all the cream. Her green eyes gleamed. "Now isn't that better than getting a lobotomy, dearest?"

  "You've got a point," Smith said morosely.

  "So no more of this talk that you're not the real Pedrito. If your memory ever lapse
s, I'll be delighted to remind you again." She adjusted her hat and took the lead with her horse. "I just can't wait until we're married."

  "Why is everybody so fixated on getting married?" He shook his head.

  "I read it in a story somewhere," Bonita answered matter-of-factly. "That's what women are supposed to want. Don't you know?"

  Chapter 25

  IN THE HACIENDA'S enormous family dining salon, white linen, crystal goblets and silver flatware decorated a table that stretched as long as a racetrack. High-backed chairs stood barely within shouting distance of each other. Cinnamon-scented candles flickered in ornate candelabra next to vases filled with fresh-cut flowers. Hummingbirds hovered around geraniums in pots that hung in the corners.

  Pedrito's father and mother wore formal evening clothes. The patriarch escorted the fine lady to her seat, then took his own place at the head of the table. Smith hurried in, brushing a hand across his newly oiled hair, tugging down his formal evening jacket. "Sorry I'm late. I thought the dinner bell was some kind of alarm."

  The servants chuckled politely, and one waiter led Smith to his chair next to the old family patriarch.

  "I'm very pleased with your reformation these past few days, my son," the father said as Smith sat down, draping the linen napkin on his lap. "I have sent for my finest bottle of wine from the deepest cellars so that we can toast properly." He raised his empty wine glass.

  Bolo appeared at Smith's elbow dressed in a servant's white jacket, cradling a dusty bottle. Smith looked curiously at the too-familiar man, but shook his head. It couldn't possibly be true. He had seen and done many things in the past few days that made his head spin ... and much as it surprised him, he found that he had rather liked parts of it.

  "Papa, our boy has turned out just as I always hoped he would," the mother said, blinking her long dark lashes at Smith. "Tell us about the amnesty arrangements. Have you confirmed all the details for our Pedrito?"

  Wrestling with the wine cork, but trying to look calm and competent, Bolo became very alert, flicking his eyes from Smith to Don Pedro.

  "We have the strategy," Don Pedro said. "Everyone will be at Saturday night's grand fiesta at Rancho Ramirez. Bonita's father will announce the marriage date, and that will be cause for great celebration—proof that our Pedrito intends to settle down! Then, the following Monday we'll go to Santa Isabel and petition the presidente directly. The man could not possibly turn us down, regardless of what our boy has done in the past. Every young man must be a little rowdy now and then, eh?"

  The mother saw the brilliance of the plan. "Not with two leading families to offend if he said no."

  "Precisely," the father said. "That is why we are so happy about this marriage to Bonita."

  With iron control, Bolo did not react to the news. He finally succeeded in uncorking the bottle and went to the mother's side, pouring a half glass for her, a half glass for Don Pedro, and a brimming full glass for Smith.

  To the lieutenant, all this was going by much too quickly. He looked from one parent to the other, speechless. "We're going back to Santa Isabel? What will they do to me there?"

  "It's merely the formality of surrender." Don Pedro waved dismissively with a hand sporting extravagant gold and emerald rings. "They have to keep up appearances, Pedrito. After all, you have burned missions, raided villages, destroyed crops, ravished women and fomented revolution against the lawful government of Colodor. But don't worry—as I say, this is strictly a formality. I very much doubt they will execute you."

  Smith reached for his water glass, grabbed the wine instead, but didn't notice until he had taken a large gulp. It was all he could do to keep from spluttering and coughing as the wine burned down his throat.

  "Not so much, Pedrito!" the mother scolded mildly. "Savor the taste of the wine—this vintage is a hundred years old."

  The father sipped from his own goblet. "Yes, a toast! I'm reasonably confident the Colodoran authorities will turn you loose just as soon as they've taken your fingerprints and established your identity. No hay problema."

  Bolo, cool and professional even with the alarming turn of events, recorked the wine bottle and set it on a serving tray. He turned about smartly and walked toward the exit door.

  The mother smiled. "So you see, son, you're in good hands!"

  The massive mahogany door swung shut behind Bolo, causing the cinnamon candles to flicker on the table. Once out of sight, he slipped away, his shoes making no sound on the terracotta floor tiles. He ducked behind a thick stand of yellow hibiscus bushes. It was time to continue with Smith's on-the-job training.

  Bolo dug in his waiter's jacket and brought out a portable radio, yanking the antenna and switching on the transmit button. "Cain-Idiot-Alpha One," he said, peeping through the dark green hibiscus leaves to make sure no one could hear him. Night moths fluttered around the blossoms. "Emergency! Cain-Idiot-Alpha One, come in!"

  Back in the U.S. Embassy in Santa Isabel, the CIA office displayed racks of ominous guns on the walls the way some museums displayed famous paintings. A huge Central' Intelligence Agency emblem dominated one part of the room, painted on black velvet and looking very classy. Beside it, the colorful flag of Colodor—with its sword-crossed banana emblem—hung across the U.S. Stars and Stripes.

  A flock of servile newspaper reporters scribbled on their pads as Chief O'Halloran lectured for his news conference. He smiled with an expression that would have made any lounge lizard proud. His thin strands of hair had been neatly combed, and most of the scrapes and bruises from his recent escapade on the highway had vanished.

  Hunched in an alcove, another CIA agent with a pirate patch over his eye sat by a small radio set, trying to be nondescript. None of the reporters gave him a second glance as he poked at his earphone and listened to a secret message.

  "The whole program of the United States is designed to encourage peace and only peace in South America. Ecuador, Colombia, Colodor and ... and, uh, whatever those other countries are called," O'Halloran pompously told the reporters. "Any rumors to the contrary are just malicious slander."

  "But sir, what about reports of American warplanes crashing in the mountains, and CIA gunmen rounding up poor musicians in a local cantina?"

  "As to the American warplanes, I haven't heard any such rumors," O'Halloran offered ingeniously. "As for the band members, I think anyone who plays disco with maracas and trumpets deserves whatever they get!" He flashed a winning smile, and the news reporters applauded his wit.

  The eye-patched radio man scrambled out of the alcove and tugged on his boss's sleeve. He popped the earphone out of his ear and pushed it up against his boss's. O'Halloran tried to ignore the distraction, intent on his press conference. "All this talk of CIA interference with sovereign governments such as Colodor's is utterly—"

  Finally, though, O'Halloran registered what the earphone was saying. He whirled savagely to the aide, ignoring the reporters. "Pedrito! Where?"

  Bolo peeked through the leaves, parting the hibiscus branches. Still no one within earshot. "Saturday night at the Rancho Ramirez, thirty kilometers south of Rancho Miraflores. He'll be there—send in the cavalry."

  Hubbard & Anderson

  Bolo knew that with the CIA-backed Air Force destroyed and the assault vehicles wrecked, the military arsenal was looking pretty dry. If the cavalry got destroyed, O'Halloran might end up having to resort to hunting Smith down with a stick.

  In the dining room, Smith and the Miraflores family had already been served bowls of potato soup with cheese and avocado.

  Bolo clicked off the transmitter with a sigh of relief and mopped his brow. Tucking the radio back in his waiter's jacket, he climbed out of the bushes, brushing away a few leaves and cobwebs. Then he returned to his formal duties. The salad course came next.

  Chapter 26

  ADMIRAL TURNER STOOD in his office in New York, pretending it was the bridge of a battleship. Dressed in full uniform studded with medals and ribbons, he glowered at his daugh
ter, Joan, as he spoke in a voice that had sent many seamen trembling in terror.

  But Joan was far from being an obedient crew member. She sat wearing a new outfit that had cost more than an enlisted man's weekly salary, dangling her left leg over her shapely right knee. The admiral's checkbook sat open on his desk. As her father ranted, Joan preoccupied herself by studying the polish on her fingernails.

  "—the dance at the officers' club tonight," the admiral lectured. "You're not getting any younger, and you might miss your chance to get married, settle down, have babies and do all the cooking and cleaning. What's wrong with you, girl? I insist that you go to the dance with Lieutenant Smith!"

  Joan rolled her eyes to the ceiling." That flat tire! Why would I want to waste an evening with him?"

  "If you don't go with him, then I don't write out this check, young lady." His gray hair bristled ... but then, it always bristled.

  She could tell her father wasn't kidding. "Oh, all right, anything for you, Daddy," she said sweetly. "Could you make it for an extra fifty?"

  At the officers' club a band played polka after polka while a few sailors attempted to dance in their dress uniforms. Crepe-paper streamers drooped from the fluorescent hght fixtures. Bingo boards hung on the walls. Naval officers milled about sipping punch with their wives or girlfriends, or both. The low drone of conversation mingled with the loud music.

  A row of older women, looking quite severe, sat in folding metal chairs along the wall. They had come for their weekly bingo game, and no one had told them the officers' dance would preempt them tonight. Now they had nothing else to do.

  Behind a long table near the bandstand, a blue-haired lady in cat's-eye glasses ladled from a huge bowl of punch. Pedrito, in Lieutenant Tom Smith's finest dress uniform, stood awkwardly in front of the table with the beautiful Joan Turner. She was stunning in her black sequined evening dress, her strawberry-blond hair done up in a French braid. So far she had refused his every attempt at conversation. He wasn't used to women giving him so much trouble.