Payback db-4

by Stephen Coonts

  Senor DeCura had gone to the United States during the 1980s. His first job had been as a busboy at a diner in a city called Goshen. He lived in a trailer with three other workers from the restaurant. Señor DeCura said the trailer was considered a hovel in America and claimed not to like it very much, but when he described his days there it sounded to Calvina like a palace. So did every place he spoke of-the restaurant where he worked as a short-order cook, the one where he began as sous chef, and finally the grand establishment where he commanded the kitchen. By the time he was thirty-five, Senor DeCura had saved enough money to return home and open his restaurant in an old mansion. He had not only earned a great deal of money, but he had learned what the Yankee tourists liked and were willing to pay for.

  Señor DeCura had opened the doors to his restaurant five years ago. Since that time, he had become a hero and inspiration for others. Many of his young workers left for the U.S., most after gaining advice (and a few dollars) from him.

  Calvina wanted to join them. If she were a boy-or if her money were not so important to her family with her father out of work-she would have left by now.

  As she neared the block where the restaurant sat, Calvina sensed that something was wrong. Two of the employees she worked with were sitting on the sidewalk in front of the building, heads in their hands. She quickened her pace until she was almost running.

  “Carlos, Jenna? What is going on?” she shouted when still several meters away.

  Jenna moaned and Carlos shook his head. The iron gates in front of the restaurant door had not been opened. A new chain wound through the bars, clasping it closed.

  “What happened? Where is Senor DeCura?” Calvina demanded.

  “Dead,” said Jenna. And she began to sob.

  “Who?”

  “He killed himself, God save his soul,” said Carlos. “He had debts.”

  “Debts? Señor DeCura was a rich man. His restaurant—”

  “All gamblers have debts,” said Carlos. “And this restaurant has not been his own for more than two years.”

  “But will we be paid today?” said Calvina. Tears streamed down her face. “Is there money to pay us?”

  The others stared at her, unable to speak.

  18

  Hernes Jackson had visited Crypto City several times during his years with the State Department, and so he was prepared for some of the security gauntlet he had to run when he reported for work at seven o‘clock the morning following his dinner with Rubens. He began at Operations Building 1, which looked very much like a modernist-style corporate headquarters building, its black-mirror glass adding style to the cold cube of its form. The fact that the building sat on a high berm and could only be approached after passing two different security checks might have tipped off the uninitiated that it was something else entirely. If it didn’t, then the gamut inside would, since all visitors had to pass through a set of special gates that not only checked for bombs and weapons but sniffed out electronic devices as well.

  On the other side of the gates, Jackson was met by not one but two “men in black”—members of the paramilitary security detail assigned to protect the NSA’s secrets. The men were representative of the breed-unsmiling and huge. Behind them lurked a man of medium height and slouchy build, whose walruslike blond mustache seemed at first glance a stage prop. He wore a turtleneck beneath a blue blazer; about fifty, he looked like an Ivy League professor enjoying the benefits of tenure as his career wound down.

  “Ambassador Jackson, hello,” said the man. “I’m Kevin Montblanc. I work for Mr. Rubens. I’ll be your escort today. That badge you’re wearing doesn’t allow you to go where we’re going without a friend, so think of me as your best friend.”

  Montblanc and the escorts led Jackson down a corridor to another security station.

  “I hope you haven’t picked up a weapon in the last thirty seconds,” said Montblanc good-naturedly. “Otherwise we’ll all have to be strip-searched.”

  “Do you have a pacemaker or similar device?” asked one of the guards.

  “No.”

  “Do you have an iPod or a PDA or anything like that, sir?”

  “I’m not entirely sure what that is,” said Jackson.

  The man smiled and began waving his hand around Jackson’s body. It took Jackson a moment to realize that the guard had some sort of detector in his hand.

  “An iPod is the modern equivalent of a Sony Walkman,” said Montblanc. “A PDA is a small handheld computer. They have memory, so they’re forbidden to be brought in and out. A lot of the younger people have iPods for music. You can have one kept here if you wish, however. It’s easily arranged.”

  “I’m not sure I want one.”

  Jackson looked down at the man who was using the miniature searching device. Most people who wielded metal detector wands passed them swiftly and sloppily around someone’s body, especially if he had already been searched. This man moved slowly and carefully, pausing and occasionally doubling back. He didn’t touch Jackson, but when he finished there was not an inch of his body that the detector could have missed.

  “This search is just part of the protocol. Even Mr. Rubens goes through it,” said Montblanc, holding out his arms.

  Down the hall they boarded an elevator. There was no control panel or floor indicator.

  “Close doors, please,” said Montblanc, and the doors gently shut The elevator started with the gentlest tug imaginable. Jackson realized they were descending, but he had no way of knowing how far. The doors opened on an empty hallway; they walked down it to a second elevator.

  “Mr. Rubens would like your immediate impression on some reports he has. As it happens, it all falls under your old clearance,” said Montblanc as the car began to descend. “You understand the drill, don’t you, Mr. Ambassador?”

  “I understand.”

  “He hopes to speak to you about it within an hour. Unfortunately, he’s wearing two hats this week and next. He’s filling in for the admiral-our director.”

  “I understand.”

  “There will be an extensive process involving your clearance. We have to go through it. It’s a little more involved than when you were at the State Department.”

  “I see.”

  “There will be lie detector tests. It’s rather routine.”

  “Oh?”

  “Have you ever been under a psychiatrist’s care?” said Montblanc.

  “No,” said Jackson, surprised as much by the nonchalant tone as the question itself. “Why do you ask?”

  “We tend to be nosy about that sort of thing. A psychologist?”

  “No.”

  “Marriage counselor?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Get along with your wife?” said Montblanc lightly, trying to keep the conversation easy. “That’s good.”

  “My wife unfortunately passed on.”

  “Grief counselor?”

  “I’m not a nutcase, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  Montblanc chortled, his cartoonish mustache rocking back and forth. “Oh, don’t get offended. We have plenty of nut-cases working here. It’s practically a job requirement in some areas.”

  The elevator stopped. Jackson attempted to keep his dislike of Montblanc in check as they passed through yet one more security hurdle, this one confined to a retina scan and ID check. Montblanc brought him down the hall to a small conference room.

  “Our facilities are a little primitive here,” Montblanc told him. “We’re not really set up for visiting scholars, not in this department. Down the line, we may be able to do better.”

  Jackson did not mind the temporary office, but he was beginning to sour on the entire idea of working with the NSA. Extra money would be welcome, certainly, and he welcomed a chance to do something useful, but the atmosphere here seemed very strange, as if he’d stepped into a science fiction movie.

  “I’m to review cables? Briefings?” he asked Montblanc, gesturing at the empty table.


  “Someone will bring you the file in a moment. Even though, as I said, it may not be highly classified, as a general rule-well, let me put it to you this way: I shouldn’t even see it. Our friends here won’t see it. Only you. It’s our protocol, you know. The way of life. We wouldn’t share a lunch menu.”

  Jackson nodded.

  “If you need to use the restroom or get some exercise, one of our friends will escort you. Are you OK?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, then I’ll leave you to your work.”

  A few minutes later, a man in his thirties wearing a business suit but without a tie appeared at the door. Without introducing himself, he walked over to the table and put down a blue envelope. Jackson rose and started to introduce himself, but the man acted as if he weren’t even there, turning and walking away without speaking.

  To Jackson’s surprise, the envelope contained only one item, a CIA briefing paper that was prepared as part of a presentation. It was a background report on the country, discussing the political situation and the upcoming elections, which were due to be held this coming Sunday. It was stamped TOP SECRET, but a decently diligent college undergraduate would have been able to find the same points with a few hours of work. Its conclusions were rather rudimentary: democracy in Peru was precarious; the indigenous peoples-aka Indians, natives, or campesinos, as they were sometimes called — were poor and underrepresented; the military would remain neutral.

  “You seem perplexed, Ambassador. I hope you’re well.”

  Jackson looked up at Rubens, who for a big man managed to tread very lightly and had entered the room without him hearing.

  “I am well, Dr. Rubens. Thank you. I’ve been reading the briefing.”

  “And?”

  “It’s a rather thin summary. You’re concerned about the elections, obviously.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  Jackson flipped back to the beginning of the document. It had been printed from a computer slide presentation, which probably accounted for its shallowness. In Jackson’s opinion, no one over the age of thirteen should be allowed to use a program such as PowerPoint.

  “Jorge Evans was one of the people who prepared this?” asked Jackson, pointing to one of the authors’ names. “He’s not an analyst.”

  “I believe you are correct. The Office of African and Latin American Analysis acted as the lead preparing the brief, but there was input from the Operations side.”

  “Yes. He was involved in paramilitary operations in some way, and not simply in South America.”

  “I understood his expertise was there.”

  “I daresay he knows a great deal. I would expect that he’s rather senior at this point, however.”

  “Indeed.”

  The CIA could be seen as several large companies operating under the same umbrella. Usually, intelligence reports and backgrounders would be prepared by the analysts, who worked for the CIA’s Directorate of Intelligence. Covert action and actual spying-called humint or human intelligence, never spying-would be handled by an entirely different side of the operation, the Directorate of Operations. In simple terms, the Intelligence people would take information developed from a number of sources, including the Directorate of Operations, and prepare a briefing. Jackson gathered that while the main report had been prepared by the analysts, the Directorate of Operations had been asked to participate. There could be several reasons for this, though he guessed that the most likely one was unstated: the NSA wanted a heads-up if there was an ongoing mission there.

  “Did Evans mention any ongoing projects?” asked Jackson. “Assuming I’m at liberty to know about them?”

  “No, he did not bring any to our attention,” said Rubens. “That report is in fact a reliable summary of the briefing.”

  “And he is still in Operations?”

  “Yes. I’m not sure what his exact position is,” added Rubens. “I myself was not at the briefing.”

  If there had been an ongoing operation, Evans’ presence might make sense, since he would brief it. But a “nothing’s up” would come from someone lower on the totem pole.

  There were exceptions, certainly. Jackson wasn’t sure how deeply to read into this.

  “The reason this strikes me as interesting,” he told Rubens, “is that Evans was involved in Iron Heart. The focus there was Brazil, not Peru, however. Iron Heart — a very interesting program.”

  “I’m not familiar with it,” said Rubens.

  “Yes. Well, that was during the last days of the Clinton administration.” Jackson was only partly successful in masking his disgust for the former president. “Be that as it may, the project was not without merit.”

  Rubens listened impassively. It was difficult to tell what he was actually thinking; Jackson realized that Rubens’ face was such a complete mask that it was possible he already knew everything he was saying but wasn’t letting on.

  On the other hand, Rubens seemed to be the sort of person who didn’t play those kinds of games.

  “Brazil was trying to obtain nuclear weapons from a Russian arms dealer, and came very close to pulling it off,” said Jackson. “Iron Heart managed to upset the sale at the last moment. It was partly because of that, incidentally, that Brazil turned to trying to create a weapon on its own. But; that’s another matter.”

  “It didn’t involve Peru.”

  “The Brazilians were dealing with an intermediary in Ecuador. The intermediary had made some sales to a rebel group there — these are the sorts of people who get involved in these kinds of situations. You have to hold your nose somewhat. There were several meetings in Colombia, and then Ecuador. Aside from the fact that the countries share a common border, I don’t see a connection.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Iron Heart succeeded. I don’t know the particulars. Brazil was not my assignment then. Frankly, I’m not sure how many people from State were informed. Clinton, you know.”

  Rubens folded his arms and stared at the desk for a moment before speaking. “I wonder, Ambassador, if you would be willing to go through some more invasive security procedures. I realize that they can be very annoying. They include a psychological evaluation as well a lie detector test.”

  “I must look very unbalanced,” said Jackson. “You’re the second person today who has been asking about my mental health.”

  “No, I have no question that you’re very sane. But the procedures can seem… invasive. The psychological evaluations seem for some reason more objectionable to people than the lie detectors and the background checks. They’re not abused, rumors to the contrary.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “The reason I’m asking — I would like to give you real access to the situation we’re involved in here. Obviously, your old clearance-it’s not irrelevant, you understand, but we do have our own requirements. Some may seem quite preposterous to outsiders. I realize the process can be a burden.”

  “Well, if it’s important—”

  “We only do important things. Especially in this bunker.”

  Jackson’s last months at the State Department had not been pleasant; he was essentially put out to pasture, his advice ignored. He was looked at as just an old man with outdated notions. Now he was being told exactly the opposite-that his age imbued him with “mature wisdom.”

  He felt it somewhat ironic. But he also was flattered and even touched.

  “There is one thing,” said Jackson. “I have an outside commitment that I couldn’t, that I wouldn’t want to break.”

  “What is it?”

  “Tuesdays. I’m a volunteer for the local Meals on Wheels and they rely on me.”

  “I’m sure we can accommodate that,” said Rubens, turning and leaving the room.

  * * *

  After he left Jackson, Rubens went upstairs to a secure reading room in the Desk Three analysis section so he could access information about Iron Heart. The project papers and summaries had been digitized and were available on the NSA network,
though they could only be accessed by people with very high clearance or a specific need to know.

  Rubens began reading the documents, scrolling past the security warnings and the presidential finding that had authorized the covert action. The file was extremely brief, summarizing things that had happened. There were no after-action reports or assessments.

  As the ambassador had said, Iron Heart had been a success-a spectacular one, in fact. Were it not for Iron Heart, Brazil would have become the first South American country to possess nuclear weapons. And given its volatile politics and recent conflict with Argentina, it might very well have used them by now.

  A Russian arms dealer with ties to the mafiya had “obtained” two nuclear warheads from a Russian air force storage facility in 1998. The warheads had been intended for SA-10 “Grumble” missiles that were to supplement A-135, the antiballistic missile system ringing Moscow. (The SA- 10s, originally designed for use against aircraft, ordinarily carried conventional explosive warheads.) Mounted on trucks, the SA-10s were soon replaced by better-suited missiles known as Gorgons, but not before a dozen or more nuclear warheads had been prepared. The arms dealer, unnamed in the summaries but clearly a high-ranking Russian official, had diverted the pair while they were on their way to a facility to have their plutonium recycled.

  The warheads were not designed to destroy ground targets, but modifying them to do so was not a difficult task. The man who obtained the bombs did not like Muslims-the war with Chechnya was at its height — but otherwise was perfectly willing to sell the bombs to any interested party. At least two countries were interested; neither was named in the report. At this point, another Russian arms dealer became involved, bidding on behalf of Brazil, which had already been approached. The arms dealer was connected with the CIA in some manner, but his identity was a closely guarded secret; even his code name had been blacked out from the report.

  The dealer won the bid, and preparations were made to ship the warheads. At this point the Russian authorities learned of the transaction somehow. Rubens had to read between the skimpy lines of the report, but it seemed clear that the CIA had not tipped them off; he guessed that the second weapons dealer had been under some sort of surveillance by one of the internal security forces, which tripped over the transaction. In any event, American and Russian intelligence joined forces and moved against the man selling the warheads. One of the weapons was seized in Russia. The other, however, made it to Guinea in Africa, where it was placed on an aircraft to be flown to South America — not to Brazil but to an isolated airstrip in south-eastern Ecuador where the exchange was supposed to be made. The “Brazilians” on the ground there were actually CIA paramilitaries. They completed the transaction, and the aircraft then took off. At that point, the airplane experienced mechanical difficulties and crashed in the nearby mountains.