Karr messed up halfway through and had to start again. The combination failed to open the safe.
“I’m thinking a whole big box of nitro,” said Karr. “Just blow it right out.”
“That won’t work, either,” said Dean. “Been tried.”
“Sequence number three,” said Rockman, starting to feed him the numbers.
Karr dialed in the combination, but the safe still didn’t budge.
“I felt something that time, on the sixth turn. Let me try again, reversing steps five and six.”
“Tommy, we really want to do this according to statistical probabilities,” said Rockman. “We’re starting to cut things tight.”
“Stay with me.”
Karr tried the combination with his variation, but it didn’t work. Dean tapped his watch next to him. “We’re down to four minutes,” said Dean.
“Next sequence,” Karr told Rockman.
Rockman began reading the numbers. This time, Karr swore he felt something tingling at his fingertips — and finally the safe unlocked.
“Let’s go, Sundance,” he told Dean, stepping back to open the vault.
33
Lia silently berated herself before rolling down the window. This wasn’t the result of some random twist of fate; she’d gotten sloppy, not paid enough attention to her surroundings.
The flashlight banged again. Lia reached to the manual crank at the side of the door, pulling down the window.
“ ¿ Sí?” she said.
“What are you doing?” demanded a soldier. He shone the light into her face.
“I was thinking,” she said.
“Thinking?”
Apparently this was the most preposterous answer the man could imagine, because he demanded she get out of the car.
“Lia, tell him you’re with the UN,” said Telach over the communications system. “Let’s not fool around. He has no right to detain you — there is no curfew.”
“I had a fight with my husband,” Lia told the soldier. “I–I can’t stand him anymore. He’s a cheating slime.”
“Where’s your wedding band?”
“I threw it into the sea where it belongs.” Lia practically spit the words. She grabbed at the door, missing once, then getting the latch, and stepped from the car. “He’s a lying slime,” she said. “I caught him with his secretary. I’m sure there have been others. Men — they are all slime. Are you married? Do you cheat on your wife?”
One of the Art Room translators tried to correct her pronunciation, but she was on her own now, completely on her own. Anger welled up inside her — that part wasn’t an act. She seemed to have an endless supply of it. Her whole body grew warm as she complained and cursed her supposed philanderer of a husband.
“I hate him. If it weren’t for my children I would kill myself,” said Lia. She slammed her hand on the roof of the car, seemingly out of control. At the same time, she scanned the area, counting the soldiers, gauging exactly how convincing she had to be. She had a small Glock at her belt and another near her ankle.
Four other men, in the roadway. They all had M16s.
She could shoot her way out if she had to, but it wouldn’t be easy and it would complicate things immensely.
The soldier who had banged on her window didn’t know exactly what to do. “Calm down, miss,” he said, then corrected himself. “Ma’am.”
“Miss, yes — alone. Men are pigs — lying, cheating pigs. They take what you have and then where are you?”
Lia held her hands out, trembling.
Another soldier came over — an officer. “Why are you not with your children?” he said. “Go home to them. All men are not like your husband. He’s a dog, but you must make the best of it — for your children.”
“My mother came to watch them.” Lia looked at him. Something in his face told her he was skeptical, that he didn’t believe her. It reminded her of the Korean officer, the man who had raped her.
Then, she had met the look with scom.
She didn’t have that in her anymore.
“I can’t face them,” she cried, grabbing the officer’s arms. And she really did begin to cry.
The officer pushed her back against the car. The gesture began harshly, but then weakened, and as he held her there Lia could see that there was compassion in his face.
“Go home,” he told her gently. “That is where you belong. There are patrols throughout the city tonight. You will only end up finding trouble. Your children need you.”
Lia nodded. Silently, she got into the car and started it.
“Academy Award performance,” said Rockman as she drove away. “You’re smokin’ tonight.”
For some reason, she felt insulted, as if she’d been accused of lying.
34
Dean laid out the replacement envelopes on the floor as Karr located the bins containing them. The vault room was very dark; while they could see with their night-vision glasses, the numbers on the envelopes were printed in red and Dean had to resort to his small LED flashlight to make out the numbers.
“We’re running behind,” said Dean as he gave Karr the first envelope and took the original, stuffing it into the rucksack. “I’ll locate the boxes and pull them out. You get the envelopes.”
“Don’t let them fall,” said Karr. “We’ll be here all night shuffling them back into the right containers.”
Dean started to work his way across the stacked rows. He still had two more to find when Telach hissed a warning in their ears:
“Charlie, Tommy: the supervisor is coming up the street to the bank ahead of schedule. Pack up and get out of there now.”
35
By the time General Túcume arrived at the house under the Inca ruins, it was nearly midnight. He had stopped earlier at his divisional headquarters and was very tired from the long day. But the sight of Stephan Babin standing before the house filled Túcume with energy. The crippled Russian arms dealer looked like an Inca wraith emerging from the Spaniards’ mansion — the ghost of Tupac Amaru, just after he slaughtered the inhabitants in revenge.
“You return, General,” said Babin, crutching his way toward him. “Later than I expected, but good evening nonetheless.”
“And to you. Everything is ready?”
“Yes. The mock warhead is in the barn. Be careful who sees it. It may not fool a well-trained eye — or a sophisticated radiation meter. Three meters. Remember. And your devices must not be given up; anyone recalibrating them is very likely to realize they have been tampered with.”
“I intend to be most cautious.”
When Túcume had discovered the warhead along with Babin in the wreckage of the plane three years before, he had sensed it would allow him to fulfill his dream of taking his rightful place at the head of a restored Inca Empire. But within a few hours he realized something else — the bomb was as much of a liability as it was an asset. There was no possibility of using it as a weapon; his enemies lived too close to his own people, and in any event Túcume knew that no leader who destroyed his own country would be followed. The weapon could be used as a bargaining chip only, and even then the circumstances had to be just right.
Once the warhead was revealed, any number of things would happen. Questions would be asked about where it came from. The general staff would assert their authority to take control of it. The Americans, who according to Babin did not know it existed, would realize their mistake and try to recover it. So Túcume had to construct exactly the right scenario for its “discovery”—one where he would not be responsible for its past.
The plot he had arrived at, with Babin’s help, solved many problems. The weapon would be “discovered” in the rebels’ possession in a remote area. Its discovery right before the election would help Túcume’s candidate win. After the election, Aznar would appoint him to head the military — a natural appointment, given his record against Ecuador and the guerrillas — and any other complications could be smoothed out.
However, the p
lan put the warhead at risk. First because the area where it would be “discovered” had to be a dangerous area, and in order for the operation to appear authentic he could not send troops to guard the bomb ahead of time. And second, because there was bound to be at least some jealousy among the Spaniards who controlled the general staff, who would eventually order the warhead delivered to them.
It was Babin who had supplied the answer. He had crafted a dummy warhead, which to Túcume at least looked precisely like the real one. That would be the one discovered and transported. The genuine bomb would stay hidden in the barn where it had always been; at some point in the future when it was safe — and necessary — the warhead would be brought out from hiding.
“How is your election going?” asked Babin.
“We will win,” said Túcume. “Events are moving. The people will see the way they must vote.”
“You’re an optimist, General. Democracy is rule by the mob, the lowest of the low. I’d never trust them.”
“One uses what one can,” said Túcume. “Just as the Spanish made use of disease, I make use of democracy. A wise man finds weapons at his feet.”
“Is that one of your Inca proverbs?”
“It could be, couldn’t it?”
Túcume smiled at the Russian. Túcume did trust the people, the natives, his people — he trusted them because he trusted their spirit. He’d told Babin this before, but the Russian did not understand.
“I’m going to take a nap now, Stephan. The truck for the warhead will be here in a few hours. Good night to you.”
Túcume turned and walked toward the main house, aware that Babin’s eyes would follow him until he disappeared into the blackness.
36
Dean grabbed Karr’s arm as he reached for another of the plastic boxes. “Now, Tommy. They’re coming in.”
“I still have two more.”
“No. We’ll get them at the regional centers,” said Dean. “Come on.”
They grabbed their backpacks and hurried out of the vault room, but before they could close and reset the lock on the vault to the number where it had started, there were shouts at the far end of the lobby.
“Domir!” shouted one of the men who’d just come in. He followed this with a string of Spanish curses violent enough to boil paint off the walls. “Sleeping at your post? What in the name of the saints has gotten into you, you worthless scum?”
Dean crouched behind the security equipment at the base of the steps down to the vault. He could hear the guards being roused. One jumped to his feet and began babbling an apology.
“Silence!” said his supervisor. “Wake him up!”
“One of the guard supervisors brought an army officer in to show him the security arrangements,” Telach explained. “We switched the video signal back — it’s real time. There’s a lavatory down the hall. If you wait there, we’ll tell you when the supervisor has gone. We’ll interrupt the security feed again and you can get them with the blowpipe. No one will believe anything they say if they’re caught sleeping a second time.”
More likely, thought Dean, the guards would be replaced.
Karr had taken out the MP5 submachine gun he’d packed as a personal weapon. The weapon had a silencer on it, but silence was a relative concept for a submachine gun.
The second guard groaned, then protested that it was not time to get up. This was too much for the supervisor, who told them that they were both fired and must leave on the spot. The other guard began pleading for his job, saying that he had just dozed off for a moment. Even though the tape would have backed him up, the supervisor wanted no part of any excuses. Pleading that he needed the job, the man began to cry. But his boss wouldn’t give in. He herded the two guards toward the door.
Karr tugged Dean’s shirt and gestured toward the ladies’ room. Dean followed, easing in as Karr held the door open.
“The visitor is still there,” said Telach. “He’s looking for something — going toward the vault level.”
“Good thing we went in the ladies’ room,” whispered Karr.
Sure enough, Dean heard footsteps coming down the hall. They waited in the dark, heard the man go into the lavatory next door.
“Let’s go,” whispered Karr, starting to pull open the door. “We can get in behind the tellers’ boxes if we can’t make it all the way to the stairs.”
But as he pulled open the door Telach warned them the supervisor was coming back.
The supervisor yelled to the other man, asking where he was. The man explained gruffly that he would be right out. The supervisor walked to the lavatory door and told the man that he was very sorry, but he had to arrange for some substitutes.
“How long do you think it will take him to find new guards?” Karr whispered as the toilet flushed.
Dean shrugged.
“You think it’s worth waiting? Or should we just take this guy down and get out now?” asked Karr.
“Better to wait on the chance that we can sneak out,” said Dean. “We take him out now, they’ll realize we were here anyway.”
“Wait,” suggested Rockman.
The officer was at the sink in the next room, washing up. Suddenly he began to curse.
“No paper,” Dean whispered to Karr. “He’ll come here next. Get into the stalls.”
“Let’s just bop him and be done with it.”
“We’ve come this far. We’ll tough it out another few seconds. Into the stalls.”
Karr slipped into the one on the right; Dean took the left. A second later, the door flew open.
37
Lima might not be under a curfew, but the streets were all but deserted. Lia drove about ten blocks before parking again, this time in a lot that wasn’t visible from the street.
“Tommy and Dean are having a little trouble in the bank,” Rockman told her.
“They need a diversion?”
“At the moment, we think they’re going to play through on their own. But maybe.”
Wary now, Lia decided that she would plant video bugs near the street to make sure she wasn’t snuck up on again. She got out of the car and began walking toward the Dumpster near the driveway. As she came close, something moved to the right. In one quick motion, she dove, rolled to the ground, and retrieved the pistol at her ankle, bringing it to bear on the old bearded man who’d stirred from the small blanket of newspapers he’d spread as a resting place for the night.
“Vamos,” Lia told him harshly. “Go! Get away.”
The man got up, then began to run.
“Lia, what’s going on? Are you OK?” asked Rockman.
“I’m OK,” she told him. “I’m always OK.”
38
Dean held his breath as the Peruvian fumbled in the darkness for the light switch. Instead of finding the light, he happened on the paper towel dispenser; he pulled out some paper and made his way back to the nearby door.
Dean slipped out of his stall, holding his breath as he tried to hear the man’s footsteps.
“He’s back up in the lobby,” said Rockman.
Dean opened the door and slipped out. He had the blowpipe in his hand and his rucksack slung over his other shoulder. Karr went to the safe, spinning the dial to clear the combination.
“Are you there, Rockman?” asked Dean, stopping near the steps.
“We’re here, Charlie,” said Telach. “The lobby’s clear. The replacements are on their way from the police station. You have about three minutes to get out. We’re controlling the video. Go!”
Fifteen minutes later, Dean and Karr were outside the back of the building, moving slowly along an alley toward the rendezvous spot with Lia. They had to duck an army patrol before crossing the street, but once past that, reached the avenue where they were to meet without seeing anyone. Lia, approaching in the car, blinked her lights twice and pulled over. Dean and Karr both shoved into the back and she took off.
“I feel like a chauffeur,” she said.
“Not a bad career m
ove,” said Karr.
“We couldn’t get them all in,” Dean told her. “There were two left when the guards came in.”
“I’ll get them tomorrow,” said Lia.
“We can always get them once they’re shipped Friday,” said Dean.
“It’s no big deal.”
39
On his second day as a “permanent consultant” to the NSA, Hernes Jackson found that his biometric identity had been programmed into the agency’s security system. Not only could the computer confirm who he was by checking his retinas; it could also use face recognition and body-shape software to make sure it wasn’t being fooled.
He was allowed to make his way to OPS 2/B Level Black (the official name of the subbasement where the Art Room was) without an escort, but that didn’t mean he was proceeding unwatched; the walls were embedded with sensors, and video cameras along the hallway ceiling swung around as he passed.
A woman met him at the door of the second elevator.
“I’m Marie Telach. I’m the Art Room supervisor,” she told him. “You’re Ambassador Jackson.”
“Yes. You could call me Hernes.”
“Thank you. I’m Marie. I’m going to take you to our library room. I’m afraid it’s not the most comfortable working environment, but it’s only temporary.”
Jackson followed her down the hall to a small, window-less room. There was nothing on the whitewashed Sheetrock walls or the tile floor. Two computers sat on a simple table in front of a secretary’s sideless swivel chair. One looked little different from the small Dell unit Jackson owned, with a seventeen-inch flat screen as its display. The other had a larger keyboard and a screen that measured thirty inches. There was a phone at the edge of the desk, but nothing else.
Payback db-4 Page 11
