Ai! Pedrito!: When Intelligence Goes Wrong

  Enrique sat back in his chair, sipping another glass of vodka. "What is it, Ivan?"

  "This reimbursement just came in from Russia. For years I have been sending them receipts for my travel expenses, and finally it has arrived ... adjusted for inflation, of course."

  He popped open the lid, stared in amazement, then turned the case so Enrique could see into it. The Cuban nearly choked on his vodka.

  The case was crammed with stacks of dazzling gold pieces like poker chips. Enrique held up a gold piece and gazed fondly at it. "So, Comrade, now I see why you always picked up the tab at all of those business lunches."

  The bombers continued on course, tearing through high wisps of cloud. Inside each jet, the pilot checked his load of explosives, armed the bombs and transmitted his readiness to the rest of the squadron.

  The jeep ran along Andes mountain precipices. Felipe drove now.

  They had paused only briefly to let Smith be sick over the side of the vehicle, vomiting over what seemed to be a bottomless chasm. The view only made him more nauseated. Juan and Felipe had raced around the jeep, exchanging places on the treacherous mountain road like a goofy fire drill. Then they drove off again.

  Enrique clinked several gold pieces back into the case, watching how the coins reflected fluorescent light from the ceiling. He scratched his voluminous beard. "I suppose we've seen the end of Smith by now," he said. "Nobody ever returns alive from that CIA installation."

  The Russian colonel glanced down at his watch. "We should be hearing from Felipe and Juan any time." He held up one of the coins. "I don't suppose we have to give them a bonus, do we?"

  "Nyet, Comrade," said Enrique. "We will keep it—for our little farm. So we can buy the rabbits."

  Just outside the secret missile compound's main office, the jeep screeched to a halt. A cloud of road dust swirled around the camp, making everyone cough. Felipe urged Smith out at gunpoint.

  High in the sky above, the bombers passed over the equator line—a wide line painted across the Andes Mountains in blue— and prepared to attack.

  "All right, boys," the squadron leader said. "We've just been cleared to strike by the Colodoran government."

  "Looks like a beautiful country, sir," said one of the other pilots. "I wonder why I've never heard of it."

  "Yours is not to wonder why. Captain!" the squadron leader snapped. "Open the bomb-bay doors!"

  "Bombay?" one of the pilots mused. "Are we over India?"

  Ivan snapped shut the gold-filled briefcase, while Enrique turned aside to scowl at a commotion in the hall. Grinning brutally, the two thugs prodded Lieutenant Tom Smith in at gunpoint.

  "We found this . . . despicable iguana-lover making a radio call to the U.S.A.," Felipe said, his chest puffed with pride. "I heard him report the location of this missile base."

  Juan said, "We think he's a double agent. A traitor to the revolution!"

  The two colonels stared at Smith. "You tattled about the missile base? You weren't supposed to do that!" Enrique howled.

  "Execute him!" Ivan said. "He has outlived his usefulness."

  Smith cocked his head, listening to a faint drone of jets growing louder every second. "I don't think there's time to execute me," he said. "I hear bombers. They're already pretty close."

  Chapter 43

  AS THE DRONE OF BOMBERS grew louder, the two thugs, Juan and Felipe, broke their trance and jumped through the window of the office. They both raced across the landscape, weaving between wheat silos and ornamental farm machinery.

  Smith stared at the ceiling of the missile base, then also turned to run.

  "Halt—you running dog capitalist pig!" Colonel Ivan shouted as Smith made for the door.

  "I'll get him!" Enrique said as he lunged toward the redheaded lieutenant.

  Seeing no other weapon handy, Ivan threw the heavy gold-filled attache case, which struck Enrique squarely in the head. The Cuban colonel went down like a sack of Hungry Mouth wheat. The attache case skidded across the floor, one step ahead of Smith.

  Ivan dashed after Smith, but tripped on the Cuban's body and went down, smacking his head on the corner of the desk.

  Smith snatched up the attache case. "What luck! This must be their secret plans!" He rushed out the door, nearly bent over double, trying to lug the heavy case with him.

  Overhead, the falling bombs whistled, directly on target. The stealth missiles beside them whistled more quietly.

  Smith ran for the jeep that Juan and Felipe had abandoned. The first bomb hit nearby, knocking him flat onto the ground.

  The second bomb hit one of the wheat silos, blowing it sky high. The missile inside toppled.

  Smith grabbed up the gold-filled case again and sprinted the rest of the way to the vehicle, jumping in.

  Shaking their heads, the two dazed colonels picked themselves up from the office floor. They scolded each other for being so clumsy, then ran out the headquarters' front door. Another explosion knocked them flat again.

  "Oh, my head!" Enrique moaned.

  Ivan pointed frantically at the escaping jeep and scrambled to his feet. He grabbed his partner by the elbow. "We must stop him—he's got my expense account."

  They raced toward a tarpaulin-covered Land Rover hidden beside a brand-new tractor in the compound.

  High overhead, the bomb-bay door on the underbelly of the bomber opened. "Targeting confirmed," said the squadron commander. "You might as well drop the whole load so we can get back home. I forgot to set my VCR for tonight. Wouldn't want to miss the X-Files."

  Stream after stream of bombs fell screaming through the air.

  Another missile silo blew up. Some of the jets overshot their target and dumped bombs on the nearby mountaintops instead. The pilots didn't mind, and the explosions looked very pretty from up there in the air.

  Smith flinched and tried to hide behind the windshield as he crashed through the closed gate of the secret missile compound. The jeep raced away, but Smith had no idea where he was going.

  As the bombs continued to fall, another silo went up. The compound office exploded in a geyser of flames as a well-placed bomb hit its target. Colonel Enrique looked behind him in dismay, thinking of all the vodka and cigars he had left behind in his desk drawers.

  Ivan, though, drove the Land Rover like a fiend through rolling black smoke. The front gate was already wrecked, thanks to Smith's escape. The Land Rover rushed through the smoke and over the broken fence.

  Smith took the main mountain road at high speed, hoping he didn't run into a mule train or a herd of wild llamas on the way. He risked a glance back just in time to see the whole missile compound go up in a firestorm. The resounding explosion made his ears pop.

  Smith stamped down on the accelerator. "I guess I lost them," he said, looking proudly at the attache case he had taken from the colonels. He was getting the hang of this spy business.

  Behind him, the Land Rover raced along the twisting mountain road. Colonel Ivan clutched the wheel, gritting his teeth as he concentrated on the treacherous curves. Enrique repeatedly gesticulated toward Smith's fleeing vehicle, as if the Russian could not see their quarry right ahead of them.

  "We've got to catch him!" Enrique said. "Smith should have been killed back at the U.S. Embassy in Santa Isabel—he never should have lived this long, and now look at the mess he's caused."

  Back in the rounded hill beneath the ominous satellite dishes, a guide in a serape and straw hat wandered about the CIA Centrale control room, as if he belonged there. Under the flickering lights, he poked beneath consoles, searching for something. His expression was bland, his facial features dark and exotic.

  Bolo went to the closet door and opened it. O'Halloran slouched on the floor against an old mop. The CIA man was out cold, still tied up with Smith's scavenged wire.

  Bolo dragged O'Halloran out of the closet with a grunt. He tugged the straw hat down to obscure his features, then knelt to unwind the wire from the CIA man's wrists.

  O'Hall
oran stirred and grumbled. "Who's that?" he finally groaned, groggily blinking his eyes. Then he struggled as if trying to punch someone.

  Bolo danced out of O'Halloran's view and exited stealthily before the CIA man could figure out where he was or what had happened....

  On the Andes road Smith yanked the jeep right and left. Steep volcanic mountains towered around him, black and sheer. A few peaks were graced with snow or belched steam fi-om long-dormant thermal vents. Flames and black smoke curled up from where the bombers had dumped their explosive loads on the mountaintops instead of the secret missile base.

  Smith knew he was going too fast for the curves, but he didn't see a posted speed limit, so he supposed it must be okay. On the driver's side, a gorge plunged half a mile straight down, cluttered with the rubble from ancient avalanches. He swallowed hard, then turned his attention back to the rough road, whereupon he swallowed hard again as he saw himself hurtling toward a tight new curve.

  Behind him, the two colonels in the Land Rover raced from right to left. Ivan twisted the wheel violently to keep the vehicle on the road.

  "Faster!" Enrique cried. "Faster!"

  Smith braced himself to whip around a hairpin curve that turned around a steep spur. Beyond the curve, the precipice looked a mile deep. The jeep skidded into the hairpin, keeping only two wheels on the road.

  In the jagged slopes above, a stampede of blasted rock from the accidental bombing raid tumbled down the mountain, picking up speed and dust. More boulders sloughed down with an ever-building roar. Smith looked up, saw it, and increased speed.

  "An avalanche!" Enrique cried. "Watch out!"

  "This has been quite a difficult day," Ivan said. "But it's just another obstacle for us to overcome in the name of the revolution. Now let's catch up with Smith."

  As the colonels drove toward the tight hairpin, a cascade of displaced rocks thundered onto the road, blocking part of the lane and leaving only a treacherous strip clear next to the precipice.

  Smith felt the jeep shaking, and he wrestled to keep the tires on the road as he raced away from the avalanche. More stone slid down the mountainside, and he swerved, dancing his foot on the brakes. The outside wheel of the jeep ran off the edge of the precipice, throwing gravel. Smith violently yanked the wheel to the right, and the jeep accelerated uphill where the road was a little wider, a little clearer and a little farther from the rockfall.

  Behind him, the Land Rover roared into the tight hairpin in hot pursuit as the avalanche pounded around it. Sitting in the passenger seat, Enrique said in sudden horror, "When I was young an old gypsy fortuneteller warned me that I would be killed during an avalanche while I was driving along a steep Andes road beside a Russian colonel." His eyes widened. "Sweet hindquarters of a rat! Do you think this could be a coincidence?"

  "I don't believe in that superstitious stuff." Ivan spun the wheel and saw the mound of rocks in the road and the endlessly deep precipice off the edge. With the trembling movement of the earth, the road cracked open.

  The Land Rover shot out from behind the rocks and into the air. Like a projectile, the vehicle arced downward in a perfect parabola, plunging into open space without even touching the side of the mountain.

  Still seat-belted in, Enrique cried," Viva la revolucionr

  "I hope Moscow never hears of this," Ivan said, thrusting his chin out in a stalwart manner as he lit a fine Cuban cigar and took a puff. "It could ruin my career."

  The Land Rover crashed into the bottom of the gorge far, far below.

  Smith stopped his jeep on the inside slope. The avalanche had missed him and the earth had stopped shaking. He was safe.

  Steam geysered from the jeep's radiator, though. Smith sat there, frowning. "Curse the luck!"

  He climbed out from the driver's side, walked over to the cliff and looked down to see the smoldering wreckage of the Land Rover. He glanced down at his own torn clothes and dirty hands. "You sure can get messed up in this spy business."

  He decided to go back to his hotel and get some fresh clothes. A shower would be nice, too. He wondered if Yaquita had left any of that rum in the rucksack.

  Driving off, he glanced nervously over the precipice again and sighed with relief At least now he was in the clear.

  Chapter 44

  ADMIRAL TURNER HATED PIGEONS. Every day they hunched on his windowsill, plastering the ledge white with their droppings, drowning out his Lawrence Welk radio station with their gurgling cooing.

  Now, as he sat in the afternoon sunshine in Central Park, keeping to himself on a park bench, the verminous birds wandered around, spreading like the plague, slow-moving and oblivious. They were occasionally stepped on by passing joggers or flattened in a spray of ugly feathers by a speeding bicycle.

  How could any man not be moved to laughter by such a sight?

  He scowled at the other old fogies cheerfully reaching into sacks and tossing breadcrumbs to the pigeons. It looked like a scene out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie when the birds swarmed around. Didn't these retirees have anything better to do?

  The admiral looked out at the small pond, watched kids playing with a small radio-controlled toy boat—and that reminded him of his glorious Navy days. He thought of exhilarating dockside brawls, drunken crews shanghaied to strange destinations, typhoons and high seas

  "Ah," he muttered to himself with a wistful smile, "that's when being in the Navy really meant something."

  These days. Admiral Turner was just the captain of a desk, and a damned cluttered one at that. Sitting on the park bench, he took out his crumpled brown-paper bag and spread it open on his lap. Eagerly, the pigeons came closer....

  The admiral glanced at his watch, wondering if enough time had passed. He knew he had to sit on the park bench to get away from his daughter, Joan. She'd been in a jealous rage for days.

  She had stormed into his office, flushed, her hat askew, her strawberry-blond hair mussed. The scene with Joan was painted vividly in his mind

  "Daddy, I've just been to Lieutenant Smith's apartment! He said he was going to marry me, but that . . . that snake betrayed me!" Her eyes narrowed with a sudden icy coolness that seemed much more frightening than her fury. "And he betrayed his country, too. Daddy, Tom Smith is a spy!"

  Admiral Turner had to chuckle at that. "Smith? A spy? Don't be silly, dear—Lieutenant Smith can't even understand those blueprints, much less sell them to ... to whoever our enemies are these days."

  "Daddy!" Joan shrieked, and he decided it was time to back down—completely. He stood up, snatching the silver pocket flask from his bottom drawer before he went.

  "All right, dear. I'll go over to his apartment right now and check it out."

  Admiral Turner marched down the hallway to Smith's apartment, stiff kneed, face forward, just like a cadet on parade. When he reached the appropriate door and found it askew, he pushed it open. "Smith! I've got something to say to you!"

  Instead of the clean smells of disinfectant and air fresheners, the odors that assailed him spoke more of sweat, spilled tequila and rum, and thick cigar smoke. His eyes widened and he took a deeper breath.

  The prim young lieutenant certainly had changed in recent days.

  Through the dim light of pulled window shades, he saw the disaster and wreckage with widening eyes. The sofa had been overturned. Empty liquor bottles lay strewn about, mixed with cigarette butts and thick tobacco ash. Pictures hung askew on the walls. A lacy bra dangled from the television's antenna; lacy panties (not part of a matching set) dangled from the volume-control knob.

  "Women, booze, cigars!" Admiral Turner stood transfixed with shock in the otherwise empty apartment. "That's my boy! Smith, we'll make a decent human being out of you yet!"

  So he had gone to sit out the afternoon on a park bench instead of returning to face Joan. He couldn't get over his wonderment. Another jogger stumbled by.

  Admiral Turner reached into the brown-paper bag and rummaged around with his hand. Clucking and cooing, the hungry pigeon
s clustered closer, anticipating yet another softhearted patsy with food for them.

  The admiral plucked out one of his carefully selected stones and flung it at the nearest pigeon, which squawked and flew away with ruffled feathers. He reached into the bag again, grabbed another pebble and hurled it at another target. "Bull's-eye!"

  This was much more fun than using breadcrumbs.

  Chapter 45

  A BANDAGED O'HALLORAN sat alone at the CIA Communications Centrale console. The rest of the workers still had not come back from their coffee break.

  His eye was swollen with what would certainly turn into a spectacular shiner. He gripped the microphone, speaking very respectfully with a quavering voice. "No, sir," he said. "You can tell the President I don't know who placed the call. It didn't come from this secret base. It could have been a prank, sir, or a wrong number." He drew in a deep breath. "Pedrito Miraflores? That bandit's not within a thousand miles of here, I guarantee it! But I'll keep looking."

  At last back in his hotel room, Smith took a long, hot shower. The pipes rattled and clanked, surrendering their water reluctantly. He emerged with a towel wrapped around himself, shaking droplets of water from his hair.

  He picked up the rucksack and spilled out the contents onto his bed, then tried to stuff the stolen attache case inside, but it was too large and too heavy.

  He decided just to remove the colonels' important secret papers and save himself some room. He opened the attache case—and stared down, bug-eyed, at the case jammed with rows of gold pieces. He clamped a hand over his mouth to keep himself from shouting about the treasure. He never knew when someone might be listening in, especially in this spy business.