Chapter 20

IN NEW YORK CITY, meanwhile, the real Pedrito Miraflores sat behind Tom Smith’s desk in the Office of Naval Intelligence, uncomfortable in the strange and formal uniform of a lieutenant junior grade. He flicked his gaze from side to side, always uneasy at being confined within walls for too long a time. At least he didn’t have to sit with his back to the door.

In his time, Pedrito had spent many days in rundown and dirty prisons, held captive by competing guerrilla groups, terrorists, and South American police departments. He had survived by the skin of his teeth, clung to life by his fingernails, beaten impossible odds in dire situations.

But this — working eight hours a day in a bustling and clean government office — seemed the worst of all! He didn’t know how much more of it he could stand.

He wanted excitement so badly that for the last two nights he had gone out and wandered in Central Park, beating up would-be muggers. Now the place was so safe that this morning the park was full of old ladies, walking their dogs.

Sprawled on the drafting table beside his desk lay stacks of meticulous blueprints for new missile systems. The U.S. Navy was constructing them in secret at remote industrial facilities that ostensibly manufactured exotic plumbing supplies. Though he had no engineering knowledge at all, Pedrito studied the plans, drooling over the information he could bring back to his superiors. He was the perfect spy here, and he could pass along incredibly useful intelligence information to Cuba and Russia.

Even uneducated, Pedrito was astonished to find so many fundamental design flaws. The weapons seemed to have been reverse-engineered by committees so that they could not possibly work, yet the blueprints were so complex that the designers must have hoped no one would notice.

Pedrito noticed, though. He smiled with great relish as he located Smith’s red rubber stamp in the top desk drawer and happily stamped APPROVED on every single blueprint. Colonel Ivan and Colonel Enrique were going to love this!

Feeling restless, and knowing he had done a good day’s work for the revolution, Pedrito glanced at the clock on the wall, donned his formal Navy cap — because he was supposed to wear it every time he went outside — and left the office building. He was sure he could find a good time somewhere in the city.

After all, late afternoon was called “happy hour” for good reason.

* * *

Halfway down the block from Naval Intelligence headquarters he found a cozy-looking bar — exactly what he was looking for. Removing his cap to show off his head of red-gold hair, Pedrito strode into the dim pub, inhaling the smells of beer and cigarettes and pretzels. He heaved a sigh of relief. Finally, at last, someplace that seemed like home.

This wasn’t exactly his old stomping grounds of the Cantina de Espejos — in fact, the place had only one mirror, behind the bar — but it would do for now. He was desperate for a stiff drink after tolerating office work all day long.

The ruddy-faced bartender waved at him, smiling broadly. “Lieutenant Tom Smith! Good to see you again.”

Pedrito cringed, uncomfortable at being recognized, but he had to go through the motions, for the sake of the mission. He waved back. “Hello, sir.”

“The usual, Lieutenant?” The bartender reached for a glass. “Coming right up.”

Pedrito’s eyes became adjusted to the comfortable dimness of the bar. He made out a pool table, a pinball machine, and several dark tables lined up against the wood-paneled walls. Neon beer signs shed colored light into the murk. In the back, a group of men laughed loudly as they played a low-stakes game of poker. Pedrito raised his eyebrows, his interest piqued. Poker!

“Here you go, Lieutenant,” the bartender said. “I’ll put it on your tab.” He slid across a foaming glass of cold milk.

Pedrito looked at it with a strangled expression. “What is this?”

“Your milk, Lieutenant. Cold and foamy, just the way you like it. I made it a double, ’cause you looked like you needed it today.”

Pedrito spluttered. This had gone far enough! He pounded his fist on the bar. “Forget the milk. Today, I want a tequila. In fact, make it two shots of tequila. Your finest gold.”

“Tequila?” the bartender said, astonished. He looked at Pedrito for a moment, then burst out laughing. “That’s a good one, Lieutenant.” He turned around and began washing glasses, clearly with no intention of replacing Pedrito’s drink.

“Bartender, I mean it. I want a tequila.”

The bartender continued laughing so hard he nearly dropped one of the glasses. “Be careful with your joking, there, Lieutenant. I just may call your bluff.”

“I’m not bluffing. I want a tequila! Now!” He slammed his fist down, but the bartender just gestured in dismissal, then wiped sweat off his brow.

“Tom Smith, I remember the last time you took the tiniest sip of hard liquor. You turned green and fell backward off the stool. We had to call an ambulance. Thought you’d have learned your lesson by now.” He turned to the cash register and added up Smith’s tab, ignoring Pedrito.

Fuming, Pedrito grabbed his glass of milk, took a sip and frowned in distaste — the stuff came from cows! — then decided to pursue other amusements. He stalked over to the card players in the back, watching eagerly. He recalled many nights in rebel encampments, huddling in tents in the Andes cloud forests, listening to the rain outside and playing just such a game until the others in the group realized how good a player Pedrito Miraflores really was. Then the others refused to bet against him anymore.

“What’s the ante?” Pedrito said, pulling up a chair. “Can you deal me in?”

“Oh, hi, Tom,” one of the men said, looking down at his hand and folding the cards in disgust. “We heard you joking with the bartender.”

Pedrito withdrew his wallet, counting out how much American money he had. Given a half-hour of playing cards, he could triple his spending money and then buy his own tequila.

“Whatever it is, I’m in. Deal me for the next hand.”

The men looked at him, then cracked up laughing. “Deal you in? We’re not playing ’old maid,’ Tom.”

“I can see that,” Pedrito snapped. “It’s stud poker, and I want to play the next round.”

The men at the table looked at him, then chuckled louder and louder, slapping their palms on the table. “Smith, you’re a kick. I never knew you had a sense of humor.” The men went back to playing.

Pedrito stood seething, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Could you get us another bowl of pretzels, Tom?” one of the players said, glancing up.

Fuming, Pedrito turned about, gulped down half of his milk, then gagged as if he had swallowed a fistful of garden slugs. He stormed out of the bar.

He had been in many unpleasant situations before, even life-threatening circumstances — but living in the disguise of Lieutenant Tom Smith was turning out to be one of the most unpleasant assignments he had ever undertaken.