Chapter 34
THE SIGN ON THE CAGES in Bellanova’s bird loft read GOVERNMENT PIGEONS, FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY. A stone embrasure let sunshine into the tower room, illuminating a table used for scribbling coded messages. Confiscated terrain maps drawn before the mapmakers’ union strike showed the borders, roads and terrain of Colodor.
Bolo had discreetly slipped into a Communist sergeant’s uniform with a red star in his cap. He printed a message on a tiny pigeon slip, very careful with his script. Dear Governor, Pedrito Miraflores just captured the entire province of Bellanova. Complete rout. Comandante and all government forces in full retreat. Signed — sole survivor.
Bolo rolled the message like a cigarette paper and stuffed it into a tarnished tin cartridge. He grabbed one of the birds from the Official Use Only pigeon cages and fastened the cartridge onto its leg, then released the pigeon out the narrow open window.
“Special delivery,” he said, and the pigeon flew out.
* * *
At CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, a stream of nondescript black sedans arrived and departed. Weirdly similar men in black suits and conservative ties flowed in and out of the doors.
“Sir, we’ve got an urgent red tag!” an aide said, rushing down the hall into the director’s office.
“Don’t bother me!” the director said, annoyed as he watched his golf ball curve toward a wall studded with hidden microphones. “You made me miss my putt.”
“It’s urgent, sir!” the aide said. “Direct from South America by diplomatic carrier pigeon.”
“Go tell it to the FBI.” The director dropped another golf ball on the floor, then lined up his putt.
* * *
Traffic moved by on the avenue below the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Any vehicle that decreased its speed by more than two miles per hour was photographed, its license called up on an FBI computer, and a complete security check run on the driver all the way down to his high-school grades and what pets he had owned as a kid.
The same aide rushed into the FBI headquarters and found the office of the director. “Sir! We’ve received word that Pedrito Miraflores is on a rampage in South America.”
“Miraflores? Who’s he?” said the FBI director, who looked extraordinarily like the CIA director. He sat at his desk unconcerned, reading various incriminating files over his lunch hour. He ate a sloppy tuna sandwich as he shuffled papers. “Nobody I’ve ever heard of, I suppose. Is his file here?”
“Miraflores is their top Commie agent, sir.”
“Oh. You’d better go to the State Department, then. This is in their jurisdiction.” He picked up another file, his wife’s, and began to read with avid interest.
* * *
At the State Department Building the same aide desperately passed his news on to another official. “— but he completely blew up the U.S. Embassy in Santa Isabel!”
“Blew it up?” the official said. “Oh, then this sounds like a job for the Defense Department. Stop bothering me about it.”
* * *
Outside the Pentagon, traffic crawled around and around in circles. Every side of the immense building looked essentially the same, and most of the drivers were lost.
The same aide breathlessly recounted the pigeon message to a two-star general, then to a three-star general.
“— wiped out an entire cavalry division with an ambush, wrecked the Meta River Patrol, captured a powerful military fortress and brought a whole province to its knees!” He hauled out a blurry Polaroid snapshot. “Here’s his photo. Look at those shifty eyes, that red hair.”
“A scoundrel, if I ever saw one,” the general agreed, then shooed the aide out of his office.
* * *
Congressmen and congressional aides rushed up and down the steps of the Capitol Building, followed by reporters, cameramen, demonstrators and lobbyists. A blustery Vice President looked at the Polaroid skeptically. “How can a Mexican be redheaded? And aren’t they really short? Are you sure this isn’t another tabloid hoax?”
“He’s not a Mexican,” said the aide. “Pedrito is half-German, and all trouble.” To be certain that the Vice President understood the danger, the aide said, “You know, German, like Hitler and the Nazis — the bad guys in WW II.”
“Oh, yeah!” the Vice President said. “I saw a documentary about Hitler’s clones living in some country down there.” With a querulous look, he asked, “Do you think this Pedrito is one of those clones?”
The aide, utterly flabbergasted, said, “That wasn’t a documentary you saw, it was a movie — fictive entertainment. Called The Boys from Brazil. The, uh, fact is, sir, we don’t know how to clone people yet. Only sheep.”
“Sure we do,” the Vice President said. “It worked on Elvis.” Then his face burned bright red and he slapped his hand over his mouth as he realized that he’d just uttered a national secret.
“Hmmm . . .” the aide said, deadpan. “A Hitler clone. You might be onto something there! The man is a terror. Ask any number of fallen governments in the region.”
“He has a leering smile,” the Vice President said. “He sure looks dangerous — I mean, you wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley.”
“He is! He is!” In a last desperate attempt to get some help, the aide said, “Not only that, but we believe he’s secretly funneling campaign contributions to your rivals. We’ve got to do something!”
“I agree,” the Vice President growled in a fit of indignation. “We’d better go talk directly with the President himself.”
* * *
At the White House, the President glanced cursorily at the snapshot and the original pigeon-borne note. “Illicit campaign contributions, huh? The back-stabbers. Well, we’d better circulate his photograph and alert all South American governments and CIA stations. Issue orders to hunt down this bloodthirsty criminal and kill him on sight.” The President handed the papers back to the aide with a fierce look. “I want the full treatment.”
The aide stood a moment, heart thumping in anticipation. Not since the Nixon days had the CIA been authorized to give someone “the full treatment.”
The President added, “And put a price of a million dollars on his head. Now skedaddle on out of the Oval Office and let me get back to my putting practice.”
The President leaned over his putter, tried to concentrate, but news of Pedrito Miraflores clearly had him distraught. He swatted with his golf club, then swore. “Damn! You made me miss my shot!”
* * *
Meanwhile, in New York, the real Pedrito Miraflores stayed late in Smith’s Naval Intelligence office, wearing a neatly starched officer’s uniform. He had nothing to do back at his apartment, and plenty of espionage to accomplish here, so he decided to put in a few hours of overtime. Colonel Enrique and Colonel Ivan were counting on him.
File cabinets hung open with papers strewn about. Piles of blueprints flanked the desk, sprawled on the drafting table. The desk lamp shone down on a missile guidance system plan. Squeezing one eye shut, Pedrito used a Minox camera to photograph the entire blueprint. Maybe the Cuban or Russian engineers could figure out the design.
Clicking footsteps approached down the hall, stopping abruptly outside his office door. Pedrito tried to sweep the plans out of sight, breaking out in a sudden sweat.
Joan Turner opened the door and barged in. “Well, Lieutenant, unreliable as usual, I see. We’ve got to talk about our wedding plans, and I’ve been waiting —” She took in the scene with widening blue eyes. Pedrito leaned over the drafting table, trying to cover the plans with his own body.
“What on earth are you doing?” Joan said, spotting the tiny Minox. “Isn’t that a spy camera? I saw one in a movie once.”
Pedrito stopped trying to cover up the missile system blueprint. He smiled his best charming smile and extended the small high-tech camera toward Joan. “Oh, yes,” he said. “It’s the latest thing. Just testing it. A Naval Intelligence special design. Your father’s thinking of providing one to each of his men just to take a few family photos.”
“For the wedding, I suppose?” Joan said. She crossed her arms and didn’t believe him for an instant.
Pedrito lowered the spy camera and tried another tack. “You shouldn’t be in here, you know. These missile files are all secret. Who knows what you might have seen. National security could have been compromised.”
She looked at him suspiciously, then she became calculating, choosing her own priorities. She primped her strawberry-blond hair. “Just one question for you, Smith — you do intend to marry me, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes!” Pedrito said hastily.
“Good. Just checking.” She looked at him with a slitted predatory eye. “You’d better not lie to me.” Then she walked out, pretending she hadn’t seen a thing.