Chapter 38

IT TOOK HIM HOURS, but he finally reached Silo No. 13 . . . and it was just like the previous twelve.

Covering his delighted smile, Smith looked at the sign over the door as he and the Colodoran engineer exited the silo. At last he was doing real secret agent stuff. Another missile retargeted to save the Free World.

“All in a day’s work,” Smith said, jingling the collection of keys he carried. “Got to make sure we do it all correctly, no mistakes.”

“It’s so nice to have somebody trained in Russia verify my work!” The dark-haired engineer followed him like a puppy dog. “You didn’t find any serious errors, did you? I’m usually very careful, but we’ve had the in-laws visiting, and there’s the soccer-team bake sale coming up, and it’s been so hectic.”

“Well, six of the guidance coordinates were off by a hair,” Smith said. “But I corrected them. No need to worry.”

“You’ll keep quiet about it?” The engineer pleaded with his eyes.

“Oh, not a word from me.” Smith smiled, then snapped his fingers with a brilliant idea. “In fact, I’ll even keep the missile keys so nobody can foul you up.” He tucked the keys in his shirt pocket, patting them firmly.

“Oh, I’m so grateful. Thank you, Pedrito!” The engineer rushed back into his silos.

Before Smith could figure out what to do next, Yaquita approached briskly, carrying a thick wad of plans. “We’re leaving,” she said. “On with the next mission.”

“But we just got here!” Smith said, rubbing his saddle-sore bottom and glancing at the setting sun. He didn’t want to ride through the rugged Andes at night, and a soft bunk in the Wheat Company’s barracks seemed more desirable than a drafty trail tent.

She took Smith by the arm, pulling him away. “Duty calls. We’ll take my car this time.”

“Whatever you say,” he said. “Uh, long live the revolution, and all that.”

* * *

Yaquita’s black Volkswagen tore along an Andes mountain road. Its bug-spattered headlights splashed on the black cliffs all around them. Yaquita kept the tires on the road most of the time. At every sharp corner, gravel and pebbles sprayed out into the long drop-off, vanishing from sight. Smith held his fingers over his eyes.

“You have been ordered to blow up the CIA Communications Centrale in Colodor,” Yaquita said, more interested in his reaction than the treacherous road ahead.

Smith took his hands from his eyes. “Why would I want to do that?”

“The two colonels thought it was a good idea.” Without slowing, she turned around and fumbled in the back seat for some papers she had stuffed there. The Volkswagen slued left and right on the narrow road, but she didn’t seem to care. A terrified llama darted from the road, then leapt off the side, seeming to fly into the void like a reindeer. Smith grabbed the steering wheel to prevent them from following it off the cliff.

“Ah, here are the plans,” Yaquita said, hauling them into the front seat. “The base is hidden inside a hill. Very cleverly concealed, but destroying it shouldn’t be too difficult. Just drop some dynamite down the air hole.” She steered with her knee, holding the plans open with one hand and pointing with her other finger. “See, look here.”

Smith couldn’t see, though, since he had covered his eyes again. . . .

By dawn, they had wound their way down to hilly country. The scenery was still rugged, but greener. A small town full of whitewashed adobe buildings with red tile roofs nestled in a valley, just like a postcard snapshot. Beyond the village rose a round grassy hill bristling with huge satellite tracking reflectors.

“I hope they don’t pretend those satellite dishes are for agricultural purposes,” Smith said, “like the Hungry Mouth Wheat Company.”

“Satellite dishes?” Yaquita answered. “Those are umbrellas to protect particularly delicate crops from devastating hailstorms. Is it not obvious?”

“Whatever you say.” Smith picked up the plans as Yaquita pulled the battered black Volkswagen to a halt. She let the engine sputter while they inspected the landscape.

“According to the secret plans,” Yaquita said, “the air hole is right under those agricultural umbrellas on the hill. Just drop your dynamite down the shaft, and it’ll blow up the whole installation — no problem. Then we can get to the cathedral of Sangredios in no time. I’ve already found us a priest.”

“How do you know the plans are accurate?” Smith asked.

Yaquita smiled. “Some of the mapmakers on strike are really double agents. They draw up detailed blueprints of top-secret installations to earn a little spending money.”

* * *

The VW eased up to the entrance of a ramshackle adobe hotel. Smith climbed out, dressed in German mountaineering clothes complete with Tyrolean hat. He popped open the VW’s front trunk and hauled out a canvas rucksack that smelled of mildew.

“I’ll be waiting for you in the cathedral at Sangredios, my darling.” Yaquita pushed her face out the window, puckering her lips for a kiss. “It’s just a few kilometers farther down the road. Meet me when you’re finished.”

He looked around the little village, straightening the pheasant feather in his Tyrolean hat, and eyed the satellite dishes on the round hill. “I’m sure I can find the place.”

“Now don’t get hurt,” Yaquita called with a trace of worry. “Don’t harm a red hair on your pretty little head.”

Smith leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Nothing simpler.”

The VW puttered away. Smith watched it go, smiling and waving, then heaved a huge sigh of relief. Blow up the place? He didn’t think so. All he had to do was report in on the CIA station radio, and then he could get back home to New York and be finished with all this mess.