Chapter 39

ITS ROTORS THRUMMING in the early morning air, an unmarked helicopter circled for a landing just in front of the hill covered with satellite reflectors (or agricultural umbrellas, if the propaganda was to be believed). CIA chief O’Halloran stepped gingerly out of the craft, carrying an attaché case handcuffed to his wrist. He clapped his left hand on top of his head to keep his sparse hair from flapping in the prop wash as the helicopter departed back to another secret base somewhere in the Andes.

As he started walking nonchalantly to the round hill, the CIA chief maintained the air of a traveling salesman. A trapdoor of sod-covered earth lifted from the side of the hill, and two machine-gun muzzles rose into view. The weapons tracked O’Halloran’s movements with built-in motion sensors.

The CIA man fumbled in his pocket to pull out a small box, trying to move faster than the automated machine guns. He turned a key on the gadget, and the weapons paused in their targeting, as if reconsidering. Then, with another whir, the gun muzzles dropped back down out of sight, and the trapdoor closed.

“Just like the User’s Manual says,” O’Halloran chortled, then turned another key in his gadget box. A large rectangular section covered with Astroturf lifted up like a garage door, revealing the main entrance to the underground installation. From there, a lighted tunnel led deep beneath the hill. O’Halloran walked in, ducking his balding head, and the hidden door closed quickly, showering the CIA man with small clods of dirt.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the shabby hotel room, Smith had unpacked his rucksack and strewn the wad of plans for the hidden installation on the wobbly table. He studied the plans carefully, though he had never been good at reading blueprints, not for missile systems and not for buildings.

Dressed in the best three-piece suit he kept in his rucksack, he strolled out of the hotel like a dapper businessman. Smith walked along the cobblestone way near the satellite-dish hill as if he were an innocent pedestrian. He stopped to inspect a lump of llama dung that had clung to the heel of his shoe, surreptitiously scanning for the communication center’s air shaft. Maybe he could just jump in and surrender. Then he could tell his story to the proper authorities. Admiral Turner would be so proud of him — he was a bona fide double agent!

The small trapdoor of sod moved aside, and machine-gun muzzles protruded with a whir, targeting on him.

Smith sang an old naval tune as he strode along, making sure he couldn’t possibly surprise anybody.

When the machine guns were fully extended, they fired a blaze of shots. The ground around Smith erupted with bullets. After a brief moment of staring, Smith ran like mad.

He would have to reconsider this plan. Surrender wasn’t going to be so easy after all.

* * *

The CIA Communications Centrale was built over an old gold mine. Two centuries earlier, a Colodoran in search of ancient Incan gold had hand-dug a crazed collection of tunnels that wound over and under and around one another in an unfathomable maze. Over the years, countless Colodoran children had become lost in the maze, and their bones were scattered liberally along the corridors. In the 1960s, when the Americans came to Colodor, they had recognized at once that this was the perfect place to build a secret military base. So it was that the maze of tunnels through the sandstone twisted weirdly, as if dug by some alien insect, until they at last ended in the very deepest darkest depths — the central control room.

Here the sandstone walls gave way to banks of glittering communications machinery, liberally interspersed with vending machines and racks of automatic weapons. Moles raced along the floors, searching for the bits of Twinkies and spilled Coke on which they thrived.

Beside the aging banks of video screens and communication consoles, O’Halloran stood alert, eating a fresh banana. Hearing the sound of automatic weapons fire outside, he spun about.

“What was that shooting?” he asked, trying to figure out which TV screen showed what he wanted to know. Many of the monitors were tuned to talk shows, sitcoms and Spanish-language shopping channels.

Finally seeing the image from the hill installation’s outside cameras, he pressed his face close to the screen. But the view showed only bare ground peppered with fresh bullet tracks and clouds of dust.

O’Halloran relaxed. “Probably just some damned goat.”

“Or a llama,” said one of the operators.

“Or a jaguar,” said another.

“I heard a giraffe got loose from the local zoo yesterday. That could have done it.”

“All right, all right,” O’Halloran said impatiently. “We’ll just chalk it up to a false alarm. Why don’t you go take a coffee break in town and leave me alone here.”

* * *

Smith stood on the balcony of his hotel room, trying to think of another alternative. He draped his now muddy suit coat over the rail and mopped sweat from his brow. He stared at the unreachable rounded hill, where the satellite reflectors turned gradually, scanning the skies.

If that was a CIA installation, there must be some way to get in and tell them who he was. After impersonating Pedrito, he certainly had information his government would want. He turned to reenter his room, then stopped, so startled he almost staggered backward off the balcony. “Who are you?”

Two rebel Communists relaxed in his sitting room, grinning at Smith. One lounged in a chair, while another stood by the door, picking his teeth with a chicken bone. “I’m Felipe, he’s Juan.”

“I’m Juan, he’s Felipe.”

“The colonels sent us to make sure you blow up the place, Pedrito,” Felipe said. “Besides, someone has to be there to tell the story of your exploits.”

Juan laughed. “This should be a simple job after all your adventures! Remember the attack of the naked horsemen in the guava fields of Carabastos?”

“And who could forget the revenge of the sisters of the Nunnery of the Pink Fountains?” Felipe said with a loud chuckle. “We know you’ll do the job, Pedrito, but Colonel Enrique has his reasons for sending us. Colonel Ivan isn’t a very trusting sort. You know how Russians are.”

Juan lowered his voice and leaned forward in his chair. “Me, I think the CIA place is full of gold or secret papers, and he wants us to snatch them.” He cleared his throat. “Uh, after you blow up the installation, that is.”

“So, we’ll just relax here at the hotel and listen for when the CIA installation goes boom,” Felipe said, raising his hands to show the explosion.

Juan heaved himself out of the creaking lounge chair and spun a big revolver on his finger. “Felipe and I will be in the bar. Charging the tab to your room.” He shoved the gun firmly in his belt. The two exited through the door, swaggering side by side.

Brushing dried mud off his suit jacket at the balcony rail, Smith frowned. He couldn’t blow the whistle while those two goons were breathing down his neck. There must be some way to contact that place directly.

Smith saw an old black telephone on the side table, and his face lit up. “Of course!” He grabbed the receiver and dialed the operator. “Hello? Get me the number for the secret CIA communications installation in town.”

On the other end of the line, he heard a switchboard operator with a sweet Spanish accent. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “We’ve got no number for the CIA in this town.”

“Then just connect me to the United States,” Smith said, exasperated. “Anyplace will do.”

“Sorry, sir,” the operator said. “We’ve got no lines for that.”

Hours later, Smith still stood on his balcony, still staring at the round hill. A native goat herder in a felt hat and colorful poncho shooed a group of goats under the satellite reflectors.

Smith sat down heavily on the bed, once again spreading out the diagrams of the Colodor CIA Centrale. His hero, Nelson, would study the enemy plans, learn every nuance about the opponent. He traced the layout with his fingers, and suddenly a realization came to him. “Why, the whole place is automated!”

“That’s right,” Bolo said, striding through the open door in a gray policeman’s uniform. “And that could be their weakness.”

Smith looked up in shock at Bolo, who stood just inside the door. “Excuse me? Am I under arrest?”

“Not yet,” Bolo said, polishing his knuckles against his brass badge.

“Say, haven’t I seen you someplace before?” Smith said. Over the weeks that he’d been in this country, he was sure he’d encountered those dark features before. “Weren’t you a cabdriver once? Or a waiter?”

Bolo walked toward him, casually picking up the CIA blueprints to scrutinize them. “No. I got lots of brothers. I’m a very average-looking Colodoran.”

“Oh,” Smith said. “Then what do you want?”

Bolo turned the plans the other way around, tracing his finger along a conduit, then scribbled something in the margin. “Very good. Just checking.” He handed the blueprints back to the lieutenant and turned to leave.

Smith stared after him, scratching his head. He knew he’d seen that fellow before, and had the vague notion the man was following him. He then looked back at Bolo’s suggestion penciled in the margin of the plans.

It was a design for a device — an extremely complex electronic device of the kind that a Navy contractor might have dreamed up. Only a secret agent would have scrawled those notes. But a secret agent for whom?

“Aha! I should have thought of this myself,” Smith crowed. “I’ll just build an electronic induction cross-feed molecular cancelifier and throw it down the air hole. That’ll send a neuromagnetic pulse to paralyze the automatic circuits!” Smith grinned. “Then I’ll just walk right into the place and get on the radio so I can report to the U.S.!”

He nodded. The plan was set.