Chapter 40

SMITH BOUGHT A MOUND of wire and high-tech gadgets at the local electronics boutique in the small Andean farming village. He still had the espionage equipment from the secret compartment in his tan suitcase, but he needed specific items for his new idea.

Working at the courtesy table in his hotel room, Smith built a circular device the size of a basketball, its red case filled with coils and cables and a battery. He wiped sweat off his brow, set one of his laser pistols aside, then glanced again at his Russian wristwatch. Time to get moving.

Singing cheerily, he hefted the gadget, testing its weight as he double-checked the plans of the CIA Centrale. For this mission, he would have to use his best skills as both Smith and Pedrito.

* * *

Inside CIA Communications Centrale, O’Halloran demanded answers. Spittle flew at the microphone as he shouted. “I need Pedrito Miraflores dead — now, or sooner! Why can’t you just take care of him?” Then he realized the microphone was switched off, and he had to bellow his demands all over again.

“Any more reports on his location?” his contact in Langley, Virginia, asked over the radio, unruffled by the CIA man’s anger. He had heard it all before.

“Fifteen sightings in five different countries so far,” O’Halloran said, sulking. “But one thing’s for certain: he’s miles away from here. I’m not going to get a piece of the action.”

* * *

Dressed in a native felt hat and costume, Smith hid his device under his poncho. He walked stealthily toward the crown of the hill accompanied by a herd of goats he had borrowed from a local farmer. The man had seemed only too happy to loan his herd so that he could have an afternoon siesta. Smith kept his eyes open for the automatic machine guns. But the goats seemed to give him all the cover he needed. . . .

Peering through his field glasses from town, Bolo recognized Smith and the goats on the hill. He grinned his secretive smile. “It’s time to add a little more chaos.” He sprinted off, holding down his policeman’s cap to keep it from blowing away.

The town’s electrical plant was a modest building with insulators sprouting out of the roof. Inside the shack, a diesel generator stuttered and smoked, unattended. A huge busbar stood out on the corner of the building: not locked, not barred, not guarded in any way. Trusting folks, these locals — just the way Bolo liked it. He put his hand on the handle of the busbar, then watched Smith’s movements. He had to choose his moment carefully.

In the distance, the disguised Smith trudged up the round hill, a simple shepherd surrounded by goats. The satellite reflectors stood like huge metal umbrellas, pivoting on their axes as they searched the sky for secret transmissions.

Beneath one of the satellite dishes, exactly as shown on the blueprints, Smith found a round air shaft four feet in diameter. He glanced around, tugging the straw hat down over his eyes. With no one watching, he removed the bright red gadget from under his poncho and tossed it down the hole. . . .

“Good, good,” Bolo muttered. As the red gadget vanished into the shaft, he yanked the busbar down, shielding his eyes from the shower of sparks. Still grinning secretly, he looked up at the hill.

Now Smith wouldn’t have any trouble at all getting inside.

* * *

The lights went out at the radio console in the Colodor CIA Centrale. Everything was swallowed in pitch-black.

“What the hell?” O’Halloran bellowed. “We’re under attack! An invasion force — every man for himself!” But then he realized he was the only man in the base, since he had sent everyone else off on a coffee break.

* * *

Smith stood beside the air shaft. Inside, he could tell that all the power had gone out. The lights shining up from the air shaft had dimmed, and the antennas had all quit moving. Even the little red electronic eyes by the automatic guns had gone dim.

“Well, that was easy,” he said, throwing off his hat and poncho to reveal riding boots, breeches and a wide-collar white shirt. He took a long breath, then dove headfirst into the hole.

* * *

“I see you over there!” O’Halloran snarled.

The flash of his gun went off, but illuminated nothing else.

“Come on out and fight like a man!” Another shot flashed. A bullet ricocheted off a wall. One of the surveillance monitors exploded. “Hah! I got you!”

Another shot flashed, then another, until the CIA man had emptied his handgun. “Take that, you bastard!” he said, swinging hard with his fist. The sound of his knuckles slapping into the concrete wall echoed in the darkness. “And that!”

He could feel the fresh air of the air shaft above him, and O’Halloran looked up, heard the sound of something heavy sliding toward him. He tried to glimpse some sunlight shining through the hole but saw nothing.

Then, after a huge thud, the CIA man fell unconscious.

* * *

The two thugs, Felipe and Juan, sat at the bar of the hotel, drinking rum and signing the tab over to Smith’s room. “Did you hear all that gunfire a minute ago?” Felipe asked.

“Been quiet for a while,” Juan said, gulping directly from the bottle. “Pedrito’s finished all the hard work, I suppose.”

“We better go collect those secret documents the colonels want,” Felipe said, finishing his own shot. “Maybe we’ll get a promotion.”

They slid off their barstools, adjusted the guns in their belts and swaggered out.

* * *

Bolo stood at the busbar, cupping his ear, but he heard no more shots. It was time for the next step, time to keep Smith off-balance.

He turned and pushed the busbar in with a grunt.

* * *

Deep underground, all the lights flickered on and off, then went on again.

O’Halloran lay on the floor, out cold. Smith himself had fallen on top of him like a ton of bricks. Beside the CIA man, his red gadget lay broken on the floor.

Smith brushed himself off, surprised but satisfied. “Looks like my device handled all the lights,” he said. “Must have been a flawless design.”

He unreeled a length of wire from the red metal case and used it to tie O’Halloran’s hands behind his back until yards and yards were wrapped all around the CIA man’s head and body. “Double use. Good for the environment.”

He dragged O’Halloran by the feet into a closet, closed the door and propped a chair up against it. “This way I won’t get hurt,” Smith said. “And maybe you won’t hurt yourself either. I remember the problems you had with my banana truck.”

Then he went exploring. He would find some way to contact the authorities and explain his situation.

The huge control board of the communications center had many switches and levers. Smith read the labels on every system, particularly the ones marked AUTOMATED DEFENSES and TOTAL DISARM. He tugged down the long lever. Good. Now he could walk out of here as soon as he had sent his message. Piece of cake.