Chapter 41

AS THEY APPROACHED the satellite-covered hillside, reeling a bit from drinking too much rum, Juan nudged his partner ahead of him. “You go first.”

Felipe stopped short, swaying on his feet. “No, you go first. I’ve seen those automatic machine guns.”

“Don’t worry about them — Pedrito took care of everything.” Juan gave him a less gentle shove. “What are you waiting for? Somebody to roll out the welcome mat?”

In front of them the large earth-disguised front door raised up, silently waiting for them.

“Well, look at that,” Felipe said.

“See, I told you. Let’s go.” Together they staggered toward it.

* * *

Deep underground Smith sat at a huge console, glancing up at the sign International Communication Links. This looked like the right place. He hoped he could make a collect call.

He scanned a series of labeled switches: Langley, Europe, White House Emergency, as well as a few for local pizza delivery. Smith reached for the White House Emergency switch and pulled the microphone toward him, clearing his throat.

* * *

The President of the United States stood in the Oval Office. A large desk with numerous different-colored phones had been moved aside to make room for a putting dish.

The President spoke over his shoulder to an aide. “If I can just get my handicap raised, I’ll beat Senator Twaddle. After humiliating him on the golf course, I’ll have no trouble getting that appropriations bill through.”

He swung for another putt at exactly the same moment one of his phones rang. The shot went wide, bouncing off an umbrella stand in the corner. He glared at the assorted phones on the desk. “Oh, which the hell one of these is ringing?”

The aide pointed to the purple phone. “I think it’s that one, sir. Must be important — I don’t recall ever hearing the purple phone ring.”

Annoyed, the President looked at the label. “CIA, South America?” He looked up at the aide, set his putter aside and stalked toward the desk. “Why the hell is it ringing? Are we even doing anything in South America? I bet they want more funding.”

“Maybe you better answer it,” the aide said. “That’s the best way to find out.”

* * *

In CIA Centrale, Smith gripped the shiny microphone, swallowing nervously. “Hello, Mr. President? You don’t know me but I, uh, I voted for you in the last election.” He hesitated, afraid the President would hear the lie in his voice, then rattled on. “There’s a secret Commie missile base here in the Andes, in a country called Colodor. Here are the coordinates.” He rattled off numbers from the map on the console.

The President’s expostulation came over the speaker. “Colodor! Never heard of it.”

The two thugs, Felipe and Juan, stopped in the entrance tunnel, thunderstruck as they overheard Smith. They had found their way through the weird maze of tunnels easily, drawn by the smell of stale Doritos. “What is Pedrito doing?” Juan gasped. “Why is he betraying our beloved missile base?”

Felipe slapped his forehead in dismay, but kept his voice low. “Ai! Pedrito! He is a spy, a double agent!” Drawing their weapons, they crept forward, behind the redheaded lieutenant.

Smith tried to reassure the President. “Don’t worry, sir, it’s all right. I changed the missiles’ auto-directors to fire on the principal cities of Cuba and Russia, not on the United States. Our country is perfectly safe.”

The President was furious, and the speaker jumped as he yelled, “You idiot! If you destroy Russia, we’ll have no place to export wheat!”

Stepping up behind the chair, Juan pushed his ancient revolver against Smith’s head. Felipe picked up the microphone. “I’m sorry, sir, we’ve got another call. Please hold.” Then he cut the White House Emergency switch.

“Turn around slow, Pedrito!” Juan said. “And keep your hands up, you greasy traitor.”

Juan stood back with the drawn revolver still pointing toward Smith. Smith looked cross-eyed at Felipe’s gun muzzle just in front of his nose.

“You don’t understand,” Smith said.

“It don’t take no understanding,” Felipe said.

“We’re not good at understanding things anyway,” Juan snapped.

“We’re delivering you right now to Colonel Enrique back at the missile base!” Felipe gloated. “Uh, I mean at the wheat farm.”

“March!” Juan said.