"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—Active 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 fun-neling 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.
Chapter 35
NEWLY ENSCONCED in the comandante's office at the ancient Inca fortress, Smith looked at his new headquarters. The lacy white curtains on the barred windows did a nice job of softening Bellanova's stark stone walls.
He had changed out of his bark-stained uniform into a crisp khaki with officer's insignia and a big red star on the cap. Yaquita had found the clothes in a closet, and she said he looked very dashing in them. To Smith, it felt good to be in a formal uniform again ... even if it was the wrong uniform.
He thumped his feet on the desk and poured himself a drink of rum; Yaquita had given him a fresh bottle, and he had grown to find it tolerable after all. In fact, it was far safer to drink the rum than the local water. Pedrito Miraflores must have done some things right. Smith held the glass up to the light that seeped through the frilly curtains, then downed the drink. His entire body shuddered, then he sighed. He wondered if the locals made rum differently here below the equator, since he had never been able to tolerate alcohol before. But then, a lot of things about Lieutenant Tom Smith had changed in the past couple of weeks....
Bolo marched in wearing a sergeant's uniform. He snapped off a brisk military salute, and Smith acknowledged him without looking up, or recognizing him. "Have you seen to the antiaircraft and ground defenses. Sergeant?" Smith asked. "We can't let this fortress fall back into the proper hands . . . er, I mean into enemy hands."
"No need for those defenses, sir," Bolo said. "All governmental forces in the province have surrendered, or they're lost somewhere out in the mountain trails. No one knows where the comandante of Bellanova has gone, but quite often troops vanish without a trace, unable to find their way through Colodor's many roads and passes."
Smith poured himself another shot of rum, raised it cursorily to Bolo and gulped it down. "That's what happens when there are no official maps available. This country really needs to resolve that strike."
Bolo produced a slip of paper from the breast pocket of his uniform. "I just received orders for you personally. New Comandante, by express pigeon." Brushing the wrinkled paper flat, he set the sheet on the desk and stepped back, clicking his heels together. "Since you have resolved your differences with Commander Jose after the bandana duel, you are instructed to put him in charge here at Bellanova."
Smith swung his feet down to the floor and tilted his cap as he read the orders. "Leave here? Well, what am I supposed to do then?" His brow furrowed in puzzlement. "And who exactly do we work for, anyway?"
Bolo stared straight ahead and delivered his answer stiffly. "Sir, you are to proceed at once to our local missile site. We have its precise location here in the Andes."
"A missile site?" Smith perked up. "Well, I guess I do know a little bit about missiles. I've approved enough blueprints. But are you sure these orders are right?"
"Absolutely, sir," Bolo said, standing smartly at attention. "I wrote them myself!"
Leaving Bellanova behind. Smith and Yaquita rode their horses down a narrow mountain road in the high Andes, followed by two pack horses. Yaquita wore Bonita's riding habit and top hat, and smiled a satisfied smile; Smith wore his jungle combat jumpsuit.
"It seems strange to me," Smith said, with a steam of cold breath drifting up fi-om his words. Black vultures wheeled overhead, as if hoping Smith or one of the pack horses would fall off a cliff. "Who'd suspect a hidden missile site up here in the Andes?"
Yaqu
ita nodded. "I can take you there, though it isn't on any map."
"Nothing around here is on a map," Smith groaned.
By high noon, Smith and Yaquita were riding through a rocky gorge, picking their way along a rugged path. During their morning coffee break. Smith and Yaquita had changed into thick sheepskin coats.
"This is such an important assignment. It shows that Colonel Enrique and Colonel Ivan must trust you," Yaquita said. "I've never been in love with a man assigned to infiltrate a missile site before."
"Who is Colonel Enrique? And Ivan?" he asked. Yaquita just laughed.
In the late afternoon Yaquita and Smith reached a lush valley sprinkled with colorful alpine meadow flowers. "This is the place," Yaquita said. They dismounted, holding the horses' reins. Smith shaded his eyes.
The grassy valley held a forest of what looked to be grain silos interspersed with a few tin-roofed buildings. Three old pickup trucks were parked next to rickety sheds; a brand-new tractor and wheat thresher sat near a barn, like props for a movie set.
"Well, look at that!" Smith said. "Wheat silos to disguise missile launching pads. Devilishly clever." He looked at his complex Russian wristwatch, then marched forward, leading his horse. He remembered his orders, though he still didn't know who the two colonels were. He hoped they were good, honest men. "Come on, we've got an appointment to keep."
A steel gate barred the entrance to the concrete silo area, providing far more security than a wheat field should ever require. Three guards dressed in white peon clothes and Cuban military caps stood holding their automatic rifles, very alert. They slung their weapons down, taking aim as the strangers approached.
Then one of the guards cracked a broad smile, elbowing his partner in the ribs as he recognized the redhead. "Ai! Pedrito!" both shouted. They hastily opened the gate for him.
Sighing with relief, Smith and Yaquita passed through, waving to the guards. Yaquita even strummed her guitar. They went deeper into the silo compound. Smith tilted his head up to gawk at the nearest concrete silo. A big sign hung over the door, Compania de Trigo Bocahambre. Silo no. 1. Se Prohibe Etttrar.
"Hmmm," Smith said. "The Hungry Mouth Wheat Company. Interesting cover."
"Remember to do like the real Pedrito would do, my love," Yaquita whispered to him. "Just complete the inspection and boost morale. You're their hero. I've got to go and report to my superiors here."
She spurred off, leaving him behind. Shrugging, Smith tied his horse to a coolant pipe that protruded from the side of the missile silo, then walked confidently up to the red-painted steel door. He ducked under the low entrance and stood on a metal platform. A catwalk staircase led down to a cleared machinery bay where an immense gleaming missile stood surrounded by scaffolding.
A dark-haired engineer in a white jumpsuit raced up the metal stairs from the base of the missile, waving his hands to stop Smith. "No entrance!" he shouted. "Get out!"
Smiling, Smith started down the staircase anyway, as if he belonged there. The engineer yelled, "We have an intruder! Sound the alarm!" Three technicians wearing gun belts sprinted around the bottom of the missile, drawing their weapons.
Smith came to a halt, waving cheerfully at the armed technicians as well as the main engineer. Snatching off his red-star cap to reveal his distinctive hair, he said, "Don't you know me? I'm Pedrito Miraflores!"
They stared at Smith's face, and then the technicians applauded. The engineer suddenly slapped his forehead. "Ah, the military genius who just captured Bellanova!"
Smith nodded. "That's me."
"The one who destroyed the Meta River Patrol!"
"Ai! Pedrito!" the guards and the engineer cheered.
Chapter 36
HE HAD NEVER SEEN an actual missile system before, only blueprints, and he found it fascinating.
"Just a routine inspection, ordered by Colonels Enrique and Ivan," Smith said cheerily as he climbed a staging ladder mounted to the top of the missile's guidance and payload compartment. He found an inspection door below the red nose cone and yelled down to the engineers and technicians, "Don't mind me, I just want to make sure the course settings are right."
"Glad to have it checked. Here, you will need the key." The engineer removed a chain from around his neck and tossed it up without bothering to aim. Keeping one hand on a metal rung. Smith somehow managed to snag the chain before it could fall down into the concrete flame bucket underneath the rocket nozzles. He inserted the key into the inspection access door.
The engineer shaded his eyes, looking up at Smith on the ladder. "Make sure that one's coordinates are set for Buenos Aires!"
Smith stuck his head inside the hatch, rummaging among the gyroscopes and guidance systems. He tried to remember how the systems worked exactly, but he had paid little attention to all those classified plans he had approved for Admiral Turner. Now was his chance to do something for the United States Navy, at last.
Out of sight, he used a ballpoint pen from the pocket of his sheepskin coat to do calculations on the palm of his hand. After double-checking his math, he used the tip of the pen to push the setting dials inside the missile. Latitude, Longitude, Distance— now it would go straight to Havana. If he remembered his maps right.
He gingerly climbed back down to stand with the Colodoran engineer. The technician guards had exchanged their gun belts for tool belts and went back to work in the silos under the corporate logo of the Hungry Mouth Wheat Company—a huge cartoon mouth stuffed with spiny wheat grains.
Smith casually dropped the missile key into his shirt pocket. "The settings were just about perfect," he said, brushing his hands together with satisfaction. "But maybe I better check the other silos. Just to be sure."
The hand-lettered sign above the next concrete granary said Silo No. 2. Smith and the engineer went in.
"I'm glad of your help, Pedrito," the engineer said as Smith climbed another ladder. "You make my job much easier." Smith opened the access door, and the engineer shouted up at him, "That one's set for Rio de Janeiro. I hope the guidance system checks out."
Crowded into the small access hatch. Smith busily reset the dials. He finished calculations on his other palm and pushed the aiming dials. Right in the middle of Leningrad, he thought. Or had the Russians renamed that city St. Petersburg again?
In Silo No. 3, Smith tinkered with the next missile. "As you can see, we are prepared to dominate all of South America. This one is aimed at Caracas," the engineer called, his words echoing in the confined silo.
"Not anymore," Smith whispered as he turned the setting dials with a grim smile. "Moscow city limits."
In the missile site office of the Hungry Mouth Wheat Company, Colonels Enrique and Ivan sat at a rickety table, playing dominoes. A bottle of vodka and two empty glasses stood at their elbows. Cuban cigars sat inside a Mercedes-Benz hubcap being used as an ashtray. Calendars displaying new models of farm machinery decorated the walls. A battery-powered phonograph played a scratchy LP of the "Volga Boatman."
The two colonels moved their domino tiles as they talked. "As soon as the real Pedrito gets back from New York with the plans for those U.S. anti-jamming devices, we're all set. Comrade," Ivan said.
"That will be quite a feather in our caps, won't it?" Enrique said, scratching his voluminous beard. "All of South America at our mercy. That'll be a nice change of pace."
"I hope he doesn't foul it up," Ivan said gloomily. "If this mission fails, my superiors could send me back to Russia. No nice cigars there."
"How could it fail?" Enrique said. "We're the only ones who know about the switch. No chance of a leak in counterintelligence. We'll have to order the real Pedrito to assassinate Smith as soon as he returns."
"I can't believe Smith has managed to survive for so long," Enrique said. "Just make sure he stays put in Bellanova, where he can't cause any damage. You issued the order, didn't you?"
"Da," Ivan said. "Our Pedrito is just cooling his heels in the old fortress."
A secretary ca
me to the office door in high heels, sheer pantyhose, and a trim business skirt she couldn't possibly have bought anywhere in Colodor. "Sirs, Pedrito Miraflores just arrived for his inspection tour of the missile base. Um, I mean, the wheat company."
The two colonels did a double take and gaped at her.
The secretary continued, oblivious. "He's quite a dashing fellow. Nice red hair, sunny disposition. The workers were all cheering him when he arrived to check all the missile settings. I want to get his autograph."
Colonel Ivan brought his fist down on the table, jiggling the empty vodka glasses and scrambling the domino tiles. "What is Bolo doing? And where's that Yaquita? She was supposed to keep him under her thumb."
The secretary hastily scuttled into the hall away from Ivan's anger. "Yes, sirs, a Miss Yaquita to see you. She's waiting right out here."
Yaquita gHded in like a lioness, carrying her battered radio-guitar case. Both colonels glared at her severely, but she nonchalantly tossed her dark hair over her shoulder. Ivan quickly swept the desktop clear of bottles, glasses and dominoes so she wouldn't have anything to throw.
"You've got your nerve bringing Pedrito here!" Enrique bellowed.
"This way I can keep an eye on him," Yaquita said innocently. "You told me to keep an eye on him."
"And your thumb on him," the Russian said.
"Bolo's orders told him to come here. So we came."
The colonels blinked, then looked at each other. "That's not what we told Bolo to do. Whose side is he on, anyway?"
Yaquita put her hands on her hips. "Why shouldn't I bring Pedrito here? The men need their morale boosted, and he is their hero."
Abruptly the colonels put their heads together, whispering furiously. Finally, they nodded to each other.
Ivan took a set of plans from the desk drawer, spreading them out where Yaquita could see. "Pedrito shouldn't be here because we have an important job for him elsewhere," he said. The Russian colonel tapped one section of the drawing. "These are the plans of the CIA Communications Centrale in Colodor. It's the only thing that can mess up our missile strike."