American Op Page 3

  Lawrence was quiet for a moment then resumed walking. “He couldn’t have survived given what happened to him. That plunge would kill anyone.”

  “I know. It was a one-hundred foot fall into a ferocious, rocky river in flood stage. Odds were against him surviving, but I have it on good word that he’s still alive.”

  Lawrence frowned. “That’s not good news.”

  “No, it’s not. I think he’s still in Peru.”

  “Okay,” Lawrence said. “I’m listening. What do you need?”

  “I need any intel you have on him. What’s he up to? Exactly where is he now? In Cusco or somewhere else? And where are his Black Cobra terrorists?”

  Chuck talked in a hushed tone of voice, which was hard for Lawrence to hear. There was a lot of street noise and people passing them on the sidewalk, but sometimes the best cover was no cover. Nobody would care what an Abe Lincoln lookalike and a businessman were talking about. They were irrelevant to the throngs of D.C. civilians. They had both made sure that they weren’t followed, so the people they passed were random folks who could only hear snippets of their conversation. Without context, the fragments they heard would be meaningless.

  Chinatown … The air was choked with acrid exhaust. Chuck and Lawrence wove their way through the pedestrians and leaned close as they spoke, so they could hear each other with all the street noise. Sometimes Chuck liked crowded places because he blended into the crowds.

  “He has to be stopped,” Chuck said. Last time I saw him, he was plotting against our country. If he’s alive, all evidence says he’ll carry out a sophisticated and devastating attack.”

  They turned a corner. The street noise was even worse here. Loud honking horns. Taxis were backed up on a one-lane street.

  They passed a several people who looked like tourists or others who just came here for lunch. There were still no Chinese people in sight. Chuck made a comment about roast duck and noodles and talked about how hungry he was.

  “I have contacts down in Peru, Chuck. I can have them look into this.” Lawrence’s cane made a metallic clanking sound as it struck a metal grate in the sidewalk.

  Chuck shook his head. “You’d probably just get them killed.”

  “Someone ‘s gonna have go down there—someone with a death wish.”

  They passed a restaurant, and the rich smell of Chinese food filled the sidewalk. The crowd thinned out briefly, and they passed another hair salon. Noise from a mounted television by the door drifted out onto the sidewalk. Chuck heard the news anchor talking about a devastating cyclone in Bangladesh. The voice of a news anchor reported on devastation and extreme weather. Then the voice faded away as they moved down the sidewalk.

  “Maybe you to go down there, Chuck.”

  Chuck looked at him, but didn’t say anything.

  “I know that you built a wood boat a while back,” Lawrence said.

  “Don’t remind me. What happened still hurts.”

  “I have a contact in Lima who owns an old tugboat. If you’ll do a little woodwork on his boat—I mean just a few hours, enough to establish an alibi for yourself as a carpenter, then you can stay on his boat for a few days. That’ll keep you off the grid.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Also, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. He’ll get in contact with you in Lima.”

  “I thought I was going to be anonymous.”

  “Look, we’re all on the same side, Chuck. He’ll stop by the boat. He’ll want to help you out. Just listen to him as a favor to me, alright?”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’ll tell you what he wants you to know.”

  “I don’t like this.”

  “Come on, Chuck. Give me a break. If someone asked me for personal information about you, would you want me to give it? Of course not. I’m showing him the same loyalty that I show you.”

  “It sounds like he already knows about me.”

  “He knows your reputation, a lot of people do.”

  Lawrence dialed a number and put his phone to his ear. “Fred, call Bo over at NSA. I need to know immediately if they have any intel or intercepts on ex-Russian General Ivan Lazar. Call me back right away.”

  Lawrence and Chuck were just finishing up lunch when the phone rang.

  “Bo, what did you find out?... Really…There has been chatter about … Okay, thanks.” He hung up.

  “Sounds like you’re right, Chuck. Three days ago, NSA picked up an intercept of known Black Cobra Revolutionaries. There’s mention of Lazar flying in and out of both Lima and Cusco. I’ll know more later. If you want to head down there and get settled in, I’ll call you the moment I get some intel.”

  Chuck frowned. “I better get to the airport.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Peru

  The jeep came to a stop, and a plume of dust rose from the tires. The driver, Hugo Torres, was a grim-faced ex-convict. His dark expression and perpetual frown weighed down his cheeks and created permanent wrinkles from the sides of his nose down to the corners of his mouth. His eyes were cold and hard. He looked like a killer, and that’s what he was, but he also served as executive protection for General Ivan Lazar.

  Dressed in green camouflage, General Lazar was a broad, stout man with dark hair, a strong forehead, and eyes that glittered with energy. He stepped out of the jeep into the white sand of the northern area of Peru, which was dominated by dry coastal desert. The sand was beautiful and pristine here, largely undisturbed. He breathed in hot dry air as dust from the jeep settled.

  This was different from where he had just been. Earlier, he’d walked through sections of desert that had been bulldozed because they were burial grounds. There had been human bones peeking out of the sand all over the place—bones and skulls. Many of them still had patches of hair on their heads due to the dry climate of the coastal desert.

  This area was different. The destruction of sacred ground by hauaqueros, grave robbers, was minimal here compared to what Lazar had seen at El Brujo and other areas. Here the sand was untouched but for the archaeologists. In the hot dry air, the sand dunes rolled toward the distant Andes. The dunes looked like waves on a stormy ocean, but the dunes were white and stationary. Ridges of sand rose and fell, turned, curved, and twisted.

  An archaeologist walked over from a pitched tent.

  “How can you be sure that these are Inca graves and not of the Moche people?” Lazar said.

  The thin-faced archaeologist shook his head as he polished his glasses with the tails of his shirt. He replaced his narrow glasses over his thin, curved eyes, but took them off again to wipe away more dust. “The Moche people buried their dead in a reclining position; that is not what we find here.” He made a wide, sweeping gesture with his glasses. “Here we find the dead are buried in a fetal position. That is what the Incas did.”

  “How do you know that it is Pachacuti?”

  The archaeologist’s thin lips curled into a smile. His tongue flitted over his thin black mustache. “Historical accounts contradict theories that say Inca Pachacuti was buried in Machu Picchu. He was not. Those are wishful theories devised by academics who want to make their reputations and capture headlines. There are historical records from the sixteenth century that claim Pachacuti’s tomb is located in the area of Toqocachi, San Blas, in the Imperial City. These are also nonsense. In fact, Pachacuti’s true burial place was a deception so his tomb would be protected from grave robbers, which he foresaw, which he was warned of by a fortune teller. Wall carvings have now been deciphered that chronicle the jeweled teeth of the emperor Pachacuti. It is said that he only smiled after he crushed an enemy, but when he smiled, his teeth gleamed in the sun, and this was a sign that he was truly the son of the sun.”

  Lazar was not convinced. “Pachacuti was not the only ancient to have jeweled teeth. We cannot even prove that his were.”

  “No, but allusions in the wall carvings point to the great Inca. The designs also match the pattern of the jewels in the teeth
of this skull.”

  Lazar’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Let me see.”

  “This way.” The archaeologist handed him a brush. “You can wipe away the sand that has blown over the skull this morning.”

  He led the general to an excavation that was wide enough to park several trucks in. “As you can see, General, there are three crypts. The two on the outside are filled with belongings of the Inca. The center crypt is the true grave of Pachacuti.”

  Lazar whispered to himself. He could see the bones of Pachacuti’s skeleton. It was shocking to see that the bones were not attached and they looked no different than the bones of an Inca slave. Even more grisly was the fact that there were still patches of hair on the skull. Right then and there, Lazar knew that his vision of global conquest was the right path for a man of true greatness, a man who followed in the tradition of the Incas, the sons of the sun. Even a great man like himself would one day be reduced to a grim and depressing collection of bones. Someday, someone would dig up his own bones and stare into the vacant eyes of the great General Lazar. They would face their own mortality, but more than that; they would know that their own deeds could never amount to pile of dirt in comparison to the monumental accomplishments of General Lazar. No man would ever look at the skull of General Lazar and feel superior just because he lived while Lazar was gone and dead. Never!

  Posterity would be humbled by even a hair of his skull.

  For now, his glory was all in front of him. It was all unfolding so quickly. To have found Pachacuti’s skull on the approach of his own greatest triumph was a precious omen.

  Lazar stepped down into the excavation and got down on his knees in the grave. He wiped the sand away from the bleached white eye sockets and cheek bones. The general gasped. He looked at the teeth of the great Inca, Pachacuti. They were yellow teeth, but each had a gem imbedded in it, the work of Inca dentists. They were beautiful gems: pink and blue Peruvian opals, two red emeralds from Argentina, and others.

  “Oh, rarity,” he whispered as he feasted his eyes on the bejeweled teeth. The rarity of these green emeralds brought tears to his eyes. How choice they were. How scarce. How uncommon. He owned emeralds of similar quality, and they were the actual emeralds that were seized when Pizarro conquered the foothills of the Andes.

  Lazar sensed that the archaeologist was looking over his shoulder.

  “Get back,” he shouted. “Show respect in the presence of an Inca.”

  “But—”

  “You’ll get your money. Just stay back.” Lazar glared at him, his eyes afire with excitement and anger.

  The archaeologist backed off. “I am sorry, General. I will—”

  “Quiet. Show some deference and respect!”

  The archaeologist nodded rapidly and backed away. He turned and walked fifty yards back. There he sat down in the sand and waited.

  Lazar stared wide-eyed at the royal bones. He had no doubt that this discovery was destiny. It was no coincidence that he had come into possession of Pachacuti’s skull on almost the eve of his own triumph. This was destiny. By the call of destiny and a history of unbridled greatness, he was the son of the sun. The darkness and oppression of the Incas, the ruthless domination and subjugation—a New Inca was rising, the great leader from the East who had been prophesied on the stone monument in the lost city. General Lazar was history in the flesh. The world would shutter for a thousand years because he had lived.

  For two decades he had been planning and scheming. Now, finally the gears were beginning to move. The momentum was building more and more.

  Having studied the great military minds of history, Lazar had created something completely new, an algorithm—a set of operations that, when competed in sequence, invariably generated a single solution for a particular, well-defined problem. This was no esoteric math formula, however. This was a formula for power acquisition and world domination. Once his wheels were in full motion, nothing could stop them; they would devastate like a tsunami wave, utterly unstoppable. He understood the human heart as well as any man alive but was willing to exploit his knowledge like no other. He understood that man is moved by two factors—fear and self interest. In a blitzkrieg across the political landscape, he was using the twin motivators to shock every opponent into compliance with his win-or-die ultimatum.

  His momentum had now passed the tipping point, the point beyond which change becomes unstoppable.

  His algorithm for power accumulation worked like a breeder reactor, a nuclear reactor that produced more fuel as it produced power. Similarly, Lazar’s sphere of influence was fueled by fear, momentum, and the tendency of weak-willed politicians to fall in line. Similarly, many people had capitulated to the Incas at their mere approach. Such was the power of fear that froze the weak hearts of the masses.

  “General!”

  Still on his knees in the sand, Lazar turned around. The depressing Hugo Torres, his executive protection officer, was approaching. The grim-faced brutalizer wiped his sweaty hand across his black shirt and the gun strap of his submachine gun.

  “What do you want?”

  “We have bad news. Esteban has been killed in Texas.”

  “What?”

  “He was bitten by rattlesnakes.”

  “That’s insane. What are you talking about?”

  “It is true. It has been verified.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “We don’t know. His body was found in a cave on the very ranch where your daughter was supposed to be.”

  “Brandt did this. Brandt is responsible.”

  “We don’t know about—”

  “That will be all!”

  Hugo retreated to the dirt road.

  Lazar’s fury was on the rise, but he controlled it. He could not be bothered with such problems now. The next six days were going to be the most important in his life—and they would change the world. Everything else had to be dropped for now.

  Snake bit, he thought. Lazar laughed. At first he chuckled, but then he laughed loudly.

  He leaned down and carefully picked up the skull in the sand. With his new prize in hand, he walked toward the jeep.

  It was an incredible day. He’d found a dead Inca as the tides of destiny were about to shift in his favor.

  But his assassin had failed. He hissed with contempt. He should have sent Hugo. He would have, but he needed all hands on deck for what was going to happen in the next six days. The world would never be the same. At the jeep he placed the skull in a wood box lined with black velvet.

  “Get me back to the helicopter now. I cannot be late to my meeting.”

  Hugo started the engine.

  CHAPTER 6

  Lima, Peru

  A dozen tourists and locals stood around and marveled at all the colorful little open boats moored near Fisherman’s Wharf. They floated happily in the sun-drenched waters offshore of Lima. Tourists also admired a classic tugboat that was tied up to the pier. A couple of boys tried to climb on board but were held back by their father. Even a couple of policeman walking the pier stopped for a look. The Matacancha was an old workboat with no luxuries and few comforts. She had a black hull that was high in the front and low at the stern. The housing was painted white with the wheelhouse perched above the cabins and the galley. The usual antennas and radar rose from the top of the wheelhouse.

  Chuck Brandt was staying there for a few days in exchange for a little carpentry work. He was building new bunks in a refurbished cabin. Presently, he was out on the back deck. He ran a few boards through the table saw, which was set up there. Fresh sawdust on deck would verify his cover story if necessary.

  As he turned the saw off and removed his safety goggles, he glanced out across the dock at the two dozen colorful open boats moored over there in the glittering waters.

  A cop walking up the pier caught his attention. “Hola,” Chuck said. “Como estas?”

  “Very good. Are you American?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  �
�How long has this boat been docked here?”

  “A few days.”

  “Don’t get too comfortable. Crime is always a concern when foreigners dock their boats. Keep the doors locked if you’re not around, and sleep with one eye open. How long will she be here?”

  “Maybe another day or two. It’s hard to say.”

  “Just lock your doors and don’t leave your tools out on deck at night.” The cop turned on his heel and looked away.

  “Thank you,” Chuck said. “I’ll be careful.”

  “Good. And watch your back around town.”

  “You seem concerned about me. I thank you.”

  “I am always concerned about visitors, especially in boats. If you haven’t been hit yet, you’re lucky.”

  Chuck wasn’t sure if it was really so dangerous around here or not, but he didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, it was dangerous everywhere, and little reminders of that fact were always welcome. He figured that the day he forgot would likely be the day some coward shot him in the back.

  Taking a sip from his water bottle, he stood there on deck for a moment and inhaled the fresh scent of the Amazonian sawdust around his table saw on the stern deck. It was sweet smell and pleasant along with the salty smell of the sea and the screech of the seagulls. He glanced down the dock and saw the usual collection of beachgoers. For the moment he felt, if not especially safe, at least anonymous. The cop probably thought he was just some gringo down south, running from bills and bad decisions, some aimless drifter who just wanted to chase women, waves, and margaritas. That’s how Chuck figured it looked, but appearances could be deceptive.

  He thought of General Lazar, a man “obsessed” with his destiny. Chuck looked out at the Pacific Ocean and the sight calmed his soul. He saw a vast swath of blue that stretched to the horizon and beyond. Framed against the horizon, he saw the outline of a three-masted sailboat. It was probably a modern sailing yacht, but all those sails made him think of conquistadors sailing to Peru to conquer and plunder. They, too, had been obsessed—only it was gold they’d been obsessed with. And what had it gotten them? So many overloaded galleons had gone down in storms. Obsession could be a dangerous thing.