Ai! Pedrito! E-Book

L. Ron Hubbard

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 1998

Seitenzahl: 385

Beschreibung

A rollicking and unpredictable adventure through the world of spies and double agents, lovers and enemies (often one and same). It has been said that somewhere in the world you have an exact double. This rocket-ride of a novel ignites with the sudden cry of “Ai! Pedrito!”, as Naval Lieutenant Tom Smith discovers that his exact look-alike is the notorious South American revolutionary and spy, Pedrito Miraflores.

Inspired by a real incident in the life of L. Ron Hubbard, “Ai! Pedrito!” is a fun-to-read, compelling novel of what can sometimes happen when intelligence goes wrong.

“All the fast pacing of James Bond and the adventure of Indiana Jones.” —Mystery Scene

Leseprobe

Selected fiction works byL. Ron Hubbard

FANTASY

If I Were You

Slaves of Sleep & The Masters of Sleep

Typewriter in the Sky

SCIENCE FICTION

Battlefield Earth

Final Blackout

The Great Secret

The Kingslayer

The Mission Earth Dekalogy:*

Volume 1: The Invaders Plan

Volume 2: Black Genesis

Volume 3: The Enemy Within

Volume 4: An Alien Affair

Volume 5: Fortune of Fear

Volume 6: Death Quest

Volume 7: Voyage of Vengeance

Volume 8: Disaster

Volume 9: Villainy Victorious

Volume 10: The Doomed Planet

Ole Doc Methuselah

To the Stars

HISTORICAL FICTION

Buckskin Brigades

Under the Black Ensign

MYSTERY

Cargo of Coffins

Dead Men Kill

Spy Killer

WESTERN

Branded Outlaw

Six-Gun Caballero

A full list of L. Ron Hubbard’s fiction works can be found at GalaxyPress.com

*Dekalogy—a group of ten volumes

Thank you for purchasingAi! Pedrito! by L. Ron Hubbard and Kevin J. Anderson

To receive special offers, bonus content and info on new fiction releases by L. Ron Hubbard, sign up for the Galaxy Press newsletter.

Visit us online at GalaxyPress.com

AI! PEDRITO!—WHEN INTELLIGENCE GOES WRONG

© 1998 L. Ron Hubbard Library. All Rights Reserved.

Any unauthorized copying, translation, duplication, importation or distribution, in whole or in part, by any means, including electronic copying, storage or transmission, is a violation of applicable laws.

The words Mission Earth and Writers of the Future are registered trademarks owned by L. Ron Hubbard Library.

The words Dianetics and Scientology are trademarks and service marks owned by Religious Technology Center and are used with its permission.

Cover design by Peter Green Design and Mike Manoogian © 1998 Galaxy Press. All Rights Reserved.

Print ISBN: 978-1-59212-003-1EPUB edition ISBN: 978-1-61986-001-8Kindle edition ISBN: 978-1-59212-091-8Audiobook ISBN: 978-1-59212-804-4

Published by Galaxy Press, Inc.7051 Hollywood Boulevard, Hollywood, California 90028

GalaxyPress.com

Contents

Foreword

Ai! Pedrito!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

About the Authors

Foreword

“Just as Ian Fleming drew from his real experience in British Intelligence to create James Bond, Ai! Pedrito! is based on a true story, but in this case it was comedy.”—L. Ron Hubbard

To which we might add: that true story is just as enthralling as the fictional, and tells volumes about the life of an author who knew of what he wrote. All begins in 1932 when, among other adventures later to figure in his celebrated stories, a twenty-one-year-old (and significantly red-haired) L. Ron Hubbard set out for a then still remote Puerto Rico to conduct that island’s first complete mineralogical expedition under United States’ protectorship. There, in the literal “wake of conquistadors,” and on the “hunting ground of pirates,” he sluiced many an inland river for traces of alluvial gold. He also scaled many a cliff with a sample pick, probed many a tunnel at the end of an improvised harness and left many “bits of khaki which have probably blown away from the thorn bushes long ago.”

But quite in addition to expected adventures—the near fatal collapse of a San German mine, for example, or a raging bout with malaria—there was that curious business of Señor Pedrito.

As a first and seemingly innocuous brush with the man, Ron writes of exiting a Cuban embassy in early October 1932 to hear a Spanish gentleman cry: “Ai! Pedrito! Cómo está?” When he reasonably pleaded mistaken identity, the accosting Spaniard offered only a savvy “Oh, that’s all right, Pedrito. I won’t tell anybody you’re here.”

Next, and rather more significantly, he writes of three engineers on a Puerto Rican mining trail, and their similarly exuberant “Ai! Pedrito! Cómo está?” While in reply to his plea of mistaken identity: “You can tell us. We won’t write anybody. We won’t let anybody know we saw you.”

Then came the proverbial stranger in a bar with a pistol in his pocket—“and if I hadn’t kicked him in the shins, I would have been a dead man”—and the equally unfamiliar Panamanian woman, who caught one glimpse of the red-haired profile and indignantly crossed the street. By which point, he could only conclude “Pedro’s been here.”

Thereafter, and particularly through the opening months of the Second World War when a then Lieutenant L. Ron Hubbard served United States Naval Intelligence in the South Pacific and elsewhere, this Pedrito remained a peripheral phantom. Most intriguingly, Ron speaks of encountering reports on his own supposed activities in places he had never even visited—specifically, running with Nazi spies in Brazil. Eventually, however, and like a figure first glimpsed from the corner of the eye and only gradually assuming shape, this Pedrito grew fairly definite as the prodigal son of a wealthy Brazilian clan. The man was also apparently on the lam from authorities in half a dozen nations, and further fleeing the fathers/brothers of at least a dozen jilted ladies.

Now, while we may find many an adventure from L. Ron Hubbard’s fabulous years of exploration woven into earlier works for which he is now famous—Fear, for example, was partially crafted from tales heard within that Puerto Rican hinterland—Pedrito continued to simmer. By the early 1980s, however, and the author’s much applauded return to popular fiction with the internationally best-selling Battlefield Earth, that curious case of mistaken identity began to plot itself into a story. As originally conceived, the story became a full-length L. Ron Hubbard screenplay, complete with detailed notes on direction, characterization, sets and sound. In accordance with his life-long commitment to younger authors, however, and fully appreciating just how difficult it is to break into the world of writing, he granted the novelization to another in what amounted to a golden opportunity.

In either case, the underlying theme of the story has since proven fully on the mark: the dark reality of a United States Central Intelligence Agency as anything but a slick and sophisticated stable of spies. To underscore the point, L. Ron Hubbard story notes reference an original agency failure to impede a flow of arms to Castro prior to the fall of Batista; while we might further reference all the agency has finally come to represent in terms of myopic bureaucracy or—as underscored by later revelations from an Iran-Contra affair—sheer buffoonery. As the reader will soon also discover, however, the L. Ron Hubbard view of an equally myopic and overbearing Soviet intelligence machine is hardly more flattering.

Yet Ai! Pedrito! is a story of far more than two dimensions, i.e., far more than the tale of two look-alike spies in the midst of a looking-glass war. Rather, here is the world in which those spies dwell, replete with muddled politics, convoluted schemes and highly ephemeral loyalties. Needless to say, this world of Pedrito is not only a place of devilishly clever gadgets, highly seductive women and wholly unpredictable situations; it is also a place that is real—where the wine is not always vintage and cigars are not always Cuban. By the same token, however, here is a world where action never flags, deception never ends and anything can follow from such seemingly innocuous questions as, Ai! Pedrito! Cómo está?

—Dan Sherman

Dan Sherman is the author of several highly acclaimed works on Cold War espionage. Mr. Sherman is presently engaged in the definitive biography of L. Ron Hubbard.

Ai! Pedrito!

Chapter 1

In the jungles outside of Havana, Cuba, a squadron of black ducks crossed the sky at dusk, like bats. According to the tourist guidebooks it was considered a very bad omen. The ducks arrowed together, seeking evening prey among the numerous gnats and insects rising from the island’s steaming jungles.

Then, as one, the flock of black ducks veered, quacking in instinctive fear as they skirted the imposing edifice of a grim fortress perched atop sheer, rugged cliffs high above the sea. Curling ocean waves crashed against the rocks below with a roar like a lion, guarding the citadel.

The treacherous road that led up to the spiked front gate of Morro Castle stopped in an ancient courtyard. Knotted vines protruded from the ground, buckling the flagstones. No welcome mat lay at the foot of the barred wooden doors; the daily newspapers had not been delivered in some time. An ominous sign announced in Spanish No Soliciting.

Over the years, the dark fortress had been used by an endless stream of torturers, mad scientists, and megalomaniacs with their tiresome schemes of taking over the world. By now, the locals had stopped paying much attention to Morro Castle, tending instead to their cane or tobacco fields, knowing that in an emergency some hero would eventually rectify the situation and all would go back to normal again.

As the sun set across the Caribbean, and soupy clouds gathered for an evening squall, Morro Castle’s new inhabitants were up to the usual hi-jinks.…

* * *

“Asombroso!” cried the Cuban intelligence colonel, astounded as he sat back in a creaking wooden chair, clapping a hand to his head to hold his beret in place.

His hair was black and thick, his bloodshot eyes dark and flashing. He wore a rumpled khaki uniform, adorned with numerous stars and medals he had pinned on himself. Some of them hung crookedly from his uniform, because when in front of a mirror, the Cuban colonel spent more time admiring his huge black beard than studying the neatness of his dress.

Across the stone-walled tower room, the Russian colonel said placidly, “Da, Comrade Enrique.” Unlike his companion’s, his own olive uniform was immaculate and well pressed. He used a ruler and a level every morning to make sure his medals hung straight. “Here, see for yourself.”

The Russian stood up to place a SECRET folder on the rugged wooden table in the center of the chamber. Rusty manacles dangled from the edges of the table, and faded reddish stains adorned the hewn boards. Other torture instruments hung from hooks on the walls, available for the use of any of the castle’s tenants; all of the equipment had been left behind as a courtesy by the castle’s former inhabitants, before the revolution.

The Russian colonel knocked a jingling manacle out of the way, more interested in the photographs he removed from the folder. He held them up to the flickering light. The Cuban colonel hurried over to see the photo of the redheaded man—a face he had observed many times on WANTED posters, arrest warrants, propaganda leaflets. “Ai! It is him!” Astonished, he said, “Sacred mother of a dog, Ivan! This is incredible!”

“Our peerless KGB has verified it utterly,” Ivan said with a sniff.

“I thought the KGB was disbanded with the fall of the Soviet Union,” Enrique said.

The Russian shrugged. “It is now part of the Ministry of Mapmaking. New department, same job.” He held a second photograph up to the flickering light. “See for yourself, Comrade.”

As he looked more closely, Enrique saw that it couldn’t be the same man, not in the same place, not with the same clothes. Could it be some hoax … or was it exactly what they had been hoping for?

“Come,” said Ivan, gathering his photos and clapping a hand on the Cuban’s shoulder, “this is our chance. They say that Communism is dead, just because it is in a coma. But you and I know better: There are millions of loyalists toiling around the world, ashamed to admit their true feelings, their longings for the glory days of the Soviet Empire, their innermost hopes for a glorious future. All they need is a little victory to make them feel better, just one small country to topple in a revolution—like in the old days, when everyone was eager to embrace the loving principles of Stalinism—”

Ivan had a faraway look in his eyes, and he stared off at the wall, as if gazing at some glorious, distant sunrise. Enrique was lighting a cigar. Ivan’s voice then took on a hard, intense quality as he continued: “Once we bring one country down, my friend, the loyalists of the world will rise up with their hammers and their pitchforks and their Molotov cocktails and their nerve gas and their intercontinental ballistic missiles, and they will throw off the intolerable shackles of their horrible capitalist tormentors!”

Enrique shook his head in wonder. He was frankly baffled by capitalists and their strange way of life. The only time he’d ever seen a real, horrible capitalist tormentor was when he’d once been assigned to a firing squad detail, and he hadn’t really gotten a good look at the man through the gunsights.

“Sacred nostril of a yak!” Enrique said, puffing his cigar smoke into Ivan’s face. Ivan coughed. “Are you sure this will work? Pedrito Miraflores is a madman”—he decided he’d better quickly cover himself—“a loyal Communist madman, but a madman nonetheless. If we put your plan into effect, we could get into more trouble than we bargain for.”

The Russian shook his head with a smile. “Or it might be an opportunity we cannot afford to pass up.”

Just then, the single bulb that lit the dim room buzzed and died with a pop. The only light came from Enrique’s cigar. “Come,” Ivan said. “Let us go down to the operations office, where there is better light.”

* * *

Deeper inside Morro Castle, switchboards and radar receivers were strung along a fortified outside wall that opened to the churning sea. Uniformed operators moved about. Everyone paused to look up as the two colonels entered, then they briskly went back to work with redoubled efforts. (Rumors of impending layoffs had rippled through the staff of the evil fortress.)

A reedy, nervous-looking aide hustled over to hover beside Colonel Enrique, awaiting his orders. Enrique ignored him.

“I have more evidence that Miraflores has a double,” Colonel Ivan said. “We have an espionage photographer in New York. He operates as an undercover mime near the Office of Naval Intelligence. He took these photographs.” The Russian snapped his fingers, indicating an attaché case on a console.

The reedy aide dashed over to the case, rummaging through papers and folders and antacid wrappers until he dragged out a sheaf of photographic enlargements, labeled Other Evidence.

“There, Comrade, is the proof!” the Russian colonel said. “Is it not wonderful?”

The aide handed the photos to Colonel Enrique, who fanned them out, staring at the top image. The curious aide crept close enough to peer over the Cuban colonel’s shoulder, but Enrique elbowed him sharply in the ribs; the aide scuttled away, holding his side.

The color portrait showed a roguish man in stained jungle combat clothes and a big red star upon his cap. The cap covered shaggy red hair, as if he had sawed it to the proper length with a serrated knife. Two guns hung at his hips, a bandolier of bullets crisscrossed his chest, and several grenades had been clipped to his belt.

“I am already quite familiar with our man Pedrito Miraflores,” Colonel Enrique growled.

Colonel Ivan said smugly, “Now look at the other one closely.”

It was a formal studio portrait of what appeared to be the same person, the same red hair and blue eyes, but some sort of alter ego—this young man was an American naval officer holding his cap under his arm and staring with wide, bewildered eyes toward the camera. His red hair had been neatly cut and combed.

“Tom Smith,” Enrique read the label below the portrait. “Lieutenant junior grade.” He looked up in astonishment. “Holy brother of a lemur! They do look just alike, even side by side. That is too much to wish for. Don’t tell me they’re both the same height and weight!”

“They are,” said the Russian colonel. “They also both speak Spanish and English perfectly. It would be ideal for us to make a switch.”

Enrique shuffled up two more snapshots, one of each: Pedrito Miraflores swinging into a sports car on a Havana street, grinning hugely as if he knew he was posing for a spy camera. In the other photo, his spitting image, Lieutenant Tom Smith, stood looking somewhat mystified as he received an engineering award amongst top Navy brass.

“Sacred tailbone of a mollusk,” Enrique said, scratching his huge beard and shaking his head in disbelief. His dark eyes shone with the possibilities. “The good God bless the KGB, or the Ministry of Mapmaking, or whatever they’re called these days! This could be the greatest intelligence coup of all time! What if we could make a switch? By putting Pedrito in his place, we could infiltrate the United States intelligence service, while using Smith as a scapegoat down here. That Navy buffoon could take the fall for all of Pedrito’s crimes.”

“I thought you’d like my idea,” the Russian colonel said. “We will get our best man, Bolo, to oversee all the details.” He raised his bushy eyebrows over watery gray eyes, then lowered his voice. “Now how about another case of those cigars, Enrique? Monte Cristo No. 2. My, uh, wife likes them very much.”

Ignoring the request, the Cuban colonel whirled to snap at his aide, who still stood nursing his sore ribs. “Quick, quick—get Maria! We must begin immediately. This is a marvelous plan for us to set in motion.”

The aide dashed off, returning a moment later with a straggly haired brunette woman, whose face wore the hardened, deadly look of a dedicated revolutionary. Her mouth was an angry line. “Sí, Colonel?”

“Fast, fast, Maria!” Enrique said. He fumbled in the photos and eventually found a phone slip, peeling it from the back of one of the enlargements. “Get this number. Plan G goes into operation at once, at once!”

“Sí, Colonel! At once!” Maria seized the slip of paper, scanned the numbers, then stuffed the paper in her mouth, chewing it to bits before the colonel could stop her. He admired her dedication.

She grabbed the phone as if she were trying to subdue it, then dialed the number. “Operator,” she said, her mouth still stuffed with wet paper. Her inflection remained deadly. “Operator—get me the New York Office of Naval Intelligence. I must speak with Lieutenant Tom Smith.”

Chapter 2

The stenciled letters on the translucent glass door read Lieut. (jg) Tom Smith, USN, Missile Security Section. Then, in larger letters, it proudly stated Office of Naval Intelligence.

“I just don’t get it,” Lieutenant Smith said. He sat at his desk in full uniform, scratching his bright red hair.

The phone rang beside him, but he ignored it. He couldn’t afford to be distracted at this crucial moment as he studied the missile plans, trying to fathom how this design was different from the thousand similar plans he had approved for massive funding requests.

Two well-dressed civilian contractors fidgeted in front of him, looking at each other through narrowed eyes, as if afraid Smith might catch them at a prank. Both contractors carried other blueprints tucked under their arms.

“It’s perfectly simple, Lieutenant Smith,” one contractor said, seemingly perplexed that Smith did not grab the phone as it rang a second time. “The design is exactly the same as all the other ones you approved, only different.”

“Then why do we have to fund new development, if this one’s exactly the same?” Smith asked in confusion.

“It’s substantially modified,” the second contractor answered smugly.

“I don’t know, gentlemen,” Smith told the contractors, smoothing the curled edges of the blueprints spread out on his neat, military-issue gray desk. AList of Things to Do Today sat next to the IN box; very few of the items on the list had been checked off.

As if miffed at being summarily ignored, the phone rang a third time.

“There are so many new developments that I can’t keep them straight.” He gestured toward the corner of his office, where a drawing board groaned under the strain of heaped plans for new missile systems. The blueprints awaited his approvals, or revisions, or signatures, before they could be filed.

The first contractor reached forward to point at intricate lines scrawled on the blueprint. “Lieutenant Smith, you must admit this missile system is secure.”

The second contractor exulted with an eager grin, “This modified design is so complex, it takes twelve years of college for anyone to operate it! The new concept is a testament to how much respect we hold for the education and intelligence of our proud men in uniform.”

Smith shook his head and looked up at them, bewildered. “But I can’t make head nor tail of it.”

“Exactly, that’s the point!” the first contractor said. “Completely secure. You’re one of our most capable men, and if this system baffles you, imagine how it will confound our enemies! No enemy agent will ever be able to thwart this system, and our nation will be safe.”

Smith continued to look up at the first contractor. “Then how can we use it, if nobody can understand it?”

The first contractor said patiently, tucking additional rolled blueprints under his arm, “You just push this red button, and the system handles the rest! Look, Lieutenant Smith, nobody is asking you to understand it. As a Naval Intelligence officer, all you have to do is stamp it approved!”

Smith frowned down at the plan, shaking his head. “If only the instructors at the Naval Academy had talked about these missiles a little more …”

He sighed deeply and picked up a rubber stamp, flipping it over to read APPROVED in reverse letters. Then he rummaged in his desk drawer for an inking pad, before finally banging the stamp haphazardly on the blueprint.

Jubilant, the two contractors whisked away the plan. Without bothering to roll the blueprint they rushed out the door, heading down the hall to the next office, where they would go through the same process with another set of plans and another Naval Intelligence officer with another rubber stamp.

Smith stared after the contractors, sighed deeply again, then finally noticed the incessantly ringing phone. He snatched up the handset, pressing it to his ear. “Yes? How may I help you?”

“Is this Lieutenant Smith?” a woman’s voice asked. He thought he heard a crisp Cuban accent in her words.

“Yes,” Smith answered.

“Lieutenant Tom Smith?” she continued. “Junior grade?”

“Yes.”

“Office of Naval Intelligence?”

“Yes.”

“Missile Security Section?”

“Yes, yes. Is this a sales call?” He looked forlornly down at his List of Things to Do Today.

“We just wanted to be absolutely certain, Lieutenant Smith. This is your lucky day—we have some exciting news for you, señor.”

Brightening, Smith pulled himself closer to his desk. “What is it? Who’s calling?”

“This is Maria calling from, uh, Pan-Latin Airways. Congratulations! You have just won our contest.” Despite her attempts to sound like an American professional public relations specialist, the singsong quality of her voice carried an underlying coldness.

“I have?” Smith asked. “But I don’t even enter contests. I never gamble.”

“This is a contest you don’t have to enter,” Maria said. “You were the millionth person to enter the World Trade Center this month.”

“There must be some mistake,” Smith said, flipping back through the calendar on his desk. “I’ve never even been to the World Trade Center.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You should go there—I hear it’s a wonderful place.” He heard Maria shuffling papers. “Ah, sorry, you were the millionth person to enter the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine.”

“I’ve never been there either. What city is that in?”

Maria’s voice became deeper, colder, very deadly. “You were the millionth person to pass Forty-Second and Broadway.”

“Look, I—”

“Señor, you won, do you hear? You won!” Her voice began to rise and become more frantic: “I don’t know how you won, I’m just trying to do my job. Why are you giving me such a hard time? Do you want me to cry or something?” She sounded close to hysterics. “Oh, my God, now my supervisor is looking at me! Are you trying to get me fired?”

“Oh,” Smith said, finally coming to his senses. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. I’m so sorry.”

“Look, Mr. Smith, just be happy. You’re name is at the top of the list. You won a trip, and everyone else won little marshmallow candies shaped like skulls to help them celebrate the day of the dead. You’re the big lucky winner, okay? The big man. Everybody is going to envy you!”

Smith seemed taken aback. “Uh, okay, what did I win? I’ve never won anything before.”

Maria’s voice became bright and happy again. “You have won an all-expense-paid three-day tour to the beautiful country of Colodor in South America. The finest hotels, the best cuisine. Three marvelous days in the beautiful capital city of Santa Isabel! You lucky, lucky boy! So just pick up your tickets at Pan-Latin Airways and away you go!”

Smith looked at the phone, excited but then curious. “Colodor? Santa Isabel? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Ah, señor, Colodor is the pearl of South America! Lovely, lush, full of scenery and culture. And Santa Isabel has much history and interesting architecture.”

“If you say so, but it still doesn’t even sound like a real country. In fact, it sounds like something made up for a pulp-fiction adventure story.”

“Now, now, don’t be ridiculous,” Maria said, her voice soothing. “How could you win a trip to a country that doesn’t exist? It is a very important country in South America. I should know: My brother runs the Department of Education there—and also the Department of Plumbing and Insect Control!”

He swiveled in his chair and squinted closely at the large map of the world on his wall. Smith had joined the Navy to be more like his hero, Admiral Nelson, exploring the vast world on majestic sailing ships, defending the British Empire. Smith hadn’t really anticipated sitting at a desk and stamping blueprints for his entire career.

“I’m looking at my map right now, miss, and I don’t see Colodor anywhere in South America.” He was more perplexed than suspicious.

“It is near Colombia and Ecuador,” Maria answered smoothly, “but unfortunately the mapmakers’ union has been on strike. You won’t find Colodor shown on many charts. A very messy situation with the Ministry of Mapmaking. My family has nothing to do with that, I swear!”

“Oh, that explains it,” Smith said, relieved. He jotted down the information he needed to pick up his prize tickets, thanked Maria politely, and then hung up the phone.

In a blessed moment of silence, Smith stared over at the stack of incomprehensible blueprints on his drawing board. Then, with a wistful glance over his shoulder, he focused on the map of South America again, imagining where the mysterious Colodor might be located.

He threw the whole pile of blueprints off his drawing board, stood up, and straightened his uniform jacket before walking out the door. He would just have to see the place for himself!

* * *

Back in the Operations Office deep in Morro Castle, Maria narrowed her dark eyes and gave a deadly nod to the Russian and Cuban colonels. “Lieutenant Tom Smith has fallen right into our clutches.”

Colonel Enrique let out a whoop. “Ai! Plan G is at last underway!” He clapped a congratulatory hand on his bearlike comrade’s broad shoulder. “Make sure Bolo is ready to do his part.”

Colonel Ivan beamed, raising his bushy eyebrows. “Da, the switch will be a success.” He snapped shut his briefcase. “Now, about those cigars, Comrade Enrique?”

Chapter 3

Admiral Turner, New York’s director of Naval Intelligence, sat at his desk holding a dice cup in his hand. The portable radio on the windowsill was tuned to the “All Lawrence Welk” station, and soothing popular favorites tinkled in the air like floating soap bubbles.

The old admiral slammed the cup down to roll the six poker dice again and stared at the results. “Oh, blast and damn!”

As he moved, his gold braid, campaign ribbons and polished medals jingled above his stiff uniform. His steel-gray hair poked up, close cropped and bristly; his skin had the worn, old-leather look of a man who had spent his life facing the salt air of the sea … or just from using too harsh a brand of after-shave.

After knocking briskly, Tom Smith marched in and stood at the side of the desk, waiting until his superior officer granted him a moment of attention. The Lawrence Welk music on the radio made Smith drowsy, but he shook his head, rehearsing what he meant to say.

Admiral Turner did not glance up at Smith. “I just can’t seem to beat myself today.” He stared at the dice scattered across the paper clips and telephone message slips on his desk. With a rattle, he swept the dice back into the cup and thrust it across the desk toward Smith, knocking a few TOP SECRET memos aside. “Here, boy, you try your hand.”

Smith looked at the cup, plucking out one of the dice critically. He understood what the dice were for, though he had never played, never tried to fathom the rules. Even if he had wanted to, though, he spotted no place to roll the dice on the cluttered desk. “But, sir, I’m afraid I—”

“Oh, I forgot,” the admiral said with a sigh. He snatched back the dice cup. “You don’t gamble, you don’t drink. In every other way, you’re a very promising officer—tops in your class. But you lack … I don’t know—vision or Navy spirit or … whatever. We’ve got to do something about you, Smith.” He opened his lower desk drawer and dropped the dice cup beside a silver whiskey flask, a stack of poker chips and two decks of playing cards. Then he folded his big-knuckled hands as he hunched across the desk. “Didn’t they teach you anything at the academy? The Navy is going to hell these days, ever since we banned all the hazing rituals. You’ve got to keep up the tradition, young man—the burden rests on your shoulders.”

Shaking his head, Admiral Turner heaved himself out of his creaking chair and walked over to the grime-streaked window. He looked past the pigeons to the bustling New York street. He clasped his hands behind his back as if he were on the bridge of a great sailing ship, gazing across the waves in search of an island.

Smith just stood there, a little crestfallen. The admiral often got into one of these moods.

“Sometimes I wonder what the world is coming to,” the old man continued in a soft voice, self-absorbed. He rapped his knuckles against the window, startling the pigeons, and turned to look at Smith, his hands on his hips. “I try to be a father figure to my junior officers. I care about each and every one. But, Smith, I’ve almost given up on you.”

He strode over to the clean-cut young lieutenant. “You just don’t seem to care about your image, about the Navy’s reputation. When you first came aboard, I had hope. I thought you were a man who was going to get on in the world, make his mark! Why, I was certain you’d even make admiral someday. But you’re so fastidious you don’t make a mark on anything.”

The old man slumped in disappointment. The Lawrence Welk station played a particularly maudlin song. Admiral Turner stood by the wall adorned with framed photographs of his former crewmates. Model ships of Navy destroyers, aircraft carriers and submarines sat on display atop his credenza, his bookshelves, his coffee maker.

Smith shuffled his feet in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, sir. I have tried my best.”

“Your best? When was the last time you went into a bar and knocked the stuffing out of a few Marines? In my day, I had a girl in every port! But I’m beginning to think you’ll die a virgin. What kind of sailor is that? You’re getting to be the joke of this whole office!” The admiral raised his voice, as if he were giving his pep talk to a new group of cadets.

He stood directly in front of Smith, who remained at attention, wishing he had not come into the office to make his request after all. From the faint sweet smell that clung to the admiral’s uniform, Smith thought the old man had been drinking more than coffee that morning.

“All I’m asking you to do is be a little human. Get drunk once in a while. Find some nice girl from a good family, someone who’ll make a good hostess.” The old man’s eyebrows shot up. “You know …” he said coyly, as if the idea had just occurred to him, “why not marry somebody like … like my daughter, Joan? She just wants to marry some nice fellow and settle down, have babies, work in the kitchen. Isn’t that what all women want? I’ve been reading those stories to Joan since she was a little girl. You could be that special fellow, Smith—if you’d just reform!”

Smith stammered, “But, but—I don’t know how, sir.”

The admiral’s expression became severe. “Go out and live a little, expand your horizons!”

“Well, sir,” Smith seized upon his opening at last, “that’s what I’m here about. Sort of. I mean, I’d like to request some time off.” He brushed down his uniform, fidgeting. “I just won a contest, sir.”

“You?” the admiral said, startled. “Why, that’s wonderful! Won a contest, eh?” He added hopefully, “Did you cheat?”

“Well, no, sir,” Smith admitted. “I don’t even remember entering. I just won, kind of.” He shrugged. “But I do need three days off.”

“To do what? Read some more books?”

“Oh, no, sir. I’ll need to travel. It’s an all-expense-paid stay in a luxury hotel. A vacation to some country called Colodor. I can’t find it on my charts, though.”

“Colodor? That little third-world hellhole? Ah yes, I’ve heard about their mapmakers’ strike. Terrible situation.” Then the admiral brightened, clapping a paternal hand on Smith’s shoulder. “Wonderful! It’ll do you a world of good, Smith. Oh, man, I can see you now! Dancing to soft lights and sexy music, climbing aboard a nice blonde and … relaxing! My boy, there’s hope for you yet!”

“Does that mean I can have the time off, sir? I’ll need to leave right away, if I’m to accept my prize. I’ve got tickets to fly into Santa Isabel—”

“Go! Go! By all means go!” The admiral practically shoved him toward the door, then jabbed a finger at him. “And try to get yourself in a little trouble for once, Smith. That’s an order!”

“I, uh—yes, sir,” he said, then fled into the hall.

Chapter 4

Colonel Enrique hid between two palm trees near the Santa Isabel International Airport, and watched the jet cruising down through the blue equatorial sky. “Here comes Lieutenant Smith, exactly on time!”

He adjusted his sunglasses, then tugged down his floppy golf hat, secure in his tourist disguise. He wore pants made of material most often seen on sofas and a windbreaker with the name of a bowling league silk-screened on the back.

Enrique turned to his burly companion who wore plaid shorts, black socks and penny-loafers in which he had discreetly tucked copper ruble coins.

Ivan said, “I’m sure he suspects nothing—Americans are used to winning prizes and getting free luxuries. It is all a daily part of their decadent, dying civilization. Make no mistake, Enrique: once, religion was the opiate of the people. Now, it is prize shows and lotteries and the Publisher’s Cleaning House Sweepstakes. That is how the bourgeoisie keeps the American pigs feeding at their troughs.”

“Ah, you make me feel sorry for them,” Enrique said. “Tell me, Ivan, what happens if Smith gets killed during this little escapade?” The Cuban colonel watched the plane come in for a landing.

“I’m counting on it, Enrique,” the Russian colonel said with a shrug. He squirted a dab of suntan lotion on the palm of his hand and rubbed it on the tip of his sunburn-red nose. “Our impostor ‘Pedrito’ will become a martyr to the cause—he’ll no doubt be much more manageable that way—and the real Pedrito will be our double agent in the United States. No one will know they have switched places. Long live the people’s revolution!”

“Good,” Enrique said, “now let’s hurry before we get a parking ticket. This isn’t peaceful Cuba, you know.”

* * *

A queue of passengers straggled past the customs counters, lugging suitcases and duffels, tucking passports and papers into their pockets. A brass band struck up a loud, off-key welcoming tune, which Tom Smith suspected must be the national anthem of Colodor, though it sounded strikingly similar to an old Frank Sinatra song. The band members, all mustached, all portly, all wearing colorful sombreros, didn’t have quite enough enthusiasm to make up for their lack of musical talent. No one else seemed to mind.

Due in part to the mapmakers’ strike, as well as Colodor’s usual political turmoils, few jets landed in Santa Isabel. However, kiosks packed with entire families of smiling souvenir vendors, tour providers and T-shirt sellers lined the bright open-air receiving area beyond the customs counter. A newsstand sold Santa Isabel’s official national newspaper, as well as postcards and place mats showing beautiful scenic photographs. Santa Isabel—Pearl of South America, So Beautiful, We’ve Kept Our Entire Country a Secret! and Don’t Let the Maps Fool You! We DO Exist!

“Passengers for Santa Isabel from New York now debarking at Gate 7,” the PA announced.

A man dressed as a taxi driver stood outside the terminal, watching every person who emerged from the customs counter. He was plump and moonfaced, sweating in the South American heat. His features had an exotic Turkish cast, a distinctive mix neither Eastern nor Western. He most certainly did not belong in the cabby’s uniform, and none of the other drivers had ever seen him before.

The man tried to remain unobtrusive, but ready to spring into action as he scanned the passengers for a particular red headed American, ignoring all other potential customers.

He had a mission to accomplish.

He removed his name tag—HI, MY NAME IS BOLO! Lieutenant Smith had no need to know his name. The American would be seeing enough of him as it was.

“Flight 731 for Rio de Janeiro now loading at Gate 5,” the PA announced, echoing in the empty terminal and crackling with static. “Vuelo sieteciento …”

Blinking in the sunshine and looking lost, Tom Smith came through the gate as other passengers swirled around him. He wore a sport coat, trim and professional, and he carried a single black suitcase. His red-gold hair was quite distinctive. Bolo spotted him instantly.

Vendors thrust brochures and coupons in Smith’s hand, and he thanked them obliviously until he could hold nothing more. Finally, the young lieutenant took the entire stack and politely handed it to another vendor, who proceeded to distribute the coupons to new potential marks. Street urchins dashed up to sell unauthorized maps of the country, before they were chased away by officials in dark uniforms. All along the streets, groups of out-of-work mapmakers walked picket lines.

Bolo snapped to attention beside his small yellow cab, then made his move. He hurried forward like a real taxi driver, intent on getting his customer and providing the best service possible. He had his orders from Colonels Ivan and Enrique—which he followed whenever it was convenient. Bolo had even greater plans up his sleeve.…

But then a portly, well-dressed man also rushed toward Smith, overjoyed and waving urgently for attention. Despite his fine clothes, the portly man carried a battered cardboard suitcase held together with gray duct tape. Puffing as he ran, he skidded to a halt before Smith, dropped his suitcase and spread his arms wide.

“Ai! Pedrito!” The portly man wrapped his arms around Smith, hugging him in greeting.

Bolo paused, not knowing what to do. He had expected nothing like this. Could there be another agent on the case?

Unable to move, Smith spluttered, “Um, excuse me, sir, I—”

The portly man pulled Smith toward the cantina a few steps down the walkway from the vendors and taxis. Umbrellas and awnings provided welcome shade over wicker chairs and rickety tables. The airport lounge was deserted in the bright afternoon sunshine. Big, languid ceiling fans stirred the humid air, occasionally whacking stunned tropical insects that flew too close to the blades.

“Ai, Pedrito, how glad I am to see you,” the stranger said, pounding Smith so hard on his back that the young lieutenant stumbled forward, almost dropping his black suitcase. “We’ve just got time before my flight so I can buy you a drink! As I promised last time we met, eh? Do you still remember those wild women? And they said they were nuns! Ha-ha!”

Bolo thought fast, and decided to wait coolly outside. This encounter could prove interesting.

The portly man pushed Smith into a creaking wicker seat beneath a Modelo Especial umbrella. With a chubby hand studded with gold rings, the man swept cockroaches and a small lizard aside and grabbed for a bowl of fried plantain chips. He demanded the attention of the bartender. “Quickly! My friend Pedrito here is an impatient—and important—man! And I have a plane to catch in a few minutes.”

“Please, please,” Smith said, still trying to be polite. “There must be some mistake. My name isn’t Pedrito.”

As the portly man slumped into his own seat across the table, he grinned, as if understanding an inside joke. “Ah, now, Pedrito, you can trust me! After all we’ve been through together.” He placed a chubby finger across his lips and lowered his voice. “Just like old times, eh? Bartender! Two margaritas, fast! Use your best tequila for my friend here!”

“But, but—I don’t drink tequila,” Smith protested.

The fat man slapped him on the back, guffawing loudly. “You don’t drink tequila! Hah, my friend, that is a good joke! No tequila. Agave worms tremble in fear when Pedrito Miraflores walks near.”

Outside the cantina, Bolo continued his wait. The two colonels had given him explicit instructions, but Bolo had more important plans of his own. Calm and patient, he knew he could make everything work out.

“… and I always wondered if your horse really made it through the Orchid Jungle of Death!” the portly man continued, not letting Smith get in a word edgewise. “And how did you survive the stampede of poison tree frogs? Ai!”

The bartender came with the margaritas, two glasses of questionable cleanliness crusted with salt and filled with lime and tequila.

“But I’m trying to tell you,” Smith said, blinking across at his unexpected companion, “I don’t know anyone named Pedrito.” The bartender set the salt-rimmed glass before him, but Smith nudged it aside. “Excuse me, perhaps a glass of milk? Leche, por favor?”

“No leche, señor,” the bartender said with a sneer. “In this heat, it curdles too quickly.”

The portly man cracked up with a belly laugh. “Milk!” He recovered a bit, still chuckling, and swiped the back of his hand across his glistening forehead. “Pedrito, you’ll be the death of me yet! Tell me the one about the scorpion wranglers in the underground city—”

“Rio. Rio. Abordo!” the PA announced.

“Rio? Ah, that’s my plane.” The stranger gulped his entire margarita, threw a bill onto the table and patted Smith’s hand. “I wish we could talk more, but I’ve got to run. Someday you’ll have to tell me how you survived the raid on the valley of the cactus poachers. You are a legend in Colodor, mi amigo!” He leaned forward, speaking in a stage whisper, “But I see you must be on another mission now. Never mind, Pedrito, your secret is safe with me!”

The portly man rushed off, heading for his plane. Smith stared after him. “What an odd man.”

He pushed away his untouched margarita, picked up his black suitcase and rose from the wicker chair. He brushed tiny splinters from the seat of his pants. As he left, the bartender came to clean up the table, eyed Smith’s pristine drink and slurped it down himself.…

Outside the terminal, Bolo stood by the fender of his taxicab, still waiting. As his second opportunity arose, he remained studiously calm, the model of bored confidence as he watched Smith approach, looking for a cab.

Another taxi driver bustled forward, eager to snag a well-paying American tourist. Barely moving, Bolo’s foot expertly tripped the other driver and made him sprawl flat on his face on the cobblestoned street. Bolo stepped on the prostrate driver’s back, walked over him and moved up toward Smith, completely professional and businesslike.

“Cab, sir?” Bolo said in a flat, unemotional voice as he courteously opened the door for Smith. “I am the finest driver in all Santa Isabel.”

Still distracted by his odd experience with the portly stranger, Smith climbed into the back of the cramped yellow cab. Propping his suitcase beside him on the seat, Smith rummaged in the pockets of his sport jacket until he found the crumpled itinerary paper. Maria, the contest administrator, had faxed it to him, describing his luxury accommodations and the schedule for his once-in-a-lifetime vacation in exotic Colodor. He scanned the blurry handwriting, then handed the paper forward to Bolo. “It says here ‘Hotel Grande de Lujo,’ biggest hotel in Santa Isabel. Think you can find it?”

Bolo read the slip cursorily, then gave it back. “Oh, you’re in good hands, sir.” Without looking or signaling, he jerked the cab away from the curb and out into traffic. A bus honked and swerved, driving a skinny bicyclist up on the curb. Bolo didn’t even glance back. “Leave it to me, sir.”