Pres Hooper, his flight bag slung jauntily over his shoulder, strode across the tarmac towards the sleek Challenger.  He could see the pilot's head bobbing over what had to be a labyrinth of panel lights, switches and gauges.  The plane door was open above a welcoming flight of stairs.

       Yes, a U. S. Senator's private jet was welcoming him, Preston Hooper, part heir to Swallow & Hooper -- serving America since 1732. Pres stopped, turned and gave a final wave to his sister. He hoped Mary Sue was impressed.  In two and a half centuries no other Hooper had been invited on an international junket with a U. S. Senator. Probably no other Hooper had been dating the daughter of a U. S. Senator.

       He nodded to the muscular, lock-jawed pilot or co-pilot or bodyguard or whoever it was in the white polo shirt at the bottom of the stairs.

         "May I take your flight bag, sir?"

     "Sure" --  Pres squinted at the burnished gold name pin -- "Rex . Here you go. Thanks!"

      Then Pres loped up the stairs two at a time and stepped into the forward compartment. . . .

       Pres had been dating Whitney for nearly three months. Pres had never had dated a girl named Whitney. It was so east coast, so Ivy League. Dating her was a little like traveling to another country to get a new perspective on life. As a moon orbits a planet, Whitney's life orbited her father's world of politics.  It surprised Pres at times that she found time to go on dates. But they were good dates. Interesting dates.  Maybe not as much fun as Fiona.  Now those were some good dates!     . . 

       Fluted champagne glass in one hand and a quail egg in the other, the Senator sat down in the armchair opposite Pres. "You see, Pres, we're on a good will mission. The U.S. has developed a little image problem in Peru. Some idiots say it doesn't matter, but I say it can fester until it explodes and problems fly all over like shrapnel.  Why let that happen?"

        "Why indeed, sir."

    "We, the U S of A, have more potential than just mining interests. Business, manufacturing, product purchase of textiles and jewelry. That's where you can do us a lot of good. That's what you represent."

       Pres took a sip of champagne. "I see."  Pres didn't see at all, and that worried him.   . . .

        A good meal later, the plane set down in Quito, Ecuador. Two men in business suits came as far as the plane.  The Senator and Rex met them at the bottom of the stairs, greetings were exchanged, briefcases were exchanged.

     "Who are they?" Pres asked, peering out the window. "Are we supposed to get out?"

       "No, sit down.  Daddy will be right back and as soon as we refuel, we'll take off again.'

       "Are they Customs inspectors or something?"

       Whitney laughed. She had a nice laugh, soft and throaty. "No, they're mining executives. Daddy's just running an extra errand."

       "That's pretty considerate of him."

       "It's expected. It's how we do things in D.C.  Favors for favors.  This is partly their plane."

       "Not yours?"

       "No, but Daddy can use it whenever he wants."

      "Doesn't that sort of obligate him to mining interests? You know, favors for favors."

     "Not at all.  Daddy explained to me that he could still vote however he wants. No obligations.  But the mining people are obligated to make sure he keeps an open mind on issues that matter to them."

       Pres nodded as if he believed her.  He was no cynic like his business partner Dan, but he was no fool, either.  He was surprised that Whitney seemed to believe it.  He had never thought of her as naive.  On the other hand, the Senator was her father.   People saw family differently.  Dan actually cared about his impossible Uncle Harold.  That required a unique point of view. . . . .

 

         Pres at one point decides to take a look in the cockpit, and while he is there chatting with the pilot, Joe, holding the co-pilot's yoke in his hands.. . . 

 

       Joe's words were lost in the crack of an explosion.

       "My God!"cried Pres ." What have I done?"

     Joe's hands were flying around the controls. "Nothing.  It was nothing you did.  Damn! H ere, I'm taking the yoke."         

         Another crash shook the plane, then pellets. No, not pellets. Bullets.

     "They're shooting at us!" cried Pres.  He'd been shot at before, in Spain, standing on a sidewalk holding a soccer ball. Some mistaken identity thing. The plane was beginning to pitch and buck like some colt Mary Sue was training.   A bullet cracked the glass to Pres' left.

      Joe screamed. "Damn! I thought they had bullet-proof glass up here in the cockpit."

     "Who'd be shooting at us?" asked Pres.  "Does Peru have some problem with Bolivia?"

       "Peru has a problem with Peru." More bullets sprayed against the plane.  . . . . .

 

     Dan has gone to the Country Club, not a favorite place of his but he wanted to get some exercise playing tennis.  As he is leaving the courts, the ball girls run up to ask him to help them with a very difficult guest who does not understand he must wear tennis shoes on the courts.   Dan returns to the courts with them.

 

         In his wildest imaginings Dan would never have expected to see the redoubtable, ruthless Ted Garrison in tennis shorts, displaying legs that seldom saw the sun.   He never expected to see Ted outside some secret, darkened office where cigar smoke floated in a happy blue haze. Naturally he knew Ted was adept at disguises, more adept than most, just as he was more adept at all the required skills. But Dan had never seen him in one.  

     "Thank you so much, Mr. O'Donovan!" chorused the ball girls.

     Ted Garrison, a.k.a. Hispanic CEO come to town, reached into the pocket of his shorts and pulled out some $20 bills.   He gave one to each girl.

       He smiled at them. "Lo siento. 'Me perdonan?"

       "Gracias," chorused the girls again.

      Garrison extended his hand to Dan. "Tan amable señor.   Tan bien que hablas español.'

       One of the many reasons you recruited me.  And by now, of course, the two of them had naturally fallen into step headed up to the clubhouse where a foreign CEO could acquire a proper pair of shoes. Or converse en route about an emergency so urgent that it brought Ted Garrison out into the sunlight in disguise.

         It was urgent, all right.

        "Crashed? Mechanical?"

       "Hostile. That's my guess.  Not the official story.  Actually, as yet there is no official story."

         "Why?"

         "Mining interests.  Need I say more?"

          Dan nodded.  "Peru.  That means copper, zinc, gold."

       Ted snorted. "Gold! The world's second largest and most productive gold mine. Conveniently set in a country more corrupt than a royal court."

          "They have an interest in Senator Mulcahy?"

      "Oh, yes. Some are interested in meeting with him ASAP. Others are interested in killing him to prevent any meetings. It's just the opportunity I needed."

           "You're not going to tell me we're the good guys in this."

            "We're not the only bad guys."

        "Refreshing.  I thought our mining interests liked Fujimoro. He's opened the doors so wide for them."

         "They still do, except the gold mine."

        "Ah, partnered with France. I take it you are pointing a finger at France."

         "France has the Chino's ears, along with its pals in Australia."

         "And what ear likes our side of the story?"

       "No one. That is, no one who counts.  Our puppet just made a dismal run at the Presidency.  So we have another 5 years of Fujimori. And now some fool mining executive troubleshooter type is being sent down their. He's been told that the Minister of Defense could persuade the President."

      "Then why interfere? I assume you intend to interfere."

      "That's just what they asked me, the idiots."

       Dan didn't bother to ask who "they" were.  He wouldn�t get a straight answer.     "You intend to interfere."

        "I intend to have you interfere for me. Look, Dan, the President is on the side of the French.  Damned ungrateful of him, considering all we did to help out his privatization policy. And after his 'Fuji-coup' that made a lot of people angry, who was it who recognized it as legit just two weeks afterwards?  We did.  And, ever since we've been turning a blind eye to his human rights violations. The Defense Minister, also Head of intelligence, is so totally rotten that in the midst of all the corruption he stands out.  We need to cut ourselves loose from that cesspool.  We have enough of an image problem. I say we need to find ourselves a new puppet, someone with a spine, someone with some sense of decency."

    Ted Garrison champion of decency? Not hardly! But destroyer of incompetence, absolutely.

       "You have new blood in mind?"

        "That's your mission, yours and Mary Sue's."

       "You're not sending in Mary Sue! This is her brother, Ted. She can't doIreland all over again."

         "She's the most authentic person to arrive looking for her missing brother. Besides, she wants to go.  Don't give me that look, Dan!  She does. She thinks she can help.  Find Pres.  Save her brother."

        "She thinks? Or you helped her think that?"

      "It's the only way to see it. We think the plane landed. That means the people landed."

        "Or crash landed and they all died?"

         "Landed. We know the rockets missed."

         "There were rockets?"

      "Logical. Explode it with a rocket but pepper it with long-range rifles to make it look like 'the peasants did it.'  MRTA, or some resurgence of the Shining Path that Fujimoro destroyed.   No shortage of possible culprits to blame."

         "We do have a location?"

      "Yes. What we don't have is time. Whoever did the shooting is down there already looking for the plane that got away."

         "So I'm off to Lima?"

         "Mary Sue will be off to Lima. She'll do the Embassy bit. The CIA Station Chief has a separate office, so as the anxious sister she shouldn't have to deal with those company men. Should be pretty routine for her.  You'll fly to Cuzco and from there, it depends on what you find. You�ll check in at the Monasterio Hotel and they'll contact you. Specifically, one Rafael Barrosa."

       "Someone you've found."

      "Of course someone I found!   You don't think that any of those Embassy idiots are going to find anyone decent!  Most of them don't even speak any damn Spanish. The mining interests don't want to find anyone decent. .  You'll be there a while, Dan. Take your weapons, take your basic gadgets. I'll have files on our secure web for you to read.  I'm taking care of Mary Sue." Garrison stood up. "We're trying to keep a political disaster from happening. Step one. Get Barrosa into the International press.   Worldwide attention."

      "How?"

     "You'll figure it out.  Whatever you need, ask.  You just have to convince Barrosa.  Enough of being the local hero on a blue roan.   Get El Condor to soar, Dan."

     "And try to find Pres," added Dan.

     "That too."   It was an afterthought. . . . .

      Mary Sue Hooper tucked the ticket into her travel wallet and put the key to the locker in the Lima train station on her key chain.  Hidden in plain sight was the best option for it.  Then she opened up the row of trunks, neatly filled with some tricks of the trade. Blonde would be good for Peru, high-piled and elegant for class-conscious Lima. . . . She did like the world of disguise, and she had quite a talent for it.  It was not enough to fool people. One must fool experts, change one's walk, one's manner of speaking, camouflage the ear lobes.  Stage make-up was an art, but she needed make-up that withstood scrutiny in the real world.   

      She would need to register at the Embassy, something rare for an assignment from Colonel Garrison. So she would need at least one alternate look. Old.  She hadn't done old for a while.  The make-up effect was amazing, like looking at yourself in the mirror forty years from now.  Maybe an old Peruvian peasant.  

     She checked her ticket. A three-hour layover in Quito, Ecuador. That would work. A shawl, a native bag, sandals of some sort that helped the feet shuffle along. But with footies since well pedicured toenails would spoil the look.  . . . .

      Mary Sue refused to think of her brother as gone.  Only lost for a time. Dan would find him. She clung to that reality and focused on the advantages of the first class ticket that Garrison had purchased. Good service, good food, quiet company. The best part was a quick trip to the Mercado Central in Quito.  . . . 

       Then down the coast to Lima as Pres should have flown. She wondered why Pres had crashed so far into the Andes. The Senator's plane had stopped at Quito. That much Colonel Garrison knew.  But it had gone down somewhere around Lake Titicaca.  Way off course for Lima. 

   Had they gone sight-seeing? Faulty navigation? Or maybe an unscheduled stop somewhere? Poor Pres! What rotten luck! He'd been so proud of himself flying off as part of a U. S. Senator's entourage.

 

So the mission begins, and at first it actually seems to be going well.