In New York City, meanwhile, the real Pedrito Miraflores sat behind Tom Smith’s desk in the Office of Naval Intelligence, uncomfortable in the strange and formal uniform of a lieutenant junior grade. He flicked his gaze from side to side, always uneasy at being confined within walls for too long a time. At least he didn’t have to sit with his back to the door.
In his time, Pedrito had spent many days in rundown and dirty prisons, held captive by competing guerrilla groups, terrorists, and South American police departments. He had survived by the skin of his teeth, clung to life by his fingernails, beaten impossible odds in dire situations.
But this—working eight hours a day in a bustling and clean government office—seemed the worst of all! He didn’t know how much more of it he could stan
