"Twisted Path" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pendleton Don)

9

Bolan waited three more hours before another armed party arrived to remove his shackles. He recognized that he was being treated like an extremely dangerous man. Fortunately they brought water and some food purple-fleshed potatoes in a thin soup. It was a long time since he had eaten, and he was parched.

The policemen ignored his requests to make a telephone call, and left him to rub his arms and legs to restore the circulation. Bolan paced around his narrow cell, ignoring the pricks of pins and needles as he moved. He gingerly touched the egg-size lump on the back of his skull. The hair around it was matted with blood, but at least his headache was abating.

He reviewed his options. He could break out as soon as possible and hide somewhere. Through Brognola he could arrange for a new identity and some cash. The down side would mean giving up on the mission.

A second possibility was to hang tough and roll with the punches for now. His chance of escape would probably not be much worse in future than it was at the moment. It was apparent that he'd been set up, but the reason why was unclear. The de Vincenzo woman was deeply involved, but he had no idea why she would kill her boss.

Bolan lacked facts to string together. All he had was a thousand nagging questions.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of more police. This time they opened the cell and motioned him outside. Two guards led Bolan along, while two more brought up the rear, pistols drawn, ready for any sudden moves the prisoner might make. They walked through a doorway at the end of the dark corridor.

The section beyond was lined with larger cells, packed with wretched humanity from Lima's slums.

By comparison, Bolan's tiny cell was first-class accommodation.

The warrior was hustled to a processing area where his clothes were taken from him in exchange for a rough-woven blue jail uniform. His wallet and watch had vanished long ago, before he had regained consciousness in Carrillo's office. The police continued to ignore his questions.

The next stop was a lineup. The procedure was a farce, since none of the other four suspects came within five inches of the big man. Although the others were as dark haired as Bolan, none of them was Caucasian. While he responded to the loudspeaker commands to turn right and left, he guessed that whoever was observing the ritual would have no difficulty in picking out the "guilty" party.

When Bolan was back in his cell, he cast himself onto the lumpy cot, staring at the low-watt bulb above him. Someone had ordered Carrillo killed, although the reason was murky.

Blanski was obviously blown, somehow identified as a threat to the Peruvian operation, and his arrival had triggered a chain of events that had caught Bolan by the throat. He suspected that Carrillo's death served a dual purpose in plugging a possible leak and at the same time eliminating a potential danger.

Bolan recognized the trap he had fallen into. He couldn't call on Brognola for any official assistance. His mission to Peru was intended to halt a situation embarrassing to the United States. No one in Justice, State or the White House would thank him if he involved the government.

The soldier had been in tighter jams on many occasions. He was used to biting the bullet and forcing the issue, making the big play alone, with nothing but his brains and guts to carry him through the hellfire. This would be no different.

Since there was nothing else he could do, Bolan slept.

Bolan was awakened by the sound of a heavy door down the hall creaking open. Two silent guards brought another dish of potato soup and a metal tin of water. He was beginning to loathe the sight of the repetitious jail house food.

He spent the next couple of hours doing some calisthenics, although barely able to support his weight on his still aching right wrist. When it came time to make his break, his survival might depend on remaining in top condition. Besides, the hours moved slowly in a five-by-eight cell.

The thump of the door and the clump of police boots signaled a break in the monotony. This time Bolan was led to an interview room where a short young man was already seated. Two guards remained by the door, their hands resting on their pistol butts.

"Mr. Blanski, I'm Donald Creighton, a lawyer with the U.S. Embassy. General Palma informed us of your arrest. I apologize for not seeing you earlier, but I wanted to take some time to familiarise myself with your case."

Bolan was favorably impressed. The blond man seemed very straightforward for a lawyer. But then, he was still young.

"Good. When can I get out of here? I was set up. Can I post bail?" Bolan was anxious to get moving again.

"Mr. Blanski, I'm afraid that it isn't that simple."

The lawyer removed his wire-rimmed glasses and began to polish the lenses with a silk handkerchief that had been neatly folded in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He looked through them at the fluorescent light overhead and then placed them back on his nose.

"There is a great deal of evidence against you. You were found in Carrillo's office after he had been shot with your gun. A bloody knife was in your hand. Another weapon was found in your hotel room. Witnesses have identified you as being on the scene. A sworn statement testifies that you argued with Carrillo and then shot him. The case for your guilt appears to be airtight."

"What motive would I have to kill a man I had never met?"

"Money, or so the authorities say. Twenty thousand dollars was found in your room, money that you did not bring into the country. More than enough to persuade a hired gun to perform a political assassination. General Palma tells me that Carrillo was well-known in government circles as a fierce opponent of the Shining Path, and that an attempt on his life had been made once before."

Bolan contemplated the news in silence. It didn't ring true to identify Carrillo with the anti-Communists. Knowing the arms dealer's business connections, he found it hard to accept that Carrillo would pass himself off as a strident friend of the government. A low profile would have suited the merchant far better.

"So what happens now? A hearing, a trial?" Bolan was not very optimistic about the outcome of a trial. He knew a stacked deck when he saw one.

Creighton looked pained as he stared over the big man's shoulder at a barred window. "I'm afraid that there won't be a trial. Because you have been connected to a terrorist organisation, a joint police and military commission has reviewed your case. Based on the facts as they have been presented, you have been sentenced by an administrative order in council. The sentence is life imprisonment."

For a moment Bolan was stunned to silence. He had had a pretty low expectation of the treatment he might get from the local judiciary. But this was beyond his worst nightmare. The only question now was when and how to make his break.

For the sake of appearances, he made the required protests, feeling as though he were playacting with a part of his mind, while the bulk of it evaluated possible escape scenarios. "You've got to be kidding. No one could think that I'd be stupid enough to murder Carrillo in his office in front of witnesses?"

"Yes, I thought of that. It doesn't make any sense. However, General Palma thinks that you would have killed Senorita de Vincenzo as well to prevent identification. It was plausible enough to convince the other council members."

"Palma was a witness against me?"

"No, he's a member of the administrative council. He is well-known as a hard-liner against the terrorists. If there is ever another military coup in Peru, a lot of people expect that Palma may be installed as president to wage war."

A knock on the door announced that the interview was being terminated.

"That's all the time we have right now. I'll visit you later at the prison to see how you are doing."

"Prison?"

"The Lurigancho. I'm afraid that it doesn't have a very good reputation."

Bolan turned to the door. The police certainly weren't wasting any time getting him out of the way. He noticed that Creighton hadn't said anything about diplomatic channels, protests or appeals. From the uncomfortable look on the young lawyer's face, he suspected that specific instructions had been given to dissociate the United States from Bolan to every extent possible.

Creighton's voice called him back. "Mr. Blanski, good luck." The lawyer extended his hand. Bolan reached for it, feeling a wad of paper slip into his palm. "Take this," he whispered. "It will make life a little easier inside."

"Thanks, Creighton." Bolan slipped his hand into his pocket as the guards led him away.