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

8

Mack Bolan arrived in Lima feeling a little on the naked side. Airport security being as strict as it was these days, it was seldom worth the risk to try to smuggle a gun aboard. It didn't fit in with the big man's plans to spend the next few years in jail.

His second task would be to get hold of a weapon. The first was to make sure that he wasn't followed to his hotel.

Bolan scanned the waiting crowd at the airport as the bored customs officer checked him through, approving Michael Blanski's passport without question.

He had left a storm brewing when he departed from San Francisco. Kline had been distressed, to put it mildly, when he learned of the carnage that Bolan had left in his wake. The agent had been strongly inclined to have Bolan locked away for murder. It had taken some arm twisting by Brognola to convince Kline that this was something he had better keep his nose out of.

The Bureau man had agreed reluctantly, but Bolan wasn't entirely sure that he trusted Kline's word. It was possible that Michael Blanski might have to be retired as a viable alias.

In the meantime, Bolan had no intention of worrying about things that he couldn't control. Right now staying alive in Peru required all of his attention. He would operate as though he were in a hostile environment until circumstances proved otherwise.

He walked to the string of cabs ranged outside the terminal and picked the third one in line, ignoring the shouts from the first two drivers. He waved an American fivedollar bill at the startled cabbie. "Go. Now."

The cab shot from its position in line to a crescendo of horns. Given that the average annual wage in Peru was only about seven hundred dollars, as a free-spending American Bolan held an immediate advantage. Almost everything was for sale if an agreement could be reached without offending Latin machismo.

He had the driver head toward the city, instructing him to turn right and left aimlessly as he watched through the rear window for signs of surveillance. At random he changed taxis twice more before he gave instructions to drive to a hotel not far from the Plaza de Armas.

The hotel itself was nondescript, the sort frequented by budget-conscious travelers with North American tastes. He checked in as David Bowes, not wishing the name Blanski to be traceable to a hotel in case anyone was looking. When the clerk asked for his passport, Bolan deflected the request with a subtly proffered twenty, explaining that he seemed to have dropped his identification at the airport and would have to go to the American embassy for a replacement. But of course that would take some time.

The clerk graciously accepted the explanation and the money.

Bolan hit the streets after stowing what little gear he had brought. He crossed the Plaza de Armas, where guards strutted in front of the Palace of Government, also known as Pizarro's House. The guards glittered in silver helmets, crisp, snow-white jackets, red pantaloons and polished jackboots, uniforms inspired by Napoleonic splendor. But very modern rifles were slung over their shoulders.

At the second intersection Bolan angled away from the plaza, delving farther into the narrow streets that lined the core of the city.

The side streets were jammed with ambulantes, the sidewalk vendors who crowded the city peddling food and goods. The big man, easily recognisable as a tourist, was offered alpaca ponchos, skewers of beef heart and ewers of murky red "iguana blood," and even what were supposed to be genuine pre-Columbian artifacts. Bolan brushed by the outstretched hands of the vendors, intent on following the directions Brognola had given him for the prearranged meeting.

Apart from the street merchants in their rough clothes, shoeshine boys, wandering minstrels and tour guides competed incessantly for his attention and his funds.

Once, as Bolan dodged around a girl who suddenly appeared in his path, he felt a skinny hand snake into his pants pocket. Bolan's hand darted out to grab the invader. A frightened, ragged boy of about eight stared wide-eyed at the tall man, afraid that the American would drag him to the police.

Bolan stared back for a moment and released the thin wrist. The child was lost in the crowd in seconds.

He continued on for another few blocks before stopping at a small shop called the Lore of the Incas. Inside, the tiny store was jammed to the ceiling with books, postcards and plaster replicas of Inca treasures. A glass case that supported a battered cash register held a scale model of Machu Picchu, the lost city of the Incas. A grinning proprietor stood behind the case.

"Do you have any Plazca pottery?" Bolan asked.

"Any particular era?" the shopkeeper inquired.

Bolan shook his head. "It's for a friend."

"Is this a Washington friend?"

"That's right." Bolan hated the question-and-answer games, but Brognola had insisted on the contact procedure.

The owner drew a six-inch pottery statue from a cupboard behind the cash. The idol examined Bolan from wide owl eyes on either side of a flat nose.

"This should be to your satisfaction." He slipped it into a plastic bag.

Bolan left a fifty-dollar bill on the cash register and departed with his purchase.

Back in his hotel room, Bolan examined the statue more closely, failing to find an imperfection in the glazed surface. He dropped the statue, turning it into rubble. Picking through the fragments, Bolan extracted a flat key.

He took a taxi to the main shopping area, absorbed in the passing scenery. It was surprising how little of the past had survived the modernisation of Lima. Although it was older than any North American city, few reminders existed of its ancient heritage. The only signs of the long-forgotten Incas were advertisements for Inca cigarettes and Inca cola. The relatively recent Spanish influence showed in the multiplicity of churches. The cathedral held the remains of Francisco Pizarro, the soldier-adventurer who had humbled the last of the proud Inca kings.

Bolan got out of the cab at a mall in the ritzy shoppingarea frequented by the Peruvian elite, the Camino Real. Stepping inside under the eyes of vigilant security guards, he turned to a bank of yellow lockers lining a far wall. The key rewarded him with a solid black bag in a bottom locker.

In the privacy of his hotel room once again, Bolan smiled as he unpacked the bag. Some embassy staffer must have gotten a thrill out of delivering this particular package.

Brognola had come through as he had promised. A diplomatic pouch had forwarded a Beretta 93-R and a machine pistol, as well as fifteen clips for each and a shoulder holster for the pistol. Twenty-thousand dollars in crisp new bills provided pad money, hush money and pocket change for his stay.

Bolan felt a lot better with the weight of the Beretta under his arm as he dialed Carrillo. After exchanging pleasantries, they arranged to meet at a restaurant south of the Camino Real.

He arrived early, taking a seat in a corner near a fire exit. His eyes scanned the doorway and the plate-glass window that looked onto the wealthy streets of the suburb of San Isidro.

The crowds streaming by weren't much different from similar crowds in Paris or Madrid. For the most part, the women were fair-skinned criollas, dark haired and flashing eyed, of nearly pure Spanish descent. Others were marked as mestizas, the issue of the Spaniards and the native Indians. Many of these displayed dark red good looks that attracted the eyes of the men striding along as imperiously as conquistadores. Occasionally a native Indian would walk by, eyes downcast, garbed in a colorful poncho and a felt hat, looking as out of place among the stylish shoppers as an elephant at a horse show.

Bolan glanced at his watch. Carrillo was late. Bolan hasn't entirely sure what to expect from this meeting. He knew that he had a powerful bargaining chip in the captured weapons, and he hoped to press Carrillo for an introduction to the Shining Path connection. He was flying solo on this one and almost as blind as a bat.

He would have to count on his own internal radar to steer him clear of danger, knowing that Carrillo had a reputation for treachery.

The shipment would be in port within a day or two, disguised as farm machinery, to be stored in a local warehouse. Unless he contacted the shippers with other instructions, the cargo would be sent to Ayacucho a week later. High in the Andes, the arms would wait safely for his disposal.

The headwaiter was speaking with a lovely young woman at the door who was looking beyond him to the patrons inside. She smiled and stepped through the door, approaching a tall dark man four tables away from Bolan. The warrior paid her no more attention than he would give any pretty woman until he heard "Michael Blanski" mentioned.

Bolan raised a hand to get her attention, motioning her to his table. He stood as she approached, conscious of Latin manners. Besides, it would improve his draw if required, although the woman appeared to be an unlikely candidate as an assassin.

"You are Mr. Michael Blanski?" Her voice was soft and musical.

"Yes. Please sit down." Bolan was already charmed, although his eyes flickered past her face from time to time, maintaining his watch on the street and the other patrons.

"I am Antonia de Vincenzo, Senor Carrillo's secretary. He sends his apologies, but regrets that he will not be able to come this afternoon. However, if it is convenient to come by his office at ten tomorrow morning, he promises that it will be worth your while."

"That will be fine, Miss de Vincenzo. I'll see you then, if you leave me the address."

"Certainly." She dug in her purse momentarily for a business card. "Senor Carrillo is most disturbed that he will not be able to show you around Lima personally this evening as he had promised, but if you like, I will be happy to be your guide."

Bolan was sorely tempted. The woman was exquisite, with cascading dark red hair and a glowing cinnamon complexion. Rich, full lips held a sensuous promise. The only clue to her mixed ancestry was a nose that was slightly too broad at the nostrils. A clinging garment much like a silk tube top exposed strong shoulders above a high bosom and a tiny waist. A single strand of pearls hung around her neck.

However, he had no wish to compromise his position by revealing anything inadvertently. The "honey pot" was one of the oldest tricks in the book for obtaining information, and Antonia was certainly a tempting dish.

"Thank you for your kind offer, but I'm otherwise engaged. Perhaps some other time."

"I shall hope so," she replied. Flashing Bolan a dazzling smile, she left, hips swaying gently.

In the morning Bolan took a taxi to one of the new downtown high-rise office buildings, part of the growing urban sprawl of the metropolis.

He disembarked a few blocks from Carrillo's office, preferring to walk the rest of the way. He paused several times to stare into the glass shop windows. The reflection served almost as effectively as a mirror, allowing Bolan to examine the surrounding pedestrians in case he had been followed. If he had, then his hotel might not be secure for another night.

Having satisfied himself that no one was trailing him, Bolan continued on his way.

Antonia de Vincenzo sat behind a mahogany secretarial desk in the sumptuous eighteenth-floor office. She looked much less relaxed than she had the day before. A flicker of some emotion that Bolan couldn't place flashed across her face at his arrival.

"Please go right in, Mr. Blanski," she said, rising and following him to the closed door on the other side of the room.

Bolan paused, hand on the doorknob. There was something wrong with the setup. He couldn't put his finger on it, but a tiny alarm told him that he was walking into danger.

He reached into his jacket to grasp the butt of the Beretta and turned the door handle. One step inside revealed nothing. At first glance the office appeared empty. He drew the Beretta and walked cautiously forward.

The Executioner felt someone looming behind him. He raised his left arm as he turned, attempting to ward off whatever was coming.

The world exploded into twinkling lights, and he fell heavily to the floor.

When Bolan awoke, the first thing he was conscious of was the pounding pain in the back of his head, as if a little man was trying to break his way out with a sledgehammer. The next thing he noticed was that he was lying on the floor. He couldn't move his arms or legs. His arms seemed immobilized behind his back. Finally, a few inches in front of his face, he saw the large black boots that had "policeman" written all over them.

There was only one conclusion — he was under arrest.

"What the hell is going on?" Bolan was mad, and his headache wasn't making his temper any sweeter.

"Be quiet, American." One of the cops nudged him in the ribs, none too gently.

Cameras were flashing in the office, and several people were speaking at the same time. Bolan's Spanish was fair, but the unusual accent made it difficult to follow what was being said. Another language was being spoken as well, probably the Qucchua used by the Indian population.

A sudden chill indicated the arrival of a superior. Bolan had a snail's-eye view at this point, but could identify the newcomer by his gleaming knee-high boots. The officer walked around the room in absolute silence.

"Take him away. I will deal with him later." Four policemen grabbed Bolan by the arms and feet and carried him from the office.

Bolan was thoroughly confused about what was going on, but two things were clear: he had been framed for something, and somebody was going to pay.

An hour later Bolan was lodged in a filthy cell in an underground Lima jail. He still hadn't been told why he was there. It was pretty clear that human rights and justice had a different meaning in Peru than they did in the United States. No one had bothered to remove the manacles or to bring him water, although he had asked for both.

Some initial exploration of his bonds had revealed that he could break them with a little effort.

However, that would be wasted if he didn't have a method of escape or a place to go to ground.

At the moment he was completely on his own.

Footsteps echoed down the dank hall as someone came his way. Two guards halted outside the bars, machine guns levered. A third man unlocked the door and stepped aside to allow entrance to a tall and burly officer in his early fifties, gaudily dressed in a perfectly fitted military uniform. He carried a leather crop that he tapped against one sparkling boot.

"I am General Palma. I take a special interest in terrorist cases."

Bolan was momentarily dumbstruck. It was ironic beyond belief to find himself accused of terrorism when much of his life had been devoted to crushing that hydra-headed demon in all its apparitions.

"You think I'm a terrorist?"

"I do not think it, I know it. It only remains for you to confess your crime."

"What have I supposedly done?"

Palma grinned, cutting the air with his crop.

"You Americans astonish me. No matter what the evidence, you seem to think that we Peruvians must believe your 'sincere' denials and instantly allow you to walk away on the strength of your sterling character. No, sir. Peru is a just country, and I will see justice done in your case."

Bolan decided to play it straight. Without information he was helpless. "What am I charged with?"

"Well, Mr. Blanski, since you wish to continue this charade of innocence, I will play along for the time being. You are charged with the murder of Senor Jorge Carrillo, performed as a terrorist assassination."

"I never even met the man. The office was empty when I got there, and then I was struck from behind by someone, probably the same person who murdered Carrillo. You've got the wrong man." Bolan had a sinking feeling that all his arguments were in vain. There was an air about Palma that suggested the case was closed.

Palma shook his head and flashed a toothy grin.

"How do you explain the pistol shot in Carrillo's heart? I am sure that ballistic tests will show that it came from your gun. Not that they are necessary, since we found the gun beside you. A Beretta, I believe. As well, we found the knife in your hand that you used to slit Carrillo's throat and carve the S on his chest to indicate the work of the Sendero Luminoso. We also found that you had checked into your hotel under a phony name, and that a machine pistol had been hidden in a false-bottomed suitcase."

The evidence was damning, certainly. The machine pistol was going to be hard to reconcile with his cover as a tourist.

"Carrillo had to have been killed by the person who slugged me and then left me to take the fall."

"Mr. Blanski, I do not know why you persist in these obvious lies." Palma turned away and ran the crop along the row of bars. "Senorita de Vincenzo swears that she conducted you into the office. She heard you and Carrillo talking, then a shot. She hesitated a few moments, but then, brave as she is, she rushed into the room and felled you with a blow to your head with a statue. She is a hero, Mr. Blanski."

"She is a liar."

Palma whipped around and with a practiced flick of the wrist cracked the crop into Bolan's jawline, raising an ugly red welt. "In Peru it is not our custom to speak of women the way you do in the United States. I trust that you will remember that in future."

Palma signaled to the guard to reopen the door.

Before he made his exit, he stopped to confront Bolan one more time. "I suppose that you have heard stories about Peruvian prisoners, how they are beaten regularly and how confessions are extracted through torture." He looked at Bolan expectantly.

Bolan said nothing.

"Yes, it is said that we use cattle prods, electric torture, water torture, starvation, any number of tactics. Well, Mr. Blanski, it is true. I shall leave you now to compose your confession. I will be back tomorrow to assist you." Palma strode down the hall, laughing loudly.

Bolan lapsed into a gloomy study of his options.

None of them looked worth a damn.