Carter Nick : другие произведения.

Operation Che Guevara

Самиздат: [Регистрация] [Найти] [Рейтинги] [Обсуждения] [Новинки] [Обзоры] [Помощь|Техвопросы]
Ссылки:
 Ваша оценка:
  Annotation
  
  
  Che Guevara — killer, sadist, madman… hero, saint, saviour-depending on your viewpoint or your politics.
  
  The world believes that Che Guevara is dead. But Nick Carter, grappling with the most lethal assignment of his long career, has reason to believe that the Cuban revolutionary is still alive.
  
  Clue number one is Teresina, a sloe-eyed peasant girl who makes love with the grandeur of a pampered princess. Clue number two is Yolanda, a wealthy, ice-cold beauty who turns into a man-eating tigress in bed. One of them can lead Nick to the man they call El Garfio — "The Hook" — the man who could be Che Guevara.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  
  
  IPrologue
  
  March28th
  
  29th
  
  30th
  
  
  
  
  
  IIApril1st
  
  2nd
  
  3rd
  
  4th
  
  5th
  
  
  
  
  
  III
  
  6th
  
  7th
  
  
  
  
  
  IV
  
  8th
  
  9th
  
  10th
  
  
  
  
  
  V11th
  
  12th
  
  13th
  
  14th
  
  
  
  
  
  VI15th
  
  16th
  
  
  
  
  
  VII17th
  
  
  
  
  
  VIII
  
  IX
  
  18th
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  Killmaster
  
  Operation Che Guevara
  
  
  
  
  Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Services of the United States of America
  
  
  
  
  
  OCR Mysuli: denlib@tut.by
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The old man licked his lips nervously. "It was terrible, señor. Terrible. They came, everyone was in bed, except the night nurse and the girl helping her. One moment, all was still… the man who had been operated on that morning groaned now and then, but otherwise all was quiet… the next, the door was kicked open and a light was flashed into our faces."
  
  He paused, looked at the young man in the brown suit sitting head down across from him, then at the tape recorder on the table between them.
  
  The young man looked up. "Yes, go on," he said gently.
  
  The old man nodded, continued. "A man came in, a man with a long beard." He gestured as if stretching his chin. "He was an ugly man, short, fat, and he carried a rifle. He went from bed to bed, poking that light into our faces. One man protested, called him a… a bad name. He struck him across the face with the rifle.
  
  "The lights were turned on and another man came into the ward. He was younger and impatient. He told us all to get out of bed. Some could not. They were too ill. The two jerked at their mattresses and tipped them out onto the floor. They lay there screaming."
  
  The old man was getting more agitated now. "I was fortunate," he said. "I could move around. I got out of bed as ordered, went into the corridor. It was a nightmare, señor. Men, women and small children shoved out into the corridor in only their hospital jackets — no matter how ill they were. Some were very ill, dying. Some did die because of that night, señor."
  
  The young man nodded. "Please go on."
  
  The old man nodded back solemnly. "There were more of these bandidos in the corridor. All carried rifles or guns of some kind. Many carried medicines they had stolen and bandages. I heard a woman screaming… a terrible sound. A man next to me whispered that they had seized the night nurse and dragged her off somewhere… and had… well, señor… you know…"
  
  His questioner knew. The old man had been a patient in a hospital near Cochabamba, Bolivia. Three nights before the place had been raided by Red guerrillas. A doctor, a nurse, three patients had been killed, several more persons had been injured. The nurse had been raped, but she had evidently put up a strong resistance and her attacker — or attackers — had retaliated by slitting her throat. Another nurse, a nurse's aide actually, had gone mad, and her family was praying she would never regain her senses. Five, six men had raped her, and she was only 17 and had been a virgin.
  
  Survivors, eyewitnesses like the old man, were reluctant to talk about the hospital raid. Even the Bolivian government had dismissed it with a curt statement to the press to the effect that such an attack had taken place. Period. It had taken a lot of persuasion — and the promise of a good deal of cash — to get the old man to come to this tiny hotel room in La Paz to be questioned.
  
  "How many of these men were there?" the young man asked him now.
  
  He shrugged. "Perhaps a dozen, perhaps more. I do not know. I counted perhaps a dozen men."
  
  "Did you recognize any of them? Would you recognize any of them again?"
  
  The old man looked at him a moment, then his eyes slid away. "No," he said carefully, "I did not know any of them. I would not recognize any of them again."
  
  The interviewer didn't believe him, but he let it pass.
  
  "Did you notice anything else about these men, anything unusual?"
  
  "Unusual? No. They were bandits and they behaved like bandits. It is a miracle they did not kill us all. A doctor tried to stop them from taking the medicines. He stood in their way. He was a brave man. They shot him, right in the face." He pointed to his own. "Blew it away. They walked on the body as they moved in and out of the room to take the medicines."
  
  "Did you see their leader?" the young man asked.
  
  The witness shrugged. "I do not know. Perhaps. There was one man, outside. He did not come in where we were. I saw him through a window later when they ordered us into the cafeteria. I saw men running up to him, as if asking for orders, then running back."
  
  "What did he look like?"
  
  Again the old man shrugged and again his eyes slid away. "Like the others. He had a beard, a jacket like they wear in the army here and he carried a rifle."
  
  This time the young man wasn't going to let him get off so easy. "Are you sure there wasn't something unusual about him? Or something familiar?"
  
  The old man licked his lips again. "You understand, señor," he began hesitantly, "I am afraid. The village I come from…"
  
  "I understand," the young man nodded. "But no one knows you are here. No one will ever know, I promise you. And," he reminded him gently, "you are going to get a lot of money."
  
  The old man looked doubtful, but then he sighed and said, "Well, there was one thing."
  
  He looked around, then leaned forward and whispered to the young man. The tape recorder spun on. The young man listened expressionlessly. Finally, he thanked the old man, gave him the money he'd been promised and escorted him to the door.
  
  When the old man had gone, the young man turned off the tape recorder, took out a small pocket radio. He turned the dial, spoke into a tiny mike:
  
  "S5 reporting, sir," he said.
  
  "Go ahead," a voice answered tinnily.
  
  "Suspicions confirmed, sir."
  
  There was silence for a moment, then the voice said, "Right. Thank you."
  
  The young man turned off the radio, put it back into his pocket. He packed the tape recorder into an old brown suitcase, then looked carefully around the room. Satisfied that he hadn't forgotten anything, he opened the door, stepped out into the hall.
  
  The young man was an AXE field agent. The information he had just passed on to his superior was dynamite.
  
  It had to do with a man's right hand…
  
  
  
  
  
  Prologue
  
  
  
  
  It was a different kind of search, this one, different from any I'd ever been on. As top agent for AXE, Special Espionage Branch of the United States Government, I've been all over the world, hunting down men, and their schemes. I've dealt with highly organized espionage operations and power-mad individuals, with officially sponsored threats to free men and with clandestine groups pursuing their own objectives. At first, this seemed like just another search for a wily enemy but, as I got into it, I realized I was searching not just for a man but for the truth — the truth about a figure who has become a legend in his own brief time.
  
  The legend is known by the name of Che Guevara. The truth I sought was whether he really did die in the hills of Bolivia as reported to the world. Was this apostle of revolution and hate really laid to rest in the Bolivian hills or was it the truth that was buried there?
  
  Those who have studied the account of his death as given to the world know certain things. They know how slender the actual evidence was. They know there are always those willing to sell truth for a price. Words can be bought. Pictures can be altered. Cameras can he. The unreal can be made to seem real and the real, unreal. Men in high places and men in low can be reached — in different ways and with different rewards — but nonetheless reached.
  
  Where, then, does truth stand in a world where sophisticated methods and techniques can serve the honest and dishonest equally well? Truth, today, must be surmised more often than it can be seen. Truth, as Boileau said, may sometimes be improbable.
  
  And so I've set things down the way they happened, just as they happened, day by day. Those who have read the Diary of Che Guevara, prepared at the direct request of AXE, will recognize certain elements: places, people, patterns, events. They will draw their own conclusions. Some will scoff and quickly dismiss my account as fiction. But others, who believe with Boileau that the truth can be improbable, will stop and think… and wonder.
  
  
  
  
  
  March
  
  
  
  
  28th
  
  
  
  
  I was in Cairo, relaxing. I'd been sent there to help out Joe Fraser, AXE Middle East man, who'd done a good, efficient hatchet job on a gold-smuggling combine.
  
  When the message from Hawk came, telling me to stay where I was until further word, I didn't argue. Cairo, the Arab world's largest city, is the modern-day successor to ancient Baghdad, not only as a center of Arabic culture but as a pleasure mecca.
  
  In Cairo, the pleasures of East and West hang like the ripe figs in the street market stalls. The girls of modem Cairo can be broken down into four classes: the willing, the adventuresome, the professionals and — most interesting of all — the newly liberated.
  
  Ahmis, the girl Joe Fraser had introduced me to, was one of the "modern," «enlightened» young women who had shed the ancient veil and submissiveness that goes with it. The subjugation of women, she explained to me one evening, was never a part of Mohammed's teachings but imported from Asia Minor thousands of centuries ago. Like most of the newly enlightened, newly liberated, Ahmis was slightly heady with her new found freedom. I was happy about it, because having shed the veil, literally and symbolically, she was willing and eager to shed everything else at the drop of a whisper. Olive-skinned and black-haired, she had a small wiry body just made for curling around a man's waist, and she used it like an eager kitten, at once playful and sensuous.
  
  The night before the message arrived we had gone to dinner at Joe Fraser's house and then, back in my modest hotel room, Ahmis decided our respective cultures should get closer together. We'd spent the evening drinking a wine distilled from rice and grapes spiked with brandy, so I was all for the idea.
  
  She was wearing a bright-rose silk shantung dress that wasn't a sari but on that order. It wrapped around her, and as her lips, wet and thirsting, pressed themselves against mine, I unwrapped her like a Christmas package. She was eager, as I said, but not that experienced, a delightful combination. In addition, she had her own sensuous heredity which immediately came to the fore.
  
  She reacted to my touch as a steel spring reacts. A small cry escaped her, and she flung her body backwards and up in arching invitation. She took her hands and ran them down my body, pressing and holding and caressing. Her eager desire was contagious, an exciting thing in itself. My own body flamed, and I pressed her down on the bed. Ahmis arched her back again, and I came to her. She responded with a wild intensity.
  
  We'd brought half a bottle of the wine back from Joe Fraser's with us. After we finished enjoying each other, we drank some more. I saw Ahmis begin to glow again. She leaned forward, cupped her hands under her small breasts and rubbed them lightly over my chest. Then she put her arms around me and moved her body down over mine, rubbing her breasts against my stomach, down to my loins. There she lingered to invoke sensations of erotic rapture.
  
  We made love again. I found her volcanic intensity both exciting and amazing. She wrapped her small, wiry body around me, and all the sensuous delights handed down from the days of the ancient Pharoahs were mine. In short, what she lacked in experience, Ahmis made up for in natural talent.
  
  At dawn, with the cry of the muezzin sounding over the Arab quarter, we fell asleep, her small form curved against my side.
  
  
  
  
  
  29th
  
  
  
  
  I awoke to a pounding on the door and a pounding in my head. I sat up and sorted them out for a moment, put on some pants and slowly made it to the door. Sunlight streaming through the window brightened the figure of a small boy standing outside the door, an envelope in his hand.
  
  He shoved the envelope at me. I took it, fished a few coins from my pocket and watched him vanish down the hall. Ahmis was still asleep, a sheet half over her body, her small, upturned breasts peeking provocatively over the edge. I opened the envelope and focused on the note inside.
  
  It was only a few short fines, neatly typed.
  
  "Go to street market," I read. "Two P.M. Tent of Teller of Fortunes. Gold and red striped tent. H."
  
  
  
  I shaved, had some coffee and put on a white linen suit without a tie. Ahmis was still asleep, rolled over on her belly now. I kissed the back of her neck on my way to the door.
  
  The best thing that can be said about the Cairo street market is that it's a damned good thing it's out in the open, especially under the burning midday sun. I threaded my way through the jostling crowds, past fakirs and beggars and burnoosed Arabs, past tourists and more beggars and even a Brahmin steer. I finally found the tent with the gold and red stripes. The kid who had delivered the message stood in the entranceway. I stepped inside, immediately grateful for the dark coolness. The kid moved in with me.
  
  "You have come to see the Wise One?" he asked.
  
  "I guess so," I replied. "Is he the Teller of Fortunes?"
  
  The kid shook his head solemnly and pointed to a far corner of the tent. I made out a robed figure seated on a pile of cushions, wearing a desert kaffiyeh with black cord. I walked toward him, searching the face beneath the flowing kaffiyeh, unusually lean and angular for an Arab. As I drew closer, steel-blue eyes glared at me from above a long, aquiline nose. I stopped dead, a half-dozen feet away.
  
  "I'm seeing things," I said. "That dammed rice wine."
  
  "You're not seeing things," the robed figure growled. "Sit down."
  
  "Yes, I am," I said, unable to keep from grinning. "I'm seeing the funniest damned thing I've seen in a long time."
  
  I couldn't help myself. I threw my head back and laughed long and loud, so long and so loud tears came to my eyes. Hawk just sat there impassively, only his eyes reflecting his annoyance. Considering the always correct and somewhat severe New England background of the man, the masquerade was the height of incongruity — somewhat like seeing Whistler's Mother in a brothel.
  
  "Sit down, Nick," he said. "The boy is watching you."
  
  "As you wish, Oh Wise One." I bowed, still grinning.
  
  Hawk shifted uncomfortably as I sat down crosslegged in front of him. "God, these things are hot as hell," he said.
  
  "I'll bet you have a suit on underneath," I said.
  
  "Naturally." He frowned with mild reproof.
  
  "Naturally," I mimicked. "I figured as much. I don't think the Arabs wear them that way."
  
  He grunted and shrugged it off. "I'm not here to attend a costume ball. I suggest we get down to business," he said with the touch of asperity typical of him.
  
  "Yes, sir," I said.
  
  Hawk locked those steel-blue eyes on me the way a bird of prey locks onto a field mouse. I wasn't sitting across the desk from him in AXE Headquarters. DuPont Circle, in Washington, D.C., wasn't just outside. But as far as Hawk was concerned, it might just as well have been. The incongruity of our surroundings made no difference; he was all business-as-usual. He used his usual approach, too, sliding sideways into the sticky ones.
  
  "Che Guevara," he said, snapping the name out like a bullwhip. "What do you know about him?"
  
  "I know he's dead," I said.
  
  "Do your?" Hawk countered. I caught the tone behind the words instantly.
  
  "Okay. Let's just say that I know what the whole world knows, plus the secret material from our files," I said. "Until his death he was Fidel Castro's most famous export."
  
  "Maybe he still is," Hawk said flatly.
  
  "What does that mean?"
  
  "It means we have reason to believe Che Guevara is still alive and engaged in renewed guerrilla activity in Bolivia," he said.
  
  "But what about the reports of his death?" I asked. "The photos that were distributed?"
  
  "Reports can be falsified," Hawk said grimly. "I don't doubt Major Aroyoa's statement, but there is considerable evidence that even the Major may have been duped. One report said Che was actually killed by a shot fired by a drunken sergeant after a drunken officer had failed to execute him. We know that bribery among Bolivian troops is almost legendary, and it was the Bolivian army who took Guevara. As for the photos, they are so fuzzy they could be the work of a crude retoucher. You know there are countless ways to doctor photographs."
  
  "But he was captured, according to our best inside information," I argued.
  
  "Yes, but remember it was reported that he was taken wounded but alive and moved to the town of Higueras where he was executed twenty-four hours later. That leaves too damned many possibilities. For instance, he could have been shot as reported but not killed. The body could have been switched with someone else's and Che taken away and nursed back to health. Or the soldier who supposedly executed him could have fired blanks. That kind of thing has happened before. The photos taken of him were said to have been taken after his capture and after his death, but we just don't know, frankly. There are loose ends all over the place. He was supposedly captured because a shot destroyed the barrel of his M-2 rifle. Yet pictures of that rifle do not show any such damage."
  
  I listened and then reminded him that I knew about the very confidential package received at AXE headquarters. The package contained Guevara's right hand — it had certain identifying marks on it. We never learned who sent it. We more or less assumed it had been the Bolivian military, stung by allusions of bribery, corruption and unreliability and wanting to prove they really had killed Guevara.
  
  "How do you figure that, now?" I asked Hawk.
  
  "I think we made the wrong assumption," he answered. "I think Guevara sent the arm to us himself to convince us — and the world — that he was dead. Look, the man's a true zealot, a fanatic. Such a man would think nothing of giving up an arm to further his cause. Men like him make incredible, insane sacrifices. If he wanted us to close the file on Che Guevara, what better way to convince us than that? What better way to take the pressure off, to give him the time and opportunity to organize his Bolivian revolt? What better way to lull the Americas into a false sense of security?"
  
  I got up and paced up and down the little tent, restless, disturbed by what I'd just heard.
  
  "Something obviously has you pretty much convinced he isn't dead," I said. "What?"
  
  "First, a resurgence of guerrilla activity in the Bolivian hills. Alone, that wouldn't be alarming, but the guerrilla leader is using Che Guevara's hit-and-run military tactics. His political tactics are identical, too, frightening the peasants, then organizing them."
  
  I shrugged. "That's not enough, any shrewd man could adopt the tactics. What else?"
  
  "Little things that are big things," Hawk said hesitantly. "A hospital was raided last week. The guerrillas were highly selective — bandages, germicides, penicillin to combat infections, anti-tetanus and hypodermics. They also took every bit of ephedrine they could get. You know what ephedrine is primarily used to treat."
  
  "Asthma," I grunted, and recalled those pages in Che Guevara's diary where he detailed the terrible asthma attacks he suffered. The picture, as Hawk was painting it, was more than a little disturbing.
  
  "Your job is to find out if Che Guevara still fives," Hawk said bluntly. "And, if he does, to do the job that wasn't done. You will leave from Europe and fly directly to Bolivia as Nicholaus von Schlegel, an arms merchant from East Germany. You are trying to sell arms and munitions to the Bolivian government. You'll also try to sell to the guerrillas. You'll be a real arms merchant — unscrupulous, playing both sides of the fence. The cover is all set up for you. Everything you'll need is at Templehof Airport."
  
  Flying directly from Europe would eliminate any suspicions about me when they checked out my ticket and route. And someone would check them out once I got to Bolivia. The Bolivian government was riddled with opportunists and leftists. Making contacts would be the least of my problems. As Hawk filled me in on the details of what had already been set in motion, my mind clicked off possibilities. If Che Guevara still lived in those hills, I had my own idea about how to smoke him out and destroy him. I told Hawk.
  
  "All right, Nick." He nodded after he'd heard me out. "You know we'll get you anything we can. Once you take over, it's your show. Give me till tomorrow to do some checking and put things into motion. I'll meet you here tomorrow, same time."
  
  I left him and returned to my hotel. Ahmis had gone; a note told me she'd return tomorrow. I was glad she wasn't there. I had a lot of planning to do and little time. I had to give Hawk a complete briefing on what I intended to do. None of it was the kind of thing for Special Effects, none of the trick weapons bit. This would be down to the nitty-gritty. I sketched out each move in my mind and finally went to bed knowing I had a great plan. All it would take to succeed was a helluva lot of luck, plus a few minor miracles.
  
  
  
  
  
  30th
  
  
  
  
  The next day Hawk had some of my answers ready.
  
  "The helicopter and the warehouse won't be any problem," he said. "I've got people setting that up already. The other is something else."
  
  He took a cigarette lighter from his pocket and flicked the flame on and off. "We'll have to make contact for the rest of your request. This is how we'll do it." He waved the lighter. "It's a sending and receiving set, pretuned to a special frequency. Flicking it on and off activates it. Our station will be monitored twenty four hours a day. Only one thing — it hasn't a long life. We had to sacrifice longevity for compact power. I'll have a word for you on the rest of what you need in a few days, via this little gadget."
  
  He handed me the lighter and I pocketed it. We stood up and shook hands. Hawk gave me a solemn look from under the kaffiyeh. "Good luck," he said. "Take care, Nick."
  
  "I checked the airlines and got the earliest flight to Berlin," I said. "I'll be in touch."
  
  When I returned to my room, I had a visitor waiting. She had pleasure in her eye and on her mind. Her face clouded when I told her I was leaving. It lighted when I told her I had four hours till plane time.
  
  "We'll make the most of them, Nick," she said. I agreed. What the hell, there's nothing like leaving with fond memories. Ahmis moved into my arms, her small body already a tensed package of desire. She had on a one-piece slack outfit which unzipped with ridiculous ease.
  
  Going into a new assignment, I always put everything else behind me. All my thoughts, my actions, my motivations are directed forward. The past is a door closed tightly, and only those things which bear upon my assignment are allowed to intrude. The international espionage agent is pictured as a man of action and danger. He is also a man of intense concentration, concentration that directs all emotions, all purpose toward his mission's objective. At least, if he's any good, that's what he is. Anything less is to invite a quick death. There's no room for mistakes in this game.
  
  Ahmis was part of the past now, or would be in a few hours. She still had one foot in the door, though, keeping it open. I let her show me, once again, why there is such an overpopulation problem in the Middle East.
  
  
  
  
  
  II
  
  
  
  
  
  April
  
  
  
  
  1st
  
  
  
  
  It was raining when I arrived at Templehof Airport, a fine drizzle that gave me a little extra time by delaying my connecting flight.
  
  I had checked out my personal gear before leaving Cairo. Wilhelmina, my 9mm Luger, nestled securely in the special, lightweight shoulder holster while Hugo, my pencil-thin stiletto, was tightly strapped to my forearm in the leather sheath. I called at the ticket counter for an envelope left there under my alias: Nicholaus von Schlegel. In it were keys for a locker and a claim check for my luggage. There was also a passport for Nicholaus von Schlegel, a billfold that held money, a photograph of a girl, plus the usual cards. There was also a confirmation of my hotel suite reservation in La Paz.
  
  I went to the locker and retrieved my special «sample» cases. I didn't need to check inside them. By their size and shape I knew what they held. Claiming the rest of the luggage, I boarded the Lufthansa jet, settling down with just the right touch of Teutonic charm for the benefit of the stewardess. A blond, round fraulein, she eyed me with obvious appreciation. I returned the compliment. During the flight I practiced being Nicholaus von Schlegel. I joked with the stewardess and got into a discussion with an Englishman on the relative merits of German, American and Russian tanks.
  
  The flight was uneventful, and I was happy to see the lights of La Paz in the early evening darkness as we approached the runway of El Alto Airport. The airport lay outside the city on the other side of the mountains, on the altiplano or high tableland. Nestled under the Andes, La Paz is the highest capital city in the world. Nuestra Señora de la Paz, Our Lady of Peace, is like so many other cities in South America: a relatively isolated urban island in a sea of rugged, undeveloped countryside. As Nicholaus von Schlegel, arms peddler, it was important for me to establish myself in the capital. But as Nick Carter, the city of Cochabamba, some 150 miles away, would be even more important.
  
  I checked into the hotel suite. It was a luxurious set-up fit for a leading merchant in arms, and I smiled as I looked around. Compared to the modest one-room layouts I usually drew this must have set AXE back plenty. I could see Hawk wincing as he made the reservation.
  
  I checked the terrace running alongside the floor-length French windows of the living room and the bedroom. It was wide, built of stone, A balcony overlooked the five floors to the street below. I noticed that there was more than enough stonework on the facade of the hotel for anyone to climb up to the terrace.
  
  It would have been simple enough to rig up a crude alarm device but I decided against it. It wouldn't be in character with Nicholaus von Schlegel. I went to bed after placing chairs strategically beside the door and the French windows. I didn't expect any company, but you never knew. There are always the second-story boys who give every tourist the once-over.
  
  
  
  
  
  2nd
  
  
  
  
  I spent the day setting up appointments with government and military officials of the Barrientos regime. I also made sine that news of my presence in La Paz reached men such as Monje, Secretary of the Bolivian Communist Party.
  
  A little discreet inquiry soon told me which officials were particularly receptive to talks on the side. Hawk had given me a short list of those government men we felt were solid, trustworthy Bolivians. He also gave me a few names of those known to have very Left connections. As soon as I made the purpose of my visit known, all were eager to schedule appointments with me.
  
  I stayed close to the hotel all day and evening, giving the rumors and messages time to fly around and roost, as I knew they eventually would. In the evening I strolled around the major promenade of the city, the Prado. I went to bed early, preparing for a busy day.
  
  
  
  
  
  3rd
  
  
  
  
  Herr von Schlegel had two distinct and separate sales approaches. One he reserved for the trustworthy Bolivian officials; the other, for the opportunists and Leftists.
  
  Major Rafael Andreola had been recommended to me as a loyal officer, a career man beyond bribery. He turned out to be a small, dapper man with sharp black eyes who studied me with calm self-assurance.
  
  "Your prices appear quite high, Herr von Schlegel," he said.
  
  "Not in today's market, Major." I shook my head. "And you must know that we thoroughly field-test every piece of equipment, even the arms from other countries which we may offer."
  
  "Is not your present equipment subject to Russian scrutiny?" he asked.
  
  "I do not operate through the usual channels," I said smoothly. "Therefore, I avoid dealing with the Russian bureaucratic system."
  
  "You say you have material with you for immediate delivery?" he asked.
  
  "Not with me but close enough for immediate delivery," I said. "You see, in this business we are subject to attack by gunrunners and various unscrupulous groups. We have learned to be cautious and to keep informed. I happen to know that your government is in need of modern arms and munitions. We are prepared to supply them."
  
  The major smiled. "We, too, keep informed," he said. "You have an appointment to see Colonel Finona of the Special Forces, I understand."
  
  I smiled back. Colonel Finona was a known collaborator with Leftist groups. "We speak to anyone we think may be of help in marketing our products, Major," I said. "We sell guns and ammunition — not politics."
  
  "An oversimplification, I'm afraid." Major Andreola got to his feet. "But you, of course, are well aware of that. We will prepare a fist of what we need and present it to you. After you have examined it, you can tell us how much of it you can fill Our discussions can proceed further then."
  
  We shook hands. I gave him the stiff, Teutonic bow and left.
  
  My next stop was another office in the same building. Colonel Finona was typical of his type — oily, obsequious, the kind of guy who has his hand out even when it's in his pocket. But what the hell, Nicholaus von Schlegel was a match for him, long on greed and short on scruples.
  
  Finona fenced with me for a while, but his intellectual swordsmanship was pretty heavy-handed — a machete rather than an épée — and didn't last long. I was fairly blunt myself, and gave him openings he could have driven a truck through.
  
  "So you know the guerrillas have renewed activities in the mountains." He chuckled. "And you would like to contact them, eh?"
  
  "Let us say that I have certain arms I'm sure they would very much like to have, at a price they can afford," I said. "Do you know how such a contact might be arranged?"
  
  Finona's little eyes darted back and forth. "It so happens I have a friend who has contacts with the peasants in the hills," he said smoothly. "But I have heard the guerrillas have little money with which to purchase arms."
  
  I didn't give a damn about that. I only wanted to stir up all the interest I could in as many places as possible.
  
  To Finona, I explained, "Nicholaus von Schlegel knows his business, Colonel. For the arms I have, they will find the money."
  
  "And you have these guns and ammunition here for immediate delivery?" he asked.
  
  "Close enough," I said, giving him the same answer I had given Major Andreola. That was the only line they'd all get. "Naturally, their exact location is my secret."
  
  "And you would really trade with El Garfio?" Finona asked casually. I searched my Spanish quickly.
  
  "El Garfio-the Hook?" I asked.
  
  Finona nodded. "The leader of the guerrillas," he said. "A man of mystery. He is called El Garfio by the peasants because his right hand, I am told, is a hook. They have two names for him. Sometimes they call him 'El Manco', the One-Armed One."
  
  It fitted all right, too damn well. Hawk's suspicions were proving accurate, as always. I kept my face blank while my pulse rate skyrocketed.
  
  "The Bolivian government has not publicly recognized the renewed guerrilla activity," Finona went on. "And this El Garfio follows in the footsteps of Che Guevara, only he seems more clever."
  
  It may well be the same footsteps, I thought. And he would be more clever. If it were Che Guevara, he'd have learned from his last time out.
  
  "But you would trade with this El Garfio?" Finona questioned again.
  
  I shrugged. "Why not?" I said. "His money is as good as anyone else's. And it would be my contribution to the cause of world revolution. The East German government would not be displeased at all."
  
  "But the Bolivian government would be," Finona remarked.
  
  "There will be no way they will know, if things are done properly," I said. The colonel smiled. "I'll see what I can do to help you," he said. The tone of voice indicated the meeting was over. "Only as a personal favor, of course, as you are a guest in our country. My contact may be in touch with El Garfio. Only time will tell, Señor von Schlegel."
  
  Time, my aching back, I thought. I'd bet El Garfio already knew I was around. It doesn't take a lot to stir up a hornet's nest. I was right, too. I got the first direct sign of it tonight.
  
  I bid Finona a cordial farewell, knowing that we understood each other, gave him one of von Schlegel's best bows and called it a day. I dined in the hotel restaurant, eyed a few dark-eyed girls and toyed with the idea of pursuing them further. They were at the bar, out for a good time and plainly looking for company. One was rounded and vivacious and cute. I wondered if Hawk appreciated the willpower I summoned up at moments like these. I bought a paperback at the lobby cigar stand, went to my suite and read myself to sleep.
  
  I'd been asleep a few hours, at least, when I woke with that tingling sensation I've come to know very well. My eyes snapped open and a coldness crept along my flesh. I lay still, not moving a muscle, until I could orient my ears to the sounds in the silent room. Then I turned my head, ever so slowly, and saw the shadowy figure on the terrace, moving toward the living room, carefully opening the French windows.
  
  He was, I could see, stocky and not very tall, dressed in a nondescript pullover. I watched him move across the room. I waited to see what he would do next. I'd left my jacket on the couch in the living room. He took out the billfold, pocketed the money and then spilled out all the papers. Striking a match he sorted the papers out on the table, quickly examining them.
  
  He left them scattered on the table and moved toward the bedroom. He hit the door against the chair I'd positioned, stopped poised to run, peering toward my bed. I sighed deeply, half-turned on my side and resumed a deep, steady breathing.
  
  Satisfied, he moved into the room to where my luggage was stacked near an open closet. Carefully, he opened each suitcase, then went through the clothes hanging in the closet. He was quiet, a thoroughly professional sneak thief. But was that all he was? Or was he looking for something in particular?
  
  From the way he went through each suitcase and all the clothes in the closets I felt he was after something in particular, perhaps a slip of paper Von Schlegel might carelessly have written the location of his arms on. I would have let him search the place and leave without ever letting on I knew he was there, but unfortunately, fate intervened.
  
  He had started out through the living room when he paused at my jacket again. He reached into a pocket and brought out the cigarette lighter and dropped it into his own pocket. If he was working for someone else, he was also not above a little private enterprise. The money I could let go but not the cigarette lighter.
  
  I had to move fast. He was already on his way through the French windows leading to the terrace. I leaped out of bed, wearing only my shorts, yanked open the French windows in the bedroom and met him on the terrace. I saw his jaw drop in surprise and his eyes widen.
  
  He had a flat, high-cheekboned face, and I aimed a hard right at it. It landed and he went sailing backwards, doing a half somersault as he hit the flagstones of the terrace. I was on him at once, grabbing one of his flailing arms and twisting hard. He screamed in pain. I reached into his pocket, retrieved the lighter and let go of his arm.
  
  With just shorts on, I had no pockets in which to put the lighter, and I didn't want to risk damaging the delicate mechanism by palming it as I belted him again. So I let go of him, took two strides toward the living room and tossed the lighter onto the couch. When I turned back, the thief was on his feet and streaking for the end of the terrace. Hugo was strapped to my arm and I dropped the stiletto into my palm, thinking to scare him into stopping.
  
  "Hold it," I shouted. "Stop or I'll let some air into you." He paused, one foot over the terrace balustrade, glanced back to see me poised to throw the stiletto and dropped over the side. I ran to the edge and peered over. He was scrambling precariously sideways along a series of stone carvings that jutted from the building.
  
  "Stop, you stupid sonofabitch," I yelled after him.
  
  He kept going, and I could see at the end of the row of carvings a descending line of indented stones. If he reached them, he would climb down the five stories as if he were on a tall ladder. Damn! I couldn't let him go back and report that Señor von Schlegel seemed unusually interested in an ordinary cigarette lighter. I could have skewered him with Hugo, but I didn't want him landing on the hotel doorstep with a stiletto in his neck either. As it was, I was lucky my shouts hadn't raised anybody.
  
  I looked around desperately and spotted a wrought iron chair in a corner of the terrace. It would have to do. I grabbed it, held it in one hand and swung myself over the balustrade. Standing on the edge of the terrace, I leaned out as far as I could and dropped the chair straight down the side of the building.
  
  The blow was a glancing one but more than enough to break his slender hold on a stone carving. His scream rose on the night air like the howl of a dying wolf. I swung myself up and back over the balustrade. Walking quickly back inside, before anyone might spot me out there, I put the fighter into a pocket of my pants and went back to bed. I could get three more hours of sleep in before it was time to get up. My visitor had, I was certain, been the first sign that the hornets were stirring. I didn't know then how fast other signs would appear.
  
  
  
  
  
  4th
  
  
  
  
  In the morning I received, by special messenger, the list of the arms and ammunition promised by Major Andreola. The Major was efficient and prompt, I saw. But it would be no problem to stall him on one pretext or another. Haggling over price could take weeks, if need be. Negotiations on delivery could use up more time.
  
  It was the second message I received that interested me. It was slipped under my door, and I found it when I returned from breakfast: an unmarked, white envelope with a brief note inside.
  
  "Go to Timiani at foot of Cordillo Real, 25 miles," it read. "Dirt road along cuchial 500 yards. Someone will meet you to talk about your goods."
  
  It was unsigned, of course. I read it again and searched my memory for Spanish idiomatic terms. «Cuchial» was a bamboo field, I recalled. If this was the opening move in setting up a contact with El Garfio, I wasn't going to miss up on it.
  
  I hurried downstairs, found a garage nearby. A hard-bitten old man ran the place, but he had a car I could rent, a battered old Ford. I took off in it, heading northeast toward the line of mountains called the Cordillo Real, listening to the Ford's straining engine and wondering if the car was going to make it to the edge of La Paz. But despite its coffee-grinder tone, the engine kept running, and soon I was slowing at a sign reading Timiani.
  
  I spotted the field of bamboo, I parked the car and got out. Walking along the edge of the field I came to a narrow dirt road cutting a swath through the bamboo. I went up the road, counting off five hundred yards, give or take a few feet. The road ended in a small clearing of rocks and bamboo stalks.
  
  I looked around and saw no one, yet I had the distinct feeling that I was far from alone. The tall bamboo stalks on either side formed a dense curtain.
  
  Suddenly they came out from behind the bamboo curtain, first two, then another, then three more — six altogether. They moved out so they surrounded me.
  
  A stocky character with a thick, drooping mustache and matted beard growled, "You have guns. Where are they?"
  
  "I don't have any guns," I said.
  
  "You have told others they were close enough. " he said. "You will tell us where."
  
  They had received rather precise information, it seemed, and I looked at them. They were dressed in work clothes, and two of them had what looked like .38s stuck in their belts. All had scraggly, unkempt beards, and none of them looked as if he could pull his weight as a guerrilla fighter. El Garfio, I decided, had better improve his personnel.
  
  "I'll tell you nothing," I said calmly. "You are a crummy looking set of bastardos."
  
  "Silencio!" Moustache shouted. He slammed his hand across my face. "Talk… or we will kill you."
  
  "That won't get you the guns," I pointed out.
  
  "If we don't get them, we have nothing to lose by killing you!" he shouted back. It may not have won him a passing mark in a course of logic but it was hard to argue with. I saw a decidedly unpleasant situation rapidly developing. These scraggly characters could end my whole operation then and there. That became even more possible as two of them grabbed me, and the leader with the moustache said something quickly to the others.
  
  "We will make you talk," he said, glowering at me.
  
  The stupid bastards had brought it on themselves, I decided. I wasn't worried about these amateurs making me talk, but it was possible they could hurt me enough so I'd lapse into English instead of speaking German or Spanish. They would go back knowing von Schlegel was a phony, and that I couldn't let happen. I sighed. I couldn't let them go back, period, under any circumstances. I watched as two of them came over to the leader with broken lengths of bamboo.
  
  "These ends are jagged and sharp," he pointed out, unnecessarily, taking one of the bamboo poles and holding it in front of my face while two of his men kept my arms pinned behind my back. "You will talk."
  
  He pulled open my jacket and shirt. Drawing his arm back, he rammed the end of the bamboo into my stomach. I let myself scream; the bastard was right, it hurt like hell. I sagged and they let me go to my knees, but they still held onto me. Moustache laughed and drove the end into my belly again. I groaned and cried out. They jerked me upright and Moustache yanked my pants down.
  
  "This time," he said, grinning, "you will not be able to scream for the pain. And you can forget about being a man again too."
  
  He drew back his arm, the jagged end of the bamboo pole pointed and ready. I played my part to the hilt.
  
  "No!" I screamed. "I'll talk… I'll tell you!"
  
  He laughed, lowered the pole and gestured to the others to release me. I grabbed at my pants and pulled them up, breathing heavily, feigning terror. They were such a bunch of lousy amateurs it was sickening. I knew what I had to do and would do it quickly and ruthlessly. I sank down on one knee, looking up at the leader's grinning face, and pulled my jacket straight. When my hand reappeared, it had Wilhelmina in it. I marked the two with the guns, and I let the two men with the .38s have it first. Then I whirled, still firing. The others fell backwards in a semicircle, like pins in a bowling alley.
  
  One of the two who had held me was still behind me, and he had a moment to act. He dived into the bamboo and I heard him crashing through the field. I went after him, putting the Luger away. I followed the easy trail of broken stalks, heard him crashing headlong and then, suddenly, there was silence. He'd gotten smart and was hiding somewhere ahead. I could waste a lot of time looking for him in that overgrown place.
  
  I decided to let him find me, give him the opportunity to attack. I went on, crashing through the bamboo, as if I didn't realize he was hiding, lying in wait. I'd gone about twenty yards when he struck. I had a moment's warning — the rustle of stalks behind me — and whirled as he came at me, a hunting knife in his hand. The blade flashed down. I managed to get one hand up in time to seize his wrist, but the force of his leap carried me backwards and down.
  
  The bamboo stalks gave way as we fell, cushioning the fall nicely. He was fighting from fear, and it gave him a degree of strength he didn't really possess. I rolled him off me, pressed his arm back and leaned an elbow across his throat. It was over in seconds, his last breath coming out of him in a shuddering gasp.
  
  I left him there and hurried back to the clearing. I pulled the other bodies into the bamboo. Unless someone happened to come through this spot, they would be there until they rotted. El Garfio would wonder what the hell happened to his men, but that's all he would be able to do. He might decide they'd been captured by Bolivian troops.
  
  I was a little surprised at the crude methods of the man, and I pondered that as I headed the little Ford back toward La Paz. I was sure they had been El Garfio's men until the wagon and the burro suddenly came out of a side road to block the road. I had to slam on the brakes and skidded to a dusty halt.
  
  An old man drove the wagon. Beside him sat a black-haired girl, staring at me with deep brown eyes. She was very pretty with a flat, high-cheek-boned face and fine lips. Her peasant blouse was cut low, and her breasts, round and high and full, swelled over the neckline provocatively.
  
  She just sat in the wagon and looked at me. I got out of the car and walked over to the little wagon. The old man stared straight ahead.
  
  "Well?" I said. "Are you going to move or aren't you?"
  
  Suddenly, I realized we had company. I shifted my gaze and saw three men, each carrying a carbine, standing behind the boulders at the side of the road, looking down at the little scene.
  
  "You are Schlegel?" the girl asked. "You are the arms merchant from East Germany?"
  
  I nodded, watching her narrowly. This was an unexpected development. She swung down from the wagon, and I got a glimpse of lovely, tanned, slender legs as her dark green skirt swirled up briefly.
  
  "I came to your hotel," she said. "I was told you had driven away, in this direction, so we waited for you to return."
  
  "Who are you?" I asked.
  
  "I have come from El Garfio," she said simply. "My name is Teresina."
  
  I kept my face expressionless but my mind raced. I realized I'd been wrong about the other group. They hadn't been from the El Garfio leader at all; he wouldn't have sent two delegations. It was suddenly clear who they'd been. The Bolivian Communist party had its own guerrillas. They had never properly operated with Che Guevara. In his diary he'd chronicled the series of disagreements, and his boss, Fidel Castro, made much of the bad blood between the two groups. They'd disagreed on everything from strategy to leadership.
  
  Obviously, the Bolivian Beds had learned of my presence and decided to pull a coup. But this beautiful girl, whose eyes flashed dark fire at me, was the real thing — in more ways than one. She stood waiting for me to answer.
  
  "I am von Schlegel," I said. "But I am not going to talk here in the road. If you want to talk, come to my hotel."
  
  Raising her voice, she spoke sharply to the others, and suddenly we were alone. They vanished, like magic. Only the old man and the burro and cart were left. The girl walked to the car and got in beside me. The old man drove the wagon on down the road.
  
  "El Garfio is prepared to buy if you have the right weapons for sale," Teresina said as I started the Ford. "But he must have samples. He does not buy without seeing."
  
  I was prepared for that request. "I have certain samples, at my hotel," I said. When she asked where the major shipment was, I gave her the same pitch I'd given the others, saying only that it was near enough.
  
  At the hotel, Teresina carefully looked into each room of my suite. I watched her with amusement and pleasure. She moved with a lithe grace, and her legs under the heavy, peasant skirt were beautifully shaped. When she finished checking out the rooms she sat down on the couch, sitting with those lovely legs held together as properly and modestly as any school girl's. Her eyes, so very dark and liquid, focused on me with open interest.
  
  I let my gaze wander slowly over the rounded, high breasts, straining under the scoop-necked cotton blouse. She was a very attractive dish indeed, certainly not the average stocky, thick-waisted peasant girl of this part of the world. I wondered what her relationship was to El Garfio. Was she his woman? A camp follower? A dedicated fellow revolutionary? She could even be someone he'd hired to represent him in negotiations with me. Anyway, I knew what she wasn't: she was no ordinary peasant girl.
  
  I went to the bar and started to mix a bourbon and water. "Will you join me?" I asked. She shrugged and, for the first time, relaxed enough to smile, a warm, inviting smile.
  
  "Why not?" she said. "Especially as we may soon be business associates." She took the glass from me, raised it and her eyes danced. "Salud!" she said. "Salud," I echoed.
  
  While she sipped her drink, I brought out the case of samples. It contained the latest model M-16, a small but highly effective bazooka, a Mauser of the newest type and some ammunition.
  
  "I can supply all of these guns he needs and the ammunition for them," I said. "I also have grenades and dynamite."
  
  I sat down beside her, looking down at the swelling curve of her breasts. She watched me with a kind of provocative insolence over the top of her glass.
  
  "I have other equipment, but it would be too expensive for El Garfio," I said. "As it is, I will be taking a risk selling to him. But with these guns he could more than match the government forces."
  
  "I can see that for myself," she said sharply.
  
  "But there are others who want guns," I said. "Major Andreola, for one."
  
  "And you will sell to the highest bidder," she said bitterly.
  
  "You learn quickly," I said. I glanced down at her hands. The fingers, I noticed, were long and tapering. Not the hands of a peasant.
  
  She leaned back against the couch. Her breasts pulled so tight against the cotton fabric of her blouse, I could see the outline of the nipples.
  
  "It is too bad you are such a greedy man," she said, smiling. "You are so handsome. It is like finding a diamond with a flaw in it."
  
  I had to laugh at the analogy. "But women like diamonds," I said. "Even diamonds with flaws."
  
  Her answering laugh was a musical sound. She leaned forward to set her empty glass on the coffee table in front of the couch, giving me a magnificent view of those generous breasts. She caught my glance and laughed again.
  
  "You men are all alike. It makes no difference whether you cut cane in the fields, or work in a store, or grow wealthy selling munitions."
  
  "All mice like cheese," I said.
  
  She leaned forward toward me. "You would like me to be something more than a customer for your guns, no?" she said teasingly. "I can see it in your eyes. But you are selling, not buying, amigo."
  
  I looked down at her. This girl was amazing, tossing herself at me and at the same time laughing about it. Okay, I could play the game.
  
  "I have something you and your El Garfio want," I said. "I will sell wherever I find the most attractive offer."
  
  She smiled confidently. "And I think maybe I have something you want," she said. "You are a very handsome man, Señor von Schlegel."
  
  "And you are a beautiful girl, Teresina," I said.
  
  She got up abruptly, picked up the sample case and started for the door.
  
  "Thank you for the drink," she said. "I shall contact you soon again, you may be sure, Señor."
  
  "Please call me Nicholaus," I said. "Nick would be even better, seeing as how we — as you put it — may soon be business associates."
  
  Her eyes lingered on mine for a long moment, then looked away. But I'd seen the look of annoyance — annoyance with herself — that came into them. She wanted to be completely in command, and she knew she wasn't. El Garfio or Che Guevara, if he were one and the same, had a most unusual woman working for him.
  
  It was dark when Teresina left. I had a bite to eat and went to bed knowing that the hornets were beginning to swarm.
  
  
  
  
  
  5th
  
  
  
  
  The fifth of April was a Saturday, and it brought me two packages. One came in a plain, brown wrapping; the other, in a very fancy alpaca covering.
  
  The plain brown one was an envelope from Hawk. It contained a brief note and a set of keys:
  
  "As requested, equipment in abandoned warehouse in Cochabamba," the note read. "Ten miles north of Beni River. Good luck."
  
  I destroyed it by flushing it down the toilet and pocketed the keys.
  
  The other package, the one in the alpaca wrapping, was Señorita Yolanda Demas. I heard a knock at the door and saw dark eyes peering up at me from under half-lowered lids out of a face surrounded by the hood of a fur coat. Señorita Demas swept into the room as if she owned the place. "I have come to see you," she announced imperiously. "You are Señor von Schlegel, no?"
  
  I nodded and she half-turned away, still wrapped tightly and completely in the fur coat, then turned to face me again commandingly.
  
  "You have guns to sell, I hear," she said. "I will buy them."
  
  I smiled politely, studying her face. It was pretty with flat cheekbones and eyes set wide apart. The lips were heavy and sensuous. Despite the hauteur she had wrapped around her like that alpaca coat, I sensed an earthy, smoldering quality about her. I decided I wanted to see the rest of her.
  
  "Before we discuss anything, won't you take off your coat, Señorita," I said.
  
  She stood still as I slipped the coat from her back. I laid it on a chair and turned to see a fullbusted, rather short girl with firm legs a little on the heavy side. She wore an expensive silk dress of cherry red and held herself very stiffly in it. Her haughty expression didn't go with the sensuousness of her face. Her lips, though she tried to hold them in a tight, disdainful fine, refused to be anything but invitingly provocative.
  
  "Why, now, would a lovely señorita like yourself want to buy guns?" I asked, giving her a big smile. I mixed two bourbon-and-waters and handed her one. She took it, holding the glass with her pinky extended.
  
  "It is no doubt unusual, I admit, señor," she said. "But I will explain. I own a large tin mine in the mountains beyond Cochabamba. My father died unexpectedly, and I was left with the mining operation. As you can see, I am not exactly equipped for such a task." She paused to take a healthy pull on her drink. "But I had to take over and I did," she continued. "The mine is running and making a lot of money. I intend to keep it that way. Guerrillas, under one they call El Garfio, have raided my buildings twice already for supplies. I fear they may try to take over the mine."
  
  "And the guns," I said, "will enable you to arm a protective force."
  
  "Exactly, señor," she said, dark eyes looking at me from under those drooping, heavy lids. "It is so important to me I will match any offer you get."
  
  I smiled, thinking of Teresina's implied offer. "That may be hard to do, Señorita Demas," I said. I downed my drink. She got to her feet and walked over to me. Her breasts under the cherry-red silk seemed to vibrate with a shimmering intensity. But it was her lips that drew my eyes, lush lips made for pleasure.
  
  "I am prepared to make my offer economically attractive to you," she said. "But our association could be more… personally rewarding."
  
  I stood up. First Teresina and now this one, tossing extra-added inducements around. If all arms merchants got this kind of treatment, I was switching careers but fast. Señorita Demas was unquestionably a sultry creature behind that imperious front. I wanted very much to strip away the façade and get at the real woman, but I restrained the impulse. She, like Teresina, was almost too willing, too eager, to use sex to get what she wanted. Of course, that sort of thing wasn't exactly unheard of. But in this case, though it was great for the ego, it gave me a slightly uneasy feeling. If Señorita Demas and Teresina wanted to put out for their respective reasons, I'd sure as hell accommodate them. But I wanted more time to get things in perspective. Things were going as I'd expected but in unexpected ways. Certainly this sensuous, sleepy-eyed woman before me was an entirely unexpected dividend.
  
  "Why don't you call me Nick, Yolanda?" I said. "That would be a start, anyway."
  
  She smiled assent. "But time is important to me, remember."
  
  "To me too," I said, handing her the furry coat. She slipped it on. At the door she turned and ran her tongue over her lower lip so it glistened temptingly. She handed me a small card. A telephone number was scrawled on it.
  
  "I am staying here, at a friend's house, for a few days," she said. "You can phone me there. Otherwise, I shall call you."
  
  I watched her walk down the hall to the elevator, a stiff, deliberate walk. She was working hard at keeping the haughty pose. As she stepped into the elevator, she nodded back at me, a queenly, imperious nod.
  
  I closed the door and sat down to go over my collection so far, pouring myself another bourbon. I'd stirred up the Bolivian government, a girl friend of El Garfio's, a tin-mining heiress and some unlucky small fry. So far so good, but now it was time to get other plans in motion, plans which would bring me closer to this El Garfio by another route.
  
  Beautiful heiresses and beautiful peasant girls aside, I was chasing down a legend to see if it was still flesh and blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  III
  
  
  
  
  
  I flicked the cigarette lighter on and off and held it close to my ear, listening. Soon I heard the faint but distinct voice coming from thousands of miles away.
  
  "Hawk will speak with you, N3," the voice said. A moment later, I was listening to Hawk's distinctive, flat, unemotional delivery.
  
  "The men you asked for have been dispatched, I'll give you a briefing on each one. Instructions for making contact will follow. Unless you have questions, sign out when I've finished."
  
  I sat back and listened intently as Hawk, his voice sounding unnaturally thin and distorted on the tiny set, gave me the details of what had been done. As I listened, I realized how formidable a task I had given him to accomplish in such a short time.
  
  I had no questions when he finished and deactivated the little fighter-radio by flicking it on and off again. I got out of the car, took off Nicholaus von Schlegel's well-tailored suit and donned a one-piece coverall. I got back behind the wheel of the battered old Ford and headed east by southeast.
  
  The city of Cochabamba lies some 150 miles away from La Paz, at the edge of the rugged mountain country. It was from Cochabamba that Che Guevara and his man, Pachungo, had entered the mountains, and it was from Cochabamba that I would pursue his legend and the man known as El Garfio.
  
  By the time I reached the place, over mountain roads with tortuous turns, it was nearly dark. I drove slowly along the edge of the Beni River until I found the old warehouse and pulled the car up close to the side of the building. One of the keys Hawk had sent me opened the front door and I entered. The place smelled old and dank and unused. I pulled the door shut behind me, flicked on a pencil flash. The small, one-man helicopter stood in the middle of the empty floor, rotor blades folded back. It had been flown into Cochabamba in parts and reassembled in the warehouse.
  
  It would be folly to try to make my contact for the first time in the dark, so I curled up inside the car and went to sleep until the first light woke me.
  
  The warehouse was around a sharp bend in the river in a deserted area of high weeds and marsh grass. I didn't have to worry about being seen as I opened the main doors, pulled the light aircraft out into the dawn and shut the doors again. I climbed into the chopper, used another of Hawk's keys to start the engine. It roared into life instantly, and the rotor blades began to whirl. Seconds later, I was off the ground, rising toward the morning sun.
  
  
  
  
  
  6th
  
  
  
  
  Following Hawk's instructions, I flew the 'copter over deep green, lush mountain forest, watching the compass on the instrument panel closely. Looking down at the terrain below, I saw why air reconnaissance accomplished so little. An Army could have been down there hidden in the naturally camouflaged ravines and valleys, on the tree-covered hillsides.
  
  I flew low, almost at treetop height. After I crossed the Piray River, I turned the 'copter south. I was searching for a small, flat area marked by an orange canister.
  
  Criss-crossing the area systematically, I was almost ready to give up when a flash of color to the right caught my eye. I wheeled the helicopter sharply about. The orange canister stood at the edge of a circular clearing hardly larger than the 'copter. I came in low and set down carefully. Clambering out, I saw the path Hawk had described leading from the far edge of the little clearing.
  
  Quickly, I started up the uneven trail.
  
  The land was indeed what the Bolivians referred to as elevador, a terrain particularly suited for guerrilla activities. According to Hawk's instructions radioed yesterday, I would eventually reach a small ridge. On the other side was a tapera, an abandoned Indian hut.
  
  I found the ridge, topped it, saw the tapera. As I approached the hut, two men stepped out of the bushes on the right and left of the narrow path. They held Marlin 336 big-game rifles. Grim-faced, they raised the rifles in an unmistakable gesture.
  
  I halted and said, "Che Guevara." Immediately, they lowered the rifles.
  
  "N3?" one of them said. I nodded and walked towards them. Four other men emerged from the tapera, and we shook hands all around. They introduced themselves: Olo, Antonio, Cesare, Eduardo, Manuel, Luis. I surveyed them with a kind of pride. While they were probably very different in type and in temperament, they had one thing in common: each was dedicated to the destruction of the Castro government and anything connected with it. Each had suffered torture and seen their families wiped out by the Reds. Hawk had brought them together from all over. Olo, he had told me, had been tortured for two years in a Castro prison and seen his two daughters brutally raped. Luis had seen his parents shot as reactionaries. Eduardo had watched helplessly, bound hand and foot, while his wife was tortured and raped, his mother beaten until she died of a heart attack, and his sisters dragged off never to be heard of again, because they could not reveal where his father had fled.
  
  I had, in short, asked Hawk to get me a small band of ruthless, fanatical killers, men who would match Che Guevara or El Garfio in their hatred. They had been briefed about me and my objective and parachuted into the hills to wait for me to contact them.
  
  They took me into the hut. They were having breakfast, and I joined them in mate, the strong South American tea, and huminta, rolls made from cornmeal. Looking around, I saw that ample supplies had been parachuted down with them.
  
  We made plans as we ate. "We have located one of Guevara's groups," Olo said, biting into a huminta. He was a tall, big-framed man with huge hands. He had apparently been allowed to take command until my arrival.
  
  "Remember, amigo, we still do not know if the man we seek really is Guevara," I reminded him.
  
  Olo's eyes looked deadly. "To us, he is Guevara until we see otherwise," he said. "The bastardo's main force is still somewhere unknown to us, but he has split the rest into small units."
  
  "According to his diary, he sent small groups of men out the last time too," I said.
  
  "But only to make a forced march for some destination or to construct a new camp," Olo answered. "This time he has them out as raiding parties and organizing cadres."
  
  "Then we will hit this one you have pinpointed," I said. "How many are there in the party?"
  
  "Seven, eight, maybe ten," he said. "They will be child's play for us, Señor Carter."
  
  "Nick, to you," I told him. "Let's go, then." Luis went to the back of the hut and returned with a carbine for me. I noted that each of them also carried a handgun and a knife.
  
  Without unnecessary talk, with a kind of grim determination, we set out into the dense undergrowth. When Hawk first handed me the mission, in that tent in Cairo, I had formulated my own plan on how to come to grips with Guevara — if it was Guevara. These men were the result. I knew the guerrillas would only be brought into the open by applying their own tactics to them — fast, hit-and-run strikes, chewing up their forces until they either had to disband or make a stand. The government approach of sending in large, unwieldy concentrations of troops was a little like trying to catch a rabbit while wearing snowshoes. The rabbit was in back, front and all around while you were still trying to get one foot off the ground.
  
  We loped through the woods, filtering through the underbrush, silent as Indians. Suddenly, Luis, who was in the lead, held up his hand. Everyone froze.
  
  Luis pointed to a small brownish bird watching us from the low branch of a tree. "Cacare," he said softly. I knew the bird's habits. It would flutter into the air at the approach of man or animal and, with a hysterical scream, announce the presence of the intruder. One cacare was better than ten watchdogs. Luis crept forward, step by step. We did the same, treading lightly so as not to alarm the bird. Luis had picked up a hunk of wood. As he moved within reach of the bird, he raised his arm slowly, then with an unbelievably fast movement, brought the club down on the bird, killing it instantly.
  
  Luis let out a long breath. "Their camp is just beyond those trees," he whispered.
  
  We spread out. In moments I was peering ahead and slightly down at three tents and some men cooking in front of them. Their rifles, mostly old WW II U.S. and German makes, were stacked ready for instant action. There was little chance of their being used though.
  
  At a nod from me, my little group opened up a withering fire, a surprise attack so deadly and efficient it was over before it had hardly begun. Olo and Manuel ran down to the tents, stripped the bodies of everything of value. When they returned, we marched back to the tapera.
  
  We were moving unconcernedly through the woods when we heard men moving up ahead. We scattered and got undercover. Moments later, another group of guerrillas passed us, seemingly unaware of our presence. We were wrong about that.
  
  They were abreast of our hiding places when they suddenly halted, wheeled and poured a murderous fire into the brush. I heard shouting and saw perhaps six more guerrillas rushing up to join the battle. I knew what must have happened. They had been on their way to join the group we had massacred, had sent an advance man out who had reported back in terror and alarm.
  
  They couldn't see us in the underbrush, but kept up a random fire that was scattered but deadly. I rolled deeper into the brush as bullets thudded into trees and shaved bushes all around me. Some of my men were returning the fire, but the newcomers charged in with knives and machetes.
  
  I glanced around and saw Olo bring down two of the attackers at point-blank range. We had recovered from our initial surprise and were shooting back with far more accuracy and effect. I brought down one charging guerrilla with a clean shot between the eyes.
  
  Their firepower was fizzling now, as those still standing began to withdraw in disorganized retreat. I saw one, crouched over, streaking for safety, and a thought popped into my mind. I dived for him and brought him down with a flying tackle. He tried to use his hunting knife, but I ended that action with a fast chop to the jaw. He lay still.
  
  His surviving comrades were out of sight, crashing through the underbrush in flight. I stood up and looked to see how we had made out. Manuel had a superficial arm wound and Antonio a creased forehead. Other than that, no casualties. I yanked the guerrilla I'd caught to his feet, as he began to regain consciousness.
  
  "I want this one to go back knowing who sent him," I said. The terror in the man's eyes faded when he realized he was going to live.
  
  "Tell El Garfio his days are numbered," I said. "Tell him that men of vengeance hunt his soul here in the mountains, led by an American."
  
  "How many men does El Garfio have?" Olo questioned the guerrilla.
  
  "I don't know," he answered. Olo walked over to him, put one huge hand in the small of his back and the other around his neck. He pressed, and the guerrilla's backbone seemed to crack. The man screamed. Olo dropped him and stood over him He kicked him in the ribs, savagely. "More?" he asked.
  
  The guerrilla groaned in agony. "I don't know, I tell you," he gasped. "He has never told anyone, and his own cadre is kept separate from the others.
  
  I put a hand on Olo's arm. "Enough," I said. "I think he's telling the truth. Our enemy is playing it smart and keeping his forces apart until he's ready for a combined assault on something very important."
  
  I yanked the man to his feet. "Go," I said. "You can consider yourself lucky."
  
  His glance told me he agreed completely. He turned and started to run, moving as fast as the terrain allowed.
  
  My group resumed the march back to the tapera. There we sat down to a simple meal cooked by Eduardo, simple but delicious. In a huge iron pot he cooked locro, a soup made with rice, potatoes, various root vegetables of the region with charqui added. The charqui, sun-dried meat, was pork from a wild pig.
  
  After dinner we sat down before the fire; the nights are cold and penetratingly damp in the mountains. We talked about our next move. I impressed on them that I wanted no attacks, no confrontations, unless I was with them.
  
  "It's not that I don't trust your capabilities." I said. "It's that I must be there when we face Che. I must be sure it really is Guevara."
  
  I spent the night with the men. It had been a long day, and the hard floor of the tapera felt like a feather mattress to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  7th
  
  
  
  
  In the morning it was agreed that while I was away, they would reconnoiter, finding more of the guerrilla units, pinpointing their position for my return. I wanted to get back to the warehouse in Cochabamba while it was still early, and I took off before the sun had cleared the hills. The flight back was uneventful, and soon I was on my way to La Paz, steering the old Ford over the twisting mountain roads.
  
  By early afternoon, I had slipped back into the hotel unobserved and was once again Herr von Schlegel, munitions salesman. I sent Major Andreola a price which I knew was too high but which would allow him to start the process of dickering and bargaining. The two-pronged operation for getting El Garfio had begun — and most successfully. With one or the other, or perhaps a combination of both, I would soon come face to face with the guerrilla leader.
  
  I ate alone at the hotel. Later, back in my room, I debated radioing Hawk, to tell him he had outdone himself, picking my men. I decided against it; Hawk doesn't approve of unnecessary communications on a job.
  
  I was getting ready for bed when I heard a faint knock at the door. I strapped on Wilhelmina under my lounging jacket and opened the door. Teresina stood there, hands on her hips, regarding me coolly. She wore the same dark green skirt, but this time with a yellow blouse, also low cut and tight.
  
  "Have you decided to sell to El Garfio?" she demanded.
  
  "Come in," I said. "I haven't decided anything — yet. But I could."
  
  She smiled, a slow, lazy smile and strolled into the room. I watched her walk by, smoothly, gracefully, and had all I could do to keep from patting her shapely rear as she passed.
  
  
  
  
  
  IV
  
  
  
  
  
  Teresina sat down and focused those cool eyes on me. I was wearing only pants and the lounging jacket. I fixed two bourbon and waters, handed one to her. She sat with her slender legs tucked up under her, her skirt riding high, exposing the lovely, tempting curve of her thigh.
  
  "Very nice," I commented, gesturing with my glass. She didn't move, just nodded in acceptance.
  
  "Señor von Schlegel," she began, and I interrupted her immediately.
  
  "Nick," I said. "Our last conversation ended with the possibility of our getting to know each other better, remember?"
  
  There was a flicker of warmth in the deep-brown eyes. My eyes went over her admiringly, from the shapely legs to the long, tapered fingers holding the glass.
  
  "I tried to contact you several times yesterday… Nick," she said, emphasizing my name. "You were never in."
  
  That last was an unasked question.
  
  "I was visiting an old friend who lives in Sucre," I said. "She asked me to stay overnight."
  
  "She?" Her eyebrows went up. "You have a girl friend here in Bolivia?"
  
  "I met her when she visited Europe," I said, downing my drink. Teresina finished hers, and I poured us another round.
  
  "I presume it was worth the trip," she said acidly. It was hard not to smile. Women are all alike, quick to feel jealousy even without right or reason. It's always there, just below the surface.
  
  "Very," I said. "But then she's not the typical Bolivian girl. She's half-German, and very warm and affectionate."
  
  "What does that mean?" Teresina snapped.
  
  "I've been told the Bolivian girls are rather anemic in… everything they do," I said casually. "The high altitude thins out the blood, I'm told, keeps their… ah… passions cooled down."
  
  "What rubbish!" Her eyes flashed, and this time I did smile. The response had been automatic, delivered with a finishing-school indignation. Even as I smiled, I wondered again about this "peasant girl."
  
  Her anger died out as quickly as it had flared up, and I saw her studying me warily.
  
  "You said that just to see my reaction, no?" she said.
  
  "I wouldn't do a thing like that," I protested. She raised her drink to her lips and my eyes strayed again to the exposed lovely curve of thigh. I found myself wondering what this strange, quick-minded girl would be like in bed. Somehow, I couldn't imagine her tramping around the hills with Che Guevara, or El Garfio or whoever the hell he was. Yet she was here as an emissary of the guerrilla leader.
  
  She moved, and her breasts strained against her blouse. My lounging jacket came open and I saw her glance at my bare chest, as browned as her own olive skin, the muscles tight and hard.
  
  I decided to push and see what happened. There were things I wanted to learn, and a woman in bed is stripped of more than her clothes. Properly aroused, carried by desire to the height of ecstasy a woman in bed, like a matador in the bullring, has her moments of truth.
  
  "What if I told you Major Andreola has made me a very attractive offer?" I said, sitting beside her.
  
  She shrugged. "That is to be expected."
  
  "And what if I said I could be persuaded to sell to El Garfio?" I pressed her. "But something more than money would have to persuade me."
  
  "Why would you want to sell to El Garfio, if the government's offer is so attractive?" she asked. "To a man like you, money is money."
  
  I grinned at her. "And girls are girls," I said.
  
  "You are afraid the Bolivian government will find out," she said, ignoring that last remark.
  
  "No," I said. "I just think El Garfio needs my material more than the government. He would be a certain customer for more while the government can buy from many sources."
  
  I saw anger in her eyes. "You don't like that," I said. "Why not? All you want is for me to sell to your leader. My reasons are unimportant."
  
  "Reasons are always important," she shot back.
  
  "With my guns, El Garfio can really create a revolution," I said. "And I have many more available — for a price. I am willing to cooperate with you."
  
  I slid my hand gently, slowly, up her arm, up through the blouse to the shoulder. I stroked the underside of her arm. She remained unresponsive, but I saw it was a struggle.
  
  "I could sell to El Garfio and to the government," I said.
  
  "If you sell to El Garfio, you will sell to no one else in Bolivia, I promise you that," she said coldly. I kept rubbing her arm with the flat of my palm, slowly, gently.
  
  "That's all right with me," I said. "If he buys, it doesn't matter about the others. But at the time of delivery, I must meet El Garfio."
  
  She pulled her arm away and looked at me in astonishment. "Meet El Garfio?" she gasped. "I… I don't think I can arrange that."
  
  "Why not?" I asked.
  
  "It… it is not done," she stammered. "He does not permit others to make such arrangements for him."
  
  I got up and stood looking down at her. "Then I'll have to find another way to reach El Garfio," I said brusquely. I wondered at the sudden look of fear in her eyes, a fear mixed with anger.
  
  "Why would you do that, when I am here to arrange the sale, if that is what you are going to do?" she said, almost running the words together in her agitation.
  
  "But you say you cannot help me to meet El Garfio," I said. "And that is a condition if I am to sell to him."
  
  "I said it would be most difficult," she said, calmer now. "I didn't say I could not do it. If you agree to sell, I will take the next step. But first I must know that you will sell to him."
  
  "It's important that I deal through you, if I deal with El Garfio?" I asked.
  
  "Very," she said, and there was no mistaking the sincerity in that one word answer. I wondered why it was so important. Had El Garfio given her this assignment as a test? Perhaps she had to prove herself somehow. Or maybe she wanted to prove herself, on her own. All I was sure of was that she clearly wanted to be in on it, if I decided to sell to El Garfio. Why, I wondered; it intrigued me.
  
  I wanted to find out and I knew the one chance I had was in bed. I made a quick, self-sacrificing decision. Making love to Teresina would be a legitimate pursuit on my part, in the line of duty. I grinned to myself, knowing Hawk would just love that reasoning. Truthfully, the dark-eyed, strangely delicate creature sitting beside me could have aroused a stone statue, and I was far from that. I shifted gears.
  
  "Tell me about yourself, Teresina," I said, putting my hand on her shining, black hair. "How does so lovely a girl become a member of a guerrilla band?"
  
  She smiled and looked up at me. "How does so handsome a man become such an unprincipled seller of munitions?" she countered.
  
  She was extremely quick-minded, I realized once again.
  
  "I asked you first," I said.
  
  She shrugged. "There is nothing exciting about my story. I was born on a farm in the mountains. Like all the rest, it was a poor farm, and it is from such as my people that El Garfio recruits his followers. It is a change from tending animals, tilling soil, picking the cocoa leaves sometimes."
  
  I kept my face expressionless as I watched her sip her drink. If those hands had ever done farm work, I'd eat a bale of hay. My warning system began to buzz insistently.
  
  "What kind of animals on your farm?" I asked.
  
  "Sheep," she said, then added quickly, "goats and pigs, too."
  
  "What do you feed them here in Bolivia?" I asked.
  
  "Oh, the usual thing," she said. "The same as you'd feed them anywhere else."
  
  Good try, doll, I thought grimly, but not good enough. It was a smooth evasion, but a farm girl would have rattled off not only what kind of feed, but how much. But I'd kept my eyes on her as we talked, letting the desire I felt communicate itself. Now I moved over to her, the lounging jacket hanging open, and cupped her chin in my hand.
  
  "I think you could like me very much, Teresina," I said, "if I weren't so 'unprincipled.»
  
  Her eyes glowed with a dark fire. "You are a very compelling man," she admitted.
  
  "And you are too full of idealistic thoughts," I said. "But I could make you forget them, for a while at least."
  
  "Could you?" she said, and in her eyes was the unspoken word: try.
  
  I leaned down and kissed her, gently first, then pressing her lips open with my own. My tongue flickered across her parted lips, into her mouth. She tried to push me back, but I was holding her too tightly. I pressed my naked chest against her straining breasts until finally she wrenched herself free.
  
  "No," she said. "No, I… I won't."
  
  "Teresina, what kind of a farm girl are you?" I said, putting my hand against the back of her neck. It was a deliberate low blow. "I've never known a farm girl who didn't believe in doing what is natural."
  
  I kissed her again, harder this time, letting my tongue play inside her mouth while I held her head firm. She tried to struggle, but her hands were without strength and her open mouth responded with a desire of its own. Her hands were against my chest now, clenching and unclenching, as she fought against her own desire. I wanted this exciting girl, but I held back, determined to use every trick I could to bring her to the boiling point where naked desire would sweep away all pretensions — and precautions.
  
  I pulled back and held her face with one hand against my chest. "It's been a long time since you've had a man," I said, taking a shot that wasn't completely in the dark. I could sense the hunger in her.
  
  "Why do you say that?" she flared, and I knew I was right on target.
  
  "Tell me I'm wrong," I said.
  
  "I… I do not give myself easily," she said defensively. "Perhaps I am too particular."
  
  "And perhaps for the wrong reasons," I said, forcing her back onto the couch roughly, almost brutally. I didn't give her time to answer as I thrust my hand down the loose, open neck of the blouse and cupped one of her breasts. At the same instant I smothered her mouth with mine, caressing her lips with my tongue. I pulled her soft breast out of the confining blouse, and she gasped. Her arms around my neck tightened uncontrollably.
  
  "No, no," she gasped, while her breasts responded to my touch, their soft tips rising in eager anticipation. I rubbed my thumb gently over the nipples, and Teresina made small noises of protest that were meaningless. Her closed eyes and peaked nipples, her feverish grip on my neck, her straining abdomen — these were the real answer.
  
  With a quick motion, I removed her blouse, pulling it over her head. She opened her eyes, and I saw desire and fear mixed in them. I chased the fear, leaving only the desire as I bent over and took her breast in my mouth, circling the soft tip with my tongue.
  
  Teresina half-screamed with pleasure. She writhed and cried, and once again her lips said one thing while her body said another. Finally, she stopped protesting and turned herself to me with a surprising tenderness. She drew my head down against her breasts gently.
  
  "Make love to me, Nick," she said, her eyes closed.
  
  She was naked beside me now, our bodies pressing together. She held my face in her hands for a moment, then pressed it down to her breasts again, to the soft, sweet skin of her belly. There was grace to her movements, and a tender, gentle, sweetness as I caressed her thighs and found her warmth waiting for my touch. She sighed and a smile stole over her face.
  
  I caressed her very inner being, listening to the tenderness of her pleading voice, watching the graceful, delicate movements of her arms, her hands. If Teresina was a peasant girl, she was like no peasant girl I'd ever known. In this time of desire, she was a tender creature, a girl whose every gesture and movement spoke not of the farm, but of refinement and culture. But as she raised her legs for me, I put aside these calculated observations and entered fully into the pleasures of her body.
  
  Whatever Teresina was, I knew I'd find out eventually. Right now, she was a loving, yearning, straining girl, waiting for what I could bring to her, willing to offer me her own treasures. Teresina's eager sighs grew louder and longer as I moved in her, until with a shudder from the very depths of her soul she came to me, and moments later we lay together in the peace of sensual fulfillment.
  
  The things I had thought about flooded back in on me in the warm aftermath of love-making. In those moments when passion ruled, Teresina had revealed more than her body. She had been passionate, eager, but there had been a refinement, a delicacy that was inbred. A lady makes love differently from a whore. In Teresina, there was none of the earthiness typical of the kind of girl she was pretending to be. I was convinced; she was no peasant wench, no simple farm girl. I didn't know what her game was, only that she was a phony.
  
  I wasn't surprised, then, when her hand stroked my cheek and she said, her voice tinged with sadness, "You are wonderful," she said. "I wish we could stay this way and forget about the rest of the world."
  
  I cupped a soft breast in my hand, and she pressed her hand over mine. "I know what you mean," I said. "It would be nice, wouldn't it?"
  
  She fitted her head into the curve of my shoulder and moved her hand gently up and down my body. She lay quietly against me, occasionally moving her hand, her leg resting partly over my abdomen. But there was no forgetting the world, not for me, not for her, and finally she raised herself up on one elbow and slipped the yellow blouse demurely over her bare breasts. She looked at me soberly.
  
  "Now will you sell to El Garfio?" she asked.
  
  "You sound as if you'd be sorry if I did," I said surprised.
  
  "That is a foolish thing to say," she said quickly. "I just want to know, that is all, now that you've gotten what you wanted."
  
  The bitterness in her voice was plain. I was dammed if I could figure out why, though. She was a confusing little dish, this one.
  
  "Maybe I would like more," I said casually.
  
  Her eyes searched mine, and I saw anger tinged with sorrow in them.
  
  "I'm sure you would," she said. "It is too bad you desire for the wrong reasons."
  
  I grabbed her and pulled her down to me. "Desire is reason of its own," I said. "Didn't you enjoy it? Perhaps I can do better."
  
  I caressed her soft, full breasts again. At once her legs pressed against me and she writhed and moaned, fighting herself.
  
  "Stop!" she gasped. "Stop… please. All right, I enjoyed it… too much." She pulled free. "I am sorry it had to happen for the reasons it happened."
  
  "It happened because we wanted each other," I said.
  
  "Yes but there were other reasons," she replied, her face buried against my chest, that strange sadness in her voice. "It is too bad for those other reasons. Except for that, it would have been the most complete thing in my life."
  
  I knew she meant my wanting her as part of the price for selling to El Garfio. She didn't realize I'd wanted her to find out things about her she was now revealing all over again. The sensitivity she was displaying didn't go with any peasant background. More and more I was beginning to think that she was a well-schooled, dedicated revolutionary, perhaps a defector from the upper class, probably exported to Bolivia just as Che Guevara had been. Che was a man of considerable worldly sophistication; he probably reasoned that to send her as a simple peasant girl would be in character. I watched her slip on the rest of her clothes and knew one thing: whatever the reason for the masquerade, she was a lovely thing to look at and to have.
  
  At the door, she turned to look at me. "I will come back tomorrow. Perhaps you will have made your decision."
  
  "Arrange for me to meet El Garfio and then we'll see," I said. "You have a few days. I must go away again tomorrow. Give me some place where I can contact you when I get back."
  
  "No." She shook her head. "That is not possible. I will get in touch with you."
  
  She left, and I switched off the lights and stretched out on the bed. She had said something very true: under different circumstances, what had happened would have been really complete…
  
  
  
  
  
  8th
  
  
  
  
  It was a gray dawn, and it would be a gray day I saw. That fine Bolivian rain, the chilcheo, was coming down as I drove the battered old Ford to Cochabamba again and wheeled the 'copter out of the warehouse.
  
  I looked around carefully before taking off, and in a moment I was safely airborne, winging toward the mountains. This time I had no trouble finding the orange canister and the tiny clearing. I set the 'copter down and hurried down the narrow path to the tapera.
  
  Manuel stepped out as I came within range of the cabin, holding a carbine ready. When he saw it was me, he set the gun down.
  
  "Good morning, Nick," he said. "I was not sure it was you at first." No one else appeared to back him up, which surprised me.
  
  "You're alone?" I asked.
  
  "The others are in the cabin," he said. "It is not a good morning. Cesare, Eduardo, Olo and Luis are all sick. We cooked some yuca last night, and it was perhaps not cooked well enough, for today they have the big sickness. Only Antonio and I escaped."
  
  He turned back for the tapera, and I followed. Inside, I found them all standing, rifles ready, looking gaunt and yellowish.
  
  "What are you doing up?" I asked.
  
  "You have come. We are going with you," Olo answered.
  
  "Nonsense," I said. "I will come back again."
  
  "No," he said. "We are well enough now. Besides, killing some guerrillas will make us feel better." I saw the determination in his eyes.
  
  "We have spotted another of Che Guevara's small cadres," Olo went on, his voice taking on an agitated excitement. "This group spends its time raiding the gondolas that pass through the ravine road three times a week."
  
  Gondola was, I knew, a Bolivian idiom for a small bus. "They take money from the passengers but, more than that, the raids spread word of their strength. It impresses the peasants and makes recruiting men easier for the bastardo."
  
  "News travels quickly in these mountains," Luis put in. "Word of our raid has already spread. We have heard the guerrilla leader is furious."
  
  "We went into a village two kilometers away," Cesare explained. "We went to investigate and maybe find a chaco with some jocos and choclo. An old woman there told us how word had traveled of a fight between two guerrilla bands."
  
  I laughed. "Good," I said. "Did you find anything at the chaco?" A chaco was land cultivated enough to grow vegetables or fruits. «Jocos» was the tasty winter squash, and "choclos," sweet corn on the cob.
  
  "We brought back both choclos and jocos," Olo said. "But now we hit this band raiding the gondolas, no? They had a camp about a day's march from here, but they may have moved it."
  
  "Then we won't bother looking for it," I said. "We'll take a page out of the history of the American West." I saw their eyes brighten attentively. "You say they raid the gondolas going through the ravine path. We'll strike them when they halt the next gondola. It will kill two birds with one stone. They won't be on guard against an attack, and the passengers will be sure to spread the word of our counterattack."
  
  "Magnifico!" Olo exclaimed, a wide grin spreading across his fined face. "We go!"
  
  They handed me a rolled-up poncho that would serve as a sleeping bag, and we started out. We walked, with Luis in the lead, until the light began to give way to darkness. When night made the going too slow and difficult, we halted.
  
  "We are nearly there," Luis said. "Just across the small ridge ahead." He produced some chankaka, candy made from unrefined sugar, full of energy and natural sweetness. It was warming, and we rolled up in our ponchos, letting the fine rain lull us to sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  9th
  
  
  
  
  There was no sun in the morning, but the change in the temperature was enough to wake us. Luis had been right. Just over a small ridge, we came to the edge of a road running through a ravine. We hunched down in the brush alongside the road.
  
  "The guerrillas will come from across the road," Olo said. "We have watched them, and they do the same thing each time."
  
  "How long before the gondola comes?" I asked.
  
  Olo chuckled softly. "Whenever the driver feels like driving and the bus feels like moving," he said.
  
  I settled down for a possibly long wait, the poncho under me on the damp ground. We stayed silent because across the ravine road, we saw faint movement in the brush which meant the guerrilla forces had arrived. I was getting cramped and hours had passed when I heard the faint sound of a motor, chugging laboriously. Finally, the bus appeared, moving slowly through the ravine.
  
  It was an ancient school bus on which a high rooftop rack had been built, now loaded with bags and suitcases and knapsacks. It drew abreast of us, had moved slowly on, when the guerrillas across the road struck. Two of them ran out in front of the bus, shooting past the driver, who immediately braked to a halt. The others — about six in all — had lined up with their rifles pointed at the terrified passengers.
  
  The passengers were starting to emerge from the bus in single file, hands in the air. I looked at Olo and nodded. The guerrillas were standing alongside the bus, prodding the passengers with the rifles to get out. They were, for the good marksmen I had with me, easy targets. All we had to do was shoot carefully to avoid killing the passengers.
  
  I raised my carbine, took aim and fired. The others shot almost as a man behind me. The guerrillas crumpled like toy soldiers knocked over by an angry child. We raced into the open. The passengers, now doubly terrified, stood stock still. When we herded them back into the bus, they were still not really sure of what exactly had happened before their startled eyes.
  
  "El Garfio is nothing," I said to the driver while the others listened. "Go back to your villages and tell them you saw his men cut down. Tell them he will be hunted down by those who would end his thieving and murdering once and for all. Tell everyone it is certain death to join him."
  
  We watched the gondola chug slowly away, then started back. In our brushes with the guerrilla forces we had been lucky so far, though it was the land of luck that comes with careful planning and expert fighters. It wouldn't always be that way, I knew, and I found myself wondering when we'd run into big trouble.
  
  It was dark when we reached the tapera. Olo and the others who had been ill seemed ready to collapse. They had forced themselves beyond their physical capabilities and now exhaustion took over.
  
  I shook hands all around and went back to the clearing and the helicopter, making my way alone in the blackness of the dense forest. Luckily, the path was fairly clearly defined, and I managed to stay on it.
  
  The rain had finally stopped when I took off for Cochabamba. I arrived there in the dead dark of early morning, and it was dawn when I drove the old Ford into La Paz. In my suite at the hotel, I put away the dirty clothes I'd had on, took a fast shower and fell into bed once again as Nicholaus von Schlegel, arms merchant.
  
  
  
  
  
  10th
  
  
  
  
  Fortunately, I'm a sound sleeper and my restorative powers are good. I say fortunately because my phone rang in mid-morning to announce that Señorita Yolanda Demas was on her way up. I had brushed my teeth and was slipping on a pair of pants when she knocked. I answered the door that way, dressed only in trousers, and saw her eye me with interest. She was wearing the alpaca coat again but under it was a simple, claret-colored dress that zipped all the way down the front. Her somewhat short figure was helped by the fluid length of the line, and her breasts were tight against the simple bodice I noticed. But mostly I was aware of the full, sensuous lips and the smoldering eyes that indicated an inner volcano.
  
  The lips pouted petulantly.
  
  "I expected you to call me," she said, tossing her coat on a chair. "Especially after what we talked about the last time I was here."
  
  I smiled. "You mean, about enjoying each other? I haven't forgotten. I've been busy."
  
  "You have received another offer?" she asked. "You told me you'd give me the chance to offer you something better."
  
  Smiling inwardly now, I thought of Teresina. I would be happy to give this lush creature before me a chance to do better.
  
  "You are very persistent, Yolanda," I said teasingly. "In fact, you just woke me up. I was up very late last night, working."
  
  "At St. Angela's Academy they taught us to be persistent," she said, and ran her tongue over her lips. They sure as hell didn't teach you to do that at St. Angela's, I thought, watching her.
  
  "I have received several attractive offers," I said.
  
  She walked over and stood in front of me, putting her hands on my chest. They felt hot against my bare skin. "I can offer you as much money and something more," she said, looking up at me, her smoldering eyes catching fire now.
  
  "Prove it," I said.
  
  She reached up and her arms encircled my neck. She kissed me, but she was holding back. I yanked at the zipper, pulling it all the way down. She stepped back as the dress fell open, and I was surprised to see she had no bra on, only a pair of pink bikini panties. Her breasts were magnificent, standing straight out, thrusting upwards, flattening out on the underside of her nipples to give her a rounded, lifted line.
  
  She watched me, her breath coming quickly, her eyes wildly dark. Slowly I slipped the dress from her shoulders and let it fall. My hands slid down over her lovely shoulders to her breasts. She cupped my hands to them and pushed against me, her mouth open, her tongue a fervid snake darting in and out.
  
  She tore at my pants until I was naked before her, then whipped off the bikini panties. She came at me again, and I saw an almost savage light in her eyes, as though she were entering a contest. She was aggressive, savage, almost brutal. She pressed herself against me as I lifted her and carried her into the bedroom.
  
  On the bed, she clutched at me with cries of pleasure, tearing from my arms to explore my body with hands and lips. Then she fell on top of me, her torso churning and pushing, riding as she groaned and panted in a sexual frenzy. I was swept up by her passion and matched her aggressiveness, going her a little better as she cried out in eager desire.
  
  "More, damn," she gasped. "More, more. Harder… now." The more brutal my caresses the more she responded with wild eagerness, matching them with a savagery of her own. The haughty, cool façade was down. She was the mare in heat, aflame with desire for the stallion, using tricks and language nobody ever learned in St. Angela's Academy.
  
  I plunged into her, and she threw her torso upwards in spasms of frenzied ecstasy, alternately groaning and cursing. I realized suddenly that here was the peasant girl — basic, unbridled, animalistic. As she came, her short legs clamped themselves around my waist like a vise, and her smooth, round belly heaved like a piston at high speed.
  
  Like Teresina, Yolanda had her moment of truth, that moment when passion gives the he to all pretense. The imperious, proper tin-mine heiress was exposed as an earthy, primitive wench. Both women were phonies, posing as something they weren't. Why, I wondered, lying beside Yolanda, admiring those magnificent breasts. Her lush body was tremendously exciting, the way rushing rapids and wild winds are exciting. Why the double masquerade. I had to find out.
  
  I watched Yolanda get up, walk into the living room and return carrying her dress.
  
  "Satisfied?" she said, kneeling down beside me to press her breasts against my chest. She moved upwards and rubbed them across my face. As she moved down and stopped, I saw that she would be willing to start again. But I decided against it. I was getting a strange double-play, and I had to think it out. I hated to see her cover those luscious breasts, but I just sat back and watched her dress.
  
  "Well?" she demanded, the haughty manner back in place. "Do I get the guns?"
  
  "I must wait for the final government offer," I stalled her. "When I have it, I'll call you, and we can discuss it again."
  
  "The same kind of discussion we just had?" she asked, looking at me from under those drooping eyelids.
  
  "The same kind," I said, grinning. "I'm sure all I need is a little more convincing to help me make up my mind. By the way, just for my own records, where is this tin mine of yours?"
  
  The pause was almost imperceptible, but I caught it. "East of El Puente," she said easily. "Between the Piray and the Grande, in a small valley."
  
  I nodded, slipped on my pants and walked to the door with her. She gave me the kind of a kiss that is impossible to forget, and I watched her walk down the hall, paying attention to the very careful steps, the studied gestures.
  
  I closed the door and poured myself a drink. Teresina and Yolanda. Both of them were trying to play me for a sucker. I downed the drink and laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  11th
  
  
  
  
  I'd decided to get an early start in the morning. The sun was shining bright and warm for a change, as I drove the old Ford along the road to Cochabamba.
  
  To use the 'copter at that hour of the day would be risking discovery and disaster, so I rode through Cochabamba, down the road past the old warehouse and on into the outlying mountains.
  
  I had started up one of the narrow mountain roads marked by a 30-foot Puya raimondii, the world's tallest herb and an Andean cousin of the pineapple, when I spotted the abandoned mission. I pulled into the courtyard, got out of the car and went into the cool darkness of the old buildings.
  
  Most of the main building and the sanctuary were in good repair. I marked the spot in my mind and on a small map I carried. It could make a convenient meeting place or a landmark to get one's bearings by in the mountains.
  
  The little Ford's engine started to strain and chug as I climbed higher where the air was thinner. Heading downhill, I found the Piray and then the Grande River. I explored first west, then east. I didn't come upon anything resembling a tin mine.
  
  Just to be thorough, I crossed a small bridge over the Grande and explored the other side. There was nothing but dense wilderness there, and I turned back. I came to what passed for a village but was really a cluster of old buildings leaning against each other for mutual support like a gang of drunks. An old woman prodded two goats across the only street with a long stick. As she appeared to have roots in the place, I stopped and called out to her.
  
  She listened to my question about a tin mine, watching me steadily with little dark eyes, so hidden beneath folds of wrinkled skin they were barely visible. Turning, she called over toward one of the houses. A grizzled old vaquero emerged, a serape over his shoulders and a battered straw sombrero on his head. He came over to the car and leaned on the door.
  
  "You are lost, señor," he said. "There is no mine around here."
  
  "You're sure?" I asked. "I'm looking for a tin mine."
  
  "No tin mine," he repeated. "No any kind of mine."
  
  "Perhaps in another valley near here?" I persisted.
  
  "No mine near here anywhere," he said, shaking his head. The woman had come up to stand beside him and shook her head too. "Maybe two, three hundred miles there's a mine." He shrugged. "Not here."
  
  I thanked them and turned the old car back toward Cochabamba. I wasn't really surprised, but had to check Yolanda's story out. Hell, she could have been the exception proving the rule. She could have been tossed out of a dozen finishing schools as oversexed.
  
  A fuzzy suspicion was beginning to form in the back of my mind. I decided that it was time for some real action. I never like being played for a sucker, not by anybody. Beautiful, sexy dames didn't cut any more ice than anybody else on that score.
  
  I drove to the outskirts of Cochabamba, parked under a cluster of trees. Cochabamba wasn't big enough for a stranger to hang around all day without arousing interest, so I avoided the city altogether. I stayed in the car, alternately dozing and watching the farmers drive their few pigs and goats to market. I wondered what they'd say if they ever saw a herd of porkers on a midwestern farm. Probably stare bug-eyed.
  
  The day finally wound its way to a close. I got out of the car and stretched my legs. The wait had given me time to complete my plan. I was going to find out about my phony tin mine heiress and my phony peasant girl at one and the same time.
  
  When it grew dark, I surveyed the sky. The moon, nearly full, hung big and round. I wanted that moon as much as any lover ever did. I waited till nearly midnight, then drove to the warehouse and got out the 'copter.
  
  The moon was a pale lantern but a lantern nonetheless. As I skimmed low just above the treetops, it lighted the trees with a faint glow. I stayed low, despite the risk of crashing into a hillside or an unusually tall tree. By the time I'd reached the clearing, my eyes had grown used to navigating by moonlight. I was proud of myself as I zeroed in on the tiny landing place. As usual, I pulled some branches over the 'copter and started to jog down the path toward the tapera.
  
  I moved very carefully as I drew near the hut. I wasn't expected and I didn't want a faceful of bullets. When I was within fifty feet, I whistled softly and lay flat on the ground. I knew that six carbines were pointed in my direction by now.
  
  "Olo," I called softly. "It's me… Nick."
  
  There was silence. Finally a voice said out of the dark, "Walk out into the open. Keep your hands up."
  
  I did. Seconds later the door of the tapera was flung open and a lamp flared inside.
  
  "You come at this hour?" Manuel asked. "Something big must be up, yes?"
  
  "Something important anyway," I said, entering the hut where Luis was already setting a kettle on for tea. "I want to force El Garfio's hand. They are playing games with me, and I want to put an end to it. We must find some way to strike hard at this El Garfio, whoever he is, so he becomes desperate. Got any ideas?"
  
  I saw them look at each other and grin. Olo threw back his head and roared in happy delight. "We have the way, Señor Nick," he said. "We were eagerly waiting for your next visit. In fact, we were wondering how we might contact you. We have found the cave where the bastardo has his main supply of ammunition and guns."
  
  "Magnifico!" I exclaimed. "Where is it?"
  
  "Two days from here," Olo said. "Cesare was out alone, scouting the hills, when he came on it. It is well guarded, Señor Nick, but we can take it."
  
  Two days, I mused. That would mean I'd be gone from La Paz four days at least. It wasn't too long to arouse suspicion, but long enough to have Teresina and Yolanda biting their nails a bit. I grinned.
  
  "We go in the morning," I said, taking the cup of tea Luis offered me. "It will do perfectly."
  
  
  
  
  
  12th
  
  
  
  
  We set out at dawn on dew-wet ground with Luis again leading the way. For provisions, we had taken some of the choclos — the sweet corn on the cob — plus some charqui and chankaka.
  
  I was excited. This was as close to direct action against Che, or whoever it was, as I'd been able to manage so far. The prospects were pleasing. I never thought about failure. I learned a long time ago that to even consider failure was the first step to it.
  
  Glancing at my companions, at their ruthless, hard expressions, I knew they didn't expect to fail. Each man was a dedicated machine, dedicated to death and annihilation. Each was a man possessed by private demons. Olo's lined face reflected his. Luis's tight-lipped tension revealed his. Antonio, Cesare, the others, all were driven by their own, personal hunger for revenge. A psychiatrist would have called them obsessed. I called them just what the doctor ordered, and Hawk had delivered.
  
  I fingered the lighter in my pocket. The next time I used the pre-tuned sending set, it would be to begin phase three of my plan. When would depend on how well this foray went. And on the reactions of the two passionate frauds waiting for me in La Paz.
  
  Luis set a grueling pace that, except for a couple minor incidents, was uneventful. Crossing a small river we lost part of our raft when the logs we'd crudely tied together parted at one end, and Manuel was dumped into the water. We pulled him back on board and made it to the other side safely. We stopped only to eat and to sleep, at midday and as night fell. Darkness made travel too slow to be worth the bother. The dense mountain forests were bad enough by daylight. Tired out by the fast pace, we all slept soundly, wrapped in our ponchos.
  
  
  
  
  
  13th
  
  
  
  
  In the morning, just after we broke camp, we fought an unexpected battle. A flight of boros descended on us, and we were kept busy flailing away at them with our ponchos. The boros is a fly that when it bites, deposits its larva under the skin which causes a painful infection. Cesare, Antonio and Eduardo were bitten, and we had to treat the bites by cauterizing them immediately with hot matches, a crude and painful but effective method.
  
  It was late afternoon when we reached the firme, the place where the hill flattened out to a level stretch. Beyond a line of trees I looked out at the open side of a mountain, and the mouth of a large cave. A group of guerrillas, perhaps fifteen in all, were outside the cave. Three of them were standing guard at the cave mouth while the others roasted wild pig on a spit over a fire. They had stacked their rifles, ready to be grabbed up instantly.
  
  Olo touched my shoulder, gestured with his head toward the hillside just above the cave. Two more sentries were there, hardly visible, flattened against the dirt of the mountain.
  
  "We can get many of them with our first fire," Olo whispered. "But many is not enough. The rest will race for the cave. Once inside, they can hold us off for days, maybe weeks. Then others will come and our plan will have failed."
  
  "I can't sit around for days exchanging fire with them," I said. "There's only one answer. We'll have to draw most of them away from the cave. I can do that. When they come after me, give me plenty of time to lead them far enough away, then you hit the remaining guards. You should be able to take them out with the first blast, get to the cave. The main group will come racing back when they hear gunfire, and you'll be inside the cave, cutting them down from a protected position.
  
  "Excellente!" Olo grinned at me.
  
  "All right," I said. "Let's move."
  
  I got up and edged carefully along the line of trees until I was in a clump of brush directly across from the cave. I raised my rifle and decided to help the others as much as possible by taking out one of the sentries on the roof of the cavern. I fired carefully, one shot. He toppled from his perch like a stone knocked loose from the hillside.
  
  There was a fraction of a moment's silence, then I stood up and started to run, letting them see me. All hell broke loose behind me, as the guerrillas grabbed their rifles and charged after me. I ducked into the trees, turned and fired again, taking time to aim. Another of them toppled. I fired a few more shots at random and started to race in and out of the trees.
  
  The bulk of them chased after me, firing wildly as they ran. But wildly or not, bullets pinged all around me, and I hit the ground. I lay quiet, hearing them fan out to beat the bushes for me. I waited a moment, then got up and started running again. A hail of lead whipped past my ears and slapped into the trees. I dived for the ground, caught a glimpse of two of my pursuers through the brush. I fired. It served to slow them down a bit, but they kept on coming. They were getting damned close, and I wondered what the hell was holding up Olo and the others. I'd told him to give me plenty of time to draw them away from the cave; I didn't expect him to give them time to kill me.
  
  Just then I heard the fusillade of shots, coming so close together they sounded almost like one. The firing was repeated and my pursuers turned, as I'd figured they would, and raced back toward the cave, shouting and cursing.
  
  I got up then fell backwards as a shot creased my scalp. One of the guerrillas had stayed behind; I heard him running toward me as I lay on the ground. I lay on my back, eyes closed and let him think he'd got me. I could sense him standing over me.
  
  When he reached down with his rifle to prod my corpse, I grabbed the barrel and rolled, yanking the rifle from his hands. He dived for me, but I thrust the rifle up, holding it with both hands, and his face smashed into the barrel. He groaned with pain and fell off to the side. I fired point-blank at him as he tried to roll away and saw part of his head disappear.
  
  I kept the rifle and started back for the cave, running with a carbine in each hand.
  
  As I came up on the battlesite and from the rear I saw the guerrillas crouched behind trees and rocks, exchanging fire with Olo and the others inside the cave. I saw something else, too, which, in our eagerness, Olo and I hadn't thought through.
  
  While those inside the cave had the best protected positions and it would be impossible to rush them without being slaughtered, they were also pinned down. The guerrillas realized this too. As I crouched low, I saw one of them dispatched to get help. He ran, crouched over, first back toward where I was hiding, then cutting across for the safety of the surrounding trees.
  
  I could have brought him down easily, but then the others would have known their messenger had been intercepted. I decided to let them think he was safely away and slipped through the trees after him. I dropped the dead guerrilla's rifle — one was enough of a load to carry — as I tracked the running man through the woods. He was intent on going for help and didn't hear me following.
  
  I didn't want to use the rifle; the sound of a shot would carry back easily. But he was taking me into wild country where I could be lost for days. He knew the territory, but to me it was a maze of trees and bushes. I had to get him before he went much further. I quickened my pace, risking having him hear me to catch up with him.
  
  He was at the top of a small ridge, visible through a bent tree trunk, when he stopped and turned. He had heard me crashing through the brush, coming up behind him. I dropped to the ground.
  
  I lay still and watched him through a screen of leaves before my face. He had lowered his rifle and was carefully moving back toward me, searching the brush, his eyes darting back and forth, watching for some movement, some sign of his pursuer. I watched him come closer, holding the carbine ready to fire. If I made a move, he'd shoot.
  
  I dropped Hugo into the palm of my hand. The cool of the stiletto felt cool against my skin. I was stretched out almost prone. It was a hell of a position from which to throw a knife. In fact, I realized, it was impossible. I had to get up on one elbow at least, and he'd have a rifle slug in me before I could get the throw off. Suddenly Mother Nature came to my aid, bless her unpredictable heart. She's played me dirty enough times in the past, so it was time for a good deed on her part.
  
  An anaconda, a small one not more than six feet long, moved in the grass, and the man whirled, a split-second away from firing. He saw the constrictor slithering near him. The split-second was all I needed. I rose up on one elbow and flung Hugo with all my might. The guerrilla heard me but the stiletto hit him before he could turn back, going deep into his chest. He staggered and the rifle fell from his hands. He grasped at the handle of the stiletto in a futile effort to pull it out, staggered again and fell backwards. I heard his last breath escape him as I walked over to retrieve Hugo.
  
  Carefully, to be sure I wouldn't get lost in the rapidly fading light, I retraced my path down the mountainside. The sound of the rifle fire at the cave was my best guide, and soon I was back behind the guerrillas as they exchanged fire with Olo and the others.
  
  Olo had done a good job. There were not more than six or seven of the enemy left alive. I settled down in the brush, drew a bead on the nearest one and fired. I didn't wait to see him topple over but immediately swung my sights to the next man and sent a slug through him.
  
  By the time I'd zeroed in on number three, the surviving three had realized what was happening. Thinking they were caught in a crossfire between two groups, they ran for it, dropping their rifles in their hurry. I brought one more down on the run before the last two disappeared into the forest. I knew they wouldn't stop till they reached El Garfio.
  
  I called out and saw Luis, then Manuel emerge from the cave. Olo and Eduardo came out supporting Cesare. He had taken a bullet through the upper arm, a painful but not serious wound. As Manuel and Luis bound the wound, Olo and I broke open a box of rifle bullets, emptied the powder from them in a trail leading into the cave to where some fifty boxes of ammunition and perhaps as many rifles were cached. We sprinkled a little more of the gunpowder over the boxes for good measure, then left the cave. Outside we set fire to the trail of gunpowder, then ran for the woods.
  
  The explosion inside the cave was muffled, but the ground shook and rocks and dirt slid down the mountainside. Olo was standing beside me, grinning. "It is finished, amigo," he said joyfully.
  
  "This part of it," I agreed. "Let's start back."
  
  There was little of the day left, and we had to stop as darkness came. But this night we slept the sleep of well-satisfied, triumphant men.
  
  
  
  
  
  14th
  
  
  
  
  The trip back wasn't not too slow, considering that Cesare was wounded. We reached the tapera by nightfall the next day. But this time I would not go back to La Paz alone.
  
  "If things go the way I expect," I told them, "I will be meeting with El Garfio soon. If he really is Che Guevara, my job will be to capture him or kill him. I am going to walk into the lion's den, you could say. He will have the upper hand when we meet, and one never knows what may go wrong. I want to set this up so you can strike at the right moment. So, I will take Manuel back to La Paz with me. As soon as I know the exact details of the meeting, I will tell him, and he'll bring you my instructions."
  
  "Agreed," Olo grunted. "We will wait for your word."
  
  Manuel beside me, I left after a round of handshakes and returned to the helicopter. Though it was a one-man model, Manuel managed to squeeze in and we took off. Setting down again at Cochabamba, we put the 'copter in the warehouse for what I hoped would be the last time.
  
  "Do you drive, Manuel?" I asked as we got into the old Ford.
  
  "Si," he nodded.
  
  "Good," I said. "You'll probably have to take this old heap back as far as you can go into the mountains and go on yourself from there when you come back."
  
  At the hotel in La Paz, I rented a small room for Manuel and gave him orders to stay there, out of sight, until he heard from me. He was to have all his meals sent to his room. I didn't want any slipups at this crucial time.
  
  I managed to get a few hours sleep between early dawn and mid-morning when the phone rang. For the second time, it announced the imminent arrival of Señorita Yolanda Demas. It was to be almost a repeat of her last visit — with a few important variations.
  
  
  
  
  
  VI
  
  
  
  
  
  15th
  
  
  
  
  I had put on slacks and an unbuttoned shirt when she knocked. I opened the door. She was wearing the same claret dress, but the haughty manner was missing. Instead, there was a tension about her I felt the moment she entered the room.
  
  "I had to see you," she said, her eyes flashing, her lips gleaming as she moistened them with her tongue, nervously this time not to tempt me.
  
  I went up to her and kissed her, letting my tongue find hers in an erotic duel. I felt her relax for a moment, but then she tore her mouth from mine.
  
  "Stop," she said. "Later… please. Now I must have those guns."
  
  "You must?" I said, raising my eyebrows.
  
  "My mine was attacked yesterday by some of El Garfio's men," she said. "I can't wait any longer, don't you see?"
  
  I see, honey, I thought. I see a lot. There hadn't been time for the grapevine to carry news of our raid on the cave arsenal. Only someone directly involved would know about it this soon, someone in radio contact with Yolanda Demas.
  
  "El Garfio, eh?" I said lazily. "You mean Che Guevara, don't you?"
  
  I shot that last out and saw her eyes widen in confusion and surprise. She tried to cover up, stammered nervously, "I… I don't understand. It was El Garfio… I told you."
  
  I grabbed her by the hair and yanked her forward. "Get off it, you little bitch," I said harshly. "It's Che Guevara, and you're working for him."
  
  "No, no," she cried wildly. "You are making a mistake. I don't know what you're talking about."
  
  I twisted her hair and pulled and she fell to her knees with a cry of pain. "Stop lying!" I yelled at her. "I went looking for your tin mine." I figured that would do for starters and explain my knowing she was a fraud.
  
  It worked. She struggled to her knees. Her hand came at me, nails clawing for my face. I ducked away, but she was at me like a tigress. I grabbed her arm and twisted, sending her spinning around with her back to me. With my other hand I unzipped her dress and grabbed one of her breasts. I pulled her around, my hand pressing the breast, kneading it. I saw her eyes darken with desire. I kissed her, and she clutched me, half-crying, half-cursing. I forced her back onto the sofa, keeping my hand on her breast.
  
  "I don't like to be lied to," I said. "It would have been better if you'd told me the truth in the first place."
  
  She frowned, pouted like a child as she looked up at me. "You are telling me the truth?"
  
  "More than you told me," I answered. "I will sell my guns to Che Guevara. I would be honored. After all, such a deal will help me when I return home. The East German government is, after all, emotionally allied with your cause. Why didn't you just come to me and tell me who you really were?"
  
  "Oh, no!" she gasped. "That would have been against all my instructions. It was better to purchase the guns as someone else… much safer. There are spies and those who would betray us."
  
  She pressed her hand over mine, rubbing my palm over her breast.
  
  "Oh, God, if only there were time to stay here with you this morning," she moaned.
  
  "What's the big rush today?" I asked.
  
  "I cannot tell you," she said, "But I am to offer you twice what anyone else has offered."
  
  "I will do better than that for you, Yolanda," I said, rubbing my thumb over her nipple and feeling it rise instantly. I leaned over to kiss her, letting my tongue flick over her lips. She shuddered.
  
  "I like you very much, you know," I said. "I want this to be an important thing for both of us. I will give Che Guevara the arms — all he needs — if I can be sure that he really lives, that I meet him and see him with my own eyes."
  
  "I think I can arrange that," she said slowly. "I can let you know in a few hours, perhaps."
  
  "Good," I said. "Arrange the time for me to meet him and I will take him to where the guns are kept. Naturally, that is my secret and must remain so until delivery."
  
  She stood, zipped up the dress and went to the door. "I'll be back," she said.
  
  I waited ten minutes after she left, then took out the cigarette lighter. I nicked it on and off and waited. I heard static and then Hawk's voice, crisp but a little faint. I swore. This was no time for the damned thing to give out!
  
  "I have you, Nick," I heard him repeat. "I have you."
  
  "Proceed with phase three," I said. "Proceed with phase three. I probably won't have a chance to make further radio contact. Have your people proceed as planned. Watch for signal from the cove above Cuya. Tomorrow night or the night after."
  
  "Will do," Hawk answered. "Putting phase three into operation at once. Good luck."
  
  I flicked off the lighter and dropped it into my pocket. The ball was all mine now. I stretched out on the bed to get some sleep. The next 48 hours, I knew, would be short on sleep and long on tension. Besides, Yolanda would be back and, if I knew my women, with certain ideas. But I had a few for her too.
  
  It was night before she arrived back at the hotel, which was good because I, had the chance to get in a good sleep.
  
  "It is arranged," she said simply. "I will take you to the place where you will meet, a ranch just west of Tarata. Che is coming in this far to meet you, because he wants to pick up the arms himself."
  
  Tarata! In my mind I visualized the map of Bolivia. Tarata was just south of Cochabamba. It figured. He would come in, his men filtering down from the mountains. From Tarata he could strike out in any direction and retreat into the hills again if need be.
  
  "I wanted to stay here with you tonight," Yolanda pouted. "But I am to report back with your answer. Do you agree with the arrangement?"
  
  "Of course I agree," I said, taking her in my arms. "And I want you too, tonight. But I have a better plan. Will you be going with us to pick up the arms?"
  
  "No," she said quickly. "I am only to direct you to the ranch."
  
  "All right, then, here's what I want you to do," I said, trying to make it sound very secretive and exciting. "On the road beyond El Puente, there is a giant puya marking a small mountain road."
  
  "Si." She nodded. "I know the spot"
  
  "Good," I said. "Just up the little road, is an abandoned mission. When this is over, when Che has the arms, I want you to meet me there."
  
  I pulled her to me and ran my hands quickly over her body. With the fierce, animal earthiness that was natural to her, she responded at once, and I had a harder job turning her off than on.
  
  "I presume I am to meet Che tomorrow night?" I said, keeping my voice casual. I knew damn well he wouldn't be coming in so close to Cochabamba with his men by daylight.
  
  "Si," she said. "Nine o'clock." I did some fast calculating. I could get the guns into his hands within four hours if we went by car or truck. Four hours to return would bring us close to five o'clock in the morning.
  
  "Meet me at the old mission an hour past dawn," I told her. "Wait there until I arrive. There could be delays. Then we can be alone there, just the two of us."
  
  She nodded eagerly. If she'd realized the only reason I wanted her at that mission was to pick her up and turn her over to the authorities, she'd have been trying to kill me now. Earthy, exciting little creature that she was, she was still a part of Guevara's cutthroat operation.
  
  "Now, how do I get to the ranch?" I asked, holding her to me and gently rubbing her back.
  
  "Go south from Tarata," she said, her voice slightly muffled by my chest. "There is only one road. You will see the ranch on your right, The bam is old with a red roof."
  
  She kissed me then quickly and was gone.
  
  I went to Manuel's room next and told him what was planned for phase three. When I finished, he was staring at me with wide, round eyes. "It is fantastic," he said. "But it seems to me that a lot of big things depend on a lot of small things."
  
  "It is always that way in this business," I said, but I knew he was right. The success of this mission hung on a lot of tenuously connected bits and pieces. Each had to come off right or the whole thing would come apart and I'd come apart with it. First, there was the meeting with Guevara, that moment when I would learn if it was really Che or some pretender. Then I had to get him to where the arms were and deliver them into his hands. Then I had to return to the ranch with him. Only then would I get my chance to strike. At any one of these points something could go wrong. Che could smell a rat or some unexpected development could trip me up. But, of all the points, the last was the most crucial.
  
  "You and the others must be ready to strike when we return to the ranch," I told Manuel. "Unless you keep his men busy, I will have no chance to get him."
  
  "We will be there, Nick," Manuel promised. "You may be sure of it."
  
  "I will need the car to get to Tarata," I said. "So well have to find another way for you to get back to Cochabamba and start into the mountains."
  
  "There is a bus to Cochabamba," he answered. "I will take it in the morning and be at the camp in plenty of time. Vaya con Dios, Nick." We shook hands solemnly, and he was gone.
  
  I went back to my suite, a feeling of anticipation rising in me. It was a feeling I knew well. I always had it when I knew I was about to come to grips with whatever I was after. By tomorrow night I'd know if a legend still lived or not.
  
  One thing bothered me: Teresina. Why had she masqueraded as El Garfio's agent? Who the hell was she really? I figured she'd show up sometime tomorrow and decided to wait as long as possible before leaving the hotel. I wanted to see her again; I didn't like to leave any loose ends dangling.
  
  
  
  
  
  16th
  
  
  
  
  My first phone call this morning was from Major Andreola. He proceeded to tell me how the guerrillas were being hit hard by some renegade group led by an American soldier-of-fortune.
  
  "Have you decided about my offer?" he asked finally.
  
  "Not yet," I said. "But I'll have word for you soon, Major."
  
  "I hope so," he responded. "I should not like to see your material fall into the wrong hands."
  
  It was a thinly veiled threat, and I smiled as I hung up. I was still smiling when someone knocked on the door. I opened it and saw Teresina.
  
  She was wearing a ruffled white blouse and a dark blue skirt. Her eyes were bright and I sensed that she was somehow unsure of herself, but she tilted her chin defiantly and stood before me in the old pose, hands on her hips.
  
  "Did you miss me?" I asked playfully. It took her by surprise; I saw her eyelids flicker.
  
  "That is unimportant," she shrugged.
  
  I reached out and put my hands around her waist, pulling her close. "It's very important," I said, holding her firmly as she turned her head aside. "Very, very important."
  
  I twisted her head around so I could kiss her. She kept her mouth closed tight and unresponsive. I forced her lips open and let my tongue caress her mouth. I felt her body grow limp and then she was answering my kiss, trying hard to hold back what there was no holding back. My hand brushed her breast. With a choked cry, she tore away from me.
  
  "No, stop it!" she shouted. "I must find out about the guns."
  
  "And then you'll make love to me?" I said.
  
  Her face was serious, unsmiling, her eyes clouded. "We'll see," was all she said. "Have you decided to sell to El Garfio or not?"
  
  "I will sell to him," I said, and watching her I saw her bite her lower lip. "You seem disappointed. Isn't that what you wanted? Unfortunately, I've made contact through other channels."
  
  Her eyebrows shot up. "But you said you would work through me! That's why he sent me to see you.
  
  "Did he?" I said. "But you said you couldn't arrange a meeting with him, which was what I wanted."
  
  "Have you made delivery yet?" she snapped out, her lips tightening grimly.
  
  "Not yet," I said, smiling at her pleasantly. Then, without changing my expression, I shot out an arm, grabbed her by the neck and jerked her forward. "Just who the hell are you and what's your little game?"
  
  "I… I have no game," she gasped. "I was sent to contact you about guns for El Garfio."
  
  "Yes, you were sent for that, all right, but not by El Garfio," I said. "Who are you working for?"
  
  Her eyes blazed, but she didn't answer me. Suddenly she brought the heel of her shoe down hard on my foot. I yelped and relaxed my grip on her. She pulled away, but I grabbed for her, catching the billowing back of her blouse.
  
  The fabric tore, and I was left holding a piece of the blouse as Teresina fell forward, rolled across the floor and came to rest against the base of the couch. I was after her instantly. I reached down, pulled her up with one hand and slapped her across the face with the other. She went sailing halfway across the room and landed on her buttocks.
  
  "Now talk," I demanded. "You've lied long enough."
  
  She sat there, looking up at me, eyes flashing black fire. Her right hand reached inside the full skirt and when she drew it out again she was holding a small silver object which she put to her lips and blew. The whistle was loud as hell, a shrill, high-pitched squeal. I was rushing toward her to grab it when I heard running in the hall. The door burst open and a half-dozen Bolivian soldiers fell into the room.
  
  "Seize him," Teresina said, gesturing toward me. There were six carbines pointed at me. She was on her feet now, her dark eyes serious as they met mine.
  
  "You're a government agent!" I said in honest surprise. It was the one thing I hadn't figured. "Major Andreola sent you to stay on my tail?"
  
  "No, he knows nothing about me," she said. "Our Intelligence sent me. If you were going to sell to the guerrillas, we had to know and stop you. If not, I would find that out."
  
  "And now?" I asked.
  
  "You will be imprisoned," she said. "You said I seemed dismayed by your decision. You were right. I was hoping you would refuse to deal with me — with El Garfio's emissary."
  
  She turned away, spoke to the soldiers rapidly. "Search him, then take him away."
  
  I decided to give it another try in my role of Nicholaus von Schlegel.
  
  "You can't do this," I said. "I am a citizen of the East German People's Republic. I demand to see an attorney. I demand to call my consul. You have no charges on which to hold me prisoner."
  
  "Dealing with enemies of the state," she said grimly. "Selling arms and munitions to unauthorized persons. Failure to report your transactions to the authorities. Aiding and abetting a revolutionary movement. Will those do?"
  
  The soldiers had found Wilhelmina but missed Hugo nestling in his sheath against my forearm. But I was in a bind, to put it mildly. I was strangely glad to find out that Teresina was really one of the good guys. But she was going to make it impossible for me to keep my date with Che Guevara, and that was something I couldn't permit. Yet, I hesitated to tell her who I really was. She would insist on checking me out and that would take days. Still, I couldn't see anything else to do but level with her. It brought on complications I didn't forsee.
  
  "Hold everything," I said. "Look, I'll tell you the truth. I knew you were a phony days ago, but I'm not who you think I am. I'm Nick Carter, agent N3, AXE. I'm the American who's been leading the counter-group against El Garfio."
  
  She looked at me and smiled, shaking her head in wonder. "I'm amazed. I'm positively astounded at your imagination and your unmitigated gall. I don't know which is greater. Do you think I would believe such a wild story?"
  
  "You'd better believe it," I said angrily. "It's the truth. Furthermore, we know El Garfio is really Che Guevara."
  
  She threw back her head and laughed. "Now you are really being ridiculous," she said. "Guevara is dead. The whole world knows that."
  
  "Let me go and I'll prove you wrong," I pleaded.
  
  She turned her back. It was useless to argue any further with her. On top of everything else, she was a woman who had given herself to a man and now regretted it. It was a deadly combination. She hated me both as a matter of duty and as a woman. I had as much chance of getting her cooperation as the proverbial snowball in hell.
  
  A carbine prodded me in the back, and I walked out of the room escorted by the soldiers. Teresina led the way downstairs to a long, nine-passenger limousine standing at the curb. I had to make a break for it and this was as good a time as any that might come my way.
  
  Teresina got into the car first. A soldier prodded me to follow her. I felt him lower the rifle as I started to enter the car. I was halfway in when I kicked back with all my strength. My foot sank into his abdomen and I heard him gasp as he collapsed. In a second Hugo was in my hand and I had Teresina by the arm, the stiletto at her throat. I pushed her out the other side of the car, held one arm behind her back and the blade against her throat as I whirled with her to face the soldiers.
  
  "One wrong move and she gets it," I said, hoping and betting they wouldn't take me up on it. They stood still, frozen. "Get into the car and take off," I ordered. "And don't try to turn around and come back to me."
  
  They moved fast and drove away. It all happened so quickly that the few people passing never realized what was taking place. I lowered the knife from Teresina's throat and pressed it into the small of her back.
  
  "See that blue Ford across the street?" I said. "Start walking toward it. Remember, one wrong move and I'll stick this right through that lovely back and out the other side."
  
  My tone was enough for her. She walked quietly ahead of me. I opened the door, shoved her in and followed her. I had nothing to tie her with and I couldn't drive and keep an eye on her at the same time. She turned in the seat and I crossed a short, hard right to the tip of her pretty jaw. She slumped backwards unconscious, falling against the door as I gunned the old Ford away from the curb.
  
  I got out of La Paz fast and really opened up on the road to Cochabamba, keeping an eye out for somewhere to stop and get some rope. I spied a small farm, just as Teresina groaned and began to stir. I braked to a halt, got out of the car, and came back with some washline rope. Teresina came to just as I was tying her wrists together in front of her, so she could sit with her hands in her lap.
  
  I gunned the car again. We'd covered a couple more miles when I shot a glance at Teresina and saw her glaring at me.
  
  "Sorry the sock in the jaw," I said, "but it was necessary."
  
  "Where are you taking me?" she demanded. "To your new friends?"
  
  "Hell, no," I said. "They'd all want to rape you and I want you all for myself." I grinned at her. She glared back frostily.
  
  "I'm taking you some place where you'll be nice and safe till I get back," I said. "Then we can make love as often as I like. How about that?"
  
  "You are a madman," she said, but she sounded puzzled.
  
  "Who knows?" I told her. "You might even be able to help."
  
  "Help you against my country?" she protested indignantly. "You are mad."
  
  I sighed. "Then we'll have to do it the hard way," I said. "But do me a favor. Be nice and quiet and things will go easier for you. Don't make me do something I don't want to do."
  
  "I'll stop you if I can," she said grimly. I glanced at her admiringly. She had guts.
  
  "At least you're not a phony now," I said.
  
  She looked at me. "How did you find out I was lying to you about being from El Garfio?" she asked. "How did you know?"
  
  "That's my secret," I said. "Maybe I'll tell you sometime."
  
  We topped a small rise in the road and I saw two cars placed across the road ahead, soldiers standing beside them. A road block. They were just passing a sedan through, and a pickup truck was next in line. I glanced at Teresina. There was a triumphant glint in her eyes.
  
  "Don't count your chickens," I said angrily. "I'm not through yet. I'd get ready to duck if I were you, unless you want to stop a stray bullet."
  
  I slowed down, staying some distance back, crawling up slowly to give the pickup truck ample time to get through. When it cleared the space left in the middle of the roadblock, I moved forward slowly. One of the soldiers waved me ahead and I speeded up a little. As we drew closer I held my speed down. Then, nearly up to them, I jammed my foot down on the accelerator.
  
  The old car bucked and wheezed like a bronco but shot forward. The nearest soldier dived to the side to avoid being hit. I saw the others starting to bring up their rifles as I sent the car hurtling through the L-shaped opening. I hunched low behind the wheel as shots rang out.
  
  "Damn you!" Teresina shouted as she hit the seat.
  
  "I told you not to count your chickens," I said, giving the old car everything she'd take. In the rearview mirror I saw the soldiers starting after me. I knew that on this straight road they'd catch me in a matter of minutes. My Ford was beginning to smell of burning bearings already.
  
  I took the first crossroad on two wheels. Teresina fell against me, her head hitting the steering wheel, and she cried out in pain. I pushed her upright with one hand. "Not now, honey," I said. "Later."
  
  She glared at me, furious. I followed the road as it twisted and turned up the steep mountainside. The sharp curves would slow my pursuers down a little. Desperately, I looked for some place to cut off or some gulley to hide in. There was none. The road was getting narrower, then a straight stretch appeared and I gunned the car, feeling it strain to climb the steep grade.
  
  There was a sharp curve at the end of the straight stretch. I started the turn, and suddenly the wheel was wrenched from my grasp. Teresina had leaned over to grab it with her bound hands. I shoved her away but it was too late. A tree loomed in front of us and we hit it head-on. The car crumpled, and I heard the explosion before I felt the heat of the flames shooting upward, starting to envelop the car with blazing fury. I forced open the jammed door, needing all my strength to do it. In half a second the car was an oven.
  
  Teresina, dazed by the crash, leaned against the dashboard. I reached in and pulled her out, falling to the ground with her. I dragged her into the dense underbrush lining the road and lay over her, pulling her blouse up over her mouth and yanking it tight to form a gag.
  
  Her eyes were open, staring up at me, and, like me, she was listening to the sound of the two cars coming to a halt in the road. The old Ford was a flaming mass of twisted metal, the intense heat almost searing my face as we lay in the brush. The soldiers couldn't get near the burning car and wouldn't be able to for some while. I was banking on human nature and I was right. They watched for a spell, and then I heard them clamber back into their cars and back slowly down the road. They'd be back later with their superior officers, I knew. But we'd be gone by then.
  
  I lowered Teresina's torn blouse from her mouth and let her sit up.
  
  "I should have left you in there," I said. "You can be a real little bitch, can't you?"
  
  "I suppose I should thank you for saving my life," she said. "But by the time you are through with me, I'll probably wish you had left me in there."
  
  "Without a doubt," I said, pulling her to her feet. We started back down the road and I kept her in front of me. Having seen the kind of stunt she was capable of pulling, I was taking no more chances. I looked at her long, lovely legs as she made her way down the rutted, rocky road. In a way, she was lucky I had to be in Tarata by nine o'clock. I was angry enough at her to take her right there in the road, and I knew that, unlike Yolanda, she'd hate me for it.
  
  We kept walking till we finally reached the main road to Cochabamba. The troops would have removed any roadblocks by now. When they returned to the charred wreck and found no bodies in it, they'd be out blocking off the roads again as their first move. But by then, I'd be far enough away to be out of reach — I hoped.
  
  We stood at the side of the road and watched for cars. There weren't many and when I saw a small truck approaching, I turned to Teresina.
  
  "As cooperation is not something I'm getting from you," I said, "we'll have to do things the hard way."
  
  I put my hand just under the pressure point at the back of her jaw and squeezed, being careful to apply just the right amount of pressure. Too much would be fatal. She cried out and collapsed into my arms. I placed her at the edge of the road and hid behind a tree.
  
  The truck braked to a halt and an old farmer climbed down from the cab. He was bending over the girl when I gave him a short chop on the back of the neck. I caught him as he pitched forward, almost atop Teresina. Pulling him to the side and propping him against a tree, I patted his grizzled cheek.
  
  "Thanks, old boy," I said. "They'll find the truck for you." He didn't hear me, of course, but it was true. AXE would make sure he got his truck back, or another like it.
  
  I picked up Teresina, put her in the cab beside me and drove off. She came to after a while and sat silent. I drove the little truck all out. I had to go on to El Puente and then double back to Tarata, and I hadn't any time to spare.
  
  It was over two hours later when I reached the small road that led to the abandoned mission. As I drove into the courtyard, it was already beginning to get dark.
  
  "Last stop," I called out. "For you, that is." As I led Teresina into the ancient sanctuary, I saw the fear in her eyes. "Nothing is going to happen to you," I reassured her. "You'll be protected from the night winds here, and I'll be back for you in the morning."
  
  I sat her down, brought out the last of the rope and tied her ankles. Looking into her eyes, I said seriously, "I've told you the truth about me," I said. "I'm on my way to meet Che Guevara. If you work on these ropes — and I know you will — I figure you'll get free about dawn. Another girl will be coming here soon after dawn. She's my real contact with Guevara. If you're smart, you'll sit tight and tell her you know nothing, except that I left you here to wait for me. Maybe by the time I get back, you'll realize I've been telling you the truth."
  
  She looked up at me, her dark eyes questioning. "I… I would like to believe you," she said quietly.
  
  I leaned down and kissed her, and her lips opened for my tongue, soft and yielding.
  
  "Don't get carried away," I said, standing up. "You haven't made your mind up about me yet, remember?" I saw her lips tighten angrily, and I left her there. It would be a long, lonely night for her, but she'd live through it. I wished I was as certain about my chances. I got back into the truck, sent it hurtling toward Tarata.
  
  The ranch was easy enough to find. As Yolanda had said, it was the first one on the road south. I drove up to the dark, flat-roofed house. There was no sign of life, and I wished to hell I had Wilhelmina with me.
  
  I fit a match and saw a hurricane lamp on a small table in the center of the room as I pushed open the door. I put the match to the lamp and it flared into life. The room had two or three chairs, a table and an old bureau. I sat down in one of the chairs and waited in the soft light of the lamp.
  
  I didn't have to wait long. The sound of horses brought me to the window, and I saw a band of men — some riding horses, others astride a pack of burros — filtering into the yard. I groaned. If we had to transport the arms by burro, it would take us days.
  
  I moved back to the chair and waited. The men began to slip into the room, silent, grim-faced, many of them bearded. They lined the walls and looked at me. Then Yolanda entered, wearing a bulky sweater and slacks. Her eyes flashed a private greeting.
  
  A moment later he entered, a beret on his head. I looked at his face. There was the scraggly beard running into the sideburns, the prominent furrow in his forehead just above the nose. It was Che Guevara, all right, big as life and just as real. His right hand was a vicious, steel hook.
  
  He looked me over intently as I stood up to greet him. He nodded quietly. "Where are the guns, Señor von Schlegel?" he said. "I have the money with me, but I will not pay until we have the guns, until we have returned here with them."
  
  "That's perfectly all right," I said, thinking he was exactly what I had heard: soft-spoken, steel coated with velvet, shrewd and very sharp. Looking at the man, it was obvious that he could be both ruthless and charming.
  
  "It will take a long time to get the guns if we must go by horse and burro," I said. He didn't change expression.
  
  "We came from the mountains by horse and burro, and we will load the guns onto the burros to return," he said. "But in the barn we have four trucks to make the pick-up."
  
  I nodded. "Good. The guns will be delivered off the coast of Chile," I said.
  
  His eyebrows rose. "You really are cautious, aren't you," he said.
  
  "It is necessary," I told him. "There are many who would like to intercept and steal a shipment of that size. And it is hard to move arms into a country without attracting a great deal of attention. Our precautions are the result of years of experience. In this case, it is particularly important to be circumspect, no?"
  
  "Of the greatest importance," he agreed with a slow smile. "Let us go. I will ride in the lead truck with you, señor."
  
  "I am honored." I gave him the von Schlegel bow. "Do you think we will have difficulty going through Chile?"
  
  "Not at this hour," he said. "We will stay on the mountain roads until we near the coast."
  
  I walked to the barn with him. The trucks were four used army vehicles. Their insignia had been removed but they still wore the olive drab paint. I watched the men clamber into them, counting twenty or so, a larger group than I'd anticipated. Yolanda waved to us as we pulled out. Guevara was beside me, and one of his men drove.
  
  "There is a cove just north of Cuya," I said to the driver. "Can you find it?"
  
  The man nodded.
  
  "Ricardo knows Chile and Peru and Bolivia better than any road map," Guevara said. He settled back, the vicious steel hook that was his hand resting lightly against my leg. It was midnight when we crossed into Chile. We were making excellent time.
  
  
  
  
  
  VII
  
  
  
  
  
  17th
  
  
  
  
  The trip to the coast of Chile was made largely in silence. Che asked a few polite questions about the state of affairs in Europe and East Berlin in particular.
  
  I answered him respectfully, trying to give an impression of awe in the great revolutionary's presence. It was hard to tell how it went over. He was a tough bird to read.
  
  "The world will be thrilled when it learns you still live," I ventured.
  
  "Some of the world," he corrected me with a chill smile. I had to agree with him.
  
  The roads through Chile were mostly downhill toward the coast. When we reached the sea, we threaded our way, convoy-fashion, past the town of Cuya to the small cove to the north.
  
  "Line the trucks up along the far end of the cove," I said. "You see where the rocks drop straight to the water's edge?"
  
  The driver did as I ordered. Che Guevara climbed down from the truck with me. I knew he was watching me with faint amusement.
  
  I took a small flashlight from my pocket and knelt down by the edge of the water. I blinked the flash on and off, on and off, steadily, without stopping. I blinked it for five minutes, then stopped for five, then started again.
  
  "You have a ship out there, no doubt," Guevara said. "Very well planned. Very ingenious."
  
  "More so than you know," I said, watching the surface of the water. Suddenly, the water swirled and a dark bulk emerged from the depths. I glanced at Guevara and enjoyed the surprise on his face. The submarine rose slowly, a jet black lump, taking form as it approached.
  
  "A German submarine," Guevara exclaimed. "One of the big World War II U-boats."
  
  "Converted to carry cargo," I said.
  
  The U-boat, painted a dull, flat black, moved to the deep-water landing beside the rocks. The crew had come out on deck now and tossed lines to us on shore. We fastened the fines to the trucks, and in moments the sub was secured and a gangplank dropped from the ship to the shore.
  
  "Wilkommen, Kapitän," I called out to the skipper. "Alles geht gut?"
  
  "Ja wohl," he called back. "Wie lange haben wie hier aufenthalt?"
  
  "Do you understand German?" I asked Guevara.
  
  "Not much," he said.
  
  "The captain asked how long he'd have to wait here," I translated for him. "Nur eine stunde? I called back. "Kein mehr."
  
  "Gute," the skipper returned. "Ich bin unruhig."
  
  "He is pleased that I told him only an hour," I said. "He says he is uneasy."
  
  I stood by as the crew, chattering away in German, carried boxes of rifles and ammunition from the submarine to the waiting trucks. As two men passed carrying a particularly large box, I halted them.
  
  "Eine minuten, bitte," I said. I opened the box and showed Guevara the neat rows of tins inside. "Gunpowder," I said. "It comes in very handy. It can be used for more things than dynamite."
  
  He nodded and looked pleased. As I closed the box, I reached beneath it and felt for a protruding stud at the corner. My groping fingers finally found it and I turned it slowly, one full turn to the right. Then I motioned to the men to carry the box into the lead truck. I had set a timer which now turned the box of gunpowder into one huge bomb, set to explode in 24 hours, sooner if the cover was removed.
  
  I watched the men carefully put the box into the truck. They returned, chattering in German as they passed us and I smiled to myself. Everybody was doing a great job. From the skipper down to the last crewman, they were all members of Uncle Sam's Navy, specially chosen for this job because they could speak German. I stood beside Guevara as the captain directed the unloading with typical Teutonic efficiency and a liberal sprinkling of harsh commands.
  
  When the trucks were loaded, the kapitan clicked his heels and saluted from the deck of the submarine. "Gute reise," he snapped out.
  
  "Danke schön," I replied. "Leben sie wohl."
  
  Guevara waited and watched as the sub moved slowly from the shore and sank again beneath the water. Then he climbed back into the truck with me, and we began the journey back across Chili. I knew if we were stopped the whole scheme would go up in smoke. Guevara might escape, and my elaborately planned coup would have come to nothing. Things had gone so beautifully so far I was getting worried.
  
  "I am glad you did not try anything tricky, Señor von Schlegel," Guevara said as we drove along. "In our position, we must take every precaution. One of my men had been instructed to train his pistol on you every moment until the arms were in our possession. There are so many waiting for a chance to get at us that we suspect everyone and everything. When we received word that you were willing to negotiate with us, we had you checked out in every possible way. We may be running a small guerrilla operation here in Bolivia, but our connections are worldwide."
  
  I looked properly impressed. And I was damned glad AXE had taken the precautions it had.
  
  "We even had your flight from Germany checked out, Señor von Schlegel," Che said smugly. I said silent thanks to Hawk's preoccupation with details.
  
  I was just congratulating myself again on how well things had come off when our headlights picked up the line of police cars, three of them alongside the road. Two of the policemen were waving us down with flashlights.
  
  "Stop," Guevara commanded his driver. "You all know what to do. We have gone over it time and again."
  
  The trucks halted and each of the drivers got out. Guevara and I did the same.
  
  "Your papers, please, señores," a policeman said. "This is a routine check. We have been bothered by a lot of smuggling along this road of late."
  
  "Do not move," Guevara said quietly.
  
  The officer frowned. "Eh?" he grunted.
  
  "You and every one of your men is covered," the guerrilla boss said. I followed the policeman's glance at the trucks and saw the rifle barrels protruding from them. Guevara took the officer's gun and motioned for him to stand beside the patrol cars. The guerrillas climbed from the trucks, carbines pointed at the six policemen. When Che had all the cops disarmed one of his men took the guns and carried them back to the truck.
  
  "Turn around," Guevara told the officers. "Face your cars." They did as they were told. I saw Guevara nod. The fusillade of shots split the night, and it was finished. The six policemen lay dead. Guevara looked as untouched as if he'd just completed a peaceful stroll through the woods.
  
  Everyone climbed back onto the trucks, and we drove on. When we crossed the border into Bolivia, I breathed a sigh of relief. Things would be messy enough without my having to explain why I'd taken a small army of Bolivian guerrilla fighters into a friendly country. The incident with the Chilean police had left a cold knot of hatred in my stomach. If the world could know this man for what he was, a cold-blooded, deadly fanatic with no regard for human life, the glamour of the legend would quickly wear off. The modern-day Robin Hood, friend of the poor and the oppressed, was something very different. Like all who are convinced they know the truth, he was indifferent to human life and consumed by abstract ideas.
  
  We'd been in Bolivia now almost an hour. We were climbing a steep mountain road near Para when we saw the yellow bus off to the side of the road, the front wheels jutting out grotesquely from under the engine in the unmistakable sign of a broken axle. A woman rushed from the bus to flag us down. I got out; Guevara and his driver came with me.
  
  "Oh, thank heavens someone has finally come along," the woman said. "We've been here for hours. We despaired of anyone traveling this road until morning."
  
  I looked into the bus and saw only young girls. They began to get out now and cluster around us. "Where is your driver?" I asked the woman.
  
  "Gone to find help if possible. We chartered the bus for a dance at the Palacio Hotel in Oruru," she explained. "I am Mrs. Corduro, headmistress of the Donaz School for Girls."
  
  "The Donaz School," Guevara said, rolling the name on his tongue. "One of the most exclusive girls' schools in Bolivia. Only the daughters of the wealthy and the foreigners attend."
  
  "It is an expensive school," the woman agreed. "But we do have a number of girls on scholarships from less privileged families."
  
  Guevara smiled at her, turned and shouted to his men who clambered from the trucks. He turned to the woman. "A broken axle is nothing," he said. "It is a minor lesson in life. We are going to show your exclusive young ladies what life is really about. My men are too often without women. They will make good teachers."
  
  With a shout, the guerrillas raced for the girls. There was no way I could stop it. I stood beside Guevara and watched his face as the girls terrified screams filled the air. The headmistress wasn't spared, either. I saw two guerrillas drag her screaming into the bushes.
  
  "You disapprove, amigo?" Guevara asked me sharply.
  
  I shrugged. "I don't think it's necessary," I said. I wanted to ram my fist into that smug, satisfied, superior face but it wasn't time yet. I was one man, alone, and I'd be dead if I tried anything. But everywhere I looked, the same scene was taking place. A young girl looked at me, her eyes pleading silently, as she was dragged by, her clothes torn off. Most of the girls were no longer screaming; they were uttering hoarse cries of pain and agony.
  
  I walked down the road, trying to get away from what was happening, but I couldn't get the look in that girl's eyes out of my mind. I finally turned back, pausing to kneel beside a sobbing, nude figure. I gathered up the girl's torn dress and placed it around her shoulders. She looked up at me. Her eyes were shocked, dazed saucers. There was no hate, not even fear in them, only a vast emptiness. I wondered how long, if ever, it would take for her to forget.
  
  Che was calling his men back into the trucks, and I climbed up into the lead one beside him.
  
  "You must understand, my dear von Schlegel," he said. "When men are forced to live like animals, they act like animals. Those girls have only been raped physically. The poor have been raped of their honor, their dignity, their rights. It is all a matter of perspective."
  
  Not exactly, I thought. Not if I can do anything about it.
  
  The convoy moved on and finally I saw the long, low buildings of the ranch in the first glimmer of dawn. We got out and the men began to load the arms from the trucks to the backs of the burros for the trip back into the mountains where no trucks could go.
  
  Yolanda was not there, and I hoped she was on her way to the mission, intent on a last fling before returning to the guerrilla camp. I scanned the surrounding area. There was plenty of good cover to the rear of the barns where the land sloped up into the mountains. Olo and the others would be hiding there, I guessed.
  
  "The money, Señor Guevara," I said, playing my role out to the end. "You have your guns. Our transaction can be completed, now."
  
  "It is completed, von Schlegel," he said softly. "I'm afraid I must have you killed. No one knows Che Guevara still lives, and no one must know it, except my men. I agreed to meet you to obtain the arms. Unfortunately, it was a suicidal request on your part. As for the payment, it will be of no use to you dead, so I will keep it."
  
  Neat, I thought. He had everything wrapped up conveniently.
  
  "I won't tell anybody you're alive," I pleaded, stalling for time. He smiled at me as if I were a retarded child.
  
  "Don't be a fool, my dear von Schlegel," he said. "That would be the first thing you bragged about back in East Germany, that you saw me alive. No, I'm afraid your career is at an abrupt end. As soon as the last box is secured to the last burro, you will die."
  
  I looked at the boxes. There were only three left.
  
  
  
  
  
  VIII
  
  
  
  
  Where the hell were Olo and the others? I hadn't even a gun with which to defend myself, but I knew one thing: I wasn't going to die without taking Guevara with me. I hadn't planned on making this a double ceremony, but I sure as hell wasn't going to go it alone. They were carrying the last box over to the burros, and I watched them with a grim desperation. I couldn't understand why Olo and the others hadn't shown.
  
  "Seeing as I'm going to die," I said to Che, "I'm curious about something. These men with you, are they all the men you have?"
  
  "No," he said. "In the hills behind you, overlooking the ranch, I have some fifteen more watching through binoculars in case I should need help. You see, I have learned a lot since my last campaign. Mostly, I have learned that one cannot be too careful."
  
  My lips tightened grimly at that; now I knew what happened to Olo and the others. Either they had been unable to get by the guerrillas in the hills or their progress had been greatly delayed. Everything that had gone so well was about to go the wrong way.
  
  The men signaled that the last box was firmly fixed, and Guevara turned to me. He drew the revolver from his belt and smiled politely, almost with embarrassment.
  
  Shots rang out and four of Che's men dropped. He whirled in the direction of the gunfire. "Ambush!" he shouted. "Take cover!"
  
  He had forgotten about me for the moment. I reminded him by bringing a roundhouse right up from the ground that caught him on the side of the head. He went sailing across the yard, the revolver falling out of his hand. I charged after him and saw the look of shocked surprise on his face. Suddenly everything was coming clear to him, and I could see the fury rising in his eyes.
  
  With the advantage of surprise, Olo and the others made a big dent in the guerrilla force in that initial attack, but the guerrillas were counterattacking now. Guevara met my charge with a vicious swing of his hook. I twisted back and it ripped my shirt across the front. He picked up a rusted pitchfork and flung it at me at close range. I had to drop flat to avoid being impaled on the prongs.
  
  I looked up to see him racing for the barn. He was quick to size up the situation as a bad one. It was an ambush and he didn't know how many were in the attacking party. If he stayed, his men might win, or they might not. But under cover of battle, he could cut out. Self-preservation was his first concern, the fanatic willing to do anything to be able to live to carry on the fight.
  
  I read his thoughts as soon as I saw him running for the barn. I raced after him only to be tackled by two of his men as I rounded the corner. They brought me down, but they were not much as tackles. I got one leg free at once, kicked the nearest one in the face and heard him yell. The other one came at me with a knife. I rolled away from his slash, got a leg around his ankle and pulled. He went down and I came over onto him with a karate chop right on the Adam's apple. He gurgled and his eyes popped, then he lay still.
  
  I got up and raced for the barn again. I met Guevara charging out, on one of the horses. I leaped up at him, to pull him from the saddle, and felt a sharp pain as the hook ripped into my shoulder. I was knocked backwards, managed to avoid getting a hoof in the stomach and rolled over on the ground.
  
  The bastard was getting away. The rage inside me blotted out the pain in my shoulder. I charged into the barn and vaulted onto a horse. I could see Che racing for the steep mountainside. I looked back and saw that his men were advancing, fighting back hard. That quick glance showed me that where it had been twenty men to six, it was now about twelve to six. I was assuming that Olo and his group were still intact. If not, the odds were even worse. But that was their fight. I had mine to finish.
  
  The horse was strong and fast and while I wasn't gaining on Che Guevara, he wasn't pulling away, either. The path up the mountain was uneven, rocky and winding. My horse walked and jumped more than he ran after a while, and from the clatter of stones ahead I knew Guevara was having the same trouble.
  
  I spurred the animal on, and as I rounded a bend, saw Guevara's horse standing with an empty saddle. I leaped from mine and listened. I heard him crashing through the brush down a steep cut in the hillside. I went after him, fury and anger driving me faster than I could normally go. He wasn't far ahead now, and I could see he was slowing down.
  
  "I'm going to kill you, Guevara!" I yelled.
  
  He quickened his pace, but I was too close. He cut to the right. He knew where he was going, and in a moment I saw it too. He paused at the edge of rushing rapids that careened down the mountainside with an angry roar, then stepped out into them. On the other side, a dugout canoe lay on the shore. Che was soon waist-deep in the water, struggling against the swift current, making his way toward the canoe.
  
  I plunged in after him and felt the water tearing at my body. He was in mid-stream when I caught up with him. He turned and swiped viciously at me with the hook. It was a hell of a weapon, like fighting a man with a lance and a machete combined.
  
  The swipe made me step back, and I lost my balance. I felt the water pulling me under and down. I managed to grab one of the rocks and cling to it until I got my footing again. Fighting against the swirling current, I struggled back to where I'd been and continued across, toward the other side.
  
  But Guevara knew the crossing, and he had reached the dugout. He was pushing it into the water, and I was still far from him. Once he got into it, I knew he'd be gone for good. The rapids would carry him down and away as surely as if he'd caught an express train.
  
  He was shoving off at an angle. I calculated quickly and said a fast prayer. I let the water seize me, toppling me from my secure footing, and sweep me downstream. I was being swept at an angle as Guevara and his canoe were being swept out from the shore. If I'd calculated correctly, our angles would bisect in moments. He had grabbed a paddle from the bottom of the canoe and was trying to turn, but the current was too strong.
  
  I slammed into the side of the canoe, grabbed the gunwale and over she went, toppling him into the rapids beside me. Now wherever the current swept him, it would sweep me. The turbulent, rushing waters had seized us now, and though we struggled with all our strength, we were swept down the rushing rapids. I bounced against one rock and thought all my bones had jarred loose. We were heading for an area of leaping white water which meant a lot of rocks when a crosscurrent caught us and carried us to the right. I found some footing in the shallower water, and saw Guevara struggle to his feet.
  
  I charged him, diving under his hook as he came at me. I caught him around the knees, and he went down in the swirling, leaping water. I slammed a hard right to his face, and he fell backwards. I went after him again. This time the hook came up just enough to tear into my groin. I pulled free and kicked his leg out from under him, and he dropped to one knee. I swung, catching him flush on the jaw.
  
  He somersaulted backwards, hitting the water with a loud splash. I was on him at once, and now I felt the damned hook tear into my leg. I had to let go in pain. He was on his feet again, slashing at me. I avoided one blow, then stumbled and fell, waist-deep in the water. He came at me, and I managed to get one hand up and grabbed his shirt. I yanked and slid forward in the water as he brought the hook down in a death-dealing blow.
  
  The hook crashed against a rock just behind me. I yanked at his legs. Only my wild rage kept me from collapsing. I was bleeding from a half-dozen wounds, fighting the pull of the rapids and Guevara's murderous hook.
  
  I rose up, kicked his arm aside as he tried to bring the hook up between my legs. I grabbed his head and smashed it against one of the rocks jutting up from the water. I smashed it down again and again until the white water was running red. Then I shoved his body out into the center of the stream and watched it go down in the rushing, turbulent water, crashing from rock to rock, smashing against the stones until there could not be an unbroken bone left.
  
  I staggered out of the water and lay there gasping, exhausted, letting my body find a way back to enough strength to move. Finally, I got to my feet, and almost falling, staggered through the woods to the rocky path. The horse was still standing there. Gratefully I pulled myself up into the saddle and heeled him once, just enough to get him going down the path.
  
  
  
  
  
  IX
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time I reached the bottom of the path I had regained my strength or part of it at least. I headed back to the ranch. There was silence, utter and complete silence, as I walked the horse slowly and carefully, skirting the bodies of the guerrilla fighters sprawled grotesquely on the ground.
  
  I dismounted and walked amid the carnage. Luis lay near a tree, dead, one arm still holding a knife plunged into the throat of a guerrilla. I found Eduardo next, then Manuel. I knelt down beside them, but there was no life there. Cesare was next, still clutching his carbine, lying peacefully beside a dead guerrilla. Antonio was propped up dead against a tree, a red stain on his chest. I found Olo last, surrounded by the bodies of four guerrillas.
  
  I got up and went into the barn. The burros were gone and everything with them. I easily pictured what had happened. Some of Guevara's men had survived and fled into the mountains with the arms and munitions. No doubt they had visions of continuing the battle and gathering new recruits. They were in for a surprise.
  
  I wrapped rags and bandages around my wounds to at least slow the flow of blood. Then I drove away from the ranch. I headed north, toward El Puente. Dawn was giving way to day now, and I drove the truck as fast as I could. The towering puya loomed up finally, and I turned onto the road to the abandoned mission. As I drove into the courtyard I heard a scream, then another. I dropped from the cab, crawled to an open arched window and peered into the sanctuary. I saw two forms rolling on the ground, clawing and fighting and screaming. Yolanda and Teresina were at each other's throats. As I watched, Teresina wrenched free, leaving all of her already torn blouse in Yolanda's hands, grabbed at the peasant girl's leg and tried to apply a leg-lock. I chuckled. Bolivian Intelligence had obviously put her through some form of combat school.
  
  But Yolanda had been through another land of school, and it taught her lessons Teresina had never even heard of. She grabbed at Teresina's breasts, raking them with her nails. Teresina cried out in pain and let go. Yolanda was on her in an instant, clawing and scratching. Teresina tried a half-cocked karate chop that made me wince at its ineptness. It did serve to knock Yolanda back a pace and take some wind out of her.
  
  Teresina grabbed at the girl's hair, spun her around and smashed a hard right into her belly. I almost applauded. Yolanda doubled up and Teresina applied a head-hold. If she'd been stronger, it might have worked. Or if Yolanda had been less the gutter fighter. I saw Yolanda reach up Teresina's skirt, and the girl screamed in pain. Yolanda tore free and leaped on her opponent, biting, sinking her teeth deep into Teresina's leg, her hands were like an eagle's talons scratching and clawing.
  
  I swung over the window ledge and into the room. I couldn't let it go on any longer. I grabbed Yolanda and yanked her away, throwing her halfway across the room. When she saw me, her fury reached new heights. She sprang at me, but I caught her with one arm, twisted and sent her sprawling again. She rushed into a corner of the abandoned sanctuary and came up with a broken bottle in her hand and pure hatred in her eyes.
  
  "You, first," she hissed, "and then your bitch. You, I will kill. I'll just cut off her breasts."
  
  "Knock it off, Yolanda," I said. "It's over. It's done with. He's dead. They're all dead."
  
  I thought the sobering news might stop her. Instead, she screamed unintelligibly at me. Even a child with a broken bottle can be dangerous, and this was no child but a rabid tigress. She advanced on me. I didn't move until she swiped at my face with the bottle, then I ducked to the right and tried to grab her arm, but she was as quick as a cobra. She came at me again and this time I circled until her back was to Teresina.
  
  "Now, Teresina," I yelled. Teresina, against the far wall, looked at me blankly, but Yolanda spun around. I leaped forward, grabbed her and slammed her against the wall. The bottle shattered, and she gasped in pain. I pressed her neck and she collapsed. Teresina was in my arms before I could half turn to her.
  
  "What happened?" I said. "You didn't do what I told you to do, right?"
  
  "Not exactly," she admitted, her face pressed against my chest. "I got to thinking about you and decided to believe you. I'd just worked myself loose when this girl came. We started talking, and we both got mad at what we said. Suddenly, she flew at me."
  
  "Use the rope I had on you to tie her," I said. "I think we both could use some fixing up." I saw her stricken face as she noticed the red stains on my shirt and trousers.
  
  "Let me see," she said, trying to open my shirt.
  
  I pushed her away. "Later," I said. "I've lasted this far, I can last a little longer. Just get her tied and well go back to La Paz with her."
  
  
  
  
  
  18th
  
  
  
  
  The Bolivian authorities refused to believe the guerrilla leader El Garfio had really been Che Guevara. Perhaps they couldn't bring themselves to admit that they hadn't killed him the first time around. Teresina attested to everything I said — and the aftermath of the battle at the ranch was conclusive — but she hadn't seen Guevara herself. The girls from the school in Chile only knew what had happened. They didn't know who the men were. Only I had seen Che face to face. Only I knew that the legend had not died the first time. Major Andreola was frank with me, and I could almost understand his position.
  
  "Guevara was killed by our forces in the hills a year ago," he said. "This man, this El Garfio, was an imposter. We will stand on that, my friend. I cannot help it, we must."
  
  "So be it, Major," I said. "I'll tell it my way and the world can judge for itself."
  
  I walked outside where Teresina was waiting. We had both been treated at the army hospital where word had come to us that there had been a tremendous explosion in the mountains the day after the battle at the ranch.
  
  "Do you have to leave, Nick?" she asked as we went back to my hotel.
  
  "I'm afraid so," I said. "But not until tomorrow. I have plans for tonight."
  
  She smiled and rested her head against my shoulder. I had dinner and wine sent up and, as darkness came, I took her in my arms. I unbuttoned the side buttons of her dress, saying nothing. Then I leaned back.
  
  "Aren't you going to take it off?" I asked.
  
  "No," she said. "You take it off."
  
  I smiled and pulled it gently from her as she raised her arms. The deep scratches on her lovely breasts showed red, and I rubbed my finger gently over them as I unsnapped her bra. She sat rigid, holding herself back with determined effort.
  
  "I will not make love to you until you tell me one thing," she said.
  
  "What?" I asked in surprise.
  
  "How did you know I was, as you said, t phony peasant girl?" she asked. "I thought I played the part perfectly."
  
  I grimaced. "I don't know quite how to put this," I said. "Or even if I should say it at all."
  
  She reached for her dress and I stopped her "All right, I'll tell you if you're so damned insistent on knowing. I knew it when you went to bed with me."
  
  I saw her eyes darken and then hot fire leap in them.
  
  "Are you telling me I wasn't good enough in bed?" she blazed. I winced. I was afraid this would be the reaction.
  
  "No, no, nothing like that."
  
  "Then what are you saying?"
  
  "It's just that a girl like Yolanda, well, she makes love differently."
  
  "She's hotter than I am?" Teresina demanded. "She pleases you more?"
  
  "No, I tell you!" I said. "You're being silly about this."
  
  "Am I?" she retorted. "And what about you? Don't you think you're being silly? You think you can tell a girl's background by the way she makes love. Well, I am going to show you who is silly."
  
  She turned to me, and her lips were hot against mine. She flew at me with the fury of an avenging angel, a passionate, hungry, yearning avenging angel. She stripped the clothes from me and then covered my body with kisses. I fell onto the rug with her and we made love. Teresina was a charged, fiery creature, her legs wrapped around my waist, holding me tightly inside her.
  
  When she reached the heights of her ecstasy, she fell back, but only for a few moments. As I lay beside her, I felt her lips nibbling across my chest, my abdomen, my belly. Her hands were soft messengers of desire, and she crawled atop me to rub her body against mine. I took her breasts in my hands and caressed them until she was sobbing and gasping with desire again, and we came together for the moment when all the world is one.
  
  We stayed together the whole night. She was passionate, insatiable, all the things a girl can be when her inhibitions are put away. When morning came and I dressed to leave, she stayed in the bed.
  
  "I am going to stay here for a while, Nick," she said. "I want to think that you're here beside me while you are flying back to America." She pulled the sheet down, exposing her slender, small-boned body with the soft, full breasts.
  
  "Come back," she said, her eyes deep and dark. "Try to come back."
  
  I kissed her and left her there that way. The picture is still clear in my mind.
  
  Another picture is clear too. That of Che Guevara. Maybe he still lives. The human body has been known to withstand fantastic punishment.
  
  But I have told it as it happened. It is for the world to read and judge, to dismiss truth as fiction or accept fiction as truth. Che Guevara lives on as a legend, romantic to some. I can tell you he was an unprincipled fanatic, a man obsessed with visions of grandeur. Some say the world is a better place for his having been here. I say it is better for his having left.
  
  Look, I have spent a lifetime of action, of fighting and killing and blood. I say the world doesn't need fanatics and zealots wrapped up in their own ideas of glory. It'll be a better place when my job isn't needed any longer. Unfortunately, I think I've got a lot of work still waiting.
  
  I still like what Boileau said. "Truth may sometimes be improbable." Truly, it sometimes can.
  
  
  
  
  
 Ваша оценка:
Связаться с программистом сайта.

Новые книги авторов СИ, вышедшие из печати:
О.Болдырева "Крадуш. Чужие души" М.Николаев "Вторжение на Землю"

Как попасть в этoт список
Сайт - "Художники" .. || .. Доска об'явлений "Книги"