Twisted Path (8 page)

At the moment he was completely on his own.

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

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

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

"You think I'm a terrorist?"

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

"What have I supposedly done?"

Palma grinned, cutting the air with his crop.

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

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

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

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

Palma shook his head and flashed a toothy grin.

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

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

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

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

"She is a liar."

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

Palma signaled to the guard to reopen the door.

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

Bolan said nothing.

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

Bolan lapsed into a gloomy study of his options.

None of them looked worth a damn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Palma was a witness against me?"

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

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

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

"Prison?"

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

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

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

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

Palma lounged by the rear door of a paddy wagon. "Ah, Mr. Blanski. I'm sorry that we will not have an opportunity to become better acquainted." He tapped his crop against the spot where he had previously cut Bolan. "However, it was decided that the evidence was so overwhelming that we really did not need a confession. A pity. I would have enjoyed breaking you."

"Do you really think you could have?" Bolan's voice was low and menacing.

"You are too proud, Mr. Blanski. There are no heroes in the interrogation room, only broken men and corpses. You would have been one or the other. But I reluctantly bid you goodbye." Palma signed with his crop, and the soldiers shoved Bolan inside. Examining the slip of paper Creighton had passed him, Bolan discovered that it was a carefully folded fifty-dollar bill. The warrior often found that at the most unexpected times and in the tightest corners some simple act of human kindness surprised and impressed him. People like Creighton were the reason that Bolan kept up the long, usually thankless and unknown struggle when other men would have built themselves a fortress and resigned from a brutal world, sparing themselves the pain of the fight.

General Palma retreated to his private office, indicating to his secretary that he did not wish to be disturbed. He dialed a number from memory.

"Hello," a soft contralto said.

"I wish to congratulate you on your good work. Blanski will not trouble us again." Palma paused for a reply, and obtaining none, continued. "I have my men looking hard for the shipment. When it is found, I will contact you. In the meantime, stay where I can reach you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand."

Palma found himself holding a buzzing phone. As he replaced the receiver, the general reflected on the curious chain of events that had led to this point.

Two years ago he had arrested Antonia de Vincenzo on suspicion of terrorist acts. He had soon discovered that she was guilty all right, but her fanatical ruthlessness combined with her beauty and intelligence had made him realize that the cinnamon-colored terrorist represented a special opportunity.

His goal was absolute power within the country, and Antonia and the Shining Path were a means to that end. The more violence they engendered, the more support there would be for a military coup to restore order.

With General Arturo Palma as the savior.

Striking a suspicion-filled and fragile truce between Antonia and himself, he had installed her as secretary to Carrillo, a man known to operate on the fringes of every shady deal that originated in Lima. Shortly afterward, Palma had approached Carrillo with the promise of a hands-off opportunity to make some money smuggling arms to the Shining Path.

More powerful weapons in their hands meant an increasingly bloody and savage conflict, with severe casualties and stern repression.

All of which only increased Palma's power.

Carrillo had been shocked, of course, but had agreed for the right price. Antonia had served the role of intermediary between the arms dealer and the Path, since they refused to deal directly for security reasons. Unknown to Carrillo, she also served as a watchdog for Palma.

Unfortunately Carrillo had not been very wise in his choice of suppliers. When the weapons merchant had phoned Palma to inform him that the supply line had been blown, it had been necessary to arrange for Antonia to murder him.

All they needed was a fall guy, a role Blanski had conveniently filled. A neat solution that eliminated two of the potential dangers of exposing the general, Carrillo and Blanski.

He wondered if he should have Antonia killed, as well.

Bolan was jostled in the featureless box for nearly an hour before it screeched to a halt. As the paddy wagon started up again, he could see through the narrow rear window that it had cleared a checkpoint at the head of a one-lane road.

Two minutes later the police wagon passed under the overhang of the main wall of Lurigancho prison.

Once inside, Bolan was given a lecture by the prison warden on the need to obey the rules exactly, then was led through the decaying halls of the prison. Although he saw armed soldiers here and there, there was more of a sense of communal living than of the strict prison regimentation Bolan had experienced from time to time in the United States.

As opposed to the small cells with barred doors that he had anticipated, there were fairly open areas that housed two to four men in relative comfort. None of the cells was the same, and each had been improved with blankets, furniture, small cook stoves, books and pornographic magazines according to the occupants' taste. The tall man attracted fixed, unfathomable stares from the other residents as he was guided deeper into the maze that formed the residential barracks. None of the quarters had doors, although each could be made private by a thick curtain drawn across the front. Some were closed even now.

The lead guard stopped beside one of the openings and motioned Bolan inside. He stepped in to find another occupant reading, the book placed under a ray of sunshine streaming through a high, narrow window.

"I don't suppose you brought any books with you?" Bolan shook his head.

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter. English books are the hardest things to get in this hole. I'm Jason Stone." Stone extended a skinny hand.

They shook hands as Bolan scrutinised his cell mate. He appeared to be in his late forties, slight, with round glasses and a straggling mass of brown hair streaked with Bray, which tumbled over a long, mournful face. Stone looked as though he had been cooked over a slow fire, which had rendered out all the fat, leaving a sinewy frame and leathery skin.

Almost by way of contrast, a round face poked past the edge of the curtain. Not much taller than Stone, the fat, bald man must have carried twice his weight.

A guard's uniform was plastered to the round tub, although he didn't carry a weapon.

"Here is Cristobal to greet you and welcome you to our happy establishment. He is responsible for order in this section of the barracks. And this is..."

"Michael Blanski."

Cristobal was delighted and promised to perform any service at a reasonable rate. He backed out, waving and grinning, hoping to see Blanski very soon after he was settled in case he needed any small thing.

"Welcome to Lurigancho, Blanski. You are a very lucky man, you know. Have a seat over there. That will be your bed." Stone gestured to a wide bed in the corner, tucked beside a tall dresser.

Several blankets covered the bunk, which was topped by a feather pillow.

"I hadn't expected the conditions to be so luxurious." Bolan was surprised at the furnishings Stone possessed, including a small library, some solid furniture and a modern radio and cassette player with a selection of tapes that leaned toward the classical.

"That's one of the reasons why you are so lucky to be here. I've had three other cell mates since I arrived. The first one went mad and was sent to the asylum. The second one was killed in a fight. In both those cases their belongings were split among their friends. Fair is fair, you know. But the last fellow hanged himself one afternoon just above where you're sitting. It seems he had been getting anonymous letters something about his wife fooling around. Well, most of the people here don't want to have anything to do with unhappy ghosts, so most of his belongings have been left for you. A very superstitious lot, in general. Even though they are Catholics, they seem to believe much more deeply in the devil than in God. You aren't afraid of ghosts, are you?"

Bolan shook his head. In his profession he couldn't afford to be.

"Cristobal seemed like a friendly sort of fellow."

"He is. It's a peculiar arrangement. In a strange way he is almost like our servant. But he can be vicious if you cross him or make him look foolish to the other guards. As long as you pay him off regularly and use his services, with a cut for his trouble, of course, he'll be a very happy man. And so will you. You can buy nearly anything you want here. Except your freedom. The whole thing still seems funny to me, but then this is the only prison that I've ever been in. What about you?"

"I've seen the inside of a prison before. But this seems strange to me, too."

Bolan was already making plans. If Cristobal was accommodating, there might be a way to obtain the tools necessary to stage a breakout. Comfortable as this was, for a prison, Bolan had no intention of remaining here any longer than was strictly necessary.

"What are you in for?"

"Not yet, not yet. We'll be together for a very long time. There's plenty of time to get personal and exchange stories in the future. But not too soon. The best friendships are forged slowly and crawl together at a snail's pace. I'll be here for another twelve years. You?"

"Life."

Stone gave a low whistle. "You must be a bad character, although you don't look it. I wonder if I'll be safe in my bed with you around." Stone laughed to take away any possible sting. "Come along and I'll show you around. But wait, wait. Do you have any money?"

Bolan drew out the fifty. He didn't imagine for an instant that Stone would be the sort of man to steal it. Although in prison, Stone had a wise and educated air that made it impossible for the warrior to consider him a hardened criminal. Bolan expected that Stone, who obviously knew the ropes, might be a valuable ally and would take pains not to offend him.

Again Stone whistled, this time sounding a note of amazement. "You're as rich as a bloody prince! You're worth a Peru, as they used to say. That will keep you for almost a year in this place. Cristobal only gets a quarter a week, and that's your main expense. Let me show you my former cell mate's hideout."

Stone drew the curtain and moved the dresser a foot from the irregular stone and mortar wall. He pulled a small rock from near the base of the wall, revealing a depression about six inches deep. At his direction, Bolan placed the fifty in the hiding hole. With the small stone back in place, a very careful scrutiny would have been required to detect the treasure trove.

"It will be safe now. You really don't have to worry about the other prisoners. Stealing is one of the things that can get you killed. Looking inside a cell when someone has the curtain drawn is another, since you might find someone hiding their stash. This is mostly to keep it hidden from Cristobal and the others. As it is, one member of a cell usually is pretty close by at all times, or you carry your valuables with you."

"What else can get you killed in here?" Bolan had to adapt as quickly as possible so that he could devote his attention to getting out, not to avoiding being killed.

"Do you like men?"

"Not to date," he replied dryly.

"Good. Looking at someone's queen the wrong way may get you carved up pretty badly. Some people here like men quite a lot. Apart from that, don't give the guards a hard time, especially the ones with guns. But they won't shoot you unless you try to make a break."

Stone drew back the curtain and took Bolan on a short tour. A washroom lay a little farther down the hall, with a grinning Cristobal in attendance, engrossed in a girlie magazine.

Water for showers was available on Wednesday and Saturday. Food was delivered three times a day, but it was only bread, cheese and water, serving to encourage the prisoners to patronize the services of the guards.

The main gathering place of the prison was the courtyard, which was the exercise area, conversation pit, soccer field, outdoor barbecue center in short, the focus of prison life. About two hundred prisoners crowded the yard, singly and in small groups. Two soccer teams occupied the central portion, with an interested group of supporters cheering both sides.

The only jarring note was the ring of guard towers around the high wall enclosing the yard, each manned by two men with long-barreled rifles equipped with sniper scopes.

Complacency was the word that sprang to Bolan's mind to describe his surroundings. As long as the prisoners and guards all played by the rules, life was as easy and profitable as it ever could be in this environment. He suspected that most of the prisoners were here for long terms and were intent on doing their time as comfortably as possible.

Bolan could never live that way. Echoing New Hampshire's motto, he believed in the words Live Free or Die. Spending one dreary day after another within four prison walls was bare existence. He would break through these forbidding concrete walls or die trying.