A bachelor in his late thirties, the ex-major had no trouble passing himself off as a high-flying businessman. His training as an intelligence officer had prepared him for assuming whatever role the situation required. Like a creature from the wild, he adapted effortlessly to his surroundings. A man of medium height, trim as a distance runner and as light on his feet as a boxer, he was blessed, considering his profession, with a face that attracted no particular notice. Fortunately for his libido, the ladies did not find it unpleasant.
The office was as bland as its occupant, a heavyset man named Vargas who exhibited a banker's ingratiating smile. He had gray hair, sagging jowls and thick glasses.
"Buenos dios, Señor Horthy," Vargas said in a syrupy voice. "Welcome to Lima. I trust your flight was enjoyable?"
Romashchuk shook the outstretched hand. It felt as lively as a sponge. "I'm not my best at flying over oceans," he said with a shrug.
"Please sit down." Vargas motioned toward a chair. He accepted the letter and Romashchuk's passport and studied them carefully.
"I'm sorry I won't be able to see more of your fair city," Romashchuk said, thinking of the busty secretary out front. "But I'm running on a tight schedule." Get the cash, meet the contact, approve the deal, hand over the earnest money. He would be back on the plane headed for the Continent before nightfall.
"Then I won't delay you," said Vargas. "Everything appears to be in order. I'll have someone bring the funds in, you can sign for them and be on your way."
A few minutes later, a mousy looking man came in with a cloth bag filled with bundles of Peruvian currency, twenty thousand dollars worth, which he counted out and placed into Romashchuk's attache case.
Back downstairs in the bank lobby, Romashchuk found everything looking normal and called the number he had memorized. A businesslike voice instructed him to be at the Plaza de Armas in twenty minutes. It was a short distance away, a pleasant walk beneath the late fall sun. He strolled past a row of older structures of Spanish architecture as lunchtime coaxed crowds of brightly-dressed office workers and shoppers onto the sidewalks. He kept a tight grip on the handle of his attache case. He had already endured a lengthy browbeating from General Zakharov for the loss suffered in the Ukrainian border incident. That had been the result of pure bad luck. He was determined that luck would not enter into the equation this time. Under no circumstances would he part prematurely with this horde of cash. He carried a small semiautomatic under his jacket, and he was prepared to use it if necessary.
Reaching the plaza, he found it flanked by imposing structures representing three seats of power — the presidential palace, the city hall and the cathedral. A military band was lined up smartly in front of the palace, ready for the ceremonial changing of the guard. He wandered past a cluster of gawking tourists being lectured by a half-shouting tour guide, pacing himself to arrive precisely at the appointed time. He glanced at the cathedral with indifference. Nominally an atheist, he was in fact a man of no great ideological conviction but one who had chosen sides long ago and felt no need to change now. He rather enjoyed the role of spoiler.
As soon as he reached the designated spot at curbside, a battered VW bug sporting a red and white "taxi" sticker, a look-alike for hundreds that swarmed Lima's streets in search of passengers, skidded to a stop beside him. The driver leaned across the worn seat and gave him a toothy grin.
"Señor Horthy?"
It sounded like "Orty" with the Spanish pronunciation. He nodded and climbed into the small car. The dark-skinned driver immediately whipped out into traffic. "We will be going into the suburbs," he said. "Take us maybe thirty minutes."
The neighborhood was one of those called pueblos jovenes by a self-conscious bureaucracy, "young towns." Ordinary citizens knew them better as barridas or squatter shantytowns. They had been created by people unable to eke out a living in the harsh countryside. Over the years, some succeeded in transforming their flimsy structures into substantial homes fashioned of wood and adobe. Others still occupied makeshift shacks that were little better than what they had left behind.
Peru suffered all the ills that came with high unemployment and underemployment, an abundance of poor cropland and an infrastructure that would not support efforts to mine its wealth of minerals. This had led to a dramatic rise in terrorism over the past few years by the Maoist guerrilla group called El Sendero Luminoso, The Shining Path. They had plagued various areas of the countryside and attacked government officials in the cities.
The "young town" that the taxi driver swung into was completely controlled by The Shining Path. The house where the driver deposited Nikolai Romashchuk was a nicely upgraded squatter home currently occupied by a guerrilla leader known as "El Grande Pedro," Peter the Great. Romashchuk had enjoyed a big laugh on first hearing the name, but he showed nothing but the greatest respect when he stood before the towering, black-haired Peruvian, a man who easily weighed three hundred pounds and carried a large pistol strapped to his waist. Though the government had succeeded in capturing Jacob Guzman, The Shining Path's founder, El Grande Pedro still reigned supreme in his bailiwick.
Romashchuk was frisked and relieved of his pistol. "You won't need that in here," said his massive host, "but you are wise to carry it with that briefcase."
Skipping the pleasantries, they promptly got down to business. "According to the agreement," Romashchuk said, confirming the arrangements negotiated earlier by an employee of the Libyan embassy who still maintained liaison with his old KGB contacts, "you are to provide us a team of five experienced men. At least three able to speak English. Two will be competent drivers, one an experienced welder."
"They are already chosen," replied the big man, who believed he was dealing with a Hugarian communist named Laszlo Horthy. "They have been trained by Libyan commandos to fire all types of weapons, including RPG's and mortars. They will be ready to go when you give us the word."
No doubt the Libyan commandos had been trained by KGB personnel, Romashchuk mused. "Good," he said, pleased that everything appeared to be in order. "We will give them a little specialized training of our own. I trust you will be ready to take credit when their handiwork becomes apparent?" The last thing his people wanted was to be identified with the actions that were planned.
El Grande Pedro laughed as he did everything else, exorbitantly. "You're damned right!" he roared, and the laughter rumbled from his throat. "I don't know how your country stands to benefit from this, Señor Horthy, but the world will learn that El Sendero Luminoso has very long arms."
Satisfied, Romashchuk opened his attache case. "As promised, this is the first installment."
El Grande Pedro smiled but turned to one of his lieutenants. "Count it."
15