He had the driver head toward the city, instructing him to turn right and left aimlessly as he watched through the rear window for signs of surveillance. At random he changed taxis twice more before he gave instructions to drive to a hotel not far from the Plaza de Armas.
The hotel itself was nondescript, the sort frequented by budget-conscious travelers with North American tastes. He checked in as David Bowes, not wishing the name Blanski to be traceable to a hotel in case anyone was looking. When the clerk asked for his passport, Bolan deflected the request with a subtly proffered twenty, explaining that he seemed to have dropped his identification at the airport and would have to go to the American embassy for a replacement. But of course that would take some time.
The clerk graciously accepted the explanation and the money.
Bolan hit the streets after stowing what little gear he had brought. He crossed the Plaza de Armas, where guards strutted in front of the Palace of Government, also known as Pizarro's House. The guards glittered in silver helmets, crisp, snow-white jackets, red pantaloons and polished jackboots, uniforms inspired by Napoleonic splendor. But very modern rifles were slung over their shoulders.
At the second intersection Bolan angled away from the plaza, delving farther into the narrow streets that lined the core of the city.
The side streets were jammed with ambulantes, the sidewalk vendors who crowded the city peddling food and goods. The big man, easily recognisable as a tourist, was offered alpaca ponchos, skewers of beef heart and ewers of murky red "iguana blood," and even what were supposed to be genuine pre-Columbian artifacts. Bolan brushed by the outstretched hands of the vendors, intent on following the directions Brognola had given him for the prearranged meeting.
Apart from the street merchants in their rough clothes, shoeshine boys, wandering minstrels and tour guides competed incessantly for his attention and his funds.
Once, as Bolan dodged around a girl who suddenly appeared in his path, he felt a skinny hand snake into his pants pocket. Bolan's hand darted out to grab the invader. A frightened, ragged boy of about eight stared wide-eyed at the tall man, afraid that the American would drag him to the police.
Bolan stared back for a moment and released the thin wrist. The child was lost in the crowd in seconds.
He continued on for another few blocks before stopping at a small shop called the Lore of the Incas. Inside, the tiny store was jammed to the ceiling with books, postcards and plaster replicas of Inca treasures. A glass case that supported a battered cash register held a scale model of Machu Picchu, the lost city of the Incas. A grinning proprietor stood behind the case.
"Do you have any Plazca pottery?" Bolan asked.
"Any particular era?" the shopkeeper inquired.
Bolan shook his head. "It's for a friend."
"Is this a Washington friend?"
"That's right." Bolan hated the question-and-answer games, but Brognola had insisted on the contact procedure.
The owner drew a six-inch pottery statue from a cupboard behind the cash. The idol examined Bolan from wide owl eyes on either side of a flat nose.
"This should be to your satisfaction." He slipped it into a plastic bag.
Bolan left a fifty-dollar bill on the cash register and departed with his purchase.
Back in his hotel room, Bolan examined the statue more closely, failing to find an imperfection in the glazed surface. He dropped the statue, turning it into rubble. Picking through the fragments, Bolan extracted a flat key.
He took a taxi to the main shopping area, absorbed in the passing scenery. It was surprising how little of the past had survived the modernisation of Lima. Although it was older than any North American city, few reminders existed of its ancient heritage. The only signs of the long-forgotten Incas were advertisements for Inca cigarettes and Inca cola. The relatively recent Spanish influence showed in the multiplicity of churches. The cathedral held the remains of Francisco Pizarro, the soldier-adventurer who had humbled the last of the proud Inca kings.
Bolan got out of the cab at a mall in the ritzy shoppingarea frequented by the Peruvian elite, the Camino Real. Stepping inside under the eyes of vigilant security guards, he turned to a bank of yellow lockers lining a far wall. The key rewarded him with a solid black bag in a bottom locker.
In the privacy of his hotel room once again, Bolan smiled as he unpacked the bag. Some embassy staffer must have gotten a thrill out of delivering this particular package.
Brognola had come through as he had promised. A diplomatic pouch had forwarded a Beretta 93-R and a machine pistol, as well as fifteen clips for each and a shoulder holster for the pistol. Twenty-thousand dollars in crisp new bills provided pad money, hush money and pocket change for his stay.
Bolan felt a lot better with the weight of the Beretta under his arm as he dialed Carrillo. After exchanging pleasantries, they arranged to meet at a restaurant south of the Camino Real.
He arrived early, taking a seat in a corner near a fire exit. His eyes scanned the doorway and the plate-glass window that looked onto the wealthy streets of the suburb of San Isidro.
The crowds streaming by weren't much different from similar crowds in Paris or Madrid. For the most part, the women were fair-skinned criollas, dark haired and flashing eyed, of nearly pure Spanish descent. Others were marked as mestizas, the issue of the Spaniards and the native Indians. Many of these displayed dark red good looks that attracted the eyes of the men striding along as imperiously as conquistadores. Occasionally a native Indian would walk by, eyes downcast, garbed in a colorful poncho and a felt hat, looking as out of place among the stylish shoppers as an elephant at a horse show.
Bolan glanced at his watch. Carrillo was late. Bolan hasn't entirely sure what to expect from this meeting. He knew that he had a powerful bargaining chip in the captured weapons, and he hoped to press Carrillo for an introduction to the Shining Path connection. He was flying solo on this one and almost as blind as a bat.
He would have to count on his own internal radar to steer him clear of danger, knowing that Carrillo had a reputation for treachery.
The shipment would be in port within a day or two, disguised as farm machinery, to be stored in a local warehouse. Unless he contacted the shippers with other instructions, the cargo would be sent to Ayacucho a week later. High in the Andes, the arms would wait safely for his disposal.
The headwaiter was speaking with a lovely young woman at the door who was looking beyond him to the patrons inside. She smiled and stepped through the door, approaching a tall dark man four tables away from Bolan. The warrior paid her no more attention than he would give any pretty woman until he heard "Michael Blanski" mentioned.
Bolan raised a hand to get her attention, motioning her to his table. He stood as she approached, conscious of Latin manners. Besides, it would improve his draw if required, although the woman appeared to be an unlikely candidate as an assassin.
"You are Mr. Michael Blanski?" Her voice was soft and musical.
"Yes. Please sit down." Bolan was already charmed, although his eyes flickered past her face from time to time, maintaining his watch on the street and the other patrons.
"I am Antonia de Vincenzo, Senor Carrillo's secretary. He sends his apologies, but regrets that he will not be able to come this afternoon. However, if it is convenient to come by his office at ten tomorrow morning, he promises that it will be worth your while."
"That will be fine, Miss de Vincenzo. I'll see you then, if you leave me the address."
"Certainly." She dug in her purse momentarily for a business card. "Senor Carrillo is most disturbed that he will not be able to show you around Lima personally this evening as he had promised, but if you like, I will be happy to be your guide."