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.
10
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?"