Llamas roamed through the rough lanes of the village, cropping the rough puna grass. Outside one shanty, a boy played the haunting notes of the guena, a wooden flute whose origins could be traced to the days of the Inca empire.
The small mountain villages of the Andean altiplano represented the heartland of the Shining Path movement. Here the ancient Indian culture existed in an isolated community, remote, poor and primitive. Many of the Indians, inspired by the fantasies of the Shining Path, dreamed the irrational dream of a restored empire, of an ideal communism without want or exploitation.
Several of the decrepit huts still held washed-out remnants of the mark of the Path the Communist red hammer and sickle with the slogan Shanghai Gang of Four scrawled below it, harking back to the most radical days of Red China, when the Red Guards idolized the peasants and declared the intellectuals their enemies.
But there were few friendly faces peering from the doorways of the scattered homes.
A movement that had been born of a will to freedom had turned into a vicious parody of the system that it proposed to overthrow. The road to freedom had become a twisted path to an early grave.
Support for the Shining Path was now achieved at the price of fear. Lack of cooperation was savagely punished, and the Path replaced local leaders with their own supporters, defying the traditional Indian respect for their elders. Children were frequently kidnapped for indoctrination.
And yet to many the terrorists were preferable to the random violence of the army.
As the small band straggled into town, the attitude of suspicion, pent-up oppression and fear was so strong that it was almost palpable to Bolan in the thin air of the small Andean community. There was no way to predict what might happen, or who might be friend or foe.
Trust or treachery; it was impossible to tell what the reaction would be from the closed and cautious expressions on the faces of the few natives who had shown themselves.
The tense atmosphere didn't appear to bother Libertad.
He took center stage behind a hand-operated water pump in the minuscule square of the village. He rang a solid iron bell on a tripod repeatedly, the tocsin summoning the hidden villagers slowly. The terrorist leader called for attention.
"My people, my brothers in arms and in our struggle for justice and liberty, we have come to you in an hour of need knowing that you will not fail us.
"As we aid and protect you at all times from the oppression of the capitalists and the imperialists, you shall now be able to assist your liberators in the great struggle against the Spanish conquerors.
"Remember, without power all is illusion. We must wage war without quarter against the money-loving city dwellers. We are your sword and your shield, and together, comrades, we will strike our enemies dead.
"So listen and hear our plea, and answer from your heart."
From the stolid looks of the watching natives, Bolan guessed they weren't too impressed with the oratory. Fancy words and expressions of brotherhood sounded fine when the army was on the other side of the mountain. But everyone knew that the only reason why the soldiers didn't destroy the Shining Path was that they couldn't find them. Apart from the occasional hit-and-run attack, the Path avoided the well-armed troops.
When the army returned on their next patrol, they would exact their revenge if the villagers gave any assistance to the guerrilla band. And the Shining Path would by then be long gone.
A small man built like a fire hydrant spoke from the front of the crowd. His clothes were a bit better than those of the rest of the villagers, who all wore rough homespun and bright-hued cloth. Many of the men sported the chullo, a knitted cap with earflaps. Often a felt hat perched on top of the chullo.
"Do not try to fool us with your banal and false promises. We know by now that your words are lies, that they are traps for the unwary, as the crocodile lies in wait for the man who steps thoughtlessly into a strange river. Leave us now and seek out some ignorant and backward village where they have never seen evil and do not know you for who you are. You have the stench of death about you, and you offend our noses. Begone!"
From the number of nods Bolan observed, he could tell that the little man had his finger on the pulse of the community. His words had hit home in a way that Libertad had completely missed.
The terrorist looked carefully at every face in the crowd. Most turned away, but the spokesman held the hardman's gaze unflinchingly.
"You speak very bravely," Libertad remarked almost conversationally. "Who are you?"
"I am Ferdinand Haya de la Torre, mayor of the village of Andahuaylas," he answered proudly and pugnaciously. If the mayor was intimidated by the unwashed and savagelooking group that had invaded his small town, he certainly wasn't showing it.
Bolan could only admire the man's bravery without being in a position to render any assistance. The warrior had a bad feeling, looking at Libertad's closed and angry face, that the small man was going to need all the help he could get.
"PCP?" Libertad asked, naming the Peruvian Communist Party. The Shining Path had marched far to the left of the Communists, and the two groups had no love for each other.
The mayor nodded assent.
"And a Spaniard?"
"Yes, I have that honor. And a true friend to the people, not a bloodsucker who will cast them to the dogs at the first sign of trouble."
"Seize the traitor."
Two of Libertad's men responded, grabbing the small man and hauling him in front of the crowd.
None of the villagers ventured forth to intervene in the face of the intimidation of the Path.
De la Torre was temporarily struck dumb, realizing that he had overplayed his hand badly.
Bolan knew that a tragedy was about to unfold, one that he couldn't do anything to prevent.
The terrorist addressed the crowd. "Comrades, you have been duped unbecoming slaves of the unjust state. We will now stage a popular trial to probe the errors of your ways." He turned to the captive mayor. "I suppose you were elected?"
"Yes, by a free vote of these honest villagers," the mayor responded.
"Guilty! He is guilty of parliamentary cretinism," Libertad shouted to the impassive gathering. "He believes that a vote can determine the best interests of the people." Then he addressed de la Torre again. "I suppose you are an educated man?"
"I have finished high school in Ayacucho. I can read and write. Can you say the same?"
"I do not need to justify anything. I am a warrior of the Republic of New Democracy, the only true representatives of the people. What the great Gonzalo says is law, and I must carry out his work of crushing counterrevolution everywhere I find it." Libertad paused, examining the community.
They had subsided into sullen acceptance, knowing that their fate was to endure like the Andes, to suffer the shifting patterns of the unended war. "Don't think about tomorrow" had to be their watchword. "Just live through life one day at a time." The Incas, the conquistadores, parlia meets, juntas, dictatorships had all come and gone without making much impression on their way of life.
The Shining Path was only one more natural disaster, like an epidemic among the sheep.
Libertad read acquiescence in the crowd. "This man is guilty once again, this time of being an intellectual planted among you to lead you falsely from the road to the utopian Communist state. Where there is guilt, there must be punishment."
He moved slowly to the captive, drawing his knife. The late-afternoon sun caught the blade, sending shimmers of orange fire crawling along the steel.
The mayor didn't protest, mesmerised by the flashing weapon that would be his death.
The terrorist grabbed de la Torre roughly by the hair, pulling his head back. The mayor snapped out of his spell and began to pray feverishly.