"I demand a meeting with the Revolutionary Council," he stormed, refusing to be placated.
"That is impossible," the other man answered coldly. "If they wish to see you, they will send for you. Something that I very much doubt will happen." The commissar glared at Libertad as though he were some lower form of life.
Libertad kept his temper in check, telling himself that it was not for the likes of this headquarters parasite that he had killed and risked being killed.
However, at this moment he would gladly have added the sniveling bureaucrat to his list of victims.
"Tell the council that I have evidence of treason, of a counterrevolutionary plot within these very walls. If I must break up their meeting myself, I will do so. Then I will be forced to name you among those I suspect of obstructionism, revisionism and sentiments contrary to the well-being of the party."
Libertad sneered as the functionary ran off to pass along his message. He knew it took very little suspicion to make the council decide someone was a liability to the movement. The next step was a Revolutionary Tribunal, followed by execution by the People's Justice Squad. And inevitably, a cold, lonely grave.
Libertad sat on a rough bench, prepared to wait. It wouldn't be a long stay.
Bolan awoke refreshed although stiff from sleeping on the rough and unyielding stone, the details of the past events flooding his mind. His plan was clear: get the hell out of here. It was the "how" that was kind of hazy.
He drank a little water before moving off, ignoring the rumblings of his stomach. He could live for a long time without food, but without water he would have lasted only a day or two before he collapsed, able only to wait for an unpleasant death.
He must move slowly, conserve his strength and, above all, ration his water rigidly. Then he might have a chance.
He had taken the precaution of placing his food sack a few feet farther down the corridor in the direction that he had been traveling before he went to sleep. That way he could be sure not to retrace his steps.
Bolan began to walk, continuing the monotonous trek straight ahead. This time he counted the paces, stepping off the distance at as rapid a tempo as he could maintain without beginning to sweat.
He had almost reached twelve thousand paces when the corridor ended. Feeling in front of him, Bolan touched raw earth. Apparently the Incas hadn't advanced any farther along this route.
He had marched down a dead end.
The big man fought off a wave of depression.
Instead of resting, he drank a little water from his dwindling supply and started back the way he had come, turning at the first left he came to.
Bolan walked on along the smooth-walled passageway, skipping over occasional breaks in the regular stonework. He was curious about the purpose of the underground maze. Surely some of these openings must be for quarters, armories, treasure houses, kitchens or stairways, any of the thousands of kinds of activities that took place in an ancient fortress. But he knew that if he began to explore, the chances were great that he would never find his way out.
As he walked, nagging doubts began to come to mind.
Maybe the whole lower level was only air ducts or for flood control. Maybe it was a punishment, a sadistic torture chamber for enemies who were thrown down here to starve to death. What if there really was no way out?
Bolan slumped to the floor, exhausted. He took a short swallow of water, shook the bag and discovered it was almost empty.
The warrior fought a desperate struggle with a black depression that threatened to creep over him, sap his spirit and immobilise him where he lay.
It wasn't purely muscle that powered the big man on. It was his indomitable spirit that drove him, and if that cracked, he knew he was as good as dead.
Once he had wrestled down the black waves lapping at his soul, he sat back to take stock of his situation.
Somewhere in the far distance, just at the edge of perception, Bolan heard the first natural sound that he had detected since he had entered the tunnels the tinkling noise of running water.
Libertad was ushered in to see the Revolutionary Council after a short wait.
Stone was pushed in behind him. Nine impassive men sat quietly around an ordinary kitchen table, dressed no differently than he was.
"What is this news of treason that you bring us?" demanded one whom Libertad knew as the council chairman, a middle-aged man with a beak nose who reminded Libertad of a predatory bird.
"First, comrades, before I discuss our confidential business, what do you wish done with this American? He was a companion to the arms dealer, Blanski, and I did not wish to kill him without your permission."
Stone, trapped between two guards, blanched as he realized that he might not leave the room alive.
"Is the Yankee devil of any value?" one of the councilmen asked in a bored voice, not in the least interested in whether Stone lived or died.
"I think he may be of use, since he is familiar with many herbs and their medicinal properties. He sometimes treated our people in prison. I think he should be kept alive for a while to judge his usefulness."
A councillor who gave a strong impression of authority glanced from one face to another around the table. "Make it so, then. Just let him be guarded well. If he escapes, Libertad... Let me just say that it will be held against you." The terrorist knew all too well what that meant a bullet in the brain.
Stone was removed, finally daring to breathe again.
"Now, tell us about these serious charges you have brought against some unknown party. But remember, causing internal strife among our brotherhood is a serious crime and will be punished. So speak, but know that we will judge you, as well as your words."
Libertad told the story of the underground ambush, feeling carefully for the right words, conscious of the cold eyes fixed on him. He relayed how the other prisoner had escaped and had apparently been lost in the pit.
"Did you find the body?" one of the listeners interrupted.
"No, we did not. Our lights could not illuminate the bottom of the shaft, and we had no rope to climb down."
"This is worrisome," the questioner said to the other councillors. "What if he is alive and roaming through our complex? He might escape and take word of our base to the government troops."
"Relax," said the chairman. "You know that no one who has fallen into the pits has ever been seen alive again. Continue, Libertad."
Libertad finished quickly, emphasising that the death of his men had been the result of treachery, possibly of a spy.
"Strong words, Libertad, and a very dramatic story. But how do we know that any of this is true? Maybe this lost American killed your men and escaped, and to cover your incompetence from our just wrath you have concocted this fable. Where is your proof?"
Libertad licked his lips, relieved that he had prepared for this eventuality. He gestured to one of his men.
The man reached into his sack and withdrew a crudeb severed head by the hair. He placed it on the table, where the protruding tongue appeared to mock the solemn council.
"This is one of the two gunmen I told you about."
The councillors contemplated the grisly trophy in silence, as though a head on the table were a daily occurrence.
"I believe I recognize this man," one commented. "It is Federico."
"But why would he do such a thing? He was a loyal soldier, if not very smart."
"Loyal to whom?" the chairman rumbled, his hawk eyes blazing. "There is only one person who might have swayed him from the true path of the movement. A childhood friend who held great influence over him and his friend Paulo. Summon Antonia!" He shouted this last command at a guard, who then disappeared. The chairman gestured to Libertad to hide the head.