Bolan grabbed the manila folder and rose to leave. Now that he had a target there wasn't a moment to lose.
Brognola's voice stopped him with his hand on the doorknob. "One more thing, Striker. The FBI recently lost a good man on this arms-dealing case. They're taking this one kind of personally. You'll keep that in mind, won't you?"
With a grunt that could have been an agreement, an acknowledgment or a snort of disgust, the big man slipped through the doorway, leaving Brognola staring at a room that suddenly felt cold and empty.
He shook his head and grabbed another file.
Aboard a direct flight to San Francisco, Bolan flipped open the file and began to absorb details.
The Shining Path, or Sendero Luminoso as they were known locally, had first appeared in 1980 with political communiques tied to dogs hanged from lampposts in Lima.
Since then, a campaign of terror, including assassinations, small-town executions and blown-up railways and bridges, had taken more than ten thousand lives.
The founder was Abimael Guzman, an ex-professor of philosophy, a moon-faced idealist in his fifties who had a taste for classical music and violence.
An ardent Communist, Guzman had absorbed early Russian revolutionary writings and had kept marching to the left. Rejecting Russian Communism and Castroism, he had eventually settled on Chairman Mao as his model.
Sickened by the new quasi-capitalist China, he now believed that the only true representatives of Communist ideology had been Marx, Lenin and Mao Tse-tung. Calling himself "The Fourth Sword of Marxism," he changed his name to Gonzalo and proclaimed himself president of the Republic of New Democracy.
Leaving the Western-funded university where he taught, he then launched a revolutionary movement aimed at overthrowing the democratic government and achieving an agrarian-based Communist utopia, dominated by the Indian descendants of the Incas.
Concentrated in the highlands along the spine of the Andes, Guzman and his disciples had proved impossible to run to ground. Three provinces were under direct military rule to try to halt the spread of "Gonzalo's" terror. So far, there were no clear winners in the hard-fought contest only a lot of dead losers who would rather have remained on the sidelines.
The latest intelligence on Guzman was pure speculation. Some claimed that he had died of leukemia years before. No one outside the movement had seen the revolutionary leader for nearly ten years.
Dead or alive, Gonzalo had the ability to inspire a ruthless fanaticism in his followers.
Organized into rigid cells, the group was impenetrable. The members knew very little apart from the names of their cell mates, and seldom broke even under rigorous interrogation by the Peruvian police.
Bolan sighed. There was much more in the bulging file, mostly accounts of various atrocities committed by the Shining Path, along with government excesses in trying to suppress them. He didn't need to read any more. He'd seen the same story written in blood in dozens of different countries, and from time to time he had written the final chapter himself.
Bolan looked out the window, resting his eyes on the purity of the sun-streaked cumulus clouds below. The warrior had seen firsthand how badly most of the impoverished masses of South America lived. He understood the almost hypnotic appeal of a few ringing phrases spoken by a magnetic personality or preached to uneducated peasants almost like a religious cult.
So many people were looking for easy answers, especially when they meant a better life. Bolan couldn't always blame them, particularly when there appeared to be so few choices that might lead them out of their crushing misery.
But Bolan drew the line when it came to promoting social change from the barrel of a gun or with a stick of dynamite. Working for the betterment of his fellow man was something he'd been doing in his own way ever since he'd decided to make a stand for what was right.
Blowing someone apart because he disagreed with your politics was terrorism.
The Executioner knew that there was only one reply to those tactics, only one answer that the terrorists would understand. Force must be met with counterforce, strong medicine in a dose that would leave the Shining Path choking on their own violent prescription.
Brognola was right, he was the ideal man for the job.
5
Special Agent Roger Kline was not a happy man, and the person sitting in the visitor's chair across from him was doing nothing to improve his mood.
Kline spoke a little louder to try to conceal the growing sense of unease that had crept over him.
"Now, see here, Mr. Blanski, you aren't being very helpful."
Across the desk, Mack Bolan, traveling under his Michael Blanski alias, said nothing. It wasn't his job to be helpful to the FBI. Rather, it was up to the FBI to cooperate with him. Kline and he both knew it, and the special agent was clearly resentful. So far, this so-called briefing session had consisted of Kline trying to probe him for information on who his backers were. Bolan wasn't giving.
They were seated in a shabby second-floor walk-up in a run-down office building several blocks from the docks. The spacious, bare office had been transformed into a temporary mission headquarters for the duration. In a far corner, two other agents were poring over paperwork.
Bolan scrutinised the agent, eyes flickering from carefully sculptured hair to immaculate three-piece blue pinstriped suit to perfectly trimmed nails drumming sporadically on the desktop. Kline's gaze locked with Bolan's, then darted away.
"Cut the crap, Kline. I know you don't want me here, but you don't have a choice. Get on with what you're going to tell me."
The uncompromising growl jerked Kline's attention back to the big man. Blanski, a strong-jawed and solid-looking man who stood well over six feet, was dressed in a sport coat and casual trousers. Kline felt that there was something odd about the way his visitor was dressed. Not that there was anything wrong with the clothes themselves. It was more a sense that they were inappropriate to Blanski's whole being.
Sort of like a gorilla in a suit.
No, that was all wrong, Kline corrected himself.
This man looked capable of dining with the President and being perfectly at home. It was more like seeing John Wayne in a tuxedo, he decided. No matter how Blanski dressed, he gave off an aura that didn't square with offices and ties. A sense of danger clung to the man like a second skin.
Kline had an uncanny intuition about people that he relied on heavily. Its accuracy was one of the things that had propelled him this far up the ladder in his eleven-year career with the Bureau. He would guess this man as former military, maybe an ex-commando, probably a fairly high-ranking officer from his self-possessed air of command. The agent meant to find out what he was up against.
He would start by betting his pension that this guy's real name wasn't Michael Blanski.
The problem, as Kline saw it, was to use Blanski or whoever he was to advance the case. And at the same time, Kline's career.
The best way, he decided, was to appear to capitulate, but to still pull the strings. The special agent had had plenty of practice in being the puppet master. He'd have Blanski dancing his tune in no time.