by Nick Carter
With just shorts on, I had no pockets in which to put the lighter, and I didn't want to risk damaging the delicate mechanism by palming it as I belted him again. So I let go of him, took two strides toward the living room and tossed the lighter onto the couch. When I turned back, the thief was on his feet and streaking for the end of the terrace. Hugo was strapped to my arm and I dropped the stiletto into my palm, thinking to scare him into stopping.
"Hold it," I shouted. "Stop or I'll let some air into you." He paused, one foot over the terrace balustrade, glanced back to see me poised to throw the stiletto and dropped over the side. I ran to the edge and peered over. He was scrambling precariously sideways along a series of stone carvings that jutted from the building.
"Stop, you stupid sonofabitch," I yelled after him.
He kept going, and I could see at the end of the row of carvings a descending line of indented stones. If he reached them, he would climb down the five stories as if he were on a tall ladder. Damn! I couldn't let him go back and report that Señor von Schlegel seemed unusually interested in an ordinary cigarette lighter. I could have skewered him with Hugo, but I didn't want him landing on the hotel doorstep with a stiletto in his neck either. As it was, I was lucky my shouts hadn't raised anybody.
I looked around desperately and spotted a wrought iron chair in a corner of the terrace. It would have to do. I grabbed it, held it in one hand and swung myself over the balustrade. Standing on the edge of the terrace, I leaned out as far as I could and dropped the chair straight down the side of the building.
The blow was a glancing one but more than enough to break his slender hold on a stone carving. His scream rose on the night air like the howl of a dying wolf. I swung myself up and back over the balustrade. Walking quickly back inside, before anyone might spot me out there, I put the fighter into a pocket of my pants and went back to bed. I could get three more hours of sleep in before it was time to get up. My visitor had, I was certain, been the first sign that the hornets were stirring. I didn't know then how fast other signs would appear.
4th
In the morning I received, by special messenger, the list of the arms and ammunition promised by Major Andreola. The Major was efficient and prompt, I saw. But it would be no problem to stall him on one pretext or another. Haggling over price could take weeks, if need be. Negotiations on delivery could use up more time.
It was the second message I received that interested me. It was slipped under my door, and I found it when I returned from breakfast: an unmarked, white envelope with a brief note inside.
"Go to Timiani at foot of Cordillo Real, 25 miles," it read. "Dirt road along cuchial 500 yards. Someone will meet you to talk about your goods."
It was unsigned, of course. I read it again and searched my memory for Spanish idiomatic terms. «Cuchial» was a bamboo field, I recalled. If this was the opening move in setting up a contact with El Garfio, I wasn't going to miss up on it.
I hurried downstairs, found a garage nearby. A hard-bitten old man ran the place, but he had a car I could rent, a battered old Ford. I took off in it, heading northeast toward the line of mountains called the Cordillo Real, listening to the Ford's straining engine and wondering if the car was going to make it to the edge of La Paz. But despite its coffee-grinder tone, the engine kept running, and soon I was slowing at a sign reading Timiani.
I spotted the field of bamboo, I parked the car and got out. Walking along the edge of the field I came to a narrow dirt road cutting a swath through the bamboo. I went up the road, counting off five hundred yards, give or take a few feet. The road ended in a small clearing of rocks and bamboo stalks.
I looked around and saw no one, yet I had the distinct feeling that I was far from alone. The tall bamboo stalks on either side formed a dense curtain.
Suddenly they came out from behind the bamboo curtain, first two, then another, then three more — six altogether. They moved out so they surrounded me.
A stocky character with a thick, drooping mustache and matted beard growled, "You have guns. Where are they?"
"I don't have any guns," I said.
"You have told others they were close enough. " he said. "You will tell us where."
They had received rather precise information, it seemed, and I looked at them. They were dressed in work clothes, and two of them had what looked like .38s stuck in their belts. All had scraggly, unkempt beards, and none of them looked as if he could pull his weight as a guerrilla fighter. El Garfio, I decided, had better improve his personnel.
"I'll tell you nothing," I said calmly. "You are a crummy looking set of bastardos."
"Silencio!" Moustache shouted. He slammed his hand across my face. "Talk… or we will kill you."
"That won't get you the guns," I pointed out.
"If we don't get them, we have nothing to lose by killing you!" he shouted back. It may not have won him a passing mark in a course of logic but it was hard to argue with. I saw a decidedly unpleasant situation rapidly developing. These scraggly characters could end my whole operation then and there. That became even more possible as two of them grabbed me, and the leader with the moustache said something quickly to the others.
"We will make you talk," he said, glowering at me.
The stupid bastards had brought it on themselves, I decided. I wasn't worried about these amateurs making me talk, but it was possible they could hurt me enough so I'd lapse into English instead of speaking German or Spanish. They would go back knowing von Schlegel was a phony, and that I couldn't let happen. I sighed. I couldn't let them go back, period, under any circumstances. I watched as two of them came over to the leader with broken lengths of bamboo.
"These ends are jagged and sharp," he pointed out, unnecessarily, taking one of the bamboo poles and holding it in front of my face while two of his men kept my arms pinned behind my back. "You will talk."
He pulled open my jacket and shirt. Drawing his arm back, he rammed the end of the bamboo into my stomach. I let myself scream; the bastard was right, it hurt like hell. I sagged and they let me go to my knees, but they still held onto me. Moustache laughed and drove the end into my belly again. I groaned and cried out. They jerked me upright and Moustache yanked my pants down.
"This time," he said, grinning, "you will not be able to scream for the pain. And you can forget about being a man again too."
He drew back his arm, the jagged end of the bamboo pole pointed and ready. I played my part to the hilt.
"No!" I screamed. "I'll talk… I'll tell you!"
He laughed, lowered the pole and gestured to the others to release me. I grabbed at my pants and pulled them up, breathing heavily, feigning terror. They were such a bunch of lousy amateurs it was sickening. I knew what I had to do and would do it quickly and ruthlessly. I sank down on one knee, looking up at the leader's grinning face, and pulled my jacket straight. When my hand reappeared, it had Wilhelmina in it. I marked the two with the guns, and I let the two men with the .38s have it first. Then I whirled, still firing. The others fell backwards in a semicircle, like pins in a bowling alley.
One of the two who had held me was still behind me, and he had a moment to act. He dived into the bamboo and I heard him crashing through the field. I went after him, putting the Luger away. I followed the easy trail of broken stalks, heard him crashing headlong and then, suddenly, there was silence. He'd gotten smart and was hiding somewhere ahead. I could waste a lot of time looking for him in that overgrown place.
I decided to let him find me, give him the opportunity to attack. I went on, crashing through the bamboo, as if I didn't realize he was hiding, lying in wait. I'd gone about twenty yards when he struck. I had a moment's warning — the rustle of stalks behind me — and whirled as he came at me, a hunting knife in his hand. The blade flashed down. I managed to get one hand up in time to seize his wrist, but the force of his leap carried me backwards and down.
The bamboo stalks gave way as we fell, cushioning the fall nicely. He was fighting from fe
ar, and it gave him a degree of strength he didn't really possess. I rolled him off me, pressed his arm back and leaned an elbow across his throat. It was over in seconds, his last breath coming out of him in a shuddering gasp.
I left him there and hurried back to the clearing. I pulled the other bodies into the bamboo. Unless someone happened to come through this spot, they would be there until they rotted. El Garfio would wonder what the hell happened to his men, but that's all he would be able to do. He might decide they'd been captured by Bolivian troops.
I was a little surprised at the crude methods of the man, and I pondered that as I headed the little Ford back toward La Paz. I was sure they had been El Garfio's men until the wagon and the burro suddenly came out of a side road to block the road. I had to slam on the brakes and skidded to a dusty halt.
An old man drove the wagon. Beside him sat a black-haired girl, staring at me with deep brown eyes. She was very pretty with a flat, high-cheek-boned face and fine lips. Her peasant blouse was cut low, and her breasts, round and high and full, swelled over the neckline provocatively.
She just sat in the wagon and looked at me. I got out of the car and walked over to the little wagon. The old man stared straight ahead.
"Well?" I said. "Are you going to move or aren't you?"
Suddenly, I realized we had company. I shifted my gaze and saw three men, each carrying a carbine, standing behind the boulders at the side of the road, looking down at the little scene.
"You are Schlegel?" the girl asked. "You are the arms merchant from East Germany?"
I nodded, watching her narrowly. This was an unexpected development. She swung down from the wagon, and I got a glimpse of lovely, tanned, slender legs as her dark green skirt swirled up briefly.
"I came to your hotel," she said. "I was told you had driven away, in this direction, so we waited for you to return."
"Who are you?" I asked.
"I have come from El Garfio," she said simply. "My name is Teresina."
I kept my face expressionless but my mind raced. I realized I'd been wrong about the other group. They hadn't been from the El Garfio leader at all; he wouldn't have sent two delegations. It was suddenly clear who they'd been. The Bolivian Communist party had its own guerrillas. They had never properly operated with Che Guevara. In his diary he'd chronicled the series of disagreements, and his boss, Fidel Castro, made much of the bad blood between the two groups. They'd disagreed on everything from strategy to leadership.
Obviously, the Bolivian Beds had learned of my presence and decided to pull a coup. But this beautiful girl, whose eyes flashed dark fire at me, was the real thing — in more ways than one. She stood waiting for me to answer.
"I am von Schlegel," I said. "But I am not going to talk here in the road. If you want to talk, come to my hotel."
Raising her voice, she spoke sharply to the others, and suddenly we were alone. They vanished, like magic. Only the old man and the burro and cart were left. The girl walked to the car and got in beside me. The old man drove the wagon on down the road.
"El Garfio is prepared to buy if you have the right weapons for sale," Teresina said as I started the Ford. "But he must have samples. He does not buy without seeing."
I was prepared for that request. "I have certain samples, at my hotel," I said. When she asked where the major shipment was, I gave her the same pitch I'd given the others, saying only that it was near enough.
At the hotel, Teresina carefully looked into each room of my suite. I watched her with amusement and pleasure. She moved with a lithe grace, and her legs under the heavy, peasant skirt were beautifully shaped. When she finished checking out the rooms she sat down on the couch, sitting with those lovely legs held together as properly and modestly as any school girl's. Her eyes, so very dark and liquid, focused on me with open interest.
I let my gaze wander slowly over the rounded, high breasts, straining under the scoop-necked cotton blouse. She was a very attractive dish indeed, certainly not the average stocky, thick-waisted peasant girl of this part of the world. I wondered what her relationship was to El Garfio. Was she his woman? A camp follower? A dedicated fellow revolutionary? She could even be someone he'd hired to represent him in negotiations with me. Anyway, I knew what she wasn't: she was no ordinary peasant girl.
I went to the bar and started to mix a bourbon and water. "Will you join me?" I asked. She shrugged and, for the first time, relaxed enough to smile, a warm, inviting smile.
"Why not?" she said. "Especially as we may soon be business associates." She took the glass from me, raised it and her eyes danced. "Salud!" she said. "Salud," I echoed.
While she sipped her drink, I brought out the case of samples. It contained the latest model M-16, a small but highly effective bazooka, a Mauser of the newest type and some ammunition.
"I can supply all of these guns he needs and the ammunition for them," I said. "I also have grenades and dynamite."
I sat down beside her, looking down at the swelling curve of her breasts. She watched me with a kind of provocative insolence over the top of her glass.
"I have other equipment, but it would be too expensive for El Garfio," I said. "As it is, I will be taking a risk selling to him. But with these guns he could more than match the government forces."
"I can see that for myself," she said sharply.
"But there are others who want guns," I said. "Major Andreola, for one."
"And you will sell to the highest bidder," she said bitterly.
"You learn quickly," I said. I glanced down at her hands. The fingers, I noticed, were long and tapering. Not the hands of a peasant.
She leaned back against the couch. Her breasts pulled so tight against the cotton fabric of her blouse, I could see the outline of the nipples.
"It is too bad you are such a greedy man," she said, smiling. "You are so handsome. It is like finding a diamond with a flaw in it."
I had to laugh at the analogy. "But women like diamonds," I said. "Even diamonds with flaws."
Her answering laugh was a musical sound. She leaned forward to set her empty glass on the coffee table in front of the couch, giving me a magnificent view of those generous breasts. She caught my glance and laughed again.
"You men are all alike. It makes no difference whether you cut cane in the fields, or work in a store, or grow wealthy selling munitions."
"All mice like cheese," I said.
She leaned forward toward me. "You would like me to be something more than a customer for your guns, no?" she said teasingly. "I can see it in your eyes. But you are selling, not buying, amigo."
I looked down at her. This girl was amazing, tossing herself at me and at the same time laughing about it. Okay, I could play the game.
"I have something you and your El Garfio want," I said. "I will sell wherever I find the most attractive offer."
She smiled confidently. "And I think maybe I have something you want," she said. "You are a very handsome man, Señor von Schlegel."
"And you are a beautiful girl, Teresina," I said.
She got up abruptly, picked up the sample case and started for the door.
"Thank you for the drink," she said. "I shall contact you soon again, you may be sure, Señor."
"Please call me Nicholaus," I said. "Nick would be even better, seeing as how we — as you put it — may soon be business associates."
Her eyes lingered on mine for a long moment, then looked away. But I'd seen the look of annoyance — annoyance with herself — that came into them. She wanted to be completely in command, and she knew she wasn't. El Garfio or Che Guevara, if he were one and the same, had a most unusual woman working for him.
It was dark when Teresina left. I had a bite to eat and went to bed knowing that the hornets were beginning to swarm.
5th
The fifth of April was a Saturday, and it brought me two packages. One came in a plain, brown wrapping; the other, in a very fancy alpaca covering.
The plain brown one was an
envelope from Hawk. It contained a brief note and a set of keys:
"As requested, equipment in abandoned warehouse in Cochabamba," the note read. "Ten miles north of Beni River. Good luck."
I destroyed it by flushing it down the toilet and pocketed the keys.
The other package, the one in the alpaca wrapping, was Señorita Yolanda Demas. I heard a knock at the door and saw dark eyes peering up at me from under half-lowered lids out of a face surrounded by the hood of a fur coat. Señorita Demas swept into the room as if she owned the place. "I have come to see you," she announced imperiously. "You are Señor von Schlegel, no?"
I nodded and she half-turned away, still wrapped tightly and completely in the fur coat, then turned to face me again commandingly.
"You have guns to sell, I hear," she said. "I will buy them."
I smiled politely, studying her face. It was pretty with flat cheekbones and eyes set wide apart. The lips were heavy and sensuous. Despite the hauteur she had wrapped around her like that alpaca coat, I sensed an earthy, smoldering quality about her. I decided I wanted to see the rest of her.
"Before we discuss anything, won't you take off your coat, Señorita," I said.
She stood still as I slipped the coat from her back. I laid it on a chair and turned to see a fullbusted, rather short girl with firm legs a little on the heavy side. She wore an expensive silk dress of cherry red and held herself very stiffly in it. Her haughty expression didn't go with the sensuousness of her face. Her lips, though she tried to hold them in a tight, disdainful fine, refused to be anything but invitingly provocative.
"Why, now, would a lovely señorita like yourself want to buy guns?" I asked, giving her a big smile. I mixed two bourbon-and-waters and handed her one. She took it, holding the glass with her pinky extended.