by Nick Carter
"It is no doubt unusual, I admit, señor," she said. "But I will explain. I own a large tin mine in the mountains beyond Cochabamba. My father died unexpectedly, and I was left with the mining operation. As you can see, I am not exactly equipped for such a task." She paused to take a healthy pull on her drink. "But I had to take over and I did," she continued. "The mine is running and making a lot of money. I intend to keep it that way. Guerrillas, under one they call El Garfio, have raided my buildings twice already for supplies. I fear they may try to take over the mine."
"And the guns," I said, "will enable you to arm a protective force."
"Exactly, señor," she said, dark eyes looking at me from under those drooping, heavy lids. "It is so important to me I will match any offer you get."
I smiled, thinking of Teresina's implied offer. "That may be hard to do, Señorita Demas," I said. I downed my drink. She got to her feet and walked over to me. Her breasts under the cherry-red silk seemed to vibrate with a shimmering intensity. But it was her lips that drew my eyes, lush lips made for pleasure.
"I am prepared to make my offer economically attractive to you," she said. "But our association could be more… personally rewarding."
I stood up. First Teresina and now this one, tossing extra-added inducements around. If all arms merchants got this kind of treatment, I was switching careers but fast. Señorita Demas was unquestionably a sultry creature behind that imperious front. I wanted very much to strip away the façade and get at the real woman, but I restrained the impulse. She, like Teresina, was almost too willing, too eager, to use sex to get what she wanted. Of course, that sort of thing wasn't exactly unheard of. But in this case, though it was great for the ego, it gave me a slightly uneasy feeling. If Señorita Demas and Teresina wanted to put out for their respective reasons, I'd sure as hell accommodate them. But I wanted more time to get things in perspective. Things were going as I'd expected but in unexpected ways. Certainly this sensuous, sleepy-eyed woman before me was an entirely unexpected dividend.
"Why don't you call me Nick, Yolanda?" I said. "That would be a start, anyway."
She smiled assent. "But time is important to me, remember."
"To me too," I said, handing her the furry coat. She slipped it on. At the door she turned and ran her tongue over her lower lip so it glistened temptingly. She handed me a small card. A telephone number was scrawled on it.
"I am staying here, at a friend's house, for a few days," she said. "You can phone me there. Otherwise, I shall call you."
I watched her walk down the hall to the elevator, a stiff, deliberate walk. She was working hard at keeping the haughty pose. As she stepped into the elevator, she nodded back at me, a queenly, imperious nod.
I closed the door and sat down to go over my collection so far, pouring myself another bourbon. I'd stirred up the Bolivian government, a girl friend of El Garfio's, a tin-mining heiress and some unlucky small fry. So far so good, but now it was time to get other plans in motion, plans which would bring me closer to this El Garfio by another route.
Beautiful heiresses and beautiful peasant girls aside, I was chasing down a legend to see if it was still flesh and blood.
III
I flicked the cigarette lighter on and off and held it close to my ear, listening. Soon I heard the faint but distinct voice coming from thousands of miles away.
"Hawk will speak with you, N3," the voice said. A moment later, I was listening to Hawk's distinctive, flat, unemotional delivery.
"The men you asked for have been dispatched, I'll give you a briefing on each one. Instructions for making contact will follow. Unless you have questions, sign out when I've finished."
I sat back and listened intently as Hawk, his voice sounding unnaturally thin and distorted on the tiny set, gave me the details of what had been done. As I listened, I realized how formidable a task I had given him to accomplish in such a short time.
I had no questions when he finished and deactivated the little fighter-radio by flicking it on and off again. I got out of the car, took off Nicholaus von Schlegel's well-tailored suit and donned a one-piece coverall. I got back behind the wheel of the battered old Ford and headed east by southeast.
The city of Cochabamba lies some 150 miles away from La Paz, at the edge of the rugged mountain country. It was from Cochabamba that Che Guevara and his man, Pachungo, had entered the mountains, and it was from Cochabamba that I would pursue his legend and the man known as El Garfio.
By the time I reached the place, over mountain roads with tortuous turns, it was nearly dark. I drove slowly along the edge of the Beni River until I found the old warehouse and pulled the car up close to the side of the building. One of the keys Hawk had sent me opened the front door and I entered. The place smelled old and dank and unused. I pulled the door shut behind me, flicked on a pencil flash. The small, one-man helicopter stood in the middle of the empty floor, rotor blades folded back. It had been flown into Cochabamba in parts and reassembled in the warehouse.
It would be folly to try to make my contact for the first time in the dark, so I curled up inside the car and went to sleep until the first light woke me.
The warehouse was around a sharp bend in the river in a deserted area of high weeds and marsh grass. I didn't have to worry about being seen as I opened the main doors, pulled the light aircraft out into the dawn and shut the doors again. I climbed into the chopper, used another of Hawk's keys to start the engine. It roared into life instantly, and the rotor blades began to whirl. Seconds later, I was off the ground, rising toward the morning sun.
6th
Following Hawk's instructions, I flew the 'copter over deep green, lush mountain forest, watching the compass on the instrument panel closely. Looking down at the terrain below, I saw why air reconnaissance accomplished so little. An Army could have been down there hidden in the naturally camouflaged ravines and valleys, on the tree-covered hillsides.
I flew low, almost at treetop height. After I crossed the Piray River, I turned the 'copter south. I was searching for a small, flat area marked by an orange canister.
Criss-crossing the area systematically, I was almost ready to give up when a flash of color to the right caught my eye. I wheeled the helicopter sharply about. The orange canister stood at the edge of a circular clearing hardly larger than the 'copter. I came in low and set down carefully. Clambering out, I saw the path Hawk had described leading from the far edge of the little clearing.
Quickly, I started up the uneven trail.
The land was indeed what the Bolivians referred to as elevador, a terrain particularly suited for guerrilla activities. According to Hawk's instructions radioed yesterday, I would eventually reach a small ridge. On the other side was a tapera, an abandoned Indian hut.
I found the ridge, topped it, saw the tapera. As I approached the hut, two men stepped out of the bushes on the right and left of the narrow path. They held Marlin 336 big-game rifles. Grim-faced, they raised the rifles in an unmistakable gesture.
I halted and said, "Che Guevara." Immediately, they lowered the rifles.
"N3?" one of them said. I nodded and walked towards them. Four other men emerged from the tapera, and we shook hands all around. They introduced themselves: Olo, Antonio, Cesare, Eduardo, Manuel, Luis. I surveyed them with a kind of pride. While they were probably very different in type and in temperament, they had one thing in common: each was dedicated to the destruction of the Castro government and anything connected with it. Each had suffered torture and seen their families wiped out by the Reds. Hawk had brought them together from all over. Olo, he had told me, had been tortured for two years in a Castro prison and seen his two daughters brutally raped. Luis had seen his parents shot as reactionaries. Eduardo had watched helplessly, bound hand and foot, while his wife was tortured and raped, his mother beaten until she died of a heart attack, and his sisters dragged off never to be heard of again, because they could not reveal where his father had fled.
I had, in short, asked
Hawk to get me a small band of ruthless, fanatical killers, men who would match Che Guevara or El Garfio in their hatred. They had been briefed about me and my objective and parachuted into the hills to wait for me to contact them.
They took me into the hut. They were having breakfast, and I joined them in mate, the strong South American tea, and huminta, rolls made from cornmeal. Looking around, I saw that ample supplies had been parachuted down with them.
We made plans as we ate. "We have located one of Guevara's groups," Olo said, biting into a huminta. He was a tall, big-framed man with huge hands. He had apparently been allowed to take command until my arrival.
"Remember, amigo, we still do not know if the man we seek really is Guevara," I reminded him.
Olo's eyes looked deadly. "To us, he is Guevara until we see otherwise," he said. "The bastardo's main force is still somewhere unknown to us, but he has split the rest into small units."
"According to his diary, he sent small groups of men out the last time too," I said.
"But only to make a forced march for some destination or to construct a new camp," Olo answered. "This time he has them out as raiding parties and organizing cadres."
"Then we will hit this one you have pinpointed," I said. "How many are there in the party?"
"Seven, eight, maybe ten," he said. "They will be child's play for us, Señor Carter."
"Nick, to you," I told him. "Let's go, then." Luis went to the back of the hut and returned with a carbine for me. I noted that each of them also carried a handgun and a knife.
Without unnecessary talk, with a kind of grim determination, we set out into the dense undergrowth. When Hawk first handed me the mission, in that tent in Cairo, I had formulated my own plan on how to come to grips with Guevara — if it was Guevara. These men were the result. I knew the guerrillas would only be brought into the open by applying their own tactics to them — fast, hit-and-run strikes, chewing up their forces until they either had to disband or make a stand. The government approach of sending in large, unwieldy concentrations of troops was a little like trying to catch a rabbit while wearing snowshoes. The rabbit was in back, front and all around while you were still trying to get one foot off the ground.
We loped through the woods, filtering through the underbrush, silent as Indians. Suddenly, Luis, who was in the lead, held up his hand. Everyone froze.
Luis pointed to a small brownish bird watching us from the low branch of a tree. "Cacare," he said softly. I knew the bird's habits. It would flutter into the air at the approach of man or animal and, with a hysterical scream, announce the presence of the intruder. One cacare was better than ten watchdogs. Luis crept forward, step by step. We did the same, treading lightly so as not to alarm the bird. Luis had picked up a hunk of wood. As he moved within reach of the bird, he raised his arm slowly, then with an unbelievably fast movement, brought the club down on the bird, killing it instantly.
Luis let out a long breath. "Their camp is just beyond those trees," he whispered.
We spread out. In moments I was peering ahead and slightly down at three tents and some men cooking in front of them. Their rifles, mostly old WW II U.S. and German makes, were stacked ready for instant action. There was little chance of their being used though.
At a nod from me, my little group opened up a withering fire, a surprise attack so deadly and efficient it was over before it had hardly begun. Olo and Manuel ran down to the tents, stripped the bodies of everything of value. When they returned, we marched back to the tapera.
We were moving unconcernedly through the woods when we heard men moving up ahead. We scattered and got undercover. Moments later, another group of guerrillas passed us, seemingly unaware of our presence. We were wrong about that.
They were abreast of our hiding places when they suddenly halted, wheeled and poured a murderous fire into the brush. I heard shouting and saw perhaps six more guerrillas rushing up to join the battle. I knew what must have happened. They had been on their way to join the group we had massacred, had sent an advance man out who had reported back in terror and alarm.
They couldn't see us in the underbrush, but kept up a random fire that was scattered but deadly. I rolled deeper into the brush as bullets thudded into trees and shaved bushes all around me. Some of my men were returning the fire, but the newcomers charged in with knives and machetes.
I glanced around and saw Olo bring down two of the attackers at point-blank range. We had recovered from our initial surprise and were shooting back with far more accuracy and effect. I brought down one charging guerrilla with a clean shot between the eyes.
Their firepower was fizzling now, as those still standing began to withdraw in disorganized retreat. I saw one, crouched over, streaking for safety, and a thought popped into my mind. I dived for him and brought him down with a flying tackle. He tried to use his hunting knife, but I ended that action with a fast chop to the jaw. He lay still.
His surviving comrades were out of sight, crashing through the underbrush in flight. I stood up and looked to see how we had made out. Manuel had a superficial arm wound and Antonio a creased forehead. Other than that, no casualties. I yanked the guerrilla I'd caught to his feet, as he began to regain consciousness.
"I want this one to go back knowing who sent him," I said. The terror in the man's eyes faded when he realized he was going to live.
"Tell El Garfio his days are numbered," I said. "Tell him that men of vengeance hunt his soul here in the mountains, led by an American."
"How many men does El Garfio have?" Olo questioned the guerrilla.
"I don't know," he answered. Olo walked over to him, put one huge hand in the small of his back and the other around his neck. He pressed, and the guerrilla's backbone seemed to crack. The man screamed. Olo dropped him and stood over him He kicked him in the ribs, savagely. "More?" he asked.
The guerrilla groaned in agony. "I don't know, I tell you," he gasped. "He has never told anyone, and his own cadre is kept separate from the others.
I put a hand on Olo's arm. "Enough," I said. "I think he's telling the truth. Our enemy is playing it smart and keeping his forces apart until he's ready for a combined assault on something very important."
I yanked the man to his feet. "Go," I said. "You can consider yourself lucky."
His glance told me he agreed completely. He turned and started to run, moving as fast as the terrain allowed.
My group resumed the march back to the tapera. There we sat down to a simple meal cooked by Eduardo, simple but delicious. In a huge iron pot he cooked locro, a soup made with rice, potatoes, various root vegetables of the region with charqui added. The charqui, sun-dried meat, was pork from a wild pig.
After dinner we sat down before the fire; the nights are cold and penetratingly damp in the mountains. We talked about our next move. I impressed on them that I wanted no attacks, no confrontations, unless I was with them.
"It's not that I don't trust your capabilities." I said. "It's that I must be there when we face Che. I must be sure it really is Guevara."
I spent the night with the men. It had been a long day, and the hard floor of the tapera felt like a feather mattress to me.
7th
In the morning it was agreed that while I was away, they would reconnoiter, finding more of the guerrilla units, pinpointing their position for my return. I wanted to get back to the warehouse in Cochabamba while it was still early, and I took off before the sun had cleared the hills. The flight back was uneventful, and soon I was on my way to La Paz, steering the old Ford over the twisting mountain roads.
By early afternoon, I had slipped back into the hotel unobserved and was once again Herr von Schlegel, munitions salesman. I sent Major Andreola a price which I knew was too high but which would allow him to start the process of dickering and bargaining. The two-pronged operation for getting El Garfio had begun — and most successfully. With one or the other, or perhaps a combination of both, I would soon come face to face with the guerrilla leader.
I ate alone at the hotel. Later, back in my room, I debated radioing Hawk, to tell him he had outdone himself, picking my men. I decided against it; Hawk doesn't approve of unnecessary communications on a job.
I was getting ready for bed when I heard a faint knock at the door. I strapped on Wilhelmina under my lounging jacket and opened the door. Teresina stood there, hands on her hips, regarding me coolly. She wore the same dark green skirt, but this time with a yellow blouse, also low cut and tight.
"Have you decided to sell to El Garfio?" she demanded.
"Come in," I said. "I haven't decided anything — yet. But I could."
She smiled, a slow, lazy smile and strolled into the room. I watched her walk by, smoothly, gracefully, and had all I could do to keep from patting her shapely rear as she passed.
IV
Teresina sat down and focused those cool eyes on me. I was wearing only pants and the lounging jacket. I fixed two bourbon and waters, handed one to her. She sat with her slender legs tucked up under her, her skirt riding high, exposing the lovely, tempting curve of her thigh.
"Very nice," I commented, gesturing with my glass. She didn't move, just nodded in acceptance.
"Señor von Schlegel," she began, and I interrupted her immediately.
"Nick," I said. "Our last conversation ended with the possibility of our getting to know each other better, remember?"
There was a flicker of warmth in the deep-brown eyes. My eyes went over her admiringly, from the shapely legs to the long, tapered fingers holding the glass.
"I tried to contact you several times yesterday… Nick," she said, emphasizing my name. "You were never in."
That last was an unasked question.
"I was visiting an old friend who lives in Sucre," I said. "She asked me to stay overnight."