by Nick Carter
He looked me over intently as I stood up to greet him. He nodded quietly. "Where are the guns, Señor von Schlegel?" he said. "I have the money with me, but I will not pay until we have the guns, until we have returned here with them."
"That's perfectly all right," I said, thinking he was exactly what I had heard: soft-spoken, steel coated with velvet, shrewd and very sharp. Looking at the man, it was obvious that he could be both ruthless and charming.
"It will take a long time to get the guns if we must go by horse and burro," I said. He didn't change expression.
"We came from the mountains by horse and burro, and we will load the guns onto the burros to return," he said. "But in the barn we have four trucks to make the pick-up."
I nodded. "Good. The guns will be delivered off the coast of Chile," I said.
His eyebrows rose. "You really are cautious, aren't you," he said.
"It is necessary," I told him. "There are many who would like to intercept and steal a shipment of that size. And it is hard to move arms into a country without attracting a great deal of attention. Our precautions are the result of years of experience. In this case, it is particularly important to be circumspect, no?"
"Of the greatest importance," he agreed with a slow smile. "Let us go. I will ride in the lead truck with you, señor."
"I am honored." I gave him the von Schlegel bow. "Do you think we will have difficulty going through Chile?"
"Not at this hour," he said. "We will stay on the mountain roads until we near the coast."
I walked to the barn with him. The trucks were four used army vehicles. Their insignia had been removed but they still wore the olive drab paint. I watched the men clamber into them, counting twenty or so, a larger group than I'd anticipated. Yolanda waved to us as we pulled out. Guevara was beside me, and one of his men drove.
"There is a cove just north of Cuya," I said to the driver. "Can you find it?"
The man nodded.
"Ricardo knows Chile and Peru and Bolivia better than any road map," Guevara said. He settled back, the vicious steel hook that was his hand resting lightly against my leg. It was midnight when we crossed into Chile. We were making excellent time.
VII
17th
The trip to the coast of Chile was made largely in silence. Che asked a few polite questions about the state of affairs in Europe and East Berlin in particular.
I answered him respectfully, trying to give an impression of awe in the great revolutionary's presence. It was hard to tell how it went over. He was a tough bird to read.
"The world will be thrilled when it learns you still live," I ventured.
"Some of the world," he corrected me with a chill smile. I had to agree with him.
The roads through Chile were mostly downhill toward the coast. When we reached the sea, we threaded our way, convoy-fashion, past the town of Cuya to the small cove to the north.
"Line the trucks up along the far end of the cove," I said. "You see where the rocks drop straight to the water's edge?"
The driver did as I ordered. Che Guevara climbed down from the truck with me. I knew he was watching me with faint amusement.
I took a small flashlight from my pocket and knelt down by the edge of the water. I blinked the flash on and off, on and off, steadily, without stopping. I blinked it for five minutes, then stopped for five, then started again.
"You have a ship out there, no doubt," Guevara said. "Very well planned. Very ingenious."
"More so than you know," I said, watching the surface of the water. Suddenly, the water swirled and a dark bulk emerged from the depths. I glanced at Guevara and enjoyed the surprise on his face. The submarine rose slowly, a jet black lump, taking form as it approached.
"A German submarine," Guevara exclaimed. "One of the big World War II U-boats."
"Converted to carry cargo," I said.
The U-boat, painted a dull, flat black, moved to the deep-water landing beside the rocks. The crew had come out on deck now and tossed lines to us on shore. We fastened the fines to the trucks, and in moments the sub was secured and a gangplank dropped from the ship to the shore.
"Wilkommen, Kapitän," I called out to the skipper. "Alles geht gut?"
"Ja wohl," he called back. "Wie lange haben wie hier aufenthalt?"
"Do you understand German?" I asked Guevara.
"Not much," he said.
"The captain asked how long he'd have to wait here," I translated for him. "Nur eine stunde? I called back. "Kein mehr."
"Gute," the skipper returned. "Ich bin unruhig."
"He is pleased that I told him only an hour," I said. "He says he is uneasy."
I stood by as the crew, chattering away in German, carried boxes of rifles and ammunition from the submarine to the waiting trucks. As two men passed carrying a particularly large box, I halted them.
"Eine minuten, bitte," I said. I opened the box and showed Guevara the neat rows of tins inside. "Gunpowder," I said. "It comes in very handy. It can be used for more things than dynamite."
He nodded and looked pleased. As I closed the box, I reached beneath it and felt for a protruding stud at the corner. My groping fingers finally found it and I turned it slowly, one full turn to the right. Then I motioned to the men to carry the box into the lead truck. I had set a timer which now turned the box of gunpowder into one huge bomb, set to explode in 24 hours, sooner if the cover was removed.
I watched the men carefully put the box into the truck. They returned, chattering in German as they passed us and I smiled to myself. Everybody was doing a great job. From the skipper down to the last crewman, they were all members of Uncle Sam's Navy, specially chosen for this job because they could speak German. I stood beside Guevara as the captain directed the unloading with typical Teutonic efficiency and a liberal sprinkling of harsh commands.
When the trucks were loaded, the kapitan clicked his heels and saluted from the deck of the submarine. "Gute reise," he snapped out.
"Danke schön," I replied. "Leben sie wohl."
Guevara waited and watched as the sub moved slowly from the shore and sank again beneath the water. Then he climbed back into the truck with me, and we began the journey back across Chili. I knew if we were stopped the whole scheme would go up in smoke. Guevara might escape, and my elaborately planned coup would have come to nothing. Things had gone so beautifully so far I was getting worried.
"I am glad you did not try anything tricky, Señor von Schlegel," Guevara said as we drove along. "In our position, we must take every precaution. One of my men had been instructed to train his pistol on you every moment until the arms were in our possession. There are so many waiting for a chance to get at us that we suspect everyone and everything. When we received word that you were willing to negotiate with us, we had you checked out in every possible way. We may be running a small guerrilla operation here in Bolivia, but our connections are worldwide."
I looked properly impressed. And I was damned glad AXE had taken the precautions it had.
"We even had your flight from Germany checked out, Señor von Schlegel," Che said smugly. I said silent thanks to Hawk's preoccupation with details.
I was just congratulating myself again on how well things had come off when our headlights picked up the line of police cars, three of them alongside the road. Two of the policemen were waving us down with flashlights.
"Stop," Guevara commanded his driver. "You all know what to do. We have gone over it time and again."
The trucks halted and each of the drivers got out. Guevara and I did the same.
"Your papers, please, señores," a policeman said. "This is a routine check. We have been bothered by a lot of smuggling along this road of late."
"Do not move," Guevara said quietly.
The officer frowned. "Eh?" he grunted.
"You and every one of your men is covered," the guerrilla boss said. I followed the policeman's glance at the trucks and saw the rifle barrels protruding from them. Guevara took the o
fficer's gun and motioned for him to stand beside the patrol cars. The guerrillas climbed from the trucks, carbines pointed at the six policemen. When Che had all the cops disarmed one of his men took the guns and carried them back to the truck.
"Turn around," Guevara told the officers. "Face your cars." They did as they were told. I saw Guevara nod. The fusillade of shots split the night, and it was finished. The six policemen lay dead. Guevara looked as untouched as if he'd just completed a peaceful stroll through the woods.
Everyone climbed back onto the trucks, and we drove on. When we crossed the border into Bolivia, I breathed a sigh of relief. Things would be messy enough without my having to explain why I'd taken a small army of Bolivian guerrilla fighters into a friendly country. The incident with the Chilean police had left a cold knot of hatred in my stomach. If the world could know this man for what he was, a cold-blooded, deadly fanatic with no regard for human life, the glamour of the legend would quickly wear off. The modern-day Robin Hood, friend of the poor and the oppressed, was something very different. Like all who are convinced they know the truth, he was indifferent to human life and consumed by abstract ideas.
We'd been in Bolivia now almost an hour. We were climbing a steep mountain road near Para when we saw the yellow bus off to the side of the road, the front wheels jutting out grotesquely from under the engine in the unmistakable sign of a broken axle. A woman rushed from the bus to flag us down. I got out; Guevara and his driver came with me.
"Oh, thank heavens someone has finally come along," the woman said. "We've been here for hours. We despaired of anyone traveling this road until morning."
I looked into the bus and saw only young girls. They began to get out now and cluster around us. "Where is your driver?" I asked the woman.
"Gone to find help if possible. We chartered the bus for a dance at the Palacio Hotel in Oruru," she explained. "I am Mrs. Corduro, headmistress of the Donaz School for Girls."
"The Donaz School," Guevara said, rolling the name on his tongue. "One of the most exclusive girls' schools in Bolivia. Only the daughters of the wealthy and the foreigners attend."
"It is an expensive school," the woman agreed. "But we do have a number of girls on scholarships from less privileged families."
Guevara smiled at her, turned and shouted to his men who clambered from the trucks. He turned to the woman. "A broken axle is nothing," he said. "It is a minor lesson in life. We are going to show your exclusive young ladies what life is really about. My men are too often without women. They will make good teachers."
With a shout, the guerrillas raced for the girls. There was no way I could stop it. I stood beside Guevara and watched his face as the girls terrified screams filled the air. The headmistress wasn't spared, either. I saw two guerrillas drag her screaming into the bushes.
"You disapprove, amigo?" Guevara asked me sharply.
I shrugged. "I don't think it's necessary," I said. I wanted to ram my fist into that smug, satisfied, superior face but it wasn't time yet. I was one man, alone, and I'd be dead if I tried anything. But everywhere I looked, the same scene was taking place. A young girl looked at me, her eyes pleading silently, as she was dragged by, her clothes torn off. Most of the girls were no longer screaming; they were uttering hoarse cries of pain and agony.
I walked down the road, trying to get away from what was happening, but I couldn't get the look in that girl's eyes out of my mind. I finally turned back, pausing to kneel beside a sobbing, nude figure. I gathered up the girl's torn dress and placed it around her shoulders. She looked up at me. Her eyes were shocked, dazed saucers. There was no hate, not even fear in them, only a vast emptiness. I wondered how long, if ever, it would take for her to forget.
Che was calling his men back into the trucks, and I climbed up into the lead one beside him.
"You must understand, my dear von Schlegel," he said. "When men are forced to live like animals, they act like animals. Those girls have only been raped physically. The poor have been raped of their honor, their dignity, their rights. It is all a matter of perspective."
Not exactly, I thought. Not if I can do anything about it.
The convoy moved on and finally I saw the long, low buildings of the ranch in the first glimmer of dawn. We got out and the men began to load the arms from the trucks to the backs of the burros for the trip back into the mountains where no trucks could go.
Yolanda was not there, and I hoped she was on her way to the mission, intent on a last fling before returning to the guerrilla camp. I scanned the surrounding area. There was plenty of good cover to the rear of the barns where the land sloped up into the mountains. Olo and the others would be hiding there, I guessed.
"The money, Señor Guevara," I said, playing my role out to the end. "You have your guns. Our transaction can be completed, now."
"It is completed, von Schlegel," he said softly. "I'm afraid I must have you killed. No one knows Che Guevara still lives, and no one must know it, except my men. I agreed to meet you to obtain the arms. Unfortunately, it was a suicidal request on your part. As for the payment, it will be of no use to you dead, so I will keep it."
Neat, I thought. He had everything wrapped up conveniently.
"I won't tell anybody you're alive," I pleaded, stalling for time. He smiled at me as if I were a retarded child.
"Don't be a fool, my dear von Schlegel," he said. "That would be the first thing you bragged about back in East Germany, that you saw me alive. No, I'm afraid your career is at an abrupt end. As soon as the last box is secured to the last burro, you will die."
I looked at the boxes. There were only three left.
VIII
Where the hell were Olo and the others? I hadn't even a gun with which to defend myself, but I knew one thing: I wasn't going to die without taking Guevara with me. I hadn't planned on making this a double ceremony, but I sure as hell wasn't going to go it alone. They were carrying the last box over to the burros, and I watched them with a grim desperation. I couldn't understand why Olo and the others hadn't shown.
"Seeing as I'm going to die," I said to Che, "I'm curious about something. These men with you, are they all the men you have?"
"No," he said. "In the hills behind you, overlooking the ranch, I have some fifteen more watching through binoculars in case I should need help. You see, I have learned a lot since my last campaign. Mostly, I have learned that one cannot be too careful."
My lips tightened grimly at that; now I knew what happened to Olo and the others. Either they had been unable to get by the guerrillas in the hills or their progress had been greatly delayed. Everything that had gone so well was about to go the wrong way.
The men signaled that the last box was firmly fixed, and Guevara turned to me. He drew the revolver from his belt and smiled politely, almost with embarrassment.
Shots rang out and four of Che's men dropped. He whirled in the direction of the gunfire. "Ambush!" he shouted. "Take cover!"
He had forgotten about me for the moment. I reminded him by bringing a roundhouse right up from the ground that caught him on the side of the head. He went sailing across the yard, the revolver falling out of his hand. I charged after him and saw the look of shocked surprise on his face. Suddenly everything was coming clear to him, and I could see the fury rising in his eyes.
With the advantage of surprise, Olo and the others made a big dent in the guerrilla force in that initial attack, but the guerrillas were counterattacking now. Guevara met my charge with a vicious swing of his hook. I twisted back and it ripped my shirt across the front. He picked up a rusted pitchfork and flung it at me at close range. I had to drop flat to avoid being impaled on the prongs.
I looked up to see him racing for the barn. He was quick to size up the situation as a bad one. It was an ambush and he didn't know how many were in the attacking party. If he stayed, his men might win, or they might not. But under cover of battle, he could cut out. Self-preservation was his first concern, the fanatic willing to do anything
to be able to live to carry on the fight.
I read his thoughts as soon as I saw him running for the barn. I raced after him only to be tackled by two of his men as I rounded the corner. They brought me down, but they were not much as tackles. I got one leg free at once, kicked the nearest one in the face and heard him yell. The other one came at me with a knife. I rolled away from his slash, got a leg around his ankle and pulled. He went down and I came over onto him with a karate chop right on the Adam's apple. He gurgled and his eyes popped, then he lay still.
I got up and raced for the barn again. I met Guevara charging out, on one of the horses. I leaped up at him, to pull him from the saddle, and felt a sharp pain as the hook ripped into my shoulder. I was knocked backwards, managed to avoid getting a hoof in the stomach and rolled over on the ground.
The bastard was getting away. The rage inside me blotted out the pain in my shoulder. I charged into the barn and vaulted onto a horse. I could see Che racing for the steep mountainside. I looked back and saw that his men were advancing, fighting back hard. That quick glance showed me that where it had been twenty men to six, it was now about twelve to six. I was assuming that Olo and his group were still intact. If not, the odds were even worse. But that was their fight. I had mine to finish.
The horse was strong and fast and while I wasn't gaining on Che Guevara, he wasn't pulling away, either. The path up the mountain was uneven, rocky and winding. My horse walked and jumped more than he ran after a while, and from the clatter of stones ahead I knew Guevara was having the same trouble.
I spurred the animal on, and as I rounded a bend, saw Guevara's horse standing with an empty saddle. I leaped from mine and listened. I heard him crashing through the brush down a steep cut in the hillside. I went after him, fury and anger driving me faster than I could normally go. He wasn't far ahead now, and I could see he was slowing down.
"I'm going to kill you, Guevara!" I yelled.
He quickened his pace, but I was too close. He cut to the right. He knew where he was going, and in a moment I saw it too. He paused at the edge of rushing rapids that careened down the mountainside with an angry roar, then stepped out into them. On the other side, a dugout canoe lay on the shore. Che was soon waist-deep in the water, struggling against the swift current, making his way toward the canoe.