the third one in line, ignoring the shouts from the first two drivers. He waved an American fivedollar bill at the startled cabbie. "Go. Now."
The cab shot from its position in line to a crescendo of horns. Given that the average annual wage in Peru was only about seven hundred dollars, as a free-spending American Bolan held an immediate advantage. Almost everything was for sale if an agreement could be reached without offending Latin machismo.
He had the driver head toward the city, instructing him to turn right and left aimlessly as he watched through the rear window for signs of surveillance. At random he changed taxis twice more before he gave instructions to drive to a hotel not far from the Plaza de Armas.
The hotel itself was nondescript, the sort frequented by budget-conscious travelers with North American tastes. He checked in as David Bowes, not wishing the name Blanski to be traceable to a hotel in case anyone was looking. When the clerk asked for his passport, Bolan deflected the request with a subtly proffered twenty, explaining that he seemed to have dropped his identification at the airport and would have to go to the American embassy for a replacement. But of course that would take some time.
The clerk graciously accepted the explanation and the money.
Bolan hit the streets after stowing what little gear he had brought. He crossed the Plaza de Armas, where guards strutted in front of the Palace of Government, also known as Pizarro's House. The guards glittered in silver helmets, crisp, snow-white jackets, red pantaloons and polished jackboots, uniforms inspired by Napoleonic splendor. But very modern rifles were slung over their shoulders.
At the second intersection Bolan angled away from the plaza, delving farther into the narrow streets that lined the core of the city.
The side streets were jammed with ambulantes, the sidewalk vendors who crowded the city peddling food and goods. The big man, easily recognisable as a tourist, was offered alpaca ponchos, skewers of beef heart and ewers of murky red "iguana blood," and even what were supposed to be genuine pre-Columbian artifacts. Bolan brushed by the outstretched hands of the vendors, intent on following the directions Brognola had given him for the prearranged meeting.
Apart from the street merchants in their rough clothes, shoeshine boys, wandering minstrels and tour guides competed incessantly for his attention and his funds.
Once, as Bolan dodged around a girl who suddenly appeared in his path, he felt a skinny hand snake into his pants pocket. Bolan's hand darted out to grab the invader. A frightened, ragged boy of about eight stared wide-eyed at the tall man, afraid that the American would drag him to the police.
Bolan stared back for a moment and released the thin wrist. The child was lost in the crowd in seconds.
He continued on for another few blocks before stopping at a small shop called the Lore of the Incas. Inside, the tiny store was jammed to the ceiling with books, postcards and plaster replicas of Inca treasures. A glass case that supported a battered cash register held a scale model of Machu Picchu, the lost city of the Incas. A grinning proprietor stood behind the case.
"Do you have any Plazca pottery?" Bolan asked.
"Any particular era?" the shopkeeper inquired.
Bolan shook his head. "It's for a friend."
"Is this a Washington friend?"
"That's right." Bolan hated the question-and-answer games, but Brognola had insisted on the contact procedure.
The owner drew a six-inch pottery statue from a cupboard behind the cash. The idol examined Bolan from wide owl eyes on either side of a flat nose.
"This should be to your satisfaction." He slipped it into a plastic bag.
Bolan left a fifty-dollar bill on the cash register and departed with his purchase.
Back in his hotel room, Bolan examined the statue more closely, failing to find an imperfection in the glazed surface. He dropped the statue, turning it into rubble. Picking through
The cab shot from its position in line to a crescendo of horns. Given that the average annual wage in Peru was only about seven hundred dollars, as a free-spending American Bolan held an immediate advantage. Almost everything was for sale if an agreement could be reached without offending Latin machismo.
He had the driver head toward the city, instructing him to turn right and left aimlessly as he watched through the rear window for signs of surveillance. At random he changed taxis twice more before he gave instructions to drive to a hotel not far from the Plaza de Armas.
The hotel itself was nondescript, the sort frequented by budget-conscious travelers with North American tastes. He checked in as David Bowes, not wishing the name Blanski to be traceable to a hotel in case anyone was looking. When the clerk asked for his passport, Bolan deflected the request with a subtly proffered twenty, explaining that he seemed to have dropped his identification at the airport and would have to go to the American embassy for a replacement. But of course that would take some time.
The clerk graciously accepted the explanation and the money.
Bolan hit the streets after stowing what little gear he had brought. He crossed the Plaza de Armas, where guards strutted in front of the Palace of Government, also known as Pizarro's House. The guards glittered in silver helmets, crisp, snow-white jackets, red pantaloons and polished jackboots, uniforms inspired by Napoleonic splendor. But very modern rifles were slung over their shoulders.
At the second intersection Bolan angled away from the plaza, delving farther into the narrow streets that lined the core of the city.
The side streets were jammed with ambulantes, the sidewalk vendors who crowded the city peddling food and goods. The big man, easily recognisable as a tourist, was offered alpaca ponchos, skewers of beef heart and ewers of murky red "iguana blood," and even what were supposed to be genuine pre-Columbian artifacts. Bolan brushed by the outstretched hands of the vendors, intent on following the directions Brognola had given him for the prearranged meeting.
Apart from the street merchants in their rough clothes, shoeshine boys, wandering minstrels and tour guides competed incessantly for his attention and his funds.
Once, as Bolan dodged around a girl who suddenly appeared in his path, he felt a skinny hand snake into his pants pocket. Bolan's hand darted out to grab the invader. A frightened, ragged boy of about eight stared wide-eyed at the tall man, afraid that the American would drag him to the police.
Bolan stared back for a moment and released the thin wrist. The child was lost in the crowd in seconds.
He continued on for another few blocks before stopping at a small shop called the Lore of the Incas. Inside, the tiny store was jammed to the ceiling with books, postcards and plaster replicas of Inca treasures. A glass case that supported a battered cash register held a scale model of Machu Picchu, the lost city of the Incas. A grinning proprietor stood behind the case.
"Do you have any Plazca pottery?" Bolan asked.
"Any particular era?" the shopkeeper inquired.
Bolan shook his head. "It's for a friend."
"Is this a Washington friend?"
"That's right." Bolan hated the question-and-answer games, but Brognola had insisted on the contact procedure.
The owner drew a six-inch pottery statue from a cupboard behind the cash. The idol examined Bolan from wide owl eyes on either side of a flat nose.
"This should be to your satisfaction." He slipped it into a plastic bag.
Bolan left a fifty-dollar bill on the cash register and departed with his purchase.
Back in his hotel room, Bolan examined the statue more closely, failing to find an imperfection in the glazed surface. He dropped the statue, turning it into rubble. Picking through
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