that he will not be able to come this afternoon. However, if it is convenient to come by his office at ten tomorrow morning, he promises that it will be worth your while."
"That will be fine, Miss de Vincenzo. I'll see you then, if you leave me the address."
"Certainly." She dug in her purse momentarily for a business card. "Senor Carrillo is most disturbed that he will not be able to show you around Lima personally this evening as he had promised, but if you like, I will be happy to be your guide."
Bolan was sorely tempted. The woman was exquisite, with cascading dark red hair and a glowing cinnamon complexion. Rich, full lips held a sensuous promise. The only clue to her mixed ancestry was a nose that was slightly too broad at the nostrils. A clinging garment much like a silk tube top exposed strong shoulders above a high bosom and a tiny waist. A single strand of pearls hung around her neck.
However, he had no wish to compromise his position by revealing anything inadvertently. The "honey pot" was one of the oldest tricks in the book for obtaining information, and Antonia was certainly a tempting dish.
"Thank you for your kind offer, but I'm otherwise engaged. Perhaps some other time."
"I shall hope so," she replied. Flashing Bolan a dazzling smile, she left, hips swaying gently.
* * *
In the morning Bolan took a taxi to one of the new downtown high-rise office buildings, part of the growing urban sprawl of the metropolis.
He disembarked a few blocks from Carrillo's office, preferring to walk the rest of the way. He paused several times to stare into the glass shop windows. The reflection served almost as effectively as a mirror, allowing Bolan to examine the surrounding pedestrians in case he had been followed. If he had, then his hotel might not be secure for another night.
Having satisfied himself that no one was trailing him, Bolan continued on his way.
Antonia de Vincenzo sat behind a mahogany secretarial desk in the sumptuous eighteenth-floor office. She looked much less relaxed than she had the day before. A flicker of some emotion that Bolan couldn't place flashed across her face at his arrival.
"Please go right in, Mr. Blanski," she said, rising and following him to the closed door on the other side of the room.
Bolan paused, hand on the doorknob. There was something wrong with the setup. He couldn't put his finger on it, but a tiny alarm told him that he was walking into danger.
He reached into his jacket to grasp the butt of the Beretta and turned the door handle. One step inside revealed nothing. At first glance the office appeared empty. He drew the Beretta and walked cautiously forward.
The Executioner felt someone looming behind him. He raised his left arm as he turned, attempting to ward off whatever was coming.
The world exploded into twinkling lights, and he fell heavily to the floor.
* * *
When Bolan awoke, the first thing he was conscious of was the pounding pain in the back of his head, as if a little man was trying to break his way out with a sledgehammer. The next thing he noticed was that he was lying on the floor. He couldn't move his arms or legs. His arms seemed immobilized behind his back. Finally, a few inches in front of his face, he saw the large black boots that had "policeman" written all over them.
There was only one conclusion — he was under arrest.
"What the hell is going on?" Bolan was mad, and his headache wasn't making his temper any sweeter.
"Be quiet, American." One of the cops nudged him in the ribs, none too gently.
Cameras were flashing in the office, and several people were speaking at the same time. Bolan's Spanish was fair, but the unusual accent made it difficult to follow what was being said. Another language was being spoken as well, probably the Qucchua used by the Indian population.
A sudden chill indicated the arrival of a superior. Bolan had a snail's-eye view at this point, but could identify the newcomer by his gleaming knee-high boots. The
"That will be fine, Miss de Vincenzo. I'll see you then, if you leave me the address."
"Certainly." She dug in her purse momentarily for a business card. "Senor Carrillo is most disturbed that he will not be able to show you around Lima personally this evening as he had promised, but if you like, I will be happy to be your guide."
Bolan was sorely tempted. The woman was exquisite, with cascading dark red hair and a glowing cinnamon complexion. Rich, full lips held a sensuous promise. The only clue to her mixed ancestry was a nose that was slightly too broad at the nostrils. A clinging garment much like a silk tube top exposed strong shoulders above a high bosom and a tiny waist. A single strand of pearls hung around her neck.
However, he had no wish to compromise his position by revealing anything inadvertently. The "honey pot" was one of the oldest tricks in the book for obtaining information, and Antonia was certainly a tempting dish.
"Thank you for your kind offer, but I'm otherwise engaged. Perhaps some other time."
"I shall hope so," she replied. Flashing Bolan a dazzling smile, she left, hips swaying gently.
* * *
In the morning Bolan took a taxi to one of the new downtown high-rise office buildings, part of the growing urban sprawl of the metropolis.
He disembarked a few blocks from Carrillo's office, preferring to walk the rest of the way. He paused several times to stare into the glass shop windows. The reflection served almost as effectively as a mirror, allowing Bolan to examine the surrounding pedestrians in case he had been followed. If he had, then his hotel might not be secure for another night.
Having satisfied himself that no one was trailing him, Bolan continued on his way.
Antonia de Vincenzo sat behind a mahogany secretarial desk in the sumptuous eighteenth-floor office. She looked much less relaxed than she had the day before. A flicker of some emotion that Bolan couldn't place flashed across her face at his arrival.
"Please go right in, Mr. Blanski," she said, rising and following him to the closed door on the other side of the room.
Bolan paused, hand on the doorknob. There was something wrong with the setup. He couldn't put his finger on it, but a tiny alarm told him that he was walking into danger.
He reached into his jacket to grasp the butt of the Beretta and turned the door handle. One step inside revealed nothing. At first glance the office appeared empty. He drew the Beretta and walked cautiously forward.
The Executioner felt someone looming behind him. He raised his left arm as he turned, attempting to ward off whatever was coming.
The world exploded into twinkling lights, and he fell heavily to the floor.
* * *
When Bolan awoke, the first thing he was conscious of was the pounding pain in the back of his head, as if a little man was trying to break his way out with a sledgehammer. The next thing he noticed was that he was lying on the floor. He couldn't move his arms or legs. His arms seemed immobilized behind his back. Finally, a few inches in front of his face, he saw the large black boots that had "policeman" written all over them.
There was only one conclusion — he was under arrest.
"What the hell is going on?" Bolan was mad, and his headache wasn't making his temper any sweeter.
"Be quiet, American." One of the cops nudged him in the ribs, none too gently.
Cameras were flashing in the office, and several people were speaking at the same time. Bolan's Spanish was fair, but the unusual accent made it difficult to follow what was being said. Another language was being spoken as well, probably the Qucchua used by the Indian population.
A sudden chill indicated the arrival of a superior. Bolan had a snail's-eye view at this point, but could identify the newcomer by his gleaming knee-high boots. The
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