Operation Che Guevara

by Nick Carter

  I listened and then reminded him that I knew about the very confidential package received at AXE headquarters. The package contained Guevara's right hand — it had certain identifying marks on it. We never learned who sent it. We more or less assumed it had been the Bolivian military, stung by allusions of bribery, corruption and unreliability and wanting to prove they really had killed Guevara.

  "How do you figure that, now?" I asked Hawk.

  "I think we made the wrong assumption," he answered. "I think Guevara sent the arm to us himself to convince us — and the world — that he was dead. Look, the man's a true zealot, a fanatic. Such a man would think nothing of giving up an arm to further his cause. Men like him make incredible, insane sacrifices. If he wanted us to close the file on Che Guevara, what better way to convince us than that? What better way to take the pressure off, to give him the time and opportunity to organize his Bolivian revolt? What better way to lull the Americas into a false sense of security?"

  I got up and paced up and down the little tent, restless, disturbed by what I'd just heard.

  "Something obviously has you pretty much convinced he isn't dead," I said. "What?"

  "First, a resurgence of guerrilla activity in the Bolivian hills. Alone, that wouldn't be alarming, but the guerrilla leader is using Che Guevara's hit-and-run military tactics. His political tactics are identical, too, frightening the peasants, then organizing them."

  I shrugged. "That's not enough, any shrewd man could adopt the tactics. What else?"

  "Little things that are big things," Hawk said hesitantly. "A hospital was raided last week. The guerrillas were highly selective — bandages, germicides, penicillin to combat infections, anti-tetanus and hypodermics. They also took every bit of ephedrine they could get. You know what ephedrine is primarily used to treat."

  "Asthma," I grunted, and recalled those pages in Che Guevara's diary where he detailed the terrible asthma attacks he suffered. The picture, as Hawk was painting it, was more than a little disturbing.

  "Your job is to find out if Che Guevara still fives," Hawk said bluntly. "And, if he does, to do the job that wasn't done. You will leave from Europe and fly directly to Bolivia as Nicholaus von Schlegel, an arms merchant from East Germany. You are trying to sell arms and munitions to the Bolivian government. You'll also try to sell to the guerrillas. You'll be a real arms merchant — unscrupulous, playing both sides of the fence. The cover is all set up for you. Everything you'll need is at Templehof Airport."

  Flying directly from Europe would eliminate any suspicions about me when they checked out my ticket and route. And someone would check them out once I got to Bolivia. The Bolivian government was riddled with opportunists and leftists. Making contacts would be the least of my problems. As Hawk filled me in on the details of what had already been set in motion, my mind clicked off possibilities. If Che Guevara still lived in those hills, I had my own idea about how to smoke him out and destroy him. I told Hawk.

  "All right, Nick." He nodded after he'd heard me out. "You know we'll get you anything we can. Once you take over, it's your show. Give me till tomorrow to do some checking and put things into motion. I'll meet you here tomorrow, same time."

  I left him and returned to my hotel. Ahmis had gone; a note told me she'd return tomorrow. I was glad she wasn't there. I had a lot of planning to do and little time. I had to give Hawk a complete briefing on what I intended to do. None of it was the kind of thing for Special Effects, none of the trick weapons bit. This would be down to the nitty-gritty. I sketched out each move in my mind and finally went to bed knowing I had a great plan. All it would take to succeed was a helluva lot of luck, plus a few minor miracles.

  30th

  The next day Hawk had some of my answers ready.

  "The helicopter and the warehouse won't be any problem," he said. "I've got people setting that up already. The other is something else."

  He took a cigarette lighter from his pocket and flicked the flame on and off. "We'll have to make contact for the rest of your request. This is how we'll do it." He waved the lighter. "It's a sending and receiving set, pretuned to a special frequency. Flicking it on and off activates it. Our station will be monitored twenty four hours a day. Only one thing — it hasn't a long life. We had to sacrifice longevity for compact power. I'll have a word for you on the rest of what you need in a few days, via this little gadget."

  He handed me the lighter and I pocketed it. We stood up and shook hands. Hawk gave me a solemn look from under the kaffiyeh. "Good luck," he said. "Take care, Nick."

  "I checked the airlines and got the earliest flight to Berlin," I said. "I'll be in touch."

  When I returned to my room, I had a visitor waiting. She had pleasure in her eye and on her mind. Her face clouded when I told her I was leaving. It lighted when I told her I had four hours till plane time.

  "We'll make the most of them, Nick," she said. I agreed. What the hell, there's nothing like leaving with fond memories. Ahmis moved into my arms, her small body already a tensed package of desire. She had on a one-piece slack outfit which unzipped with ridiculous ease.

  Going into a new assignment, I always put everything else behind me. All my thoughts, my actions, my motivations are directed forward. The past is a door closed tightly, and only those things which bear upon my assignment are allowed to intrude. The international espionage agent is pictured as a man of action and danger. He is also a man of intense concentration, concentration that directs all emotions, all purpose toward his mission's objective. At least, if he's any good, that's what he is. Anything less is to invite a quick death. There's no room for mistakes in this game.

  Ahmis was part of the past now, or would be in a few hours. She still had one foot in the door, though, keeping it open. I let her show me, once again, why there is such an overpopulation problem in the Middle East.

  II

  April

  1st

  It was raining when I arrived at Templehof Airport, a fine drizzle that gave me a little extra time by delaying my connecting flight.

  I had checked out my personal gear before leaving Cairo. Wilhelmina, my 9mm Luger, nestled securely in the special, lightweight shoulder holster while Hugo, my pencil-thin stiletto, was tightly strapped to my forearm in the leather sheath. I called at the ticket counter for an envelope left there under my alias: Nicholaus von Schlegel. In it were keys for a locker and a claim check for my luggage. There was also a passport for Nicholaus von Schlegel, a billfold that held money, a photograph of a girl, plus the usual cards. There was also a confirmation of my hotel suite reservation in La Paz.

  I went to the locker and retrieved my special «sample» cases. I didn't need to check inside them. By their size and shape I knew what they held. Claiming the rest of the luggage, I boarded the Lufthansa jet, settling down with just the right touch of Teutonic charm for the benefit of the stewardess. A blond, round fraulein, she eyed me with obvious appreciation. I returned the compliment. During the flight I practiced being Nicholaus von Schlegel. I joked with the stewardess and got into a discussion with an Englishman on the relative merits of German, American and Russian tanks.

  The flight was uneventful, and I was happy to see the lights of La Paz in the early evening darkness as we approached the runway of El Alto Airport. The airport lay outside the city on the other side of the mountains, on the altiplano or high tableland. Nestled under the Andes, La Paz is the highest capital city in the world. Nuestra Señora de la Paz, Our Lady of Peace, is like so many other cities in South America: a relatively isolated urban island in a sea of rugged, undeveloped countryside. As Nicholaus von Schlegel, arms peddler, it was important for me to establish myself in the capital. But as Nick Carter, the city of Cochabamba, some 150 miles away, would be even more important.

  I checked into the hotel suite. It was a luxurious set-up fit for a leading merchant in arms, and I smiled as I looked around. Compared to the modest one-room layouts I usually drew this must have set AXE back plenty. I could see
Hawk wincing as he made the reservation.

  I checked the terrace running alongside the floor-length French windows of the living room and the bedroom. It was wide, built of stone, A balcony overlooked the five floors to the street below. I noticed that there was more than enough stonework on the facade of the hotel for anyone to climb up to the terrace.

  It would have been simple enough to rig up a crude alarm device but I decided against it. It wouldn't be in character with Nicholaus von Schlegel. I went to bed after placing chairs strategically beside the door and the French windows. I didn't expect any company, but you never knew. There are always the second-story boys who give every tourist the once-over.

  2nd

  I spent the day setting up appointments with government and military officials of the Barrientos regime. I also made sine that news of my presence in La Paz reached men such as Monje, Secretary of the Bolivian Communist Party.

  A little discreet inquiry soon told me which officials were particularly receptive to talks on the side. Hawk had given me a short list of those government men we felt were solid, trustworthy Bolivians. He also gave me a few names of those known to have very Left connections. As soon as I made the purpose of my visit known, all were eager to schedule appointments with me.

  I stayed close to the hotel all day and evening, giving the rumors and messages time to fly around and roost, as I knew they eventually would. In the evening I strolled around the major promenade of the city, the Prado. I went to bed early, preparing for a busy day.

  3rd

  Herr von Schlegel had two distinct and separate sales approaches. One he reserved for the trustworthy Bolivian officials; the other, for the opportunists and Leftists.

  Major Rafael Andreola had been recommended to me as a loyal officer, a career man beyond bribery. He turned out to be a small, dapper man with sharp black eyes who studied me with calm self-assurance.

  "Your prices appear quite high, Herr von Schlegel," he said.

  "Not in today's market, Major." I shook my head. "And you must know that we thoroughly field-test every piece of equipment, even the arms from other countries which we may offer."

  "Is not your present equipment subject to Russian scrutiny?" he asked.

  "I do not operate through the usual channels," I said smoothly. "Therefore, I avoid dealing with the Russian bureaucratic system."

  "You say you have material with you for immediate delivery?" he asked.

  "Not with me but close enough for immediate delivery," I said. "You see, in this business we are subject to attack by gunrunners and various unscrupulous groups. We have learned to be cautious and to keep informed. I happen to know that your government is in need of modern arms and munitions. We are prepared to supply them."

  The major smiled. "We, too, keep informed," he said. "You have an appointment to see Colonel Finona of the Special Forces, I understand."

  I smiled back. Colonel Finona was a known collaborator with Leftist groups. "We speak to anyone we think may be of help in marketing our products, Major," I said. "We sell guns and ammunition — not politics."

  "An oversimplification, I'm afraid." Major Andreola got to his feet. "But you, of course, are well aware of that. We will prepare a fist of what we need and present it to you. After you have examined it, you can tell us how much of it you can fill Our discussions can proceed further then."

  We shook hands. I gave him the stiff, Teutonic bow and left.

  My next stop was another office in the same building. Colonel Finona was typical of his type — oily, obsequious, the kind of guy who has his hand out even when it's in his pocket. But what the hell, Nicholaus von Schlegel was a match for him, long on greed and short on scruples.

  Finona fenced with me for a while, but his intellectual swordsmanship was pretty heavy-handed — a machete rather than an épée — and didn't last long. I was fairly blunt myself, and gave him openings he could have driven a truck through.

  "So you know the guerrillas have renewed activities in the mountains." He chuckled. "And you would like to contact them, eh?"

  "Let us say that I have certain arms I'm sure they would very much like to have, at a price they can afford," I said. "Do you know how such a contact might be arranged?"

  Finona's little eyes darted back and forth. "It so happens I have a friend who has contacts with the peasants in the hills," he said smoothly. "But I have heard the guerrillas have little money with which to purchase arms."

  I didn't give a damn about that. I only wanted to stir up all the interest I could in as many places as possible.

  To Finona, I explained, "Nicholaus von Schlegel knows his business, Colonel. For the arms I have, they will find the money."

  "And you have these guns and ammunition here for immediate delivery?" he asked.

  "Close enough," I said, giving him the same answer I had given Major Andreola. That was the only line they'd all get. "Naturally, their exact location is my secret."

  "And you would really trade with El Garfio?" Finona asked casually. I searched my Spanish quickly.

  "El Garfio-the Hook?" I asked.

  Finona nodded. "The leader of the guerrillas," he said. "A man of mystery. He is called El Garfio by the peasants because his right hand, I am told, is a hook. They have two names for him. Sometimes they call him 'El Manco', the One-Armed One."

  It fitted all right, too damn well. Hawk's suspicions were proving accurate, as always. I kept my face blank while my pulse rate skyrocketed.

  "The Bolivian government has not publicly recognized the renewed guerrilla activity," Finona went on. "And this El Garfio follows in the footsteps of Che Guevara, only he seems more clever."

  It may well be the same footsteps, I thought. And he would be more clever. If it were Che Guevara, he'd have learned from his last time out.

  "But you would trade with this El Garfio?" Finona questioned again.

  I shrugged. "Why not?" I said. "His money is as good as anyone else's. And it would be my contribution to the cause of world revolution. The East German government would not be displeased at all."

  "But the Bolivian government would be," Finona remarked.

  "There will be no way they will know, if things are done properly," I said. The colonel smiled. "I'll see what I can do to help you," he said. The tone of voice indicated the meeting was over. "Only as a personal favor, of course, as you are a guest in our country. My contact may be in touch with El Garfio. Only time will tell, Señor von Schlegel."

  Time, my aching back, I thought. I'd bet El Garfio already knew I was around. It doesn't take a lot to stir up a hornet's nest. I was right, too. I got the first direct sign of it tonight.

  I bid Finona a cordial farewell, knowing that we understood each other, gave him one of von Schlegel's best bows and called it a day. I dined in the hotel restaurant, eyed a few dark-eyed girls and toyed with the idea of pursuing them further. They were at the bar, out for a good time and plainly looking for company. One was rounded and vivacious and cute. I wondered if Hawk appreciated the willpower I summoned up at moments like these. I bought a paperback at the lobby cigar stand, went to my suite and read myself to sleep.

  I'd been asleep a few hours, at least, when I woke with that tingling sensation I've come to know very well. My eyes snapped open and a coldness crept along my flesh. I lay still, not moving a muscle, until I could orient my ears to the sounds in the silent room. Then I turned my head, ever so slowly, and saw the shadowy figure on the terrace, moving toward the living room, carefully opening the French windows.

  He was, I could see, stocky and not very tall, dressed in a nondescript pullover. I watched him move across the room. I waited to see what he would do next. I'd left my jacket on the couch in the living room. He took out the billfold, pocketed the money and then spilled out all the papers. Striking a match he sorted the papers out on the table, quickly examining them.

  He left them scattered on the table and moved toward the bedroom. He hit the door against the chair I'd positioned, sto
pped poised to run, peering toward my bed. I sighed deeply, half-turned on my side and resumed a deep, steady breathing.

  Satisfied, he moved into the room to where my luggage was stacked near an open closet. Carefully, he opened each suitcase, then went through the clothes hanging in the closet. He was quiet, a thoroughly professional sneak thief. But was that all he was? Or was he looking for something in particular?

  From the way he went through each suitcase and all the clothes in the closets I felt he was after something in particular, perhaps a slip of paper Von Schlegel might carelessly have written the location of his arms on. I would have let him search the place and leave without ever letting on I knew he was there, but unfortunately, fate intervened.

  He had started out through the living room when he paused at my jacket again. He reached into a pocket and brought out the cigarette lighter and dropped it into his own pocket. If he was working for someone else, he was also not above a little private enterprise. The money I could let go but not the cigarette lighter.

  I had to move fast. He was already on his way through the French windows leading to the terrace. I leaped out of bed, wearing only my shorts, yanked open the French windows in the bedroom and met him on the terrace. I saw his jaw drop in surprise and his eyes widen.

  He had a flat, high-cheekboned face, and I aimed a hard right at it. It landed and he went sailing backwards, doing a half somersault as he hit the flagstones of the terrace. I was on him at once, grabbing one of his flailing arms and twisting hard. He screamed in pain. I reached into his pocket, retrieved the lighter and let go of his arm.