Twisted Path te-121

by Don Pendleton

  A ring back a short while later informed him that the number belonged to the Lima Farm Import Company. There was no data whatsoever available on the company, its operations or its personnel.

  Bolan smelled a front, a dummy company set up for one purpose only to smuggle arms into Peru. He had to decide now how best to proceed so that he wouldn't spook the game before the hunt was truly in progress. One false move and the connection would be buried. Then it would be back to square one.

  Lima was three hours ahead of San Francisco. A quick check of his watch told Bolan it would be 9:15 in Lima. He dialed the number and the phone rang once. A pause. And again.

  A soft-spoken woman answered the phone.

  "Hello."

  "Let me speak to Senor Estevan." Bolan planned to brazen it out. A little boldness sometimes worked wonders.

  The woman at the other end was clearly puzzled.

  "There is no Senor Estevan here. You must have the wrong number."

  Quickly, before she could hang up, Bolan took back the initiative. "This is the Lima Farm Import Company, is it not?"

  "Why, yes, but..."

  "Then I must have the right number but the wrong name. I'm really not very good at all with names. What is your boss's name, anyway?"

  "Why, his name is Jorge Carrillo. But he is not in yet."

  Bolan smiled to himself. He had been counting on it being a bit too early in the morning for the boss to show up. He could have handled Carrillo, but it simplified matters this way. "Never mind. I'll call back, Senorita..."

  "Antonia de Vincenzo."

  Bolan dialed again, this time to the McIntyre Arms Corporation. He asked for the shipping department. A bored male voice answered.

  "Shipping."

  "I'm calling from the Lima Farm Import Company. My last order is overdue. Could you please verify the shipping details?"

  "All right, hang on." The voice sounded dubious, and the line went dead as Bolan was placed on hold. "There's no order here for anywhere in Peru."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I checked twice, mister. That's why I took so long. Did you think I was having a coffee break or something?" Then the shipping clerk hung up.

  Bolan would now have to try the front door. He sighed and called the arms company again. "May I please speak to Senor McIntyre? I'm calling long distance."

  "Cameron McIntyre." The strong voice was brusque and clipped.

  "Senor McIntyre, I'm calling from the Lima Farm Import Company in Peru. Senor Carrillo regrets that he is unable to call you himself but sends his greetings. I'm his assistant."

  "Senor Carrillo is not well?"

  "No, sir. He is fine, but unfortunately finds himself out of the country for several weeks. He has left me to attend to matters in his absence."

  "You speak excellent English."

  "I was fortunate enough to spend many years in your delightful country."

  McIntyre didn't seem happy to talk to the supposed Peruvian. Things were balanced on a knife's edge. Any slip, and Bolan would have to go fishing again with stronger bait.

  After a pause that indicated an inner struggle, McIntyre finally asked how he could be of help.

  "We have had a small problem here and many of our records were destroyed. We no longer have the specifics of your next shipment to us. It would be most helpful if you could provide those details once again."

  There was a long silence at the end of the line. "I think I should discuss this with Senor Carrillo," McIntyre responded slowly.

  "I appreciate your position, senor, but we have customers to satisfy. Some very impatient customers, as I am sure you understand. They do not wish to wait for Senor Carrillo's return, or I would not trouble you."

  "And your most efficient secretary, Miss..."

  "Senorita de Vincenzo does not remember the specifics, I'm afraid."

  McIntyre sighed and relented. "Have you got a piece of paper?"

  The big guy smiled to himself. The easy part was over, now the real fun was about to begin.

  6

  A Bolan lowered the 7x50 Zeiss field glasses from his stinging eyes. His vantage point in the upper reaches of the rusting hulk of a disused crane allowed him to observe the activity in the bustling Los Angeles dockyard without the possibility of detection.

  His attention was focused on the Pacific Rambler, two hundred yards away. Badly in need of a paint job, the small freighter didn't look capable of sailing out of port, let alone braving the Pacific waters.

  The cargo carrier had arrived earlier in the afternoon from San Francisco. According to McIntyre, it contained the munitions that tomorrow would be loaded onto the Pride of Peru, destined for Lima.

  For once luck had been on the warrior's side. It was simple good fortune that the arms dealer had timed a delivery so conveniently for Bolan. Less than six hours had elapsed since their conversation, long enough for him to contact Kline, grab a commuter flight to Los Angeles, dress as a workman and choose his observation post.

  Bolan had gotten all the information he needed from the arms merchant, except a list of the cargo itself.

  He had been sure that McIntyre would refuse to give specifics over the phone, and just asking the question might have caused the wary dealer to clam up.

  The late-afternoon sun was creeping toward the horizon. The shadow of the crane where Bolan lay concealed stretched immense over the banks of warehouses below.

  The sweating stevedores had unloaded several pallets of goods already, but nothing had triggered an alarm in Bolan's head as yet.

  The workmen were waved off for a break as the last heavy barrels of a chemical shipment were stowed onto a stretched flatbed truck. The oversize rig moved laboriously toward the exit gate, diesels grunting under the load.

  The white-hatted foreman and an assistant toting a clipboard loitered near the gangplank, glancing down the dockyard road as though on watch.

  They were not disappointed, for ten minutes later a grey Ford arrived, followed by a canvas-topped two-and-a-halfton truck. Three men in jeans and matching jackets spilled from the Ford, followed by a burly man with a full beard. Tubs appeared to be the leader, for the foreman singled him out and began to shout and point to his watch.

  Bolan guessed that the crew boss was forcefully reminding the newcomers that it was nearly quitting time.

  The discussion ended when the bearded man pulled a brown envelope from an inside pocket and handed it to the foreman. Work resumed within moments.

  One of the newcomers disappeared into the hold with the work crew. Two large men climbed from the truck to pull back the canvas top. One after another, three pyramided pallets swayed up from the bowels of the hold and were deposited in the rear of the truck.

  Each was covered by a tarpaulin, shielding the contents from Bolan's eyes.

  After a ritual of form signing, the dockyard workmen sauntered away, bound for the nearest tavern to spend their bonus. The Ford and truck traveled in the opposite direction, deeper into the maze of warehouses that lined the docks.

  Bolan watched the truck take the fourth left and then the second right before it disappeared from his binoculars. He waited until the activity had subsided, then cautiously climbed down from his perch' making a last-minute weapons check. His stained blue workman's coveralls concealed the holstered thunder. He was ready to start plugging the pipeline of death. This was one weapons deal that was going to go down hard.

  Damn hard.

  Bolan wandered the lanes between the warehouses, hoping to spot the truck and guard crew. It had been a calculated risk to remain so far from the dock that he couldn't follow the cargo when it was unloaded. But he had expected that the armament wouldn't be moved farther than necessary before being reloaded in the morning. Now it was only a matter of time before he ran the men to ground.

  This remote area of the dock seemed to be deserted. Early-evening shadows filled the spaces between the neglected warehouses. The faint scuffing of Bolan's shoes on the cracked asphalt seemed
magnified.

  A sporadic hammering resounded from somewhere dead ahead. Bolan edged closer, ears cocked to pinpoint the source.

  The hammering seemed to emanate from the next warehouse ahead on the left, a ramshackle structure with traces of faded blue paint peeping through the peeling battleship-gray overcoat. As the warrior approached, the sound increased in volume.

  As Bolan halted outside towering double doors, the erratic noise ended and was followed by a few inaudible shouts. No light penetrated the doors, so Bolan had no idea of what was going on inside.

  He continued on, looking for a way to do a reconnaissance of the situation before plunging in. He had no intention of dropping guns blazing into unknown territory, particularly when he was unsure that this was even the right spot. The strategy and tactics of staying alive had taught the warrior to know his enemies and their dispositions.

  He had learned the lessons well.

  Around the far corner, the warrior found a window that looked into an office. He chanced a quick glance and recognized the bearded leader of the work detail stooped over a battered desk, facing away from the dirt-encrusted panes. The leather of a shoulder holster crisscrossed his back. Peering through the grimy window, Bolan could see right across the office and into the main area of the warehouse. He spotted the squat deuce-and-a-half bathed under roof lights. The rest of the work crew was outside his line of vision.

  Bolan circled the warehouse, looking for an unobtrusive way in.

  On the side opposite the office, a medium-size window stood twelve feet aboveground. There was no way up the side of the warehouse without a grappling hook, an item that Bolan didn't possess at the moment.

  An idea flashed to mind. He retraced his steps down the lane and along to the next warehouse.

  Ranged by a platform were ten fifty-five-gallon drums labeled Acetic Acid. Bolan tipped each one in turn. Nine were full, and probably weighed five hundred pounds apiece.

  Fortunately one was more than half empty.

  Bolan heaved on the last in line, easing it onto the heavy metal rim. He then carefully wheeled it down the lane, balancing the drum on an angle such that he had only to guide it. A few minutes' work saw two full drums below the window, with the half-empty one beside them. With a muscle straining effort, Bolan lifted the third canister into place, creating a secure pyramid.

  He scrambled to the top. The window ledge was now just above waist height. The window was locked, but when the hammering inside reached a momentary crescendo, Bolan rapped a small pane with the butt of the Beretta, shattering the glass. He reached through to flick open the catch.

  In seconds, Bolan lay prone on the edge of an upper-level loft, peering at the activity below.

  Four men were working in pairs around the pallets that had been removed from the back of the truck. As Bolan watched, two of the men picked up a long crate and carried it to a separate area. They dropped it into a slightly larger and deeper crate, so that the original container was completely concealed. The two men added a precut sheet of plywood, which rested on the edge of the box inside. Gathering several spades from a supply in a corner, they covered the crate of guns with a layer of farm implements. A few more minutes' work with a hammer and a paintbrush, and the load of guns was transformed into an innocuous shipment of rakes, hoes and tractor parts from the California Machinery Company.

  It would take a very suspicious customs inspector to discover anything unusual about an apparently ordinary delivery of farm tools.

  Very neat, Bolan had to admit. No doubt the paperwork was just as efficiently done. In some foreign capital, a less than honest official would be pocketing the bribe necessary to sign the papers showing that the arms had really arrived. Payment would be made to the McIntyre Arms Corporation in the normal manner but siphoned back to the phony customer through a dozen tortuous legal and accounting tricks. With the documentation complete, no one would suspect that anything was out of the ordinary.

  Until these guns were used to kill people in Peru.

  The Executioner wasn't going to let that happen this time. Payment was due in full for what had gone down already, and he was going to collect.

  Starting now.

  Bolan had seen what looked like an Uzi resting against a box between the workers. No doubt more firepower lay around the area within easy reach. Five to one odds. Not bad, particularly with the advantage of surprise. However, he didn't want to chance that the guy in the office might signal McIntyre before Bolan arrived to deliver his own personal greeting. He decided to be patient a short while longer and see if a better opportunity presented itself.

  Bolan's moves were restricted as long as he was on the upper level, so his first problem was to find a way down without alerting the crew. Discarding the coveralls to increase his mobility, he crept to a rear corner stairway that led to the lower level. The ground floor was littered with old packing materials and drums, so it would be easy to conceal himself once he got there. But he'd have to wait for a distraction, since the stairwell was in plain sight of everyone below.

  He resumed his watch, steeled to the waiting by long hours of suspense on a thousand battlefields.

  Hurry-up-and-wait was an experience familiar to every soldier, and Bolan had learned to master the boredom without sacrificing his alertness.

  Sometimes the numbers counted down fast, and when he had, Bolan could move with the speed of a striking cobra. But he believed that when time allowed it was better to let the other guy make the mistake, the momentary inattention or bad move that made the difference between life or death. It was always a gamble when the Executioner went into battle. One stray bullet by a panicked gunner could obliterate the best-laid plans. War was sometimes a matter of luck, and you had to take your chance and roll the dice with your life bet on the outcome.

  But the secret was knowing how much to leave to chance.

  In half an hour the workmen had finished packing the illegal arms. The bearded guy emerged from the office to inspect the handiwork, and after a cursory check, he gave his okay. One of the crew jumped aboard a parked forklift, rewed it up and loaded the truck.

  Bolan decided that this was the best opportunity he'd have. Unleathering the Beretta, he padded down the stairs, eyes fixed on the chatting group. He was conscious of the stairs creaking under his feet, although the noise couldn't penetrate far above the roar of machinery.

  He found an ideal spotting post behind a large old boiler, which afforded a clear view of the office and the single exit, as well as the area around the truck.

  When the last crate was stowed, the driver switched off the lift and joined his friends. Bits of conversation drifted to Bolan's hideout, informing him that the guard was to be relieved in eight hours.

  Three of the workmen departed while the remaining two made themselves comfortable for the long watch ahead. One pulled a holstered pistol and a small radio from a cloth bag and settled them on a box. He lit a cigarette and tuned in to an L.A. Kings game.

  The other gunman sat beside his Uzi and pulled a comic book from a shopping bag.

  The two gunners were on the opposite side of the warehouse, near the office entrance. Both were facing the door, although "watching" was too strong a word for the minimal attention they were paying to their job.

  Bolan waited another few minutes to be sure that one of the other three wouldn't return for some reason, then began his stalk.

  Circling wide to the far end, he eased his way through the dimly lit edges of the warehouse.

  Part of his attention was focused on the lazy guards and part was required to make sure that he didn't slip on any of the abundant oil slicks or walk into cast-off bits of garbage.

  It would be so easy to just pick off the thugs, seize the weapons and turn them over to an openmouthed Kline. But the agent had been adamant that the big guy keep his hands clean and leave the muscle to the Bureau.

  Bolan had to smile as he recalled his brief conversation with Special Agent Kline from a telephone booth
at the commuter terminal of San Francisco International.

  "Kline? Blanski. I want you to get your team together and be ready to move at my signal. I've got a few things to check out first, and then we should have McIntyre in the bag."

  The announcement for the flight to L.A. interrupted him as he was about to sign off, giving the Fed an opening.

  "What the hell are you talking about, Blanski? Where are you? I didn't authorize any of this." Bolan could almost feel the receiver heat up in his hand as Kline's anger was transmitted across the connection. "Blanski, I want an explanation and full details."

  "You'll get what I give you, and that's all you're getting now."

  "Who the hell do you think you are? There are procedures that must be followed, and I'm not about to blow this case on account of some undisciplined renegade, even if you are connected." The sarcastic emphasis on the last word was not lost to Bolan.

  Kline clearly had no appreciation of Bolan's take-charge way of doing things. He obviously hadn't learned that procedure was of little value when the top-ranked crime mongers were involved. The criminal elite were rats, clever and wary, and if you gave them even a second's head start, they would take advantage of the delay and scramble back into the gutters and garbage piles where they'd come from.

  Still, a little PR wouldn't hurt, but he had better be fast. The last call for Flight 602 to L.A. rang through the busy terminal. Bolan softened his tone slightly. "Don't worry, Kline. I'm just going to recce the situation and relay back. Then you can swoop in for the kill."

  The agent seemed slightly mollified; either that or he recognized when he was outmatched.

  "Listen up, Blanski, and listen good. I want this reconnaissance of yours clean."

  Here it comes, Bolan reflected, the FBI by-the-book lecture. He knew it by heart and had to restrain himself from just dropping the receiver and letting Kline ramble on to himself.

  "In other words, look but don't touch. The minute, and I mean the very minute that you have anything, I expect this phone to ring. Make no mistake, if you so much as muss the hair of any of the suspects your ass will be wrapped so tight in interagency paperwork that you'll be lucky if you ever get out from under. And I don't care who you're working for. You got that?"