Libertad wiped his knife on the dead man's pants and leathered the knife. "Now he's not. Are you satisfied? Let's go." Stone followed, casting a backward glance at the fallen men, already vanished in the shadows.
In a few minutes they came to a pit in the corridor floor. One of the men pointed to some drying red streaks at the edge of the hole.
The four men gathered at the edge of the vertical shaft, shining the lights far down the rock walls.
No bottom appeared in the beams.
"I don't think we will be seeing Blanski again," Libertad commented as each mentally reconstructed what must have happened here the unseen pit, a frantic last effort and a final fall. Very final.
"Why don't we throw this other American after him?" suggested one of the terrorists. "Let all Yankees rot in the darkness, I say."
Libertad shook his head, although the prospect was attractive. He was in a black mood, having lost the major prize, the reason why they had been brought from Lurigancho. He felt like killing something, and Stone would be a satisfying sacrifice.
But duty was more important than pleasure. And anyway, he might still have an opportunity to cut out Stone's heart at some later date.
"No. He may still have some value to us as a healer, untrained though he is. He does have some small skill with plants and herbs. We will keep him alive until we are told otherwise."
"And I hope that it is soon," said one, a dull-looking squat lump of a man, waving his knife under Stone's chin.
Stone suddenly felt a wave of nostalgia for Lurigancho.
That's when he realized how much he missed Blanski.
* * *
Bolan awoke. At least he thought he was awake. He couldn't see, even though his eyes were open.
Gradually, as though he were waking from a long and horrible dream, the past few hours came back to him. He remembered the fall, the Peruvian shrieking, the helpless fear of falling washing over him as he dropped in the absolute blackness.
Then he hit, landing directly onto the Peruvian's chest before rolling to the granite floor.
He must have smashed his head, for the hair on the left side of his scalp was matted and caked with dried blood.
As awareness returned, he felt racked with pain: his head hurt, his muscles ached as though he had had a close encounter with a steamroller, and his throat felt as if he had swallowed a sandbox.
And to top it off, he was stuck in the middle of a stone Chinese puzzle, left to himself to wander around in the dark without any food or water until he somehow found his way out of this trap. Or died of thirst or starvation first.
He was beginning to hate Peru.
Well, no point in putting it off. It was time to get moving. He began by feeling around on all fours for the Peruvian, ignoring the insistent protests of bruised muscles. At least nothing felt cracked or broken, so he had better consider himself fortunate.
He found the body after a few moments of groping.
The chest was a funny concave shape; Bolan could almost discern the impression his knees had made when he had dropped on the already smashed corpse of the gunner. Lucky for Bolan that they hadn't fallen in the opposite order.
What a run of tremendously good luck he was having, he thought ironically.
The body was warm but cooling. He didn't know how to estimate the time of death, but guessed that it had been no more than an hour ago.
He continued to explore the body by touch, not knowing what to expect. He discovered a pouch, the string wrapped around the dead man's neck.
Bolan reached in to see if there was anything edible and found several smaller pouches inside. By the smell, one contained tobacco. He couldn't identify the contents of the rest of the pouches. He opened one of them, placed a small amount of its contents on his right forefinger and tasted it. A ball of fire formed on his tongue and burned a trail down his throat. It was some fierce spice, like chili pepper or hot curry, and it seared his mouth like a branding iron.
He threw the small pouch somewhere into the darkness, and decided not to experiment anymore.
Bolan ran his hands over the corpse again, searching for a water flask. No sign of one, although he did find a knife in a sheath, which he added to the pouch of foodstuffs.
He searched around the body with fading hope, but at last his hands encountered a tough hide pouch that sloshed faintly.
He found the top and drank deeply before he caught control of himself. There was no way of telling how long this tiny water supply might have to last, so he decided to drink no more now.
He had no reason to remain where he was any longer. He began to walk, going right because it rhymed with light there was no rational basis for choosing a direction, since he had no way of judging even where north or south were.
Bolan proceeded cautiously. With one hand on a wall, he slid his feet forward slowly in case he came upon another pit in the floor. It was a tiring and slow way to cover ground. Whenever he came to a side tunnel, he bypassed it, preferring to keep going in a straight line, if possible. He had no idea where he would end up, but he figured if he went far enough in one direction, he would finally arrive somewhere. At least he hoped so.
The experience was disorienting, like being placed in a sensory deprivation tank. Bolan could move and hear the sound of his own voice and steps, but there was no stimulus apart from what he produced for himself. When he stopped, there was complete silence other than the sounds of his own body.
His eyes were sore, strained from the effort of trying to see when vision was impossible. His legs were tired, his arms protesting from reaching out to the wall. He couldn't tell if his limbs were revolting because he had been walking for hours or because he ached from the combination of falls, fights and fevers he had endured over the past few days.
He tried counting paces, but found his mind drifting. He lost the numbers so often that he gave up the effort. He was too weary to keep on walking. It was obvious that he needed rest.
The big man lay down on the cold stone and slept.
* * *
Libertad was angry as he approached the base camp, a righteous feeling directed at whoever had tried to kill him. He was more than a little nervous, too, since it could have been anyone in the complex who had known that he was coming. Who would want him dead? And why?
He was going to get the answers, for leaving the puzzle unsolved might mean his eventual death.
It wasn't a pleasant feeling, returning to a place he had always thought of as a refuge and finding a worm in the apple. Actually the feeling was more like finding a poisonous snake in one's bed. If there was a traitor to the organization planning his demise, he must be found and eliminated before he could do any more damage.
But only after he had been made to tell everything he knew.
A minor commissar greeted Libertad when he arrived, and tried to send him off to the dormitory for rest. Libertad would have none of it.
"I demand a meeting with the Revolutionary Council," he stormed, refusing to be placated.
"That is impossible," the other man answered coldly. "If they wish to see you, they will send for you. Something that I very much doubt will happen." The commissar glared at Libertad as though he were some lower form of life.
Libertad kept his temper in check, telling himself that it was not for the likes of this headquarters parasite that he had killed and risked being killed.
However, at this moment he would gladly have added the sniveling bureaucrat to his list of victims.
"Tell the council that I have evidence of treason, of a counterrevolutionary plot within these very walls. If I must break up their meeting myself, I will do so. Then I will be forced to name you among those I suspect of obstructionism, revisionism and sentiments contrary to the well-being of the party."
Libertad sneered as the functionary ran off to pass along his message. He knew it took very little suspicion to make the council decide someone was a liability to the movement. The next step was a Revolutionary Tribunal,
followed by execution by the People's Justice Squad. And inevitably, a cold, lonely grave.
Libertad sat on a rough bench, prepared to wait. It wouldn't be a long stay.
* * *
Bolan awoke refreshed although stiff from sleeping on the rough and unyielding stone, the details of the past events flooding his mind. His plan was clear: get the hell out of here. It was the "how" that was kind of hazy.
He drank a little water before moving off, ignoring the rumblings of his stomach. He could live for a long time without food, but without water he would have lasted only a day or two before he collapsed, able only to wait for an unpleasant death.
He must move slowly, conserve his strength and, above all, ration his water rigidly. Then he might have a chance.
He had taken the precaution of placing his food sack a few feet farther down the corridor in the direction that he had been traveling before he went to sleep. That way he could be sure not to retrace his steps.
Bolan began to walk, continuing the monotonous trek straight ahead. This time he counted the paces, stepping off the distance at as rapid a tempo as he could maintain without beginning to sweat.
He had almost reached twelve thousand paces when the corridor ended. Feeling in front of him, Bolan touched raw earth. Apparently the Incas hadn't advanced any farther along this route.
He had marched down a dead end.
The big man fought off a wave of depression.
Instead of resting, he drank a little water from his dwindling supply and started back the way he had come, turning at the first left he came to.
Bolan walked on along the smooth-walled passageway, skipping over occasional breaks in the regular stonework. He was curious about the purpose of the underground maze. Surely some of these openings must be for quarters, armories, treasure houses, kitchens or stairways, any of the thousands of kinds of activities that took place in an ancient fortress. But he knew that if he began to explore, the chances were great that he would never find his way out.
As he walked, nagging doubts began to come to mind.
Maybe the whole lower level was only air ducts or for flood control. Maybe it was a punishment, a sadistic torture chamber for enemies who were thrown down here to starve to death. What if there really was no way out?
Bolan slumped to the floor, exhausted. He took a short swallow of water, shook the bag and discovered it was almost empty.
The warrior fought a desperate struggle with a black depression that threatened to creep over him, sap his spirit and immobilise him where he lay.
It wasn't purely muscle that powered the big man on. It was his indomitable spirit that drove him, and if that cracked, he knew he was as good as dead.
Once he had wrestled down the black waves lapping at his soul, he sat back to take stock of his situation.
Somewhere in the far distance, just at the edge of perception, Bolan heard the first natural sound that he had detected since he had entered the tunnels the tinkling noise of running water.
* * *
Libertad was ushered in to see the Revolutionary Council after a short wait.
Stone was pushed in behind him. Nine impassive men sat quietly around an ordinary kitchen table, dressed no differently than he was.
"What is this news of treason that you bring us?" demanded one whom Libertad knew as the council chairman, a middle-aged man with a beak nose who reminded Libertad of a predatory bird.
"First, comrades, before I discuss our confidential business, what do you wish done with this American? He was a companion to the arms dealer, Blanski, and I did not wish to kill him without your permission."
Stone, trapped between two guards, blanched as he realized that he might not leave the room alive.
"Is the Yankee devil of any value?" one of the councilmen asked in a bored voice, not in the least interested in whether Stone lived or died.
"I think he may be of use, since he is familiar with many herbs and their medicinal properties. He sometimes treated our people in prison. I think he should be kept alive for a while to judge his usefulness."
A councillor who gave a strong impression of authority glanced from one face to another around the table. "Make it so, then. Just let him be guarded well. If he escapes, Libertad... Let me just say that it will be held against you." The terrorist knew all too well what that meant a bullet in the brain.
Stone was removed, finally daring to breathe again.
"Now, tell us about these serious charges you have brought against some unknown party. But remember, causing internal strife among our brotherhood is a serious crime and will be punished. So speak, but know that we will judge you, as well as your words."
Libertad told the story of the underground ambush, feeling carefully for the right words, conscious of the cold eyes fixed on him. He relayed how the other prisoner had escaped and had apparently been lost in the pit.
"Did you find the body?" one of the listeners interrupted.
"No, we did not. Our lights could not illuminate the bottom of the shaft, and we had no rope to climb down."
"This is worrisome," the questioner said to the other councillors. "What if he is alive and roaming through our complex? He might escape and take word of our base to the government troops."
"Relax," said the chairman. "You know that no one who has fallen into the pits has ever been seen alive again. Continue, Libertad."
Libertad finished quickly, emphasising that the death of his men had been the result of treachery, possibly of a spy.
"Strong words, Libertad, and a very dramatic story. But how do we know that any of this is true? Maybe this lost American killed your men and escaped, and to cover your incompetence from our just wrath you have concocted this fable. Where is your proof?"
Libertad licked his lips, relieved that he had prepared for this eventuality. He gestured to one of his men.
The man reached into his sack and withdrew a crudeb severed head by the hair. He placed it on the table, where the protruding tongue appeared to mock the solemn council.
"This is one of the two gunmen I told you about."
The councillors contemplated the grisly trophy in silence, as though a head on the table were a daily occurrence.
"I believe I recognize this man," one commented. "It is Federico."
"But why would he do such a thing? He was a loyal soldier, if not very smart."
"Loyal to whom?" the chairman rumbled, his hawk eyes blazing. "There is only one person who might have swayed him from the true path of the movement. A childhood friend who held great influence over him and his friend Paulo. Summon Antonia!" He shouted this last command at a guard, who then disappeared. The chairman gestured to Libertad to hide the head.
Libertad held the evidence behind his back, as they waited for the woman to be brought.
Antonia was not particularly concerned to be brought before the council. She had been working on several projects since her recent arrival, and it was natural that the council would wish a report.
Federico and Paulo were not likely to return for several hours, so this meeting couldn't be about their activities. She certainly hoped not.
When she entered the council chamber there were three men in the room whom she didn't recognize.
Each looked dirty and dusty, as though recently arrived from a long journey. She didn't find their presence comforting.
"Antonia, when did you last see Federico? He appears to be missing." The chairman began without preamble, watching her face for a reaction to the name.
"I have not seen him since yesterday, comrade. I have no idea where he might be." Antonia believed that her voice had remained level, although she had been disconcerted at the mention of the name. She knew that she was fighting for her life now, and the least mistake would cost her dearly.
The chairman paused for a few seconds, lengthening the silence between them. When he was sure that she had no more to say, he resumed. "In that case, I don't suppose that you can explain how Federico has come t
o be at this meeting." He looked at Libertad, who immediately drew the bloodstreaked head from behind his back. The dead eyes stared accusingly at the beautiful Spanish woman.
Antonia's hands flew to her eyes to hide the grisly sight. From the look of the painful grimace etched into his face she had sent her childhood playmate to a horrible death.
Looking between her fingers, she searched the faces of the others. From their grim expressions, she was convinced that they knew who was responsible for the attack that had killed Federico.
She had to escape. Now.
Antonia bolted for the door, but was intercepted by two guards. In a desperate move she wrenched an arm free and pulled a knife from one man. She slashed him across the midriff, and he collapsed shrieking, his guts leaking from the wound.
She drove the knife toward the second man's throat, but he reacted faster than his dying companion, catching Antonia's wrist in a powerful grip and backhanding her across the temple.
The red-haired woman collapsed like an ivory doll thrown to the floor by an angry child.
The chairman gazed angrily at the fallen woman. "Take her to the interrogation room. Make sure that she tells everything she knows." Stupid woman, he thought to himself as Antonia was carried from the room. She should have used the knife on herself while she could.
Soon she would be begging for a chance to cut her own throat.
18
Bolan hiked along with renewed energy, knowing that his immediate problem, a water supply, was almost solved.
He searched for another hour, guiding himself by his acute sense of hearing. Occasionally he had to retrace his steps when the soft gurgling sound grew fainter, before he found his way to the small stream that had beckoned him.
The tinkling came from a small drainage ditch, a narrow channel beside a broad corridor, as Bolan discovered when he put his foot into it. He dropped to his knees and cautiously sampled the water, relieved to find it sweet and pure.
The big man drank his fill and started on his way again, this time following the small rivulet upstream. He guessed that if he found the source of the water, he might very well find a way out of the labyrinth.
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