Don Pendleton: Twisted Path

Undoubtedly an alarm would sound at some FBI post if he broke one of the beams, and he suspected there was a motion detector in the base that would do the same thing if he moved the frame away from the doorway. He didn't have the equipment to decipher the entry codes.

From a pouch inside the bag he withdrew a length of transparent, flexible cable, the same kind of fiber optics cable used to carry telephone messages in the more sophisticated networks. He quickly fixed one halfway over the transmission point of the lowest beam, then over the receptor. A moment of adjustment and the cable was in place, held by two suction cups. The lowest beam was now diverted through the cable, which rested partly on the ground, allowing plenty of room for Bolan to crawl through.

Once he was inside, the filing cabinet took only a moment to pop before he settled down to a leisurely examination.

Most of the files were worthless to him, including equipment receipts, expense statements, copies of weekly, monthly and quarterly reports and the other paperwork required by any large bureaucracy.

One folder held a manual on "The Guardian Model II The Latest in AntiIntruder Technology." Very little of the data was even remotely connected to case work.

However, there was one grain of gold among the slag. A slim file held a list of all long-distance calls for the past six months, obtained from the telephone companies. The agents hadn't bothered to identify the people or corporations that had received the calls.

The numbers ranged through several dozen area codes on almost every continent. Three pages into the file, two of the calls leaped off the page.

The numbers rang a phone somewhere in Lima, Peru. Bolan copied them and left the office.

Back at the hotel, he made an information call to Washington concerning the Peruvian number.

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.

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.