Don Pendleton - Twisted Path

It was an effort to keep the strain from registering on her face. But any sign of nervousness would be sure to invite questions.

Questions that she would not like to answer.

Carrillo's former secretary waited at the Path base camp for word on the progress of Libertad and his men. They were bringing Michael Blanski with them.

She felt trapped, like a weary fox pursued by a pack to her last hiding place. And it wasn't her fault.

In spite of her long association with the movement, she had always felt like an outsider, as though she were tolerated rather than respected. The distrust from the other terrorists arose from a number of sources: her Spanish heritage, her intellect and education, her gender. Even her good looks were more of a hindrance than a help among the dour Indians. They recognised her value, but kept her in positions of little importance and no influence.

Maybe that was part of the reason why she had felt it necessary to strike in a new direction, to make a statement of her independent ideas and methods. She wanted to lead, to be responsible for turning the whole Shining Path onto a new and more violent course of action.

She wanted to make a difference in the movement.

Instead, she was in a more precarious position than ever. To her superiors, her political radicalism smacked of rebellion. And although the Path claimed to be egalitarian and open, a sign of internal revolt or factioning of the movement would be mercilessly crushed. She knew any further questioning of her loyalty or obedience could be fatal for her.

If Michael Blanski arrived, there would be all the more reason for her actions to be suspect.

If Blanski got here alive and saw her, he would start making damaging accusations. If her superiors believed his story, or even had a suspicion that he might be telling the truth, they would want to know the answers to the mystery behind Carrillo's murder.

And if they had any doubts about her honesty, they wouldn't stop at just asking polite questions.

Antonia had seen prisoners interrogated by the Shining Path before; she had helped ask the questions on occasion. The redheaded beauty would rather kill herself than face the ordeal.

News traveled slowly this far into the mountains.

It was only a day ago that she had learned of the breakout from Lurigancho prison, and had heard that a large-scale arms dealer had got out, as well.

That had to be Blanski.

Antonia was both surprised and chilled by the unexpected development. She had believed he would never make it from Lurigancho alive. If the other inmates didn't kill him, she'd been sure the foul, disease-ridden conditions would.

Now he had been delivered from prison by the Shining Path, had risen like a vampire from his coffin, to torment her thoughts and bring disaster to her plans and her future.

Only a few hours after the first word about Blanski, Libertad had phoned for permission to bring the arms merchant to their secret encampment.

Alarm bells had trilled in her head, warning of the consequences to her if Blanski was brought to the hidden installation. Antonia had urged the governing council not to grant the request and not to let an outsider into their secure fortress. Unfortunately for her, she had been dismissed out of hand.

She was afraid she had run out of alternatives. It was she or Blanski.

Only one of them could live.

The irony of the situation struck her. If it hadn't been for the efforts of the Shining Path, Blanski would still be rot tiny in a bug-infested wormhole in Lima.

Now her confederates had brought the man to within a few miles.

Until the day Blanski had arrived in Peru, Antonia had never even heard his name. Now his very existence was driving her to desperate measures that she never could have contemplated if she had not been placed in a vise of pressure. Every minute that crawled tortoise-like along her watch face tightened the noose around her neck.

There was one escape from the trap. She would have to prevent Blanski from ever reaching the base. And there couldn't be any witnesses left to point the finger of accusation in her direction.

She couldn't do the job herself. In her present position, she couldn't leave the base even for a few minutes. It was too likely that her absence would be noticed, and that risk was unacceptable. The solution she had in mind would take care of any loose ends, yet not require her presence.

There were only two people in the base that she could rely on to carry out her instructions.

She had known Federico and Paulo since childhood. Unlike most of the Indians, they both liked her and obeyed her. And lusted after her, if the way that they watched her was any guide to their desires.

When one or both of them were in Lima, they conducted clandestine missions together, small and secretive things. They had planted bombs in elevators, gas stations, fancy stores. Where the bombs exploded or how much destruction they achieved was unimportant. All that mattered was that the authorities were surprised and that the citizens were fearful that the next place they visited might be the site of the next blast.

Fear was the object and the body count only a byproduct of their tactics.

The two Indians had fallen under her sway gradually and now looked to her for instruction and reward, as a well-trained dog looks to its mistress.

She took them to a deserted rest area where they would not be overheard. "Listen carefully," she began. "You must do something very, very important for me. I want you to kill an American."

The two men broke into smiles. Neither had killed an American before, at least not knowingly. This would be something to look forward to.

"He will be coming down the trail from the highway. You must kill him and make sure that the body is never found."

Antonia could not be sure that Libertad would take that route into the headquarters, since there were several entrances. However, she could only cover one way in, and that trail was the most likely choice for someone traveling by truck from Ayacucho.

"But there is one more thing. There can't be any witnesses. No one must be left alive to tell about you killing the American. Is that clear?" Apparently not, from the puzzled expressions.

"Who will these witnesses be?" Paulo asked.

"They are brothers, but they are traitors. I give you my word on it."

Both of the young men looked aghast. They had killed often, but never before their own men.

"Traitors?"

"Yes, they are." Antonia was exerting all her charisma to sway them and banish the doubt in their tiny minds. "But only I know it. You must not tell the others about this. Not now. Not ever. Do you promise?"

They both promised, although reluctantly.

Antonia decided that she had better watch them carefully until this particular incident had blown over. They had agreed for now, but she wasn't sure they could keep silent about the executions over the long run.

It was a terrible world when you couldn't trust anyone anymore, she reflected as she watched them walk toward the highway tunnel.

Later, she would have to kill them both.

The going was tough in the underground tunnel. Bolan crawled along on bruised hands and knees, a slow, tedious journey only faintly illuminated by a miner's helmet perched on Libertad's head.

The terrorist leader was far ahead, and at times Bolan was plunged into absolute blackness when the small lamp that was the only source of light disappeared around a corner of the twisting horizontal shaft.

The ground below him was hard and uneven.

At times a rock, invisible in the gloom, would score his face or limbs. The darkness was oppressive, as forbidding as midnight in a graveyard, the silence broken only by the labored breathing of the gang members in the thin air. There was a foul smell to the tunnel, wet and sickly, like the air trapped in a long-disused crypt. Occasionally something would crunch under his palm, a squashed bug dying stickily on his fingers. Sweat dripped into his eyes, already sore and strained from peering into the murk.