Bolan grabbed the receiver, a little nodule of worry sending a warning down his spine. McIntyre seemed a shade too confident. "This is Michael Blanski, Senor Carrillo. It's a pleasure to speak with you."

Carrillo's voice drifted over the phone lines, placid and undisturbed. "It is my pleasure as well, Mr. Blanski. A friend of Mr. McIntyre's is someone I am happy to welcome as a friend. How may I be of service?"

There was no trace of unease in Carrillo's voice. Bolan wondered if he was starting to jump at shadows. "Mr. McIntyre and I have come to a business arrangement whereby I will be taking over the South American operations. I would like to come to Lima and discuss future arrangements with you personally. Say in two days' time?"

"That would be convenient. Please call me when you arrive and I will arrange to be your most attentive guide to beautiful Lima. I will look forward to seeing you. Good evening."

Bolan replaced the receiver. "Well, McIntyre, it's time to pay for Sharp's murder."

McIntyre was stunned as he read his death in Bolan's cold eyes. "What about our partnership, the money you'll make? You need me to deal with Carrillo. You need my company and my connections. You need me!

Bolan shook his head and drew the Desert Eagle.

"I... I... But you said if I cooperated..." McIntyre stammered, his eyes fixed on the huge silver pistol.

"That was then. This is now." A slug from the.44 cored McIntyre's forehead, blowing a fist-size exit wound in the disebledack of his skull. The arms dealer crumpled to the floor.

Jorge Carrillo turned from his code book and sighed. He had known from the conversation that something was wrong, but the past few minutes had confirmed it. It was fortunate that he and McIntyre had worked out an emergency code in case of trouble.

"Concern some mutual friends" had signaled the trouble, while "close personal friend" had meant that there was a specific enemy involved. "Ten years" told Carrillo that this enemy was considered ten out of ten on a danger scale.

He would have an opportunity to deal with this Michael Blanski in two days. In the meantime, he must inform his superior.

Carrillo sighed again, a mournful sound like wind whistling through a canyon, and reached for the phone. His boss would be very displeased.

Mack Bolan arrived in Lima feeling a little on the naked side. Airport security being as strict as it was these days, it was seldom worth the risk to try to smuggle a gun aboard. It didn't fit in with the big man's plans to spend the next few years in jail.

His second task would be to get hold of a weapon. The first was to make sure that he wasn't followed to his hotel.

Bolan scanned the waiting crowd at the airport as the bored customs officer checked him through, approving Michael Blanski's passport without question.

He had left a storm brewing when he departed from San Francisco. Kline had been distressed, to put it mildly, when he learned of the carnage that Bolan had left in his wake. The agent had been strongly inclined to have Bolan locked away for murder. It had taken some arm twisting by Brognola to convince Kline that this was something he had better keep his nose out of.

The Bureau man had agreed reluctantly, but Bolan wasn't entirely sure that he trusted Kline's word. It was possible that Michael Blanski might have to be retired as a viable alias.

In the meantime, Bolan had no intention of worrying about things that he couldn't control. Right now staying alive in Peru required all of his attention. He would operate as though he were in a hostile environment until circumstances proved otherwise.

He walked to the string of cabs ranged outside the terminal and picked the third one in line, ignoring the shouts from the first two drivers. He waved an American fivedollar bill at the startled cabbie. "Go. Now."

The cab shot from its position in line to a crescendo of horns. Given that the average annual wage in Peru was only about seven hundred dollars, as a free-spending American Bolan held an immediate advantage. Almost everything was for sale if an agreement could be reached without offending Latin machismo.

He had the driver head toward the city, instructing him to turn right and left aimlessly as he watched through the rear window for signs of surveillance. At random he changed taxis twice more before he gave instructions to drive to a hotel not far from the Plaza de Armas.

The hotel itself was nondescript, the sort frequented by budget-conscious travelers with North American tastes. He checked in as David Bowes, not wishing the name Blanski to be traceable to a hotel in case anyone was looking. When the clerk asked for his passport, Bolan deflected the request with a subtly proffered twenty, explaining that he seemed to have dropped his identification at the airport and would have to go to the American embassy for a replacement. But of course that would take some time.

The clerk graciously accepted the explanation and the money.

Bolan hit the streets after stowing what little gear he had brought. He crossed the Plaza de Armas, where guards strutted in front of the Palace of Government, also known as Pizarro's House. The guards glittered in silver helmets, crisp, snow-white jackets, red pantaloons and polished jackboots, uniforms inspired by Napoleonic splendor. But very modern rifles were slung over their shoulders.

At the second intersection Bolan angled away from the plaza, delving farther into the narrow streets that lined the core of the city.

The side streets were jammed with ambulantes, the sidewalk vendors who crowded the city peddling food and goods. The big man, easily recognisable as a tourist, was offered alpaca ponchos, skewers of beef heart and ewers of murky red "iguana blood," and even what were supposed to be genuine pre-Columbian artifacts. Bolan brushed by the outstretched hands of the vendors, intent on following the directions Brognola had given him for the prearranged meeting.

Apart from the street merchants in their rough clothes, shoeshine boys, wandering minstrels and tour guides competed incessantly for his attention and his funds.

Once, as Bolan dodged around a girl who suddenly appeared in his path, he felt a skinny hand snake into his pants pocket. Bolan's hand darted out to grab the invader. A frightened, ragged boy of about eight stared wide-eyed at the tall man, afraid that the American would drag him to the police.

Bolan stared back for a moment and released the thin wrist. The child was lost in the crowd in seconds.

He continued on for another few blocks before stopping at a small shop called the Lore of the Incas. Inside, the tiny store was jammed to the ceiling with books, postcards and plaster replicas of Inca treasures. A glass case that supported a battered cash register held a scale model of Machu Picchu, the lost city of the Incas. A grinning proprietor stood behind the case.

"Do you have any Plazca pottery?" Bolan asked.

"Any particular era?" the shopkeeper inquired.

Bolan shook his head. "It's for a friend."

"Is this a Washington friend?"

"That's right." Bolan hated the question-and-answer games, but Brognola had insisted on the contact procedure.

The owner drew a six-inch pottery statue from a cupboard behind the cash. The idol examined Bolan from wide owl eyes on either side of a flat nose.

"This should be to your satisfaction." He slipped it into a plastic bag.

Bolan left a fifty-dollar bill on the cash register and departed with his purchase.

Back in his hotel room, Bolan examined the statue more closely, failing to find an imperfection in the glazed surface. He dropped the statue, turning it into rubble. Picking through the fragments, Bolan extracted a flat key.