He took a taxi to the main shopping area, absorbed in the passing scenery. It was surprising how little of the past had survived the modernisation of Lima. Although it was older than any North American city, few reminders existed of its ancient heritage. The only signs of the long-forgotten Incas were advertisements for Inca cigarettes and Inca cola. The relatively recent Spanish influence showed in the multiplicity of churches. The cathedral held the remains of Francisco Pizarro, the soldier-adventurer who had humbled the last of the proud Inca kings.

Bolan got out of the cab at a mall in the ritzy shoppingarea frequented by the Peruvian elite, the Camino Real. Stepping inside under the eyes of vigilant security guards, he turned to a bank of yellow lockers lining a far wall. The key rewarded him with a solid black bag in a bottom locker.

In the privacy of his hotel room once again, Bolan smiled as he unpacked the bag. Some embassy staffer must have gotten a thrill out of delivering this particular package.

Brognola had come through as he had promised. A diplomatic pouch had forwarded a Beretta 93-R and a machine pistol, as well as fifteen clips for each and a shoulder holster for the pistol. Twenty-thousand dollars in crisp new bills provided pad money, hush money and pocket change for his stay.

Bolan felt a lot better with the weight of the Beretta under his arm as he dialed Carrillo. After exchanging pleasantries, they arranged to meet at a restaurant south of the Camino Real.

He arrived early, taking a seat in a corner near a fire exit. His eyes scanned the doorway and the plate-glass window that looked onto the wealthy streets of the suburb of San Isidro.

The crowds streaming by weren't much different from similar crowds in Paris or Madrid. For the most part, the women were fair-skinned criollas, dark haired and flashing eyed, of nearly pure Spanish descent. Others were marked as mestizas, the issue of the Spaniards and the native Indians. Many of these displayed dark red good looks that attracted the eyes of the men striding along as imperiously as conquistadores. Occasionally a native Indian would walk by, eyes downcast, garbed in a colorful poncho and a felt hat, looking as out of place among the stylish shoppers as an elephant at a horse show.

Bolan glanced at his watch. Carrillo was late. Bolan hasn't entirely sure what to expect from this meeting. He knew that he had a powerful bargaining chip in the captured weapons, and he hoped to press Carrillo for an introduction to the Shining Path connection. He was flying solo on this one and almost as blind as a bat.

He would have to count on his own internal radar to steer him clear of danger, knowing that Carrillo had a reputation for treachery.

The shipment would be in port within a day or two, disguised as farm machinery, to be stored in a local warehouse. Unless he contacted the shippers with other instructions, the cargo would be sent to Ayacucho a week later. High in the Andes, the arms would wait safely for his disposal.

The headwaiter was speaking with a lovely young woman at the door who was looking beyond him to the patrons inside. She smiled and stepped through the door, approaching a tall dark man four tables away from Bolan. The warrior paid her no more attention than he would give any pretty woman until he heard "Michael Blanski" mentioned.

Bolan raised a hand to get her attention, motioning her to his table. He stood as she approached, conscious of Latin manners. Besides, it would improve his draw if required, although the woman appeared to be an unlikely candidate as an assassin.

"You are Mr. Michael Blanski?" Her voice was soft and musical.

"Yes. Please sit down." Bolan was already charmed, although his eyes flickered past her face from time to time, maintaining his watch on the street and the other patrons.

"I am Antonia de Vincenzo, Senor Carrillo's secretary. He sends his apologies, but regrets that he will not be able to come this afternoon. However, if it is convenient to come by his office at ten tomorrow morning, he promises that it will be worth your while."

"That will be fine, Miss de Vincenzo. I'll see you then, if you leave me the address."

"Certainly." She dug in her purse momentarily for a business card. "Senor Carrillo is most disturbed that he will not be able to show you around Lima personally this evening as he had promised, but if you like, I will be happy to be your guide."

Bolan was sorely tempted. The woman was exquisite, with cascading dark red hair and a glowing cinnamon complexion. Rich, full lips held a sensuous promise. The only clue to her mixed ancestry was a nose that was slightly too broad at the nostrils. A clinging garment much like a silk tube top exposed strong shoulders above a high bosom and a tiny waist. A single strand of pearls hung around her neck.

However, he had no wish to compromise his position by revealing anything inadvertently. The "honey pot" was one of the oldest tricks in the book for obtaining information, and Antonia was certainly a tempting dish.

"Thank you for your kind offer, but I'm otherwise engaged. Perhaps some other time."

"I shall hope so," she replied. Flashing Bolan a dazzling smile, she left, hips swaying gently.

In the morning Bolan took a taxi to one of the new downtown high-rise office buildings, part of the growing urban sprawl of the metropolis.

He disembarked a few blocks from Carrillo's office, preferring to walk the rest of the way. He paused several times to stare into the glass shop windows. The reflection served almost as effectively as a mirror, allowing Bolan to examine the surrounding pedestrians in case he had been followed. If he had, then his hotel might not be secure for another night.

Having satisfied himself that no one was trailing him, Bolan continued on his way.

Antonia de Vincenzo sat behind a mahogany secretarial desk in the sumptuous eighteenth-floor office. She looked much less relaxed than she had the day before. A flicker of some emotion that Bolan couldn't place flashed across her face at his arrival.

"Please go right in, Mr. Blanski," she said, rising and following him to the closed door on the other side of the room.

Bolan paused, hand on the doorknob. There was something wrong with the setup. He couldn't put his finger on it, but a tiny alarm told him that he was walking into danger.

He reached into his jacket to grasp the butt of the Beretta and turned the door handle. One step inside revealed nothing. At first glance the office appeared empty. He drew the Beretta and walked cautiously forward.

The Executioner felt someone looming behind him. He raised his left arm as he turned, attempting to ward off whatever was coming.

The world exploded into twinkling lights, and he fell heavily to the floor.

When Bolan awoke, the first thing he was conscious of was the pounding pain in the back of his head, as if a little man was trying to break his way out with a sledgehammer. The next thing he noticed was that he was lying on the floor. He couldn't move his arms or legs. His arms seemed immobilized behind his back. Finally, a few inches in front of his face, he saw the large black boots that had "policeman" written all over them.

There was only one conclusion — he was under arrest.

"What the hell is going on?" Bolan was mad, and his headache wasn't making his temper any sweeter.

"Be quiet, American." One of the cops nudged him in the ribs, none too gently.

Cameras were flashing in the office, and several people were speaking at the same time. Bolan's Spanish was fair, but the unusual accent made it difficult to follow what was being said. Another language was being spoken as well, probably the Qucchua used by the Indian population.