"I'm an agent with the FBI. You will be in very serious trouble if any harm comes to me," Sharp retorted with more bravado than he felt. A sense of desperation washed over him, and his throat filled with bile. His boss at the Bureau had warned that he was pushing too hard, trying to crack the case too quickly.

McIntyre, stung by the opposition, exploded.

"Damn you and your arrogance! Damn you and your sneaking, prying ways!" The arms merchant screamed into his captive's face, his twisted features mere inches from Sharp's. "I'll take that chance. But you can't be allowed to expose any more of my private business." McIntyre turned his back on Sharp and walked off, icy calm once more, as though a vault door had opened and then shut again on his temper. "He's yours, Carrillo," he called over his shoulder.

Carrillo turned to his waiting men. "Pick three." He waved his hand to the two men from the truck. They pulled on the free end of the nylon, raising Sharp about eight feet above the cracked concrete surface, and secured the end to a ringbolt set in a girder.

The agent grunted as his full weight pulled on his shoulders, stretched unnaturally behind him. The pain made him feel as though his shoulders were going to dislocate at any moment. One of the hardmen reached up and gave his foot a savage yank. The sudden agony forced a scream from Sharp's lips.

McIntyre joined Carrillo. "As we agreed. Twenty cases of M-16's, ten cases of M-60 GPMG's and a hundred fifty cases of 7.62 mm ammunition."

"And I have exactly what you want right here," Carrillo said, tapping the black leather briefcase he hefted in his left hand.

The three gunmen approached, two with M-16's and the third carrying an M-60 with a short length of ammo belt looped over his arm.

They took positions facing Sharp, about thirty feet from his heaving chest. The FBI agent began to kick his legs frantically, a last desperate attempt to somehow escape the fate that stared at him from three unblinking metal eyes.

Carrillo nodded, and the guns chattered just long enough to send two magazines and a short belt of slugs slamming into Special Agent Sharp. His body shuddered under the impact of the point-blank gunfire, shaking like a leaf in a gale as the rounds punched him.

When the last echoes of the drumming fire fell silent, Carrillo handed over the briefcase.

"Thank you for an excellent demonstration. I shall have another, larger order for you shortly."

McIntyre grunted in reply, his attention fixed on the dripping remnants of Sharp.

The gunrunners took to their vehicles, speeding out of the darkened warehouse while one hitter paused to chain and padlock the door.

Inside, the flies were beginning to settle.

It was early afternoon, and the fierce southern sun drove the pampered residents of Lima from one air-conditioned oasis to another. The humidity sapped the energy of the few citizens who dared to venture out at that hour, temporarily slowing the heart of Peru's great metropolis.

Four men huddled nervously in a narrow side street close to the Plaza de Toros de Acho, Lima's famous bullring. At their backs, the foothills of the Andes rose abruptly, dominating the city sprawled at their base. The nearest peak was surmounted by a giant cross, testament to the Catholic heritage of Peru ever since the Spanish conquistador Francisco Pizarro had destroyed the Inca empire and founded Lima in 1535.

The four men had come from the squatters' settlements that covered the slopes of the hills. The tar-paper shanties were a world apart from the wealth of the city, far from the riches of Lima's Camino Real, the royal road, lined with shops where the price of one dress was more than a year's salary for the impoverished peasants.

The men were almost indistinguishable at first glance.

High, prominent cheekbones, receding chins and leathery bronzed skin marked them as descendants of the Incas, who had ruled the country before the invasion of the Spaniards.

Now they were prepared to strike hard at their conquerors, to take a small step toward restoring Peru to its rightful owners and establishing a Marxist utopia.

Cautiously they crept onto the Avenida Abancay, a tenlane artery that cut through the heart of the city. Brightly colored ponchos concealed their weapons, while broad woven hats sat like inverted dishes to ward off the sun. Each man carried a razor-sharp machete and three sticks of dynamite. Julio Nunez, the leader, carried the prize, a cherished M-16 with a full clip and a spare, one of the few assault weapons his band possessed.

Julio didn't like the plan his unknown superiors had decreed. In theory it was to be a simple bank robbery to replenish the coffers of the organisation. But in this enormous city he felt exposed, naked to the eyes of the many strangers who crowded the broad sidewalk. He would rather have been preparing to strike at some sleepy village in the high Andes, near to Ayacucho where he had friends and a safe retreat.

However, from what little he knew, he was only a small part of a larger plan to show that they could strike at the very heart of the government, to show that no one was safe, anywhere, at any time.

Like a good soldier, he would obey his orders.

He glanced at the cheap Taiwanese watch he wore.

It was time for action.

At the foot of Avenida Abancay, three men waited with growing excitement. They were parked in a battered olive-drab jeep across from the Ministry of Education, a modern twenty-two-story tower. For the past ten minutes limousines had been arriving at the ministry, each accompanied by a swarm of motorcycle police.

This marked the weekly cabinet session, which they had observed from a distance for the past two months. The order of arrival was nearly always the same, with the least secure ministers pulling in first to stake out their territory and to be on hand to greet each of the later arrivals. The president made his appearance three minutes before meeting time. The last to show was always the Minister of the Interior. Controlling the police and the intelligence services, he made a point of demonstrating that he was powerful enough to be independent.

"Here is the president. It won't be long now."

The driver's words were unnecessary. His companions ignored him, eyes fixed on the activity across the street as the president was bundled into the ministry building, flanked by bodyguards.

"I still think that we should have gone for the president. Think of the stir that would have caused!"

"A lot of people inside and outside the government would have thanked us," the man in the passenger seat responded. "This will shake them just as much. Besides, we are not supposed to plan strategy, only carry out our orders. Now be quiet. Who knows if some spy is listening?"

As if to prove the superstition that naming an evil summoned it, a policeman wandered over to inspect the group of Indians he had noticed watching the arrivals so intently.

"What are you waiting for?" he demanded of the driver, a submachine gun cradled in his arms.

The driver's right hand crept to the machete hidden between the seats, preparing for a swift stroke, his dark eyes flickering between the policeman's eyes and the throbbing jugular vein where the machete would bite.

"We have never been to Lima before. We want to see everything."

The policeman hesitated. A nervous prickling tickled his neck. These three looked more surly than was usual. But the impassive Indians were so hard to read. This group looked as worthless and grubby as the rest of their kind. He was only surprised that they had enough money for a car.

Finally he decided that there was nothing to be gained by hassling a few peasants and stalked off with a grunt.