A sudden chill indicated the arrival of a superior. Bolan had a snail's-eye view at this point, but could identify the newcomer by his gleaming knee-high boots. The officer walked around the room in absolute silence.

"Take him away. I will deal with him later." Four policemen grabbed Bolan by the arms and feet and carried him from the office.

Bolan was thoroughly confused about what was going on, but two things were clear: he had been framed for something, and somebody was going to pay.

An hour later Bolan was lodged in a filthy cell in an underground Lima jail. He still hadn't been told why he was there. It was pretty clear that human rights and justice had a different meaning in Peru than they did in the United States. No one had bothered to remove the manacles or to bring him water, although he had asked for both.

Some initial exploration of his bonds had revealed that he could break them with a little effort.

However, that would be wasted if he didn't have a method of escape or a place to go to ground.

At the moment he was completely on his own.

Footsteps echoed down the dank hall as someone came his way. Two guards halted outside the bars, machine guns levered. A third man unlocked the door and stepped aside to allow entrance to a tall and burly officer in his early fifties, gaudily dressed in a perfectly fitted military uniform. He carried a leather crop that he tapped against one sparkling boot.

"I am General Palma. I take a special interest in terrorist cases."

Bolan was momentarily dumbstruck. It was ironic beyond belief to find himself accused of terrorism when much of his life had been devoted to crushing that hydra-headed demon in all its apparitions.

"You think I'm a terrorist?"

"I do not think it, I know it. It only remains for you to confess your crime."

"What have I supposedly done?"

Palma grinned, cutting the air with his crop.

"You Americans astonish me. No matter what the evidence, you seem to think that we Peruvians must believe your 'sincere' denials and instantly allow you to walk away on the strength of your sterling character. No, sir. Peru is a just country, and I will see justice done in your case."

Bolan decided to play it straight. Without information he was helpless. "What am I charged with?"

"Well, Mr. Blanski, since you wish to continue this charade of innocence, I will play along for the time being. You are charged with the murder of Senor Jorge Carrillo, performed as a terrorist assassination."

"I never even met the man. The office was empty when I got there, and then I was struck from behind by someone, probably the same person who murdered Carrillo. You've got the wrong man." Bolan had a sinking feeling that all his arguments were in vain. There was an air about Palma that suggested the case was closed.

Palma shook his head and flashed a toothy grin.

"How do you explain the pistol shot in Carrillo's heart? I am sure that ballistic tests will show that it came from your gun. Not that they are necessary, since we found the gun beside you. A Beretta, I believe. As well, we found the knife in your hand that you used to slit Carrillo's throat and carve the S on his chest to indicate the work of the Sendero Luminoso. We also found that you had checked into your hotel under a phony name, and that a machine pistol had been hidden in a false-bottomed suitcase."

The evidence was damning, certainly. The machine pistol was going to be hard to reconcile with his cover as a tourist.

"Carrillo had to have been killed by the person who slugged me and then left me to take the fall."

"Mr. Blanski, I do not know why you persist in these obvious lies." Palma turned away and ran the crop along the row of bars. "Senorita de Vincenzo swears that she conducted you into the office. She heard you and Carrillo talking, then a shot. She hesitated a few moments, but then, brave as she is, she rushed into the room and felled you with a blow to your head with a statue. She is a hero, Mr. Blanski."

"She is a liar."

Palma whipped around and with a practiced flick of the wrist cracked the crop into Bolan's jawline, raising an ugly red welt. "In Peru it is not our custom to speak of women the way you do in the United States. I trust that you will remember that in future."

Palma signaled to the guard to reopen the door.

Before he made his exit, he stopped to confront Bolan one more time. "I suppose that you have heard stories about Peruvian prisoners, how they are beaten regularly and how confessions are extracted through torture." He looked at Bolan expectantly.

Bolan said nothing.

"Yes, it is said that we use cattle prods, electric torture, water torture, starvation, any number of tactics. Well, Mr. Blanski, it is true. I shall leave you now to compose your confession. I will be back tomorrow to assist you." Palma strode down the hall, laughing loudly.

Bolan lapsed into a gloomy study of his options.

None of them looked worth a damn.

Bolan waited three more hours before another armed party arrived to remove his shackles. He recognized that he was being treated like an extremely dangerous man. Fortunately they brought water and some food purple-fleshed potatoes in a thin soup. It was a long time since he had eaten, and he was parched.

The policemen ignored his requests to make a telephone call, and left him to rub his arms and legs to restore the circulation. Bolan paced around his narrow cell, ignoring the pricks of pins and needles as he moved. He gingerly touched the egg-size lump on the back of his skull. The hair around it was matted with blood, but at least his headache was abating.

He reviewed his options. He could break out as soon as possible and hide somewhere. Through Brognola he could arrange for a new identity and some cash. The down side would mean giving up on the mission.

A second possibility was to hang tough and roll with the punches for now. His chance of escape would probably not be much worse in future than it was at the moment. It was apparent that he'd been set up, but the reason why was unclear. The de Vincenzo woman was deeply involved, but he had no idea why she would kill her boss.

Bolan lacked facts to string together. All he had was a thousand nagging questions.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of more police. This time they opened the cell and motioned him outside. Two guards led Bolan along, while two more brought up the rear, pistols drawn, ready for any sudden moves the prisoner might make. They walked through a doorway at the end of the dark corridor.

The section beyond was lined with larger cells, packed with wretched humanity from Lima's slums.

By comparison, Bolan's tiny cell was first-class accommodation.

The warrior was hustled to a processing area where his clothes were taken from him in exchange for a rough-woven blue jail uniform. His wallet and watch had vanished long ago, before he had regained consciousness in Carrillo's office. The police continued to ignore his questions.

The next stop was a lineup. The procedure was a farce, since none of the other four suspects came within five inches of the big man. Although the others were as dark haired as Bolan, none of them was Caucasian. While he responded to the loudspeaker commands to turn right and left, he guessed that whoever was observing the ritual would have no difficulty in picking out the "guilty" party.

When Bolan was back in his cell, he cast himself onto the lumpy cot, staring at the low-watt bulb above him. Someone had ordered Carrillo killed, although the reason was murky.

Blanski was obviously blown, somehow identified as a threat to the Peruvian operation, and his arrival had triggered a chain of events that had caught Bolan by the throat. He suspected that Carrillo's death served a dual purpose in plugging a possible leak and at the same time eliminating a potential danger.