Yaquita fiddled with her buttons, half out of her khaki jumpsuit. In the cold, goosebumps stood out on her golden skin. She paused in her undressing, looking cross with Smith as she poked him in the chest.
"You must convince them you're the real Pedrito!" She went on undressing, glancing eagerly at the double sleeping bag. "He might have been a two-timing scoundrel, but he earned a lot of respect from these men. He was the hardest-drinking, hardest-riding, fastest-shooting agent anybody ever met."
"I've got to live up to that reputation?" Smith said, peeved. The mountain air was very cold and sharp.
"You better! I don't want you killed. We've got better things to do." Once they were together in the sleeping bag, Yaquita was very loving. She kissed him, and very shortly Smith felt warm again, very warm.
Chapter 32
AT THE EDGE of the rugged tree-line encampment, a weather-beaten old pine dangled its gnarled limbs like a gallows. The sun rose straight up in a ruddy equatorial dawn, and the rebels gathered for the duel.
Smith hadn't slept a wink, in part because of his mortal terror, in part because of Yaquita's amorous attempts to make him forget his mortal terror.
Now he stood waiting under the ominous tree, dressed in a combat jungle uniform. The gnarled pine's nearest overhanging limb hung thirty feet off the rocky ground. In the dirt around the trunk, dark patches of hardened mud showed where blood had dried in pools.
Thick Hana vines trailed from the high limb of the dueling tree to the trampled ground where their ends lay in a tangle.
Smith tied one of the four burros to the nearest vine, looking around expectantly for his opponent. He glanced at the complicated Russian military chronograph on his wrist, checking the time. "You don't think Jose has decided to let me win by default, do you?"
Yaquita stood by the other burros, looking at him wistfully. "It would be wise of him to do so ... but unfortunately, wisdom isn't one of Commander Jose's strong points."
Banging pots and pans, firing their rifles into the air, the eager commandos marched out of the camp, led by surly-faced Jose. Smith swallowed hard. "Nelson would say it was a good time to retreat."
Yaquita laughed and kissed him on the cheek.
Commander Jose came to a stop in front of Smith, glowered at him for a moment, then reached into his pocket to whip out a red-patterned bandana. He thrust the cloth toward Smith.
"What do I do with this?" Smith asked, taking a corner of the bandana. "Is it a blindfold?"
The crowd laughed extravagantly. "Ai, Pedrito! What a joke!"
"You yourself made up this style of dueling," Jose snapped, his pockmarked face ruddy with anger. "Don't mock it now."
Concealed by his commando disguise, Bolo strutted between Smith and Jose. He snatched the bandana away, looking officious. He jammed one corner in the lieutenant's mouth as Smith opened up to splutter a question, the opposite corner in Jose's mouth. "Each combatant holds the bandana in his teeth."
Smith gagged and tried to mumble a question, while Jose bit down like a pit bull terrier on a newspaper boy's shin.
"The first man to let go of the bandana loses. Beyond that," Bolo continued, "there are no other rules." He handed each of them a wicked-looking machete. "When I say 'Go!' you begin. Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen." He stepped back. "Ready, set— go!"
Both men surged forward, grunting muffled curses through the bandana stuffed in their mouths. Jose tried to strike with the machete in his right hand as he grabbed Smith's knife wrist with his left. The long blade struck sparks off the metal band of the Russian military chronograph. Smith strained, trying to get his own machete free.
The crowd was glittery-eyed with expectation. Yaquita strummed a fight song on her guitar; she had a vast repertoire of tunes about killing.
The two fighters circled on the packed ground under the gallows tree, flinty eyes locked. Smith's heart pounded with the excitement and the thin air. He felt exhilarated and alive ... alive for a few more moments at least. This was so much different from his life as a Navy blueprint inspector.
With sweat pouring from his temples down to his chin, Jose grimaced with hate and strain. He pressed harder with his machete, slowly beginning to overpower Smith.
Meanwhile, the burro Smith had tethered to the liana vine watched the fight, munching dry grass. He snorted as the struggle came closer to him.
Smith's white tennis shoe stepped onto the coil of vine.
Jose stabbed his machete downward, though Smith maintained his grip on the commander's wrist. Still clenching the bandana in his jaws. Smith brought his knee up into his opponent's stomach. With a cough of bad breath through clenched teeth, Jose fell backward and hit the burro.
Spooked, the animal bolted. The liana tether jerked tight with Smith's foot caught in the coil of vine over the branch. He tried to yell as the burro ran, but the bandana in his teeth prevented him from making a satisfactory squawk.
Smith's head did a frill arc upside down above Jose's head as the burro hauled him into the air. The commando leader also refused to release the bandana in his teeth, so Smith hauled Jose up with him.
The crowd laughed and cheered, shooting their guns into the air, which startled the burro even more. Smith and Jose went straight up until Smith's foot struck the high limb. He jerked to a stop.
The crowd stared at this feat with awe, applauding. Yaquita even stopped playing her guitar. While the two combatants hung suspended, one of the other untethered burros wandered under the tree, looking for something to eat.
Grunting and fuming. Smith and Jose flailed, still biting their respective corners of the bandana, still grasping each other's knife wrist. Smith's neck muscles stood out like ropes as Jose thrashed and dangled below him.
"Can't we talk this over, man to man?" Smith mumbled through clenched teeth. The spit-wet bandana muffled all of his words.
"I'll kill you!" Jose snarled, thrashing with his machete hand.
"I'm sure you must be a better commander than I, Jose," Smith said. "I really admire you."
Jose's dark eyes flared wide with surprise. "What?" Opening his mouth in shocked disbelief, he let go of the bandana. Before he could reach out to grab Smith, he fell tumbling. The redheaded heutenant still hung upside down by his ankle, watching Jose plummet to the ground.
The commando leader struck a lone burro that had wandered under the tree, landing heavily in the thin saddle. With a bray of alarm, the beast charged off, carrying the defeated captain deep into the Andean wilderness.
The crowd of rebel commandos hefted the victorious Smith on their shoulders, marching him around the perimeter of the camp.
"Ai! Pedrito!" They fired more and more gunshots. After this, Smith wondered how they could possibly have enough ammunition left for their actual military activities.
Chapter 33
THE GOVERNMENT GARRISON of Bellanova was an old Inca fort with high walls and protruding bastions. The ruined fortress was surrounded by barren, rocky ground. It had been partially rebuilt as a historical monument and tourist attraction, but then had been taken over by the Colodoran bureaucracy as an office building and military garrison. A steep gravel path led up to a barred archway, flanked by ornamental bushes. The multicolored flag of Colodor flew from the highest turret, displaying the national emblem of a banana crossed with a sword.
Bolo—this time dressed in a peon's white shirt and pants, colorful wool poncho, straw sandals and traditional felt hat— glanced stealthily over his shoulder. With furtive dashes he went from scrub bush to thorn bush along the gravel path, zigzagging his way up to the old garrison's front gate.
Holding on to the rusty bars, Bolo peered into the refurbished fortress itself. A company of uniformed Colodoran soldiers strutted about in the flagstoned courtyard, presenting arms, striding in lock step. Beyond them Bolo could see a line of camouflaged antiaircraft weapons, long barrels pointing out of bunkers in the thick stone walls whose blocks had been precisely fit by ancient Inca masons.
; Bolo rapped on the barred gate with his knuckles. "Psst! Hey!"
A sentry popped his head out, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Bolo whispered in the man's ear. The sentry checked his notebook of approved excuses for allowing visitors to enter, then pushed the gate open wide enough for Bolo to slip inside.
In the comandante's stone-walled office, crossed sabers hung on display, covering the worst lichen stains. Frilly drapes hung over the wrought-iron bars on the windows in a style much too feminine for the comandante's tastes ... but his wife had done the redecorating in the fortress, and he could not say no to her.
He sat with his feet propped on his big desk, hands folded across his potbelly. Tilting his uniform cap on his head, the comandante puffed on an enormous American cigar. CIA chief O'Halloran sent him boxes of the cigars as part of his monthly bribe. The comandante thought they tasted vile, but at least they were free.
Bolo stood before him in his peon disguise, nervously twisting his felt hat. Fully awake now, the sentry from the gate stood watchful behind him.
"I just poor country farmer, but I want part of big reward," Bolo said. "I throw myself on your sense of fairness, comandante."
The comandante leaned forward with sudden interest. He jabbed his smoldering American cigar at Bolo. "Reward? Eh, what reward?"
"For the redheaded bandit Pedrito Miraflores. Half million U.S. dollars. I can help you catch him."
The comandante's jaw dropped and the cigar fell from his mouth into his lap. He snatched it away, slapping hot embers from his trouser legs. Then he leaped to his feet. "Did you say half a million dollars?"
Bolo nodded vigorously, but kept his eyes averted. "Si, comandante. We saw it on our satellite TV in our hut. I want half of the money if I tell you exactly where Pedrito is."
"One-third!" the comandante said, emphatically. He puffed up his chest and tried to look intimidating in his government uniform. "I'll be doing all the dangerous work to capture this bloodthirsty criminal."
Bolo's shoulders sagged as he made up his mind. "As you wish, comandante. I just a poor peasant. I settle for one-third of the reward. It will be enough to buy us a new burro and some firewood." He leaned forward and whispered into the comandante's ear. "But you must take troops and leave the fortress right away. You can't miss a chance like this."
The comandante's face lit up. "We'll march out within the hour! All of my soldiers." He shouted for his secretary, immediately calling a staff meeting.
Next dawn the sky in the high Andes was a colorful red. Covered by the slick leaves of tropical plants, looking out of place in the rocky scrub around the ancient Inca fortress, Pedrito's commandos scurried forward. The revolutionaries wore jungle uniforms, holding their rifles ready. Having wasted so many rounds during the previous celebration, the troops were already low on ammunition.
Smith stood in the line of commandos and spread his arms to halt the approach. Curving chunks of bark had been lashed to his arms, waist and legs, ostensibly making him look like a large tree stump. One of the high-tech laser pistols hung on each hip; a coil of line and a small grappling hook dangled from his belt, threatening to trip him with every step.
Looking at Bellanova, Smith pondered how Nelson might have taken the place. "It's comparable to an old pirate stronghold in the Caribbean, I suppose." He squinted into the brightening sunrise. Two lone sentries were visible on the fortress walls, telling each other jokes.
They had no choice but to storm the gunnels. Smith raised his arms, gave the signal for the jungle-disguised commandos to advance. The rebel troops let out a battle cry: "Long live the revolution!" Smith charged forward, running stiffly in his tree-bark disguise.
The pair of sentries on Bellanova's battlements stared in alarm at the commandos, who were tearing camouflage leaves and branches off their uniforms for greater freedom of movement. The first sentry finished the punch line of his joke about a llama farmer in the big city, and then both of them fired their rifles at the attackers.
Smith ran forward, zigzagging right and left, waving his bark-covered arms for the troops to follow. The sentries' shots pinged on either side of him. Even though he didn't really know what he was doing, he felt the thrill of adventure, just like one of his favorite chapters in Famous Naval Battles.
He finally reached the base of the fortress wall, holding the grappling hook and line in his hand. He tore off the bark covering his arms, twirled the hook and threw it upward. The hook sailed over the stone wall, setting its barb firmly in a very narrow crack between the tightly fitted Inca stones.
Smith tugged hard to check the rope's sturdiness, then walked straight up the wall. "Just like climbing the ratlines on a ship," he said.
He swung his leg over the top of the stone wall, stopped and gaped. As other rebels swarmed up the wall behind him, the two lone sentries fell to their knees, begging hands clasped under their chins. "Spare us, spare us!" Their rifles lay discarded beside them.
"Yes," the other one said, "we know plenty of good jokes! We could be very useful to your army."
Surprised, Smith kicked their guns aside. He stepped to where he could look down into the flagstoned courtyard. Commandos darted in and out of the wooden fortress doors, searching. From the barracks a dozen rebels had gathered up six men in underwear, who surrendered repeatedly.
One of the commandos spotted Smith on the wall above and yelled up to him, "The place is empty, Pedrito! There are no enemy soldiers."
Smith hunkered beside the blubbering sentries. "Where is everybody?"
The sentries wrung their hands. "A report came to us that Pedrito Miraflores was thirty miles downriver. The comandante
Hubbard & Anderson
chased after him with the whole command of Bellanova. He wanted the reward. Big reward."
"No word at all ft-om them since yesterday," said the second sentry.
"I think they're lost," groaned the first, hanging his head in shame. "We didn't have any official maps."
Smith grinned down at them, finally proud of his new identity. "Well, don't you recognize me? I'm Pedrito Miraflores."
Chapter 34
THE SIGN ON THE CAGES in Bellanova's bird loft read GOVERNMENT PIGEONS, FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY. A stone embrasure let sunshine into the tower room, illuminating a table used for scribbling coded messages. Confiscated terrain maps drawn before the mapmakers' union strike showed the borders, roads and terrain of Colodor.
Bolo had discreetly slipped into a Communist sergeant's uniform with a red star in his cap. He printed a message on a tiny pigeon slip, very careful with his script. Dear Governor, Pedrito Miraflores just captured the entire province of Bellanova. Complete rout. Comandante and all government forces in full retreat. Signed — sole survivor
Bolo rolled the message like a cigarette paper and stuffed it into a tarnished tin cartridge. He grabbed one of the birds from the Official Use Only pigeon cages and fastened the cartridge onto its leg, then released the pigeon out the narrow open window.
"Special delivery," he said, and the pigeon flew out.
At CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, a stream of nondescript black sedans arrived and departed. Weirdly similar men in black suits and conservative ties flowed in and out of the doors.
"Sir, we've got an urgent red tag!" an aide said, rushing down the hall into the director's office.
"Don't bother me!" the director said, annoyed as he watched his golf ball curve toward a wall studded with hidden microphones. "You made me miss my putt."
"It's urgent, sir!" the aide said. "Direct from South America by diplomatic carrier pigeon."
"Go tell it to the FBI." The director dropped another golf ball on the floor, then lined up his putt.
Traffic moved by on the avenue below the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Any vehicle that decreased its speed by more than two miles per hour was photographed, its license called up on an FBI computer, and a complete security check run on the driver all the way down to his high-school grades and what pets he had owned as a k
id.
The same aide rushed into the FBI headquarters and found the office of the director. "Sir! We've received word that Pedrito Miraflores is on a rampage in South America."
"Miraflores? Who's he?" said the FBI director, who looked extraordinarily like the CIA director. He sat at his desk unconcerned, reading various incriminating files over his lunch hour. He ate a sloppy tuna sandwich as he shuffled papers. "Nobody I've ever heard of, I suppose. Is his file here?"
"Miraflores is their top Commie agent, sir."
"Oh. You'd better go to the State Department, then. This is in their jurisdiction." He picked up another file, his wife's, and began to read with avid interest.
At the State Department Building the same aide desperately passed his news on to another official."—but he completely blew up the U.S. Embassy in Santa Isabel!"
"Blew it up?" the official said. "Oh, then this sounds like a job for the Defense Department. Stop bothering me about it."
Outside the Pentagon, traffic crawled around and around in circles. Every side of the immense building looked essentially the same, and most of the drivers were lost.
The same aide breathlessly recounted the pigeon message to a two-star general, then to a three-star general.
"—wiped out an entire cavalry division with an ambush, wrecked the Meta River Patrol, captured a powerful military fortress and brought a whole province to its knees!" He hauled out a blurry Polaroid snapshot. "Here's his photo. Look at those shifty eyes, that red hair."
"A scoundrel, if I ever saw one," the general agreed, then shooed the aide out of his office.
Congressmen and Congressional aides rushed up and down the steps of the Capitol Building, followed by reporters, cameramen, demonstrators and lobbyists. A blustery Vice President looked at the Polaroid skeptically. "How can a Mexican be redheaded? And aren't they really short? Are you sure this isn't another tabloid hoax?"