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Chapter 1 Mistral's Restaurant-Ottawa "Whoever he is, he's talking about us," McCalister murmured, hardly moving her lips. "Pin-stripe suit, cellular phone, short-cropped greying hair. Three tables across and back one. Can you get him in the window?" The Colonel couldn't get a fix on his position, but Barlow jiggled slightly in his seat. "Blue and red, Guards-type tie?" he asked. She nodded. "Smooth looking bastard isn't he?" "If he's made us, then we should know who he is," the Colonel suggested. "Who is on back-up just now?" "Finn goes off in about ten minutes. Johnson takes over," she muttered. "OK," the Colonel said. "Put Finn on him and have Johnson watch the back trail. I don't like the feeling that I'm getting. Either we are getting sloppy or he is too well informed." Barlow had already used the wrist microphone to alert Finn. He in turn had contacted Johnson. "In place, Boss," Barlow smiled as he picked up the menu. "I fancy the beef." He looked towards McCalister, his breath of a touch on her fingers belying his other capabilities. "He's moving to the rear. He's…." Barlow hauled McCalister to the floor, catching her ribs on the corner of the table. The window disintegrated just as he covered her with his body and the bullets raked across the patrons. Shards of flying glass tore at expensively coiffured hair and diamond dressed necks, tearing holes the size of ping-pong balls in the front and gashes like those of a rabid dog bite in the back of each person hit. Man or woman, young or old, it didn't matter. Many viewed their lifelong wishes come true, as supercilious waiters were cut down to size, before they closed their eyes for the last time, muted smiles upon their lips. The double tap of a 9mm sifted through his brain bringing him to a full level of consciousness. Pushing himself off the floor to a straight arm position he cranked his neck around to see the Colonel returning fire. Scrambling on hands and knees through rubble and a world of broken glass Barlow came to his side, trying to verify a target. "Where?" he shouted. "Behind the black sedan and in the stairwell leading to the basement." The Colonel pointed shakily. Slowly the gun steadied down. Peering through the dust and smoke Barlow saw a movement. The barrel of the AK74 assault rifle rose vertically over the edge of the street and slowly dropped to the horizontal as it searched for a target. Centring on their position, a head popped into view to take aim. From his right, two muffled shots coughed in deadly accuracy and the head disintegrated. The scream reflected the level of pain from the first bullet, which had shrapnelled from the ricochet off the fancy iron railings. The silence told its own story. Glancing right, he observed a mop of hair perfectly camouflaged. Only the initial movement into position had disturbed the pictorial perfection that exposed the finer points of the body. Close misses told him that there was enough definition to catch the enemy's eye. He back-tracked the shots and took a breath. As the shooter exposed himself, both the Colonel and Barlow fired. The limp body tumbled from the trunk of the car, rolling into the street and they moved out of the wreckage that was the sum of sixty or seventy people's lives. "I hope to Christ that Finn stayed with him," the Colonel muttered. "Where the hell is Johnson?" The sound of shots from a service alley answered his question. Dragging McCalister to her feet, Barlow sprinted in the direction of the firing, leaving the Colonel to take charge on the scene. They didn't want any silliness as Ottawa's finest showed up. As they ran, Barlow muttered through clenched teeth, "Never a bloody copper when you need one." He entered the alley in a diving roll, coming up behind some garbage cans. Johnson was in the process of putting the boots to the one terrorist still alive. "Careful, old son," Barlow said casually, "you look as though you're enjoying that too much." Johnson whipped around like a scalded cat. "Sorry, Skipper," he snarled, "but I thought that he had taken you guys out. I thought that he had got McCalister." "Has he said anything?" Barlow asked. Johnson, on the point of turning around, swivelled back and burst out laughing. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but you look like a bag lady on a bad hair day. He said something in Spanish, but he stumbled over the words." "Maybe because he was trying to commit suicide by beating his head against your boots?" McCalister queried. "Thank you for your concern, Twinkletoes, but we would like something left for questioning." Johnson kicked the attacker in the kneecap with his steel-toed trainer. "Get up," he ordered in Spanish. "Please be stupid." The prisoner had no intention of accommodating him. Looking them over with disdain, he snarled. "I will be out of your hands in twenty four hours. Your system says that you must let me go." He laughed mirthlessly, but his cockiness left him when McCalister gave him an attitude adjustment. "Silly man," she whispered as he grabbed for his injured eye where she had poked her finger. "We are not the police. We play by your rules. Didn't they tell you that?" The man caught his breath. ERT and SWAT were already in response on site as they returned to the remains of the once chic building that had housed the restaurant. Johnson brought up the Joint Task Force's truck and they manacled the prisoner to the special shackles in the floor. The police captain observed their level of functioning. "This isn't your first time under these types of circumstances is it?" he asked idly. The Colonel was entering the rear of the extended cab, "Unfortunately not, Captain. In a civilised world we would be anathema." He slammed the door shut and the policeman shook his head. The cop caught himself in the action and wondered why he felt like he did. He realised that it was a sense of sorrow, not only for the dead and injured, but for the young man being taken away. He watched the truck take the corner and sighed. "You poor bastards," he said quietly. "What you have to lose to become like that. There's little or no difference between you and your prisoner. And you know it old man. You know it." The voice came over the net. "The target is following the Rideau. He's heading towards St Paul's. If he parks up, I could lose him." Finn didn't bother to ask if they were OK. He couldn't do anything if they were not, so he stayed on the job. "I've called in two surveillance crews. Any idea where they are?" "Two hundred yards back and coming in from your right, sir. We have his vehicle and the pictography that you sent. If you could possibly pass him we might get a facial." JTF-2 was rolling. "Passing now." Finn responded. "He's turned into the car park by le Bateau. He's exiting. Come on guys." "We also have two teams on the ground at either side of the car park. Blue pinstripe suit, Grey hair, in his mid forties. Pictures rolling, now." "Team one, we have him." "Team two, we have him." "Finn pulling back." The ground surveillance teams followed the terrorist into the restaurant and boxed him in. Microphones listened intently for any action. Within minutes a man and a woman joined him. "Well?" the woman asked. Her voice was deep and sensual. "They have more goddamned lives than a cat," Winter fumed. "There must be forty or fifty-plus dead in that charnel house and they walked out shooting." "I told you they were good," the man replied. "My people will not be happy with this report. You insisted that your friends were experts at this kind of thing. They will pay for their failure." He examined a well-manicured finger. "I don't know how they can pay more than they have. They're all dead." "All of them?" the woman asked. "They were cut down like cows at the abattoir," Paul Winter answered. Richard Hill was in his early sixties, but looked no more than fifty. Ruddy faced, he exuded good health. Six feet tall, broadly made and balding, he looked like a prosperous farmer, which in fact was what he was. Only his farms were thousands of miles away in England, whence he had returned after being defrocked as a priest. His time in South America had left him with a taste for the good things in life, including pretty women and the high life. To finance these desires he had first robbed old lady's who had supplied his mission with cash. Ultimately he had become a major player in the international import and export of high value product, namely cocaine. His profits had been wisely invested in land, especially quality farmland that had a coastline. He could not escape his roots. Before becoming a priest he had been a farmer's son. It ran in his blood. "Then my sponsors have nothing to worry about?" Hill asked. "My people will try again. Don't forget that we have a major financial investment to protect." Winter was not intimidated in the slightest. "Shipments south will continue as per specification. The next load leaves via Baltimore on the 16th. We are expecting your shipment on the 22nd. I take it that your associates in South America are ready?" "I would not mention anything about that again. As you are aware I am only the negotiator. If it should come to the notice of either of my principals that you have knowledge beyond that which you need to know, they are known to have a very long reach." The woman's eyes blazed and Winter wilted under their stare. "Just so that everything remains on schedule," Winter insisted. "We will re-activate our source to prepare a new plan." He stood up to leave, but Hill grabbed his wrist, forcing him down. "Do not make the mistake of underestimating us. Though your organisation is wide spread and feared by the general populace here and in the US, we are not a bunch of thugs and drug abusing drunkards. We are a business and an army. Our experience and training is highly regarded throughout our international fraternity. Now, do the goddamn job properly or you will begin to understand the consequences of international isolation." Slowly Hill let him go. He turned to the woman and kissed her gently in the palm of her hand. "Shall we?" he indicated the menu. "Back up teams required, sir. These guys are good. Say four to five vehicles on each. The initial target is mobile. The man and woman are taking lunch." "We're in place already, Mikey. Ready to work front, back and parallels." "Then I'm dropping back. Have Michelline take up the slack." Mikey Sung Ill melted into the crowd. Joint TaskForce-2 Headquarters. Treetops Williams, the huge American who had recently joined the Team, picked the prisoner out of the vehicle with ease. The man struggled and as a result had his head introduced to the doorpost. "Behave yourself," Williams warned him. "My Christianity is running a little thin today. I could easily adopt an Old Testament attitude." His background as a Baptist Minister was showing and his pulpit rumblings reverberated in the prisoner's ear. "I see that my colleague has already smote you hip and thigh. If you insist on your errant ways, I might have to resort to my daddy's approach and slap your White ass into line." "Why are you, a Blackman, helping these white fascist pigs? And do not call me a White. I am Hispanic." His English was good, but heavily accented. Williams held him up in front of his ebony face and the man's feet were eighteen inches off the floor. "Mister, you sure look white to me. Now shut up before I forget that I am a man of God." He carried the terrorist into the headquarters as though he was a bundle of sticks tucked under his arm and threw him on the floor in the interrogation room. "Thank you, Treetops," the Colonel said, as he massaged his neck with finger and thumb. "Damn, but I must be getting old. Now my friend, you will tell us who you are and where you are from. You notice that I am making a statement and not a request. It is a fact that you will talk. But firstly, who do you think that we are?" Barlow stepped forwards and took off the handcuffs. The room was comfortably set out, with easy chairs and coffee tables. The floor was carpeted and the walls furnished with paintings. Rather a nice room if you liked that kind of thing. There were no instruments of torture in sight and the windows were open to let in the breeze. The terrorist was bemused. "You cannot make me talk. I am a political prisoner. I have rights under numerous conventions. I will tell you nothing. You are the toothless dogs of a Fascist government." He stuck out his chin in defiance and two o'clock chimed somewhere else on the premises. Nobody spoke. They just sat and looked at him, their looks dispassionate and resigned. He became exceptionally aware of sounds in the silence. He watched a speck of dust floating on an air current as it dipped and bobbed across the ray of sunlight. He could hear birds singing in the background. A butterfly winged its way across the open window and he felt that he could hear the wing beats. He chanced getting up to stretch. Nobody stopped him. Walking to the patio door he looked outside, all the time wondering what was going on. The door was fully opened, but his captors did not seem in the slightest bit bothered that he would try to escape. There must be someone waiting to shoot, he surmised. An hour passed and another. His captors sat and watched his every move. He began to relax, but at the same time became more concerned. As he examined the room in more detail he discovered a water carafe. He signified the glasses and as there was no response, he filled a glass and drank. His heartbeat began to increase slowly, but there was nothing immediately noticeable. He sat down in the chair, having brought the water jug with him. After several glasses he poured yet another drink and this time he gulped it down. He noticed that his hand was shaking, but put it down to his confinement. I will tell you nothing, he said in his mind. "Oh yes, you will," said the Colonel. The prisoner jumped. "The man read my mind," he thought. "No I didn't," replied the Colonel. "He cannot read minds. It is impossible." His thoughts began to rumble around his head. At the same time, unknown to him, they were tumbling across his tongue and lips. "Who are you?" asked the Colonel quietly. "What is your name?" he continued gently. "I will not tell them my name," the prisoner said aloud. "Who am I?" he asked himself. "I am Miguel Flores. But I will not tell them." "Well, Miguel Flores, where are you from?" The Colonel was persistent, but totally lacking in emotion. "I am a strike team leader for the Sendero Luminoso, but I am Argentinean. They cannot break me. I will not tell them anything." He reached for the water again but for the first time one of the Team interrupted his action and removed it from his reach. A light turned on in his head. "Drugs," he mumbled to himself. "Where have you come from?" The Colonel's Spanish was excellent and idiomatically correct. "I was sent to take out our allies' enemy. I have come here from Peru." Flores could no longer differentiate between dream and reality. As the drug mixture totally unravelled his mental processes, he answered the questions fully. By one in the morning they had everything. Only Miguel was a gibbering wreck of a human being. "Can we save him?" asked the Colonel with genuine concern. "Not a bloody chance," responded McCalister angrily. "When you had me put together this Devil's brew, you set the parameters. They talk but they don't survive." "Then make him as comfortable as possible," the Colonel ordered as he left. "Goddamn it, Barlow, he always pisses off when it comes to the end." McCalister was winding herself up into a rare old mood. "He seems to think that because I'm a nurse that I should deal with this every fucking time. Well I'm sick of it. This isn't what nursing is about. First I fry their fucking brains and then I make them comfortable until they die." There was a metallic cough and she spun rapidly on her heel. "What the hell have you done?" she pounced on him and beat against his chest. He thanked God that this was hysteria and that she was not using her considerable martial arts skills. "I put the poor bastard out of his misery. That's what this is about. No use letting the poor sod suffer." Barlow caught her about the waist and spun her towards the door. She was sobbing quietly. "Enough is enough for one day. Now shape up. You know the score. In for a penny." "In for a pound," she muttered. She leaned against her husband and they clung together in the deep darkness of the Canadian fall night. "Sometimes it's the shits, the absolute shits," she whispered. "God, but I hate this job." Barlow's mind reached back across an eternity to Sarawak and a Special Boat Squadron action. They had infiltrated a communist position. They had been up to their necks in water for five days, shitting and pissing where they lay. Finally they had made their move. The communist major had been in his late thirties. He couldn't believe that these eight men had destroyed his whole command. His decision to play dumb was stupid. After the first three or four minutes he had realised that he had made a serious mistake. On their viewing his unwillingness to co-operate he had been handed over to the local tribesmen, who's kin he had slaughtered out of spite. Blood for blood had been called for and the use of bamboo slivers on his lower extremities had resulted in his rapid emasculation. Though he talked, even made things up to please them, the process had continued for hours. Finally, sergeant Joyner had jumped in and shot him, much to the anger of the tribesmen. This sign of weakness had taken them months to repair. In comparison, this was almost civilised. "And what about the poor buggers who were having a nice quiet lunch, until the bloody roof caved in on them?" he asked. "If we hadn't been there then they would still be alive," she responded with assertiveness. "Perhaps, but he," Barlow threw a thumb over his shoulder, "would have been elsewhere doing it to some other innocent. Now, if I'm not mistaken, somebody is about to tell them their horoscope and it's all bad." He hugged her quickly, more as a sign of friendship, than affection. "Go do that thing with the water. It's time to sleep the sleep of the just." He felt her dig within herself to begin the preparation for the ritual cleansing that her father, the Colonel, had taught her. As she passed into their apartment, Barlow caught the merest whisper of noise. He drew his 9mm in one smooth easy motion. Joyner inhaled on the cigarette to show his position. "She going to be all right?" he asked reflectively. "Five minutes from now and she won't remember it. But it gets harder each time for her. What's the scoop?" "Tom Skerrit our illustrious Prime Minister is not pleased. He's suggested that we go on standby. Williams is talking to that crazy from Louisiana, Real Chambre. Get some beddie-byes my friend. I think we just cut our leave short. Goodnight, Skipper." Shawnigan, Quebec Province "Isn't this the place that is run by the crooked friend of our former Prime Minister?" Michelline was asked. She dug into the back of her mind and sifted through the files she held on politicians. "Yep. Bought it from him just before he became PM. The Mafia bastard received two and a quarter million dollars from the Feds whilst the PM was in power. The former PM's wife bought his shares back just four months ago at their original sale price, if I'm not mistaken. Hasn't made the press yet." Johnson cast a professional's eye over the buildings opposite. "You know, that guy Hill made a big mistake threatening Winter. He might be a slimy piece of crud, but he's dangerous crud. The guy is sociopathic according to his file. He will arrange for something nasty to happen, believe me." "Did you know that Winter graduated with the highest marks for ten years, but that by the time that he had graduated he was already slated for refusal to the professional association?" "Jeez! What the hell did he do? I didn't know that accountants had any morals, just like lawyers." Johnson laughed. "He used his computer skills to get into the university finance department's budget and for three years used it to launder the Hell's Crew money." "I bet that frosted the academic nuts," he laughed uproariously. "That could piss off your potential professional body." Michelline didn't even snigger. "They apparently refused him access because he got caught." "Did he do time?" Johnson enquired with a frown. "Not one single day. He moved everything minutes before they got there and destroyed the hard drive. He got find for abuse of university technology and breaking the privacy laws. $ 80,000, I think." "Who put him up to that?" Johnson was still perplexed. "A gentleman by the name of William Worcester." "Come on, Michelline, this is like pulling bloody hens teeth. Who the hell is William Worcester?" "And you are our resident gang specialist?" Now she cracked a smile that could light up a stadium. "You better know William Worcester as, Shagrat. As in….." He interrupted her, "The head of Hell's Crew. Shoot, I thought that I knew that name." He was so quiet that she turned to look at him. As she was about to speak, he interjected. "You know that I know him?" "You know Winter?" her face froze. "No, I know Shagrat. He changed his name from Waterson after the trial. That's why it fogged me. He doesn't like me at all. When I was undercover for the RCMP screwballs in Vancouver, I took down one of his deals. I've never quite been sure if he wasn't involved in the murder of my wife and kids. Anyway, if you look at a good photo of him, you'll see that he has had plastic surgery on the corner of his left eye. I nearly took his eye out in a bar fight. His boys gave me the kicking of a lifetime. Apparently he doesn't like to lose. I was in hospital for four months." "You know that he is psychotic?" she asked in wonder. "And officially delusional, possibly even multiple personality. He tried to pull it off in court, but the judge wouldn't have it. The judge said that all his personalities were on trial. He did four years eight months. The judge died whilst he was still inside." "How did he get out?" "New evidence came to light showing police irregularities at the time of his arrest." He delivered the comment flatly. She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. "They say that Worcester's father used to make him swim below the Falls at Niagara to pull the bodies of suicides out when he was a kid. Big money apparently. His father used to come home on leave from the service and beat him with his webbing belt if he couldn't tell him where his mother had been every single day that he was in camp." "Well that's maybe where he learned his business skills. He's reportedly killed over two dozen people. You know, he isn't the usual Biker type, at all. He doesn't do drugs or booze on a regular basis. He lives the life of a respected businessman. Nice house, car, the whole shebang, even down to the golf club and the cocktail set. But when he does, he binges. They're bloody terrified of him." He was glancing along the roofline, not particularly taking notice when he caught the movement. "This could be interesting." "What?" Michelline moved across his body to take a look. "And here comes Mr. Richard Hill and party." She used the wheel to push herself back. Hill and his escort were just getting out of the car when she staggered. He lifted her up. "She tripped on her frock," Michelline smirked sarcastically. "Holy shit," she gasped. "Somebody just blew Miss Fancy Pants away. They've taken half her head off." Guests, waiting for cabs outside the restaurant and hotel, began to scream and within seconds local police were on the scene. Michelline started to exit the vehicle, but Johnson stopped her, pushing her back into the seat with his hand. "We're here to watch. That SOB can stand the pain," he grunted. Watching the roof opposite the hotel, he suggested that she remain where she was and watch the roof too. The sniper slid to the crenellated gutter and ran smoothly towards their rear. "That's my boy," he whispered. Johnson turned quickly to view the street behind. He armed the truck's rear infrared camera and pointed it towards a doorway, finishing the fine tuning just as the killer calmly walked out of the building and entered a waiting limo. The car moved away with nary a second look thrown in its direction. "You can move your hand now," Michelline quipped. Johnson looked at her to see what she was talking about and blushed when he caught on to the fact that he was holding her right breast. She didn't try to move it, but simply looked down at it, then back at him. He was so confused that he still held it in place. "That's a first," she smiled. "Mr. Johnson, I think you blushed. But it's OK. It isn't going anywhere." "Thirty six-D," he countered, trying to hide his embarrassment. "Not bad," she giggled. "You must have been a cop." He fed the information on the getaway car into the computer and sent the film for analysis. Fiddling with the keyboard he began to smile. "Silly man, Mr. Shagrat. Using one of your own company's vehicles." He punched into the police computer. "What you up to now?" she asked. "I want the names of the first two cops on the scene. They didn't even look around. Somebody got to them." "You'd better get McMurray into that computer, so that he can flag the next murder victim." "OK Lady, now it's my turn. What are you getting at?" Johnson really liked the devious way that she thought. "Well, Shagrat doesn't make silly mistakes. I think that the shooter pocketed the money for the limo. Shagrat will roast him alive when it comes to light. And if my nose is on the job, it won't be too long before he knows." He made the call. Victoria BC Mark Brandon, the NDP Premier of BC was in a torpid state. He was struggling in his personal life. He was struggling in his political life. He was struggling with life itself. Born in the Eastside of Vancouver, he was an old time political thug who had risen through the party's socialist ranks on the backs of more enlightened, but less charismatic, personalities. He had taken over the province nine years before and since that time had systematically bilked it of funds for pet projects. His intention was clearly to have enough graft in place when he was finally kicked out of office to ensure his future when he called in the markers. He already had his contacts with the construction industry and the influential eco-industry. What he was now developing was his influence in the booming tourist trade. The failed teachers and foreign Marxists that he had surrounded himself with during his heyday had deserted him. Not that he cared. He had never had an original thought in his life except the idea of how to get rich. His caucus had finally abandoned him. His only ally was the man sitting opposite in the palatial office. Ranjit Mughal had his own agenda: always had and always would have. He had lost numerous cabinet positions because of his free and easy way with the law. He was a man who made the former President Clinton look like a beginner when it came to redefining words. Known as the lexicographer of the law, he used his position blatantly for self-gain. The Law Society had finally got sick of his outrageous abuse of his clients' funds and struck him down. The result was a new cabinet position in Brandon's government. Some asked how it could be. Most knew that he could carry the Asian and immigrant vote, no matter what he did. It was a measure of their desperation in a new land, reflecting their fears, borne with them from their countries of origin. Any representation was better than no representation. He was currently the Attorney General, the province's highest legal authority. "So the Crew want to expand on their human resource business?" he asked the premier. "They are looking to raise a further forty to sixty young women for their Peruvian enterprise. Apparently, it has become highly fashionable to own a white whore amongst the Peruvian upper classes," Brandon replied. "With all the attention being paid to the situation in Vancouver, we could be getting onto shaky ground. What does the charge d'affairs have to say?" Mughal asked. "He has no difficulty with the passports, or work visas, at this end. The problem is those two bastards at the other end, General Hector Maria Del Rosario, their Supreme Judge, and Teo Medina, their Head of National Security. Del Rosario is rabidly against this sort of thing. He's very dangerous because he is so morally clean. Now Medina is a possible, because of his brother who leads Sendero Luminoso. But even he would be a hard nut to crack. His main concern is about the 'honey pot' potential with his ministers." The premier passed him a whiskey. "Let them pick up their current requirements. The way that we have it set up is similar to the situation a few years back with that cop from the undercover unit. If they start getting too close, we'll just blow their cover. What is our current rate?" Mughal asked slyly. "It's good money. We get $40,000 per head. Then there's the 2% of the other transactions, guns south and drugs north. But don't forget, we also have the heroin coming in through the 14K Triad and the 'illegals' heading for the States. We need another six months and then we can get the hell out of this mess. How I ever let you talk me into this is a bloody mystery." "Now let's not get into that again." Mughal used his best lawyer's tone. "You came into it with your eyes open. By the end of it we should have about thirteen million a piece, plus all the favours owed us. Not bad for ten years work, and, we still get a government pension of $60,000 per year for pocket trash. Stay with the program and we'll retire rich men." "By the way," Brandon interrupted, "the Triad is getting antsy about our other business partners. They don't know as yet who they are, but they are looking hard. They expressed it as a conflict of interest." "Well let them put it in front of the conflict minister," Mughal laughed, "we never had a problem with that sop before, so why should we have one now." They smiled knowingly and lapsed into a comfortable silence. "In Uganda my father quite often told me the story of the Mughals, our namesakes. Initially great warriors from India, they became great statesmen. Their success was, however, due to one common factor, my friend." He waved a hand airily. "They knew what they wanted and then went out and took it. It is that simple." Brandon smiled, but he was not thinking of the Mughals. He was thinking of the Brandons. "I think that we need to distract our friends in the RCMP." "I was just thinking the same. I think that it is about time that I disbanded the Co-ordinated Law Enforcement Unit. It should take us six months to put together a new structure, don't you think?" "Another drink?" Brandon asked smugly as he nodded his appreciation. I'm going to have to watch you, he thought, very, very carefully. Downtown Lima, Peru. Abimael Guzman, supposed founder of the Sendero Luminoso, lay rotting in his prison cell twenty feet below the earth's surface. Some said that he deserved it and hoped that his psoriasis was causing his skin to peel off his body in huge chunks. Hate eats at people and this man had, for twenty-five years, epitomised all that is hateful to many in the Peruvian middle and upper classes. His followers, as one might expect, had a different opinion. So did those in business with his army. "Look. This is a business deal. We do not have to be lovers to put this deal to bed." The speaker was a middle aged man, Peruvian, but of German extraction. "You need money and we need protection in the coca fields. We guarantee to pay top wages to the peasants and to give you an eight per cent cut. Your job is to ensure that the government stays off our back. You basically run the provinces of Ayacucho and Apurimac. You could even move into the Madre De Dios." Schultz made a casual expansive movement with his hand. Gold of every hue caught the sunlight filtering into the room. Yet the trappings did not suggest effeminacy. On the contrary, they added to his already considerable physical presence. His dapper opponent in the negotiations wasn't phased in the slightest. "And you figure our take to be what?" Herman Medina was the head of cardiovascular medicine at the regional hospital in Ayacucho, the site of battles of liberation, a centre of music that exported its students to the world's conservatories, and the regional centre where he was born. He had been forced to leave because of grinding poverty at 13 years of age. His parents had been of the old tradition, giving birth to twelve children in the hope that some might survive and keep them in their old age. He had left in rags and headed for the coast. Finding no hope there, he had begged, borrowed and stole enough to get to Argentina, where his swarthy good looks and sparkling personality had appealed to the bored and unbedded wives of the rich. The fact that he had the sexual stamina and performance of an ox ensured that he was passed from one wealthy lady to another. On his off days he had worked as a typewriter mechanic for Olivetti and with this combined income, he had managed to educate himself and to pay his way through medical school. Thirty years ago he had returned home with a dream. That dream had been fostered in the camps of the Tupamaros guerrillas. He was a hard man in a hard world and sat patiently awaiting the answer. "After all expenses, it will be in the rounds of $20 million US per annum." Schultz said it with a broad and easy smile. "Expenses? Please do not begin the negotiations with such stupidity. Expenses have nothing to do with our end of the bargain. I am not some chollo to be bamboozled by your supposed business talk. The price is twenty five million dollars US for the first year. We will have our own people on site to estimate the production. We will then have our own people do an analysis of the take. Each year, as the market improves, we will expect our eight per cent to be appropriate to production. Yours is the marketing problem my friend. It is your expenses that you need to be cutting if you wish to become more competitive and to increase your market share. Business is business and our part is a fixed cost." Schultz sat back and did a rapid re-analysis of this man. Medina knew exactly what was going through his mind. "I suggest that we leave our elegant hotel Crillon within the next few minutes. If you like I could give you a |