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. “Sí, 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 chased after him with the whole command of Bellanova. He wanted the reward. Big reward.”

“No word at all from 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.”