Chapter 1

“The Hit That Missed”

The music drifting from the small adobe church reminded fourteen-year-old Alfredo of happier days, days high in the Andes Mountains where he sat alone and played his flute while the wind howled among the rocky peaks.

Absentmindedly he reached for the flute he had carried so long in his pocket, only to find the cold iron of a pistol. In the evening’s dimming light, he glanced at his two companions as though they might read his mind. He did not play his flute anymore. He was a soldier with the Shining Path guerrillas and could not afford the luxury of music.

While he sat leaning against a tree near the front door of the old church, Alfredo’s two companions, Juan and Rhony, dozed beside him, their heads pillowed on a blanket roll.

Rhony roused himself and muttered, “Karun purina pisiqtaq k’oqao.”

“Speak Spanish,” snapped Juan. “I don’t understand your Quechua language.”

Rhony rolled his eyes. “I said, this is a lot of work without much to eat.” Rhony and Alfredo were Peruvian Indians from mountain villages. Juan was from the city of Lima and spoke only Spanish.

Rhony raised up on an elbow and looked at Alfredo. “When will this preacher of yours be coming out?”

Alfredo shrugged and looked at the moon, which was just coming up over the snow-capped mountains to the east. “Sometimes they sing until midnight. Who knows?”

“Midnight?” Juan sat up and looked toward the church. “Then how come we came so early?”

“So nobody would notice us. We’re just some poor Indians sitting under a tree.”

“Yeah,” said Rhony, “with our rifles rolled up in an old blanket.”

“Right.” Alfredo glanced at the dark roll his comrade had been resting on. “No one can tell what’s in that.”

“Maybe no one is suspicious now. But what about afterward? What about after we shoot that preacher? Then they will think back, and someone will say, ‘Yeah, I remember kimsa runas under that tree.’”

“Speak Spanish,” said Juan, punching Rhony’s shoulder.

“Three guys,” snapped Rhony. “Someone will remember three guys sitting under this tree with a long blanket roll that could have concealed guns.”

“So what?” said Alfredo. “They won’t remember who we are.” He paused and studied Rhony. “You sound like you’re scared. You want out?”

Rhony sighed—“No!”—and laid back down. Juan relaxed again, as well.

Alfredo leaned against the tree. It was strange, him asking Rhony if he wanted out. No one got out of the Shining Path alive. His brother had learned that the hard way. So why had he made Rhony the offer? Probably Rhony thought it was a threat, but the more Alfredo considered his comment, maybe he had said it because it was what he secretly wanted, too. But escaping from the ranks of the Shining Path wasn’t possible—not from the most violent Communist organization in the world.

The singing had stopped, and suddenly the door of the little church opened, flooding the street with light and then a stream of happy worshipers heading for their humble homes in the streets of Chosica.

“Hey, you guys,” whispered Alfredo, “it’s over. Rómulo Sauñe will be coming out soon. Stay put till I say to move.” This was Alfredo’s operation. Their commander had put him in charge as a test of his loyalty: Could he—would he—carry out the order to assassinate Rómulo Sauñe, the evangelical pastor who had so much influence in the surrounding mountain villages?

First one light and then another went off inside the church, and then two couples came out of the now-darkened doors, closing and locking them behind themselves. The people exchanged hugs, and then one man and woman turned and walked right past the tree with the waiting terrorists, while the other couple went on down the street.

Alfredo and his comrades remained silent until the couple had passed. “Is that him?” whispered Juan. “Let’s shoot him now.”

“No, that’s not them. It’s the other couple. Pastor Sauñe and his wife went up the street that way.” Alfredo pointed at the receding figures that could barely be seen in the moonlight.

“Oh, so it’s Pastor Sauñe now, is it?” said Juan. “Sounds like you’re rather familiar.”

“Well . . . yeah. You know I had to scout out this operation. I’ve even been to a couple of their meetings. But that’s all. Our great leader, Abimael Guzmán, is the only ‘pastor’ for me.”

The three remained under the tree until they saw Rómulo Sauñe and his wife enter a house nearly a block from the church, then they arose, unwrapped the rifles, and moved out. Alfredo carried only his pistol.

“When we get to the door,” Alfredo said in an undertone, “you guys hang back and cover me. I’ll do the hit.” It had been their commander’s orders that he be the one to kill the pastor. “It’ll be your way of proving your loyalty after being gone so long,” he said. Alfredo had agreed. What else could he do?

Clouds drifted across the moon covering the movements of the three guerrillas. A dog began barking, a high yipping sound. The boys froze in the shadows. Finally a man cursed at the dog. The dog yelped, apparently hit by something the man threw, and then was silent. A door slammed.

After a few moments of silence, the guerrillas continued moving up the street.

Over the door to Rómulo Sauñe’s house hung a single light bulb, protected by a shade that looked more like an upside-down pie tin. As Alfredo approached, he considered whether he should knock out the light. He didn’t like the idea of standing in front of the door bathed in light. On the other hand, breaking the bulb might attract more attention. He’d be better off leaving the light in place even if it exposed him for a few moments.

He turned to look at Juan and Rhony. They had dropped back to cover his position as he got closer to the house. Alfredo gave a hand signal for them to stop as he halted just beyond the reach of the light. Everything was silent . . . maybe too quiet. He held his breath until he thought he might faint. Then somewhere in the distance he heard someone’s radio or TV playing a commercial for Coca-Cola.

He breathed again.

Taking one last glance at his comrades, Alfredo cocked his pistol, held it upright at shoulder level, and moved into the circle of light.

In three quick steps he was at the house, flattening his back to the wall on the left side of the door. He reached out with his free hand to knock. That’s when he saw the cross, hanging on the wall at eye level on the other side of the doorway. Why hadn’t he seen it before?

Suddenly he remembered the church in his mountain village of Santa Rosa and the old priest who often carried a small wooden cross—almost like the one hanging beside the door—when he visited the families of Alfredo’s village. Alfredo hesitated and frowned. Who was he really fighting against here? Wasn’t God on the side of the guerrillas? Weren’t they struggling against a government that didn’t seem to care about the Indians in the mountains? That’s what he’d been told. Why did that simple cross make him feel uneasy?

This was no time for doubts. He knocked sharply on the door.

He knocked again and waited a few moments. But there was no answer.

He shifted his pistol to his left hand and thumped the door loudly with the butt of its handle, quickly returning it to his right hand, ready to confront the pastor when he opened the door.

Still, there was silence. He looked back at his comrades, wondering what to do.

Then someone spoke from inside. “Yes, who is it?” Ah, it was Sauñe’s voice.

“A friend.”

“Who?”

“Is the pastor there?”

There was a brief silence on the other side of the door. Then: “No. The pastor isn’t here now.” Then Alfredo heard footsteps receding from the door.

Forgetting all caution, Alfredo spun around and faced the door head on, pounding on it with his fist. “Señor, wait! Let me in. I must see the pastor.” He paused, listening for some hint that his demand would be answered. But no answer came.

Alfredo banged on the door with the barrel of his gun and then stepped back a couple steps and looked from side to side at the front of the whole house. Surely he had not made a mistake. This was the pastor’s house, wasn’t it? He had seen him enter it several times. He had seen many other people come to this same door and be admitted by none other than Rómulo Sauñe, the evangelical Indian pastor he was supposed to kill. And just tonight, less than fifteen minutes before, he’d seen him and his wife . . .

“Hey, Juan! Rhony!” he said in a loud whisper. “This is the right door, isn’t it? You saw him go in here, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, if that was him,” answered Rhony. “But we’ve never seen him before.”

It had to be the right door. That preacher was just being stubborn. Alfredo stepped back up to the door, quietly this time, and carefully tried the handle. It was locked. He swore, took one step back, and banged again with the barrel of his pistol. Frustrated, he turned away and joined his comrades as they retreated into the shadows.

“We’ve got to find another way!”

“Let’s go around back,” said Juan. “There may be another door from the rear.”

“Or maybe a window that’s not locked,” added Rhony.

* * * *

Alfredo and his companions spent the next hour trying to find a way to break into the compound, but all the windows in the thick adobe walls were barred, and the strong gate to a walled garden in the back was locked.

“Why don’t we climb over?” suggested Rhony.

“Then what?” Alfredo threw up his hands. “We don’t know what room the pastor and his wife sleep in. Even if we could get in, it might be someone else’s room.”

“So what?” Juan shrugged. “We’d just kill them, too.”

“Yeah, and as soon as we started shooting, we’d wake up the whole household. Then we’re either facing several people, or Sauñe gets away.”

Juan stared at Alfredo in the blue shadows and silver moonlight. Finally he said, “Something doesn’t make sense here. We had everything planned, but nothing’s working out.”

“Yeah,” Rhony muttered. “It’s like someone’s working against us at every turn.”

“Then we’ll have to go to my backup plan,” said Alfredo. He didn’t have a backup plan, but his comrades didn’t know that. “Let’s get some sleep and try again tomorrow.”