food or clothing is delivered, and more of us die.”
“It’s classic,” Blancanales interjected. “Your manifest-destiny types did the same thing right here, with poisoned grain and blankets spiked with smallpox. Talk about weapons of mass destruction.”
“O Médico—Dr. Weiss—has helped us without charge since he arrived. He offers care to anyone in need, and for that crime, the state will kill him, or at least expel him from Brazil.”
“You’ve witnessed these attempts?” Bolan asked.
Enriquez nodded. “Once, when we went to Diamantino for supplies, three men approached us. They insulted me, touched me and Dr. Weiss told them to stop. They turned on him then, but he left all three of them unconscious in the street.
“Later,” she continued, “they sent helicopters to the village of my people, shooting from the sky. O Médico treated the wounded, even while bullets flew around him.”
“I don’t know what you’re asking us to do,” Bolan told her. “If the government wants to get rid of him, they’ll find a way to do the job. We can’t declare war on Brazil.”
“Nathan told me that he had friends of great ability in the United States. He sent me here to ask for help, but I am not a fool. I know he cannot stay and help my people any longer without giving up his life.”
“What, then?”
“You must persuade him to give up, go home, before he’s killed. Take him by force, if necessary. Be his friend and save his life.”
“Just drop into the jungle there and kidnap him.”
“Maybe he’ll listen if you talk to him,” she said. “Remind him that he is American and not Tehuelche.”
“Couldn’t you do that?” Bolan asked.
“To my people, Nathan—Dr. Weiss—is almost like a god. They need him to survive and love him for the help he offers them, but they think first about themselves. Sometimes, it seems as if they think he is immortal and cannot be harmed by common men.”
Bolan had picked up on her use of Weiss’s given name and wondered whether there was something more between them than a simple doctor-patient relationship. Despite the time they’d spent together under fire, some jungle R and R between engagements, Bolan didn’t know the details of his old friend’s private life, his taste in women, anything along those lines. He knew the man’s determination, though, and the soldier didn’t like the odds of him persuading Bones to leave his self-appointed mission.
“You say he’s being hunted just because he helped your people?” Bolan asked.
“It’s one reason,” the woman answered, “but the government has ample cause to hate him. Before us, he was in Rio de Janeiro. There, he had a clinic for street children. Did you know that some policemen, after hours, drive around the streets and shoot the homeless children as if they were rabid dogs?”
“I’ve heard the stories,” Bolan said.
“They’re true, and sometimes worse than what you read in newspapers or magazines. After six months in Rio, the police got an injunction to prevent Nathan from treating children without the consent of their parents. Orphans! You see? When he continued, they put him in jail. Before he was released, they burned his clinic and declared the fire an accident.”
“So he moved on?”
“To spare the children, after a police lieutenant told him every one he treated would be thrown in prison to amuse the perverts. It hurt him, but he left to find new patients.”
“It’s a jump from Rio to the Mato Grosso jungle,” Bolan said.
“He tried some other places first. AIDS patients in São Paulo. Plantation laborers at Uberlândia. Guarani Indians in the Serra Dourada. Each time it was the same. Suspicion, threats against his life and those he tried to help.”
“It’s obvious he isn’t listening,” Bolan replied. “What makes you think that he’ll hear anything I have to say?”
“Because he asked for you, his friends.”
“Unless you’re holding back, he didn’t ask us to come down and snatch him out of there.”
“Perhaps he’ll listen. But if not, when it is done, at least he will be safe.”
“What’s to prevent him turning right around and going back?” Bolan asked. “We can’t lock him up and throw away the key.”
“Perhaps, when he has time to think in peace, he’ll realize that nothing can be gained by what he’s doing in my country.”
“What about your people?” Blancanales inquired.
Stone-faced, she said, “We’re finished, don’t you see? Nathan can’t save us. No one can. He’ll only waste his life, when he could be of such great help to others, somewhere else.”
“Would you be coming with him?” Bolan asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “Perhaps, if Nathan wants me.”
“When are you going back?”
“Tomorrow. One way or another, I must give him your decision.”
“I’ll tell him myself.” Turning to Blancanales, he said, “We need a minute to ourselves.”
THE MOTEL BALCONY was adequate, no one in the adjoining rooms to eavesdrop as they leaned against the rail in hazy Southern California sunshine.
“Now I’ve heard her,” Bolan said, “give me your take on this.”
“I think Bones may be losing it. Looking for a cause, some way to make his life count for something. Hell, for all I know it could be your basic midlife crisis.”
“Maybe. But who’s picking up the tab? Free clinics may be free to patients, but they eat up money just the same, and plenty of it.”
“I can answer part of that,” Blancanales said. “I ran a check on Bones through Stony Man. He had some money from his family, back East. Not Rockefeller money, but they did all right. He’s the last of the line, never married, no siblings. Had a good adviser, made some smart investments. Most of it was liquidated when he left the States. Call it a cool half million, give or take.”
“That’s seed money,” Bolan replied. “A big seed, sure, but he’s been working with the lady’s tribe for three years now, no charge, and all the other deals she talked about before he focused in on them. The Rio clinic and what-have-you. Would half a million last that long, paying for medicine, equipment and facilities, travel?”
“I doubt it.”
“So, I’ll ask again. Who’s picking up the tab?”
Blancanales shook his head. “Don’t know.”
“One thing we do know,” Bolan said. “If Bones has his mind set on helping these people, he won’t be talked out of it.”
“No.”
“And I don’t fancy trying to carry him out of Brazil on my back, bound and gagged.”
“Why are you going, then?”
“First thing, to have a look and see what’s really happening.” He nodded toward the door numbered 252. “I think we’ve got a case of hero-worship here, or maybe love. I don’t believe she’s told us everything she knows about what Bones is doing in the big, bad woods.”
“You figure it’s political?”
“She talks about a man who’s looking for a cause. Maybe he wants to be a martyr. I won’t know until I see it for myself.”
“Wish I could back you up,” Blancanales said.
“I’m just observing,” Bolan told