The pai-de-Santo looked up. "We must now make sacrifice," he said. "Only this can bring us help."
Now he fetched a live duck from an adjacent room. My skin tightened, for I suspected what was coming and did not like it. But Ester put a restraining hand on my arm. "It is necessary," she said. "Do not, in your ignorance, insult another god."
Good advice! I kept silent.
The pai-de-Santo smeared honey and lard over the hapless bird, then poured rum over it. He then used the coconut fragments to inquire whether the goddess required the actual blood of the duck. I chewed on my tongue, hoping she would decline, but the fall of the throw was one brown and three white: a qualified yes. He verified it with another throw.
Now he got a good grip on the duck's head, took out the sacrificial knife, and cut that head off with a violent slash. I felt as if my own head were coming loose. As a judo instructor I deal in violence, but also in fair play; the notion of an innocent bird giving its life without even a chance to fight back appalled me. Was I myself a similar victim?
"Oggun killed it!" he stated loudly.
"Now that's a lie," I protested.
Again Ester restrained me. "Part of the ritual. All killing is done in the name of the god of war, so that no blame will attach for the act. Oggun doesn't mind, and it saves a lot of trouble." I shut up. After all, I was the cause of all this.
The pai-de-Santo held the bleeding carcass before the image, letting the blood drip to the floor. Then he wiped it up with a handful of the bird's own feathers. Finally he placed the bird in a burner and started it roasting. I thought of the ovens of Nazi Germany, cremating innocents.
The dance resumed, and while it continued the fire consumed the body of the sacrificial duck, until it was nothing but ashes. And then, as if it were an instant, it was morning. The beat stopped and the congregation dispersed. Ester had disappeared, somewhat to my disappointment; she must have figured she had thanked me enough by explaining everything. We had danced all night!
The pai-de-Santo caught me aside for a private conference. "You may not have understood everything," he said. "Exu laid a curse on you, and Yemanja has abated it, but she could not nullify it entirely. So she sends her daughter to protect you; as long as she is with you, the thrust of the spell will be blunted. But if she becomes separated from you, only the willing sacrifice of a loved one will save you from death at the hands of your friend, and even then, it is not certain. This is as far as the goddess can go."
"Tell her thank you," I said, and I meant it. I was too tired to be very expressive. Then my brow furrowed. "Her daughter?"
"Goddess of an African river and wife of Xango," he explained. "You have found favor with her—I do not profess to know why—and so she cooperates with her mother to animate a human body, and to guard you from evil." He winked. "Do not be concerned about her married state; Xango has nothing to do with her, instead preferring her sisters Oya and Oshun. He will not be jealous."
"Oshun?" I repeated. "Isn't she—?"
"Yes, she is the goddess of love and gold, whose dance you saw. Perhaps it is because she turned you down that her sister helps you. Oba was always jealous of her husband's mistresses, and perhaps wishes to give him a certain taste of his own medicine."
Oshun-Miss Sex Appeal! I could see why a god would prefer her to his homebody wife, and why that wife would be resentful.
Then I did a doubletake. "Who?"
"Oba," he repeated, gesturing. And now the girl I had called Oba came forward and took my hand, leading me out of the building. Stunned but hardly dismayed, I went with her.
Chapter 7
March on the Black Castle
"Well, my dear," Mirabal said, smiling like Frankenstein's monster, "you caused us much trouble. You made so neat an escape from our private detention center that I am surprised we recaptured you so readily. Why didn't you vacate the area immediately, once you saw the prison break was successful?"
Dulce didn't answer. This was her first meeting with this man, and she was apprehensive. The leader of the Death Squads—what could she expect at his hands but torture?
"It could not be that you are stupid, for you are not," he continued imperturbably. "You are one of the most brilliant and talented of the Horse's spies." This was an unsubtle slur on the head of the government of her own country; Fidel Castro was said by his enemies—and some of his friends—to smell like a sweaty horse, owing to his laxity about personal hygiene. But Dulce did not react. "Yet I doubt it could be a plot to assassinate me or any high ranking member of our government, for you are known to us, and would never be given the chance to act. Of course you are very capable with your bare hands, but you would require more than that to overcome me."
Still she did not reply. Mirabal so far had been completely accurate; Dulce was a trained fighter, but so was he, and he had monstrous layers of muscle she lacked, as well as being completely ruthless. Few, very few human beings could overcome Fernando Mirabal in honest barehanded combat, and he was not one to confine himself to honest methods.
"You could not have had anything to do with certain recent assassinations," he continued. "You had already been taken into custody when they occurred, and they were far away. Do bees mean anything to you? Spiders? Privies?" Her gaze was blank. "No, I thought not. So it would appear you have no connection to those activities. You are a leftist agent, not a ninja."
He walked around the room, pondering aloud. "I always like to know the truth," he said. "Illusion can be costly to those engaged in counterespionage. We have already lost an entire town by underestimating our opposition. So I ask myself why this luscious Cuban plum, so difficult to grasp and hold, should now fall so easily into my hand, and I must have an answer. Why should you merely wait in a building facing the prison, until it was too late to escape the tightening police cordon? One might postulate all manner of reasons, but overcomplexity is treacherous. Better to explore the simplest: that it was an accident, unintentional on your part. Then why should you be so careless? And I have only one answer: love."
Now her pert nose wrinkled as she made an inaudible sniff of derision. She was absolutely lovely in that pose, though her hands and feet were tied.
"Ah, my dear, do not disdain that tender passion," he chided her, his soft words incongruous, coming from so huge and brutal a man. "For the love of one man you roused the revolutionary groups to attack the prison, and actually succeeded in freeing him. Jason Striker—yes, I see it in your eyes! You would do anything to save him from torture or death. Anything at all! Yet you dare not express it openly, for El Caballo would not approve." He chuckled.
El Caballo meant "The Top" in Spanish. In Cuba it was a term of respect for Fidel, but Mirabal used it derisively. "I must admit the Horse has good taste in some matters. And so you waited, heedless of your own safety, waited to meet the gringo, lest he become lost in the great city, and be recaptured because of his ignorance of our custom and language. But he was swept into the festival crowd, his pants falling down, and he was victim of that same distraction you so prettily planned for the prison authorities, and could not get back to you, and so it was my men who completed your liaison instead. Such irony, that the prisoner goes free, while his rescuer is made captive! Normally it is the prince who frees the lady at great peril to himself, not the other way around."
Dulce made no sound, but her lips formed a word in Portuguese: "Puerco," pig.
"You will be pleased to know that Striker remains free," Mirabal said. "You need not have troubled yourself about him; I was about to release him anyway."
Now at last she reacted overtly. "Liar!" she snapped.
"Why should I lie to you?" he inquired. "You are powerless. I inform you only that you may understand what I wish you to understand—when the time comes. You shall quite possibly be of inestimable service to me." He paused, but she had no comment.
"I interrogated the American, and learned that he was on a mission for Fu Antos, the chief of the Japanese ninjas, an old time warrior cult who ha
ve recently infiltrated our inland forest region. Striker's meeting with you was coincidence; that led me astray for a time, for I thought it had to be by design. Since it is important to me to locate and eliminate the ninja villain, I decided to allow Striker to 'escape,' aided by one of my agents within the prison, then watch where he went. If he led me to the Black Castle and its oil strike..." He shook his head. "Alas, Fu Antos outsmarted me. I could have sworn from his actions and reactions that Striker was just a bumbling fool possessing no information of value. Therefore I was sure he was a courier of vital news. And lo, he fooled me completely, by being exactly what he seemed to be. He was merely an ignorant decoy. While I wasted my attention tracing his aimless wanderings through the city, the ninja was receiving a vast shipment of weapons via the river." He shook his head in grudging admiration. "Who would have thought a martial artist of Striker's reputation would come all the way to Brazil merely to serve as a distraction! I could not anticipate that, and but for chance, that ploy would have been successful. But now I have no further need of the American."
Dulce could no longer feign indifference. "You lie again. You hate Jason. You are holding me to lure him into a trap."
"I do hate him. He injured me in our prior encounter in New York, and for that his life is forfeit. Which is the beauty of it: the ninja knew I would focus on Striker immediately, and so run the risk of overlooking more important matters. So—"
"But it will not work. Jason will never do your bidding from fear of my torture."
"Torture you?" Mirabal inquired, raising an eyebrow. It was a minor gesture, but it displayed the type of bodily control that made him a formidable fighter. Whether twitching a brow or hammering with a fist, his coordination was perfect. "No, my dear, you shall not be tortured. I would not have one bit of you disfigured. And you are right: Striker would not be moved. He loves you less than you love him, and neither knows nor cares where you are. He is with a lithe young girl he met in the streets, a seamstress and dancer, and now he sleeps off his night's endeavors in her apartment." Dulce's eyes flared, but she did not dignify his taunt by giving it the lie.
"Striker has in any event become superfluous," Mirabal said. "I shall allow one of my squads to obtain the practice of the chase this afternoon, after the American is suitably rested. There is no sport like the pursuit of live prey! The men shall gain invaluable experience as they track him down and make their kill, and the unfit among them will no doubt be destroyed. Striker has a certain talent in the rough and tumble; it makes up for what he lacks in wit." And he rubbed the back of one knee reflectively, again remembering his own initial encounter with the subject. Then he returned to Dulce: "No, my dear, you need have no fears. You shall have the very best, until I have need of you." And he shaped his huge gnarl-calloused hands around the rope between her wrists, tensed his astonishing muscles, and snapped it like so much string. Then he did the same for her feet, freeing her. More than ever, he resembled Frankenstein's monster, except that the monster had been, at heart, innocent.
"You should have left me tied!" she cried. "You'll have to take me by force! I'll never submit voluntarily."
"You misunderstand, my voluptuous beauty," he said. "I have no personal desire for your body." But he loosened his belt and dropped his trousers, uncovering his phenomenally muscled legs. Dulce might have attacked him at that moment, while his ankles were temporarily hobbled, but she knew he was alert and would give her no chance. He could kill her with one blow of his horny fist, literally, and would.
He removed his undershorts, revealing his elephantine genital dangling like a python. Suddenly his left hand shot out, catching her elbow. He hauled her into him, and like, a bird caught in the coils of a deadly snake she suffered herself to be enfolded without resistance. He drew her up, running his right hand over her breasts, squeezing them through the cloth of her dress, inserting his fingers into her cleavage. Then the hand traveled down over her abdomen, across her swelling hip, and around to enclose her buttocks in a firm pinch. His head tilted down; he lifted her by the buttocks as though hoisting a child, and kissed her lips.
"No, my dear, I shall not place my tongue between your pearly teeth," he murmured, giving her posterior a final penetrating goose. Then he let her go and stood back.
His naked penis remained completely limp.
He had proved his point. He was physically unmoved by her sex appeal.
"What do you want with me?" Dulce asked, half relieved, half insulted. "I know nothing of Fu Antos."
"I am aware of that. We have virtually located the Black Castle. I have maintained surveillance of all unusual traffic on the tributaries of the Amazon River, a Herculean task. My agents pinpointed the freighter carrying the weapons as soon as they were loaded on it near Key West, and we have monitored its radio calls. We moved in at the time of transfer to the smaller boats, but never hindered the procedure. Thus we have located our quarry: a convoy of small boats carrying weapons for the ninja. Already my men, posing as itinerant workers, have eliminated the ninja representatives, quietly; my own personnel now man the crafts. Thus we shall have safe access to the Black Castle of the Ninjas, trusting them to guide us in. Is it not beautiful?"
Dulce had no knowledge of the Black Castle or the ninjas, but she was interested in another aspect. "Then I am of no use to you," she said, hoping he would let her go. She might yet be able to warn Jason.
"On the contrary, you are my insurance," Mirabal said. "In my researches into the history of the ninja cult—I always study my enemy carefully—I came upon a truly remarkable coincidence." He studied her for a moment. "Yes, you are perfect. The gods have truly smiled on me this day."
Then he left her, carrying his trousers in one hand, his limp member still proclaiming its disinterest.
"Maricon!" she exclaimed in her native tongue, with amazed realization. "He is a homosexual!" Or at any rate, a sexually indifferent man. Some were like that.
Still, she was unable to fathom the meaning of his other words. For what was she perfect, if not for information or love? Yet she had a gnawing certainty that she would not like the answer when it finally came clear.
The captain of the lead boat kept his eyes open as the river narrowed. He was on his own; Mirabal would not join the party or indicate his involvement in any other way until the battle was joined, lest his arrival by helicopter tip off the ninjas. No word of this mission had been allowed out; even the troops did not know where they were going or why. In fact, no one knew; there had been neither time nor privacy to torture the prior captain for information about the precise landing or identification codes. Probably the man hadn't known anyway; the ninjas would intercept the convoy at their convenience. That was when it would get hairy. Was it really possible to outfox the foxes?
It was night. Slowly the boats moved on upriver, using only those lights required for safety. There was no signal from the shore. Then a voice spoke from the gloom of the dark cabin. "Captain." A chill ran down the captain's spine. He turned. He could barely make out a hooded figure. How it had come aboard the boat without detection he could not guess, but its very presence was all the evidence necessary. This was a living ninja!
"Yes," the captain said. If there were a secret password, he would soon be dead, but he was under orders to take that gamble and he knew better than to disobey. He had seen a few of the victims of Fernando Mirabal's displeasure.
"To the right. Dock," the ninja said in bad Portuguese. The captain turned the wheel. The boats behind followed. There was a small, dilapidated-looking wooden pier half-concealed by the jungle. It was just like a thousand others scattered along the Amazon River system. The pilings were rotten and the planking was overgrown by vegetation. But underneath it was strong, braced by new timber, the exterior carefully preserved as a facade. It was, in a sense, invisible: no one would have thought to use it or even approach it, ordinarily.
A number of Indians were on hand with mules to help unload the shipment. Many of the cases were small but hea
vy, containing disassembled machine guns, bazookas, ammunition and grenades. Many were sealed in oil drums or wrapped in tarpaulins. They were not hard for one or two men to handle.
But soon the Indians grew suspicious. Certain code-signals were not forthcoming. Hands went for weapons.
And there was a barrage of fire from the boats. "Get the ninja!" the captain cried—and fell, a knife in his back. The men charged, but already he was dead, the ninja gone. Obviously the ninja had realized before that this was not the original crew, but had allowed the unloading to proceed so that his people could ambush the troops and recover the supplies. The less sophisticated Indians had blown the whistle prematurely, and perhaps that had been fortunate. A crewman used a radio. "They're on to us," he said. "We killed the Indians, but the ninja got away. Move up the second convoy fast; no more point in secrecy."
For a few miles back there was another and larger expedition. That one carried mechanized equipment the ninjas had never ordered. Now it would see action.
Under the overhanging trees of the jungle a road had been made. It was cleverly covered over by green turf and even a thin layer of standing water in places, but underneath it was solid. Someone had put a lot of work into this secret highway. The armored column was on its way, using the ninjas' own jungle turnpike. There was no longer any attempt at concealment; the battle had in effect been joined. Without the prepared road, it would have been impossible. This was the very heart of the continental forest. The trees were large and close together, rising one hundred, one hundred and fifty, and even two hundred feet above the floor. Their upper foliage was luxuriant and interlaced with vines and parasitic growth so that sunlight could not penetrate to the level of the trail. There was therefore hardly any undergrowth, except in occasional grassy gaps in the forest cover. This was the forest primeval.
This was in fact a battalion of the Brazilian army, with eight hundred men accompanied by select armored units. Unlike North American troops, most of the men used their feet instead of riding. There were five light old armored cars, carrying .30 and .50 caliber machine guns, and eight half-tracked personnel carriers bearing the most privileged troops. Five jeeps handled the officers. A tank led the column, and another terminated it, with men riding on each. The convoy moved at the pace of the foot-soldiers, however, slow but sure.