Fu Antos took from another pocket a package wrapped in cloth. Very carefully he unwrapped it. Inside were several small glass vials containing an opaque substance. "Tie one vial to the shaft of each arrow," he told the arrow-Indians. "Handle them carefully—there are demons inside." Actually it was a secret ninja concoction, akin to the old Greek fire, but more virulent. The vials would break on impact, releasing and spreading their contents, and once the stuff caught fire there would be no stopping it.
Confused but amenable, the two Indians obeyed. They prepared the arrows.
Fu Antos walked down to the river. He threw in a small packet of herbs. The packet fell apart as the water suffused it, and the herbs spread through the water in a murky cloud. Soon there was an odd rippling across the water, as though great numbers of small fish were converging. He nodded, and turned away with a small smile of satisfaction.
By this time the boat saboteurs would be completing their job. They were ninjas; no need to be concerned about their competence. In a few more minutes they would swim on downstream, leaving the boat apparently unchanged.
He returned to the bluff. Their chore completed, the two Indians looked at Fu Antos. Unconcerned, he took his bow from the Japanese quiver slung at his side. The quiver was made of ornate lacquered woven rattan, obviously a fine old possession. His bow differed from those of the Indians: its shape was peculiar to Japan, with its hand grip about a third of the way from the bottom. There was a small arc of the lower limb and a large arc of the upper limb.
The Indian arrows were not made for the ninja bow, but Fu Antos made do. He fitted one of the special arrows to the bow and loosed it, so quickly that the Indians were amazed. It flew high and far, and plunged into the roof of the larger tent. There was a loud explosion, and a fountain of white fire leaped from the point of impact, quickly igniting the canvas.
The two Indians were silent, genuinely impressed by the competence of the shot, for Fu Antos looked like a child incapable of a man's effort. And the explosion strengthened their faith in his magic. Indians knew about fire, of course, but these arrows had not been tarred or lit before being loosed. There must have been demons in the bottles, as the ninja leader had said. Impressive, yes!
Fu Antos loosed another fire arrow. It struck the radio shack, setting fire to the thatch. Smoke curled up from the roof as the blaze spread. The occupants did not realize the hazard yet, but they were doomed.
In moments he had fired the other buildings. As the flames shot up, the doors burst open. The men charged out, guns blazing. Now they had to run the gauntlet of arrows between the houses and the boat. The men made an orderly trek. But now they were exposed, while the Indians were under cover. That went far to equalize the disadvantage of bows against guns.
Fu Antos thought briefly of Fernando Mirabal, who should have arrived here by now. But of course the man would not care about his workers; he would have made directly for a larger town, seeking reinforcements. It was no sign of cowardice to stay clear of an adverse situation; Fu Antos would have done the same, in Mirabal's position. Meanwhile, the workers were leaderless, and that would only hasten their doom. The doom that Mirabal himself would be the first to confirm, as the only escapee. There always had to be an escapee, to establish exactly who was responsible, to spread the warning far more effectively than the perpetrators could.
However, the workers were better disciplined than the Indians. There were about twenty Indians against fifteen workers, but the Indians' marksmanship was appalling. Fu Antos realized that he had miscalculated: at short range the Indians could bring down a running animal unerringly, but their bows and arrows and skills were not geared for long range accuracy. The workers, perhaps aware of this, maintained their fire from their American carbines and M-2 automatic rifles, with occasional blasts from a shotgun. Even though they were firing more or less blind, the sheer volume of lead was enough to score randomly, killing several more Indians. The two ninjas could have eliminated the entire formation, but Fu Antos had wanted to test out his allies in combat. They had a long way to go.
A dozen workers made it to the boat despite the best efforts of the Indians. "Why didn't we cut it adrift!" groaned the chief. "Because then they would not have run the gauntlet," Fu Antos responded, as though he were the man and the chief the child, which was true enough in its fashion. "Had they charged the jungle, we could not have contained them."
"But now they escape!"
Fu Antos smiled. "Many will." He watched the boat's engine start. The craft nosed out into the rippling river. Then it began to sink, as the plugs dissolved and popped out of their holes, letting the water pour in. Perfect timing! The men tried to bail it out, but the task was useless. The launch was overloaded, and there were too many leaks.
They swam for it—and suddenly the water was alive. The men screamed and flailed madly and went under the seething surface. White froth danced above the surface. One man jumped high in the water, exposing half his torso. Already, white bones were visible where parts of his face had been. A writhing tail projected from one socket where his eyeball had been eaten. "The water devils!" the chief exclaimed gleefully. "I have never seen them like this!"
"I summoned them," Fu Antos said. "Demons of fire, water, trees—all answer to me."
And the chief looked at him, believing.
Two men made it to shore. Small silver fish clung to them: piranha. One man's leg was a solid mass of them. He fell, unable to walk, for much of the flesh was already gone.
"Salvage those two-alive," Fu Antos said.
The chief started to protest, then reconsidered. He saw how brutally effective the ninja lord's campaign had been. Few Indians had been lost since Fu Antos took over, and the enemy had been wiped out. This man who controlled demons was a valuable ally indeed. He dispatched two warriors.
The two prisoners were brought to Fu Antos. One was unharmed except for the small bites of the piranha attack. The other had to be carried, as his leg was useless.
Fu Antos surveyed them coolly. "Your companions escaped," he said.
"They're all dead!" one of the prisoners cried. Then his mouth tightened as the implication of the ninja's words sank in. If death were escape, what was waiting for the living?
"Food for the fish," the chief murmured appreciatively.
"This is not your land," Fu Antos said to the government man.
The prisoner looked down at him. "A mere boy!" he exclaimed. "You directed this unprovoked massacre?"
"You do not deem the live flaying of a ninja as provocation?"
"We know nothing of that!" But it was apparent the man did know. Mirabal's expertise had not developed without practice.
"Or the flaying of the land?" Fu Antos persisted.
The man shook his head, uncomprehendingly. "We're only prospecting for oil. Setting up to drill a test well—"
"On Indian territory?"
The man looked nervous. "We have a permit!"
Fu Antos turned to the chief. "Did your people approve any permit?"
"No! We approved none of this. They come in, scare our animals off, kill the fish, take our lands, our women, our lives—"
"Not us!" the oil man cried. "We're looking for oil, nothing else. I wouldn't touch a dirty squaw."
The denial was confirmation enough. "Why oil?" Fu Antos asked.
"Why! The world is desperately short of oil. Its value has multiplied."
"So it is for money," Fu Antos said.
"More than that! Without oil, modern industry will grind to a halt. It's a vital resource."
"Modern industry," Fu Antos said. "This is what pollutes the rivers and the air, making villagers die of mercury poisoning, of cancer, of lung disease. You do this for money, so that your people may exist like emperors while the world starves."
"You're crazy!" the man exclaimed. "We need that oil!"
"I am sane. Your culture is crazy," Fu Antos said. "I employ my skills for moral reasons, especially my tortures. You destroy wantonly, f
or greed." Then, meditatively: "And if you are denied oil, your culture will collapse."
Another ninja appeared, running smoothly. The man was in full uniform: reddish-black baggy jacket and trousers, split canvas shoes, and a hood that partially masked his face.
"Master!" the newcomer cried in Japanese. "A message from Kan-Sen by carrier pigeon."
Fu Antos accepted the paper. The message was in Japanese symbols. Kan-Sen was Chinese, but the written language was the same. WEAPONS EN ROUTE BY WATER. JASON STRIKER DISPATCHED AS COURIER.
Fu Antos smiled. He needed those modern weapons, for there were limits to what spears and arrows could do, as this engagement had shown. As for Jason Striker—he had special reason to bring the man here. Kan-Sen was performing well.
Jason Striker should perform even better.
Chapter 2
Fun in Rio
The plane started in Miami, with a stopover in Caracas, then over the great Amazon basin and very briefly over the sea again. It circled the city of Rio de Janeiro, on a bay surrounded by mountains. There was a lovely white sand beach right along the waterfront. I like white beaches; they remind me of pretty girls in bikinis.
As we came closer I could see that the sidewalks were gaily painted in stripes and patterns. I got a good view of the 130-foot statue Christ of Corcovado atop Hunchback Mountain, itself over 2,000 feet high. It loomed out of the shantytown that I understood housed a million people. Rio, squeezed between the ocean and the mountains, had no urban planning; it just sprawled. A solid wall of apartment houses and hotels marched right up to the sand. I had been told by tourist publicity that Rio had been founded in 1567 as a fort and naval base. It had grown!
We had to circle over the field for an hour before landing. At last I stepped down onto the tarmac of Rio's obsolescent Galeão airport. There were no enclosed ramps or other modern comforts; I was no longer in rich USA.
I caught a cab that took me right to my hotel, "La Estrella," which translated as "The Star." It was right on Avenida Atlantica, on the beach: a huge Hilton-style edifice, with hot running water, a huge bed, and a tremendous color TV set in my room. A sight more than I had expected, after the airport.
There was a balcony on Atlantic Avenue, with a view of the Guanabara Bay, the dazzling white sand, tall buildings and clean blue sea. Just as in my fond imagination, the area was full of beautiful young women in bikinis, yet nearby were also several fishing boats getting their nets ready.
Kan-Sen, my enemy collaborator, would contact me here.
I was not familiar with Brazilian social etiquette and did not speak Portuguese, so I took the coward's way and stayed in my room. I wished I had a telescope to help view the lithe creatures of the beach. I'm not really a voyeur; there just wasn't much to do. The hotel personnel spoke English, so I was able to have supper via room service. Then I took a long steamy bath, watched parts of shows on each of the five local TV stations, and fell asleep.
Next morning I felt rested and restless. What about Kan-Sen? I had found no message, received no call. He was supposed to provide me with all the information I needed: where to go, what to do, and what my mission was. Without him I was completely in the dark, wasting my time.
I was hardly cut out to be a secretive agent, and it galled me tremendously to have to take orders, as it were, from my bitterest enemy. But Fu Antos needed me.
I couldn't stay in my room all day. That would look suspicious, and bore me to the explosion point. I should be at my dojo, teaching my judo classes. So I acted like the tourist I was beginning to wish I was, and went out on the beach.
It was early, with the dawn sun just flashing off the water, so there were not many people. And I still didn't speak their language, except in the sense that appreciation for the splendor of the sunrise is universal. I'd picked up a smattering of Spanish over the years, but Brazil is a Portuguese-speaking country. Has to do with a Papal decision, some time back: Portugal colonized to the east of a line through South America, Spain to the west. The east became Brazil.
Then I saw a language that is unfortunately as universal as beauty: violence. A buxom girl had been walking along the beach, looking for shells or something. I was dawdling nearer the water, half-hoping to run into her "accidentally." Two cars drove up and parked beyond her. Two men got out of one and approached the girl. One of them told her to come—even I could grasp that much—and she straightened up, brushing the sand off her voluptuous body. They talked briefly—I assumed at first he was a relative—but then her tone became more doubtful, his more peremptory.
She started to turn away from him, and he grabbed her behind the head with one hand and pulled her in to him. That was the point my interest shifted from the casual to the concerned. She did not appear to put up resistance, but drew in quite close to him, her bosom touching his chest. They were spectacular breasts, and he was understandably distracted as she put an arm behind his back. Suddenly she spun into a left o goshi hip throw, and he was flying through the air to land hard on his back.
"Beautiful!" I breathed appreciatively. To me, the elegance of a perfectly executed judo throw is the prettiest sight of all. In theory, a person thrown with the force upon his back will not be inclined to renew hostilities, and the theory became fact on this occasion. The other man made the mistake of grabbing her from behind with arms around her waist. She bent and caught hold of one of his feet, lifting it. He had to fall on his back. She dropped heavily on his knee, breaking it. He screamed.
The first man had by now recovered somewhat. He tried to hit her with his fist, a blow to the face. She blocked it with her hand, striking the outside of his wrist and weaving her face aside. She went in behind him and put a hadaka jime standing naked strangle on him, bending down her face and pushing against his shoulder. Unable to believe that a mere woman could choke him out, he resisted. He was turning purple.
But then three more men from the second car charged up. One caught her with a kick to the rib cage just under her left breast. Ouch—I knew that hurt, if it hadn't broken her ribs. By this time I was on my feet and rushing into the fray. I had not chosen to get involved before; the girl had seemed able to handle herself, and I knew nothing of the situation. But there are limits. Still, it took me a few minutes to get there. You can't make good time in loose sand when you want to.
She rolled with the kick and turned to face this new antagonist, but the next man slapped her hard across the face. Now it was three against one, and the man she had been strangling was recovering. Evidently they didn't see me, since I was between them and the sun. She fell down, and one of them kicked her hard in the buttocks.
Then I arrived. Faster than a speeding bullet, et cetera: say what you will, but a lady in distress sets me in motion about as rapidly as anything. I kicked the recently strangled man hard on the shoulder from behind, probably breaking it and putting him out for the duration. Not very sporting, but this was not a sportive matter. If the girl had thrown him just a bit harder the first time, she would have been in less trouble than she was now.
That left three active men. The one who had just kicked the prone girl's bottom tried the same on me. But I had less of a target, and I was on my feet. He came at me from the side, and I put one hand on his upper thigh, the other on the ankle, and moved up on him so that his kick did not have much force. I did a sasaetsuri-komi-ashi lifting-pull throw on his supporting foot. That is, I propped my right foot against his left ankle and levered him over by his raised right foot. As he fell on his back I finished him off with a straight punch to the middle of his face that smashed his nose.
Two to go. One tried an uppercut, but I moved my head back, grabbed his hand at the wrist with both of mine, and pushed it upward. That continued its natural motion, making his effort work for me. Then I turned and put it under my armpit in the waki-gatame armpit hold. This is a submission lock that puts pressure on the captive elbow, and the only sensible thing for the man caught in it is to yield immediately. But the fool tried to resist,
so I increased my force. In the excitement of the fray, and nervous about the last man who was charging me, I misjudged it. His arm snapped, and he screamed in agony. I let him go; that fight was through.
The third man looked like an ex-football linesman. He weighed all of three hundred pounds, and he tried a hard tackle. He rushed in low, first attempting to butt me in the stomach. It could have been most effective against an unprepared man. But I took both his arms from above and snaked my hands over his shoulders and under his chest, linking my own fingers. Then I threw myself backwards, again utilizing my opponent's impetus. My head pressed into his upper back, serving as a fulcrum, and he flew over my back to land with terrific force on the sand. Fortunately for him, he knew how to take a fall, but he had lost much of his incentive. A three-hundred-pound landing is a rough one, no matter how experienced the man is. He got up and staggered back toward the cars.
Now, for the first time, I got a good look at the girl's face—and suddenly I knew why she had seemed familiar. "Dulce!" I exclaimed.
I had visited Cuba once, in my capacity as trainer of the American judo team competing in Havana. I had met Dulce on the beach, seemingly by accident. She was a militia-woman, perhaps assigned to keep an eye on me, but she was also great company. She was fascinated by judo and judokas, and by me too, if I had not misread the signals. I knew she was a dedicated Communist, but she had never imposed her political views on me, and I liked her too. Not merely for her appearance; she was a smart, competent woman with a good personality and a flair for language. She could speak English like a native, as well as French and Spanish and Portuguese and for all I knew several others. I could see that she had also been working on her judo, for she had put it to good use. Actually, I think judo is good for any woman. Maybe some day the world will be completely safe, with no violence anywhere; meanwhile it is smart to know self-defense.
Dulce and I had not had any love affair. Perhaps it would have come to that, but our acquaintance had been abruptly terminated by events not of our making. I had not seen her again—until now. Male that I am, I immediately saw the potential for converting my idle waiting time into real pleasure. But I approached the matter with a bit of natural caution. After all, her interest in me could have faded; my removal from the scene had been abrupt and unexplained, and she might have harbored a natural resentment. "Should we make a report to the police? An unprovoked attack like this—"