But then she saw the one great flaw, assuming the process would work. The Hyena watched her all the time when he did not have her confined. She could not get any cocaine, or any other drug. Unless—wait! There were telltale signs. The Hyena's nose was chronically runny under his mask, and he sniffed a lot. She had thought it was irritation from the confining mask, for it had to be hideously close inside that animal head. But it could be cocaine addiction. His animal odor-possibly another signal of the habit. He had lost his sense of smell...
Doctors claimed that cocaine was not physically addictive. Ha-ha. But psychologically, it was irresistible. Such emotional compulsion—it could account for some of the Hyena's peculiarities. Potent, expensive, dangerous stuff.
Still, it was her best chance. Striker had gotten off Kill-13. True, he had had only one sniff, immediately worked out of his system by savage physical action and the emotional shock of the death of his Chinese fiancée. And he had friends with extremely specialized knowledge. But he must have done something similar, sliding from one drug to another. The secret was to do it in stages; one-step cessation was fatal, like a hammerfist blow to the brain. Several steps could cushion it, until the addiction was gone. If Striker could do it, so could she. She had to believe that. First, she had to practice the discipline of conversion. Perhaps she would not be able to apply it soon, but if she cooperated with the Hyena, he would give her more freedom, and then she might have access to some other drug. Possibly she would be able to steal some of his own supply of cocaine.
A strange sensation suffused her. It took her some time to identify it, masked as it was by her pain. It had been long since she had experienced anything like it.
It was unholy joy.
Hours later, when the Hyena returned, Ilunga was fully amenable to any orders he might give. Satisfied, he gave her one pellet of Kill-13, and she used it. But it was the beginning of the end of her addiction; she knew it.
The Hyena had made the mistake of forcing her to think.
Actually, the Hyena, like Sifu Teng, had much to show her. Some of it was simple: the huge handsome house and grounds, with pretty trees and stream. One side of the house had a monstrous picture window, dark from the outside: one way glass. The Hyena stopped her there. "An enemy of Blakrev looks out of that room," he said. "What do you do?"
He was testing her new cooperation. All right; she would play the game. She hawked up a mouthful and spat directly at the glass.
The Hyena seemed to smile under his mask. He sniffed. "Now, now—we are more subtle. We either convert or kill our enemies. We do not waste effort in futile gestures." But he was pleased, and they went on.
She wondered idly whether there really had been anyone looking out. But it wasn't important.
There was a huge cellar under the house with a shooting range. He taught her how to handle guns; to shoot fast and accurately with a .45 pistol, an M3 silent machine gun, a Springfield 30-06 sniper rifle with telescopic sights, and a sawed-off shotgun. "Do not aim," he said. "Just point the gun as an extension of your arm and fire. The one who fires first lives to fire second. But take the gun up to shoulder level; shooting from the hip is just a waste of time."
She turned out to be a natural shooter, especially when high on Kill-13, and he was pleased. But she observed that he never used a gun himself, and that was odd. Why would he study guns, collect them, and be expert in their use, and not use them? He brought out an olive-drab cardboard box containing a block of cheeselike yellow substance. The block had a cross section of two inches and was eleven inches long. "This is C-3," he said. "Plastic explosive, very powerful. One pound is equivalent to three pounds of commercial dynamite. This is two and a quarter pounds. Here, catch!" He tossed the mass—not to her, but beside her. Ilunga dived for it, catching the sticky, putty-textured stuff before it hit the floor. What would seven pounds of dynamite do in this confined space?
The Hyena laughed his animal laugh. "It will not go off without the detonator cap. That is dangerous, however."
He was toying with her, making her react. Naturally he would not have blown himself up along with her. But she dared not show any ire.
He showed her how to use the primer, making a hole in the plastic and inserting the detonator. To prime it, she had to cut off a piece of blasting fuse, then crimp the cap around the fuse and insert the other end into the plastic. There was also detonating cord for simultaneous explosions, blasting caps for priming other explosives; pencil detonators that provided a time delay from three minutes to twenty-three days, depending on model and temperature. He also showed her how to set off incendiary grenades, how to make Molotov cocktails, how to derail a train, and similar modes of sabotage. Blakrev certainly meant business.
Still, she had no chance to get any cocaine, even though she was now certain the Hyena himself used it. He was too canny, too careful.
Under the suspicious eye of the animal hyena, she molded the C-3 about dummy objects in the yard, setting up for practice explosions. The stuff was slick and oily, smelling like fresh shoe polish. This plastic explosive was fantastic stuff. She had worked a little with dynamite before, as a member of the Demon cult, and was frankly afraid of it. Dynamite was deadly dangerous, especially when old; it couldn't be jarred, or frozen, or heated, or left in the sun, or it might go off prematurely, taking its handler with it. When it sweated, the juice was not water but nitroglycerin. If it was stored too long, the nitro tended to concentrate in the bottom of the cartridge. The very notion gave her the shakes.
Plastic, in contrast, was a delight. It could be frozen, heated, or even burned, and it would not go off. She could make a ball of it and throw it against the wall, with no danger. It was completely inert, until properly primed. It was even possible to eat it and suffer no harm other than an upset stomach, if it wasn't overdone. And suddenly inspiration. She had heard of army junkies eating C-3 in Vietnam, getting a high like that of a drug, a kind of psychedelic. Like glue-sniffing, in the long run it was poisonous and could damage the brain, but in the short run, before the tolerance built up, it was comparatively safe. Safer than Kill-13, certainly. She tore off a small segment and brought it to her face. The shoe-polish odor was penetrating but not unpleasant. In a way it reminded her of Kill-13.
And there was her salvation. Why quest vainly for cocaine when the Hyena had put another drug right into her hands? He had made his second critical mistake. Here was her tool!
She put the chunk into her mouth and chewed. It tasted as it smelled: like oily shoe polish. But that was of no importance. If this worked...
She concentrated on the mood. Now was the occasion to remember the beautiful messages of the Tao Te Ching. "Dow Duh Jing," she murmured, pronouncing it the way Sifu Teng did. "There are ways, but the Way is uncharted..." This was the way, uncharted, but if she held to it firmly enough...
"The softest stuff in the world penetrates quickly the hardest." Her mind was soft, her chains were hard.
In due course she became violently sick. Her stomach hurt terribly, and her mental control gave way. She retched from the bottom of her gut. But the plastic high was upon her, and the pang of Kill-13 withdrawal was less intense. Plastic was canceling out Kill-l3, at least partially.
Now was the time for tai-chi. The high was the same. The High Was the Same. THE HIGH WAS THE SAME. Or at least so close as made no difference. She didn't need the Demon-drug. She didn't believe that, quite. But it was close, close. Damn Striker! Damn his treachery for getting her into this. No—this was not the occasion for hate. Kill-13 thrived on hate. Forget the betrayer, concentrate on herself. "It is wisdom to know others. It is enlightenment to know oneself."
She was on her way.
But the Hyena had a surprise for her that completely changed the situation. "Are you ready to take out that oil refinery?" he asked.
"Yes." She had resigned herself to that crime. Until she was able to break completely with the Hyena, she must make no attempt to balk him. She had been thoroughly traine
d for this mission, and knew how to use every necessary weapon. "Weapons at best are tools of bad omen, loathed and avoided by those of the Way." But she had not yet mastered the Way.
"Forget it. You are going to Cuba."
"Cuba!"
"I'm expecting an arms shipment. Guns, ammunition, plastic—all the things you have been trained to use. I can't go there myself to pick it up. You will handle it instead. If there is trouble, you know what to do."
She knew. Use the guns to wipe out the opposition, and C-3 to destroy the evidence. But perhaps she could get through with minimum damage. "A skillful soldier is not violent..."
The Hyena gave her back just enough of her Demon capsules to tide her through the period he had scheduled for the mission. He didn't know she was now able to extend them.
She knew she would not return. He still had Danny, hidden somewhere, but she would simply have to gamble on locating and freeing her brother before the Hyena realized how weak his hold on her had become.
"The arms will be smuggled aboard the ship that carries the American judo team back from the judo meet in Havana. A man named Jason Striker coaches that team. The Hyena looked grim, even through his mask. "He will recognize you, so stay away from him. If the weapons are found aboard the ship he will be blamed. It is your job to get them loaded without his knowledge."
Interesting. Did he want her away from Striker because Striker would suspect something, or because she might reveal Striker's true complicity? No one in the Hyena's organization had ever implicated Striker, yet Striker was turning up just where the Hyena needed him. Coincidence? Or the secret backup man, present to take care of any last minute foul-up or attempted betrayal? She had to know.
She traveled with Mustapha, as his wife. Mustapha had been invited to give an exhibition boxing match during the world judo championships, another neat detail in the Hyena's scheme. The truth, she was sure, was that the Hyena trusted no one. So he sent several agents in, to check on each other.
But there was one great advantage to her in this mission. The Cuban sifu who might help her was here. That was the Hyena's third great mistake: he had sent her to the one man who might release her from the drug Kill-13.
Still, Jason Striker... He had sent her and Danny into this. Maybe he knew where Danny was hidden. The Hyena had ordered her to stay clear of Striker, but she had no intention of doing so. If he were guilty of this betrayal, she would kill him. But because her mind was in doubt, and because she needed to learn where Danny was, she would talk with him first. It might take a lot of pain to make him divulge the secret, and she would enjoy every minute of it.
Yet there was a hard core of misery in her. Why did it have to be Striker? She had thought him an honest man.
If she bided her time and played her hand correctly, she could accomplish everything at one stroke. Freedom from her addiction, the rescue of her brother, and the deaths of all those who had betrayed her. Then let the black revolution proceed; a lot of other honkies might die before it ran its course.
But one mistake, and she would be finished.
Chapter 8
Ki
"I come on my own mission—as you know," Ilunga said.
There was a loading on her words. I tried to study her, but her face was now shadowed, and her short skirt showed her fine legs, not her thoughts. "All I know is that I sent you to Mustapha for help." I paused: "Mustapha—he's doing an exhibition match at the judo meet. You came with him?"
She nodded slowly in the dark.
"Then it worked out! I'm glad. How's your brother?" Her red eyes, black in the deep shadow, were like angry holes in her face. "You do not know?"
I sensed something wrong. "Ilunga, I never found out. I called Mustapha a couple of days later, but he said you had taken Danny and gone, he didn't know where." I paused again. "But why would he say that, if you were still with him?"
"Why, indeed," she murmured.
"I looked for you. I thought Danny might be in one of those peer-pressure drug rehabilitation groups."
She laughed, unprettily, derisively.
"And why are you out here near our return ship?" I continued, nettled. "Are you coming back with us?"
"Maybe."
"Well, three thugs just tried to mug me." Once again I paused. "But you were watching! And you didn't help." I jumped away from her, on guard now. "Were they with you?"
"Yes."
Something was fishy. "Why should you attack me? After I helped you?"
"Helped me!" she cried sardonically. "You betrayed me to Blakrev!"
"I what?"
"You sent me to Mustapha, right-hand man to the Hyena. They've got Danny—and they've got me. That's why I'm here. So we're on the same side now. But that won't stop me from killing you." Something appeared in her hand: a gun.
I stood still. Blakrev—Mustapha—the Hyena? It was incredible! I had never suspected such a triple connection. This was what Luis had tried to warn me about; he must have had access to government information. But I knew Ilunga well enough to know that she wasn't fooling. "If you're with the Hyena, you're not on my side! The man's an extortionist, a killer. I fought him once, but he got away. Next time I'll finish him."
"You fought the Hyena?" She sounded amazed.
"Don't you remember? Just before you came to me at Drummond's house. He was out to kill Drummond for balking on the payment. I balked him. We're enemies now." This was my first hint what the Hyena was using all that extorted money for. Revolution!
"Why should I believe you?"
I shook my head. "Why should you doubt me? I never lied to you before, and I'm not starting now. You saved my life. I thought I was helping you. But you don't have to take my word for anything. Just tell me where to find the Hyena, and you'll see whether we're friends." The truth was, I was bitter about the American judo team's humiliation, and the manner of it, and would have welcomed a no-holds-barred brawl. What better opponent than the Hyena?
"Uh-uh, honky! You'll report I contacted you, instead of staying away from you, and he'll kill me. I've got only one way to go: forward. You tell me now: where's my brother?"
Her brother—hostage to her cooperation. She was really on my side, against the Hyena. But she didn't believe it. "Did the Hyena tell you I was with him? Part of his organization?"
"No. I worked that out for myself."
"He didn't tell you, and I deny it, but you think we're both lying?"
"I—don't know," she admitted.
"We're together, Ilunga," I said. "We're both against the Hyena. Trust me, or shoot me." I was sure she would not shoot me until she had resolved her doubt. "Call Mustapha. Ask him which side I'm on."
"Another liar!" she snorted. "You don't know about the arms shipment?"
"Arms shipment!"
She made a quick decision. "I'll show you."
At that moment two cars shot silently down the street toward us. "That's Dulce bringing the G-2," I said.
"Move!" Ilunga snapped. "No noise." She gestured with the gun.
Bewildered, I moved. I didn't fully comprehend her motive, but I was sure she would shoot me if I balked. If she really believed I had betrayed her to Blakrev...
We ran down an alley until we came to her Mercedes Benz, another impressive evidence of the Hyena's connections, for there were no cars available on a rental basis in Cuba. We got in and took off, driving without lights. Her driving in the night was horrendous, because of her lack of experience and her poor night vision; we wandered back and forth across the road, ran stoplights, and bucked a wheel over the curb a couple of times. I became very nervous, especially since she was using one hand to hold the gun on me.
"You could cover me better if I drove," I offered.
She ignored me and increased her speed. I didn't like this at all, but that gun remained pointed unwaveringly at my head, and I knew that it was more dangerous to my health than either the Cuban secret police or an auto wreck. Ordinarily this would have seemed to be a good time to attempt
to disarm her, but I knew that one reason she drove so badly was that she was paying close attention to my every movement. Her eyes were not good, but her other senses were far sharper than mine.
"Here," Ilunga said, and pulled to a stop before an old nondescript house in a Vedado suburb. It was in front of a block-sized park, across from a big fountain with a statue of the god Neptune surrounded by date palms. Hardly a suspicious residence.
I saw then that this was on C Street, and house was 104. It was an old home, with a garden in front and an ancient fence of wrought iron. The entrance doors were big and tall, wide enough for a horse and coach to pass through, with a massive bronze knocker. "Knock," she said.
I knocked. After a long wait; the door opened and a man answered. "Si?"
"Ilunga. I want to inspect the shipment," she said.
"Mustapha said no one could enter," the man replied in English. "And who's this?"
"Jason Striker. I want him to see it."
"Striker! The boss gave orders that he was to be kept away at all costs!" And suddenly the muzzle of another gun was swinging toward me.
I danced aside, hoping Ilunga would not shoot me in the back. But she concentrated on the other man. Her foot shot out, knocking the gun from his hand. "I'll be responsible for Striker," she said.
But in that moment of her preoccupation, I struck. I caught her pistol, with one hand, pushed its slide back with the other hand so that it could not fire, and twisted the weapon out of her hand.
Then I returned it to her. "Call Mustapha," I said. "Get him over here. If he's high up in Blakrev, he'll know whether I'm part of the organization. It will be hard for him to lie, with me right here; he can't let me go, after I've seen your cache—unless I am your betrayer." I was playing a dangerous game, for if Ilunga didn't kill me, Mustapha would. But I trusted her motive more, and with her on my side...