Che Guevara had died in Bolivia, fomenting revolution there. They had executed him. A hard lesson indeed.
"No one pays attention to the problems of the world. There has been drought in Africa; the Sahara is being blown into the sky, and that dust is wafted across the great Atlantic, and it lands on Cuba, polluting our skies. But nobody cares, nobody acts!" On and on it went, punctuated by that cigar after the food was gone: Fidel's view of the world, its politics and customs. We were a captive audience, yet it was not dull. Fidel really did have charisma; he compelled belief.
And then, suddenly, he was back on the subject. "That heroin—that is the work of a gringo, the one you call the Hyena." He chuckled, noting our reactions. "Oh yes, amigos—we know of the Hyena here! He was once in Cuba, professing loyalty to our principles. But he sought to betray us for his own advantage. He escaped—he is a cunning one!—but it is not safe for him here any more!" His eyes rolled toward the ceiling momentarily. "Alas, we do not practice torture in Cuba—but for him we might make an exception."
So Castro was the Hyena's enemy! Others might lie about such affiliations, but Fidel had no motive to lie to captives. I exchanged glances with Ilunga. Did he mean it, or was he putting us on? I did not know what kind of sense of humor he had.
"Why should I lie to you?" Fidel inquired, correctly interpreting our concern. Now I suspected he was an expert in body language, for he comprehended thoughts before we could voice them.
A useful ability in a leader. "You have killed some of my best agents, and a good dog." He paused, and I had the impression the dog was of more importance to him than the men. "I could have you executed." He held up his hand. "But do not fear. I know your motive. You thought my men were protecting the cache of heroin. You wanted to destroy it, no?"
Again there was only opportunity for a nod. This one-way dialogue was the darnedest thing.
"And I want it destroyed!" Fidel continued. "But you were with the black boxer, a known henchman of the Hyena, and he covered your exit. And you accompanied this Black Mistress, and much as I admire her form—" Here he looked at Ilunga with an intensity that would have caused any other woman to blush, though we could not be certain whether he referred to her physical form or her karate form. "She was working for that same criminal. I assumed you had joined her. Another mistake! When I reviewed your files, I discovered that you are mortal enemy to the Hyena, having balked one of his extortions. He has you marked for death, as soon as he sees the heroin through to his contacts in the U.S.A. But that extortion—what an intriguing way to finance a revolution! I wish I had thought of it, when I was in the Sierra Maestra, cold and hungry in the mountains! While you—" He turned again to Ilunga. "You fought him from the outset, and killed half a dozen of his men; but you were betrayed into his hands. He has your brother." He shook his head. "I am sorry. I am a busy man. I get behind, and files are so dull!" Dull, I thought with fascinated amazement. His files were right up to date. What an intelligence network he must have! "There are so many details of running socialist republic..."
My brow furrowed, and once more he responded immediately. "I shall explain, amigo! I do not want a confrontation with your country. We are not on speaking terms, it is true, and your government is inferior in many ways, and there have been unfortunate episodes. But we are neighbors, and it is not good for neighbors to quarrel. I return all your airplanes, you keep the gusanos, the exile worms off my shores. We cooperate in our fashion. We have a détente. It is best this way."
He took a breath, and paused, but before either of us could say a word, he resumed. "But there are politics, always politics! The Soviets are not the only communists in Cuba. There are radicals, young Maoists from China. Cuba is not a large nation; we cannot afford to antagonize a large socialist state like China. You have relations with Mao; can we afford less? I can not risk a confrontation at this time! So those people have power. In fact it would be awkward to purge them at this time; one misstep could mean civil war here. So we tolerate a certain amount of mischief."
A critical admission. The Chinese communists must be powerful indeed, if this man was so wary of them. But what was the relevance to heroin?
"These radicals, they would like nothing better than war with America, with Cuba taking all the risk. The Soviets are more sensible, though they, too, have their moments. Those missiles..."
Here he paused longer, scowling. Yes—I was sure that would be a bitter memory! Not the fact of the missiles, but the manner in which Russia had removed them, on pressure from President Kennedy, without consulting Castro. They had shown him up for the mere pawn he was. "Anyway, the Maoists want to send weapons and trained men to America, to arm and train the Indians, the Chicanos, the blacks." He glanced at Ilunga again. "They hope to finance their efforts by the sale of heroin, more valuable than gold on the international market, yet cheap in China! But they are crazy! They will never conquer America with arms. The capitalists would like nothing better than a race war. They would make huge profits producing the weapons to exterminate the blacks and the Indians, all their non-white minorities. All those racists want is the excuse." The thing was, he was making a certain kind of sense. An armed insurrection by any of America's minorities would be disastrous to those minorities.
"And to what purpose?" Fidel asked rhetorically. "You do not need to attack America to finish it; capitalism thrives on war! Just leave it alone, and it will fall of its own momentum. Already it is beginning. Look at your inflation, your corruption! And the drugs—they will not harm the dictators. Ninety per cent of that heroin will end up befuddling the brains of those same oppressed minorities, using up the money they need to live. No, I don't want that heroin delivered!"
Then why didn't he destroy the shipment? I opened my mouth. "But the Maoists are behind that shipment," Fidel continued. "If I make a move, they will take offense, and the time is not right. One day I shall deal with them." He smiled, and it was a singularly vicious smile. I was abruptly glad I was not a Maoist. "But not today. Politics. Everything in its time." He spread his hands. "Do you understand?"
Yet again I tried to answer. I should have known better. "I cannot act at the moment," Fidel said. "But neither can I fail to act. I am caught between the Maoist faction and my American détente, not daring to offend either party. So I must keep my hands clean, scrupulously clean." He looked down at his hands, which were assuredly not clean. Did he ever take a bath? "But I would not interfere if someone else should act. Someone who had no connection to me, like a capitalist gringo, or perhaps, his black mistress." Was that an intentional pun? Ilunga was no man's mistress, but the Karate Mistress.
It was coming clear at last. Like a chess player, Fidel was maneuvering his enemies to cancel each other out—leaving, as he put it, his hands clean.
"Naturally there could be no question of collusion," he continued affably. "People who kill my men are outlaws; I will have nothing to do with them!" He looked at me penetratingly. "Of course, you did not actually kill any of mine, Jason Striker. The three wharf thugs were the Hyena's, not mine. The eleven G-2 troops—who would have believed that one dying old man, hardly larger than a child, in pain from terminal cancer, could wreak such havoc! No one could believe it, no sensible man! No one but me! And we shall keep that secret, eh?"
Ilunga leaned forward, but Fidel shook his head. "What of the man with the spotlight, you inquire? He did not die. He will be blind, but he will live. We pulled your little blade out of his eye..." Fidel reached into his pocket and brought it out, handing it to her. "He told a remarkable tale of the last sight he saw, or will ever see. No doubt he exaggerated, wanting something unique on record for that occasion. I do not believe him for a moment; all women wear undergarments." He shook his head, smiling. "Sometimes I yearn for the old days, when I was a young man in the Universidad. Such adventures we had, such sights we saw!" He glanced at Ilunga's skirt, but now her knees were close together.
He sighed windily, then belched, and drew on his cigar. "Power
has its liabilities, you see. We are no longer treated to the simple pleasures. But we bear with it. La Patria me necesita, my country needs me!" Then he refocused on me. "But if you had killed any of mine, make no mistake. The penalty is death." And I saw with chilling certainty that he meant it. Our lives were of small account to him, affable as he might seem. He needed us, so he used us, but in other circumstances he would have thrown us away without a thought.
"And of course you do not care about the Maoist faction," he continued. "You are after the Hyena. Who resides, I happen to know, on the tip of the Florida peninsula, in the Everglades." I jumped. Another giant step in locating the Hyena! Now we knew which section of the country.
"But the arms and drugs are not at his estate, and not going there; he is more careful than that! He is a most important man, in his human guise, though his true nature is best illustrated by the mask he wears! He is the confidant of someone extremely high up, but one horrified of scandal. Though expert in firearms, he never touches them himself, so as to keep any taint away. At his home he confines himself to training missions—and the brainwashing of someone's little brother."
This time Ilunga jumped, as well she might. Danny had been right there at Hyena's estate, all the time she was looking for him! The beast-man certainly knew how to keep a secret, and Fidel knew how to push our buttons.
"The shipment you saw was only a small part of the total. We have watched many such loads, but have not interfered, for the reason I explained before. Their main cache is in the Marquesas Islands, deposited somewhere there by a Chinese tramp steamer. The materiel is awaiting suitable means for transport past the American shore patrol. Your judo boat was to have been one such means. Now wouldn't it be terrible if something happened to that main cache?"
This time we didn't even try to interrupt his dramatic pause. He didn't need any response; he had it all worked out. Very cleverly, I had to admit; there was a brain behind that beard. "Now it happens there is a launch anchored not far from here, on the Almendares River. An excellent craft, fueled and provisioned, capable of doing almost fifty knots. I'm afraid the skipper has been very careless; he leaves it unguarded while he goes ashore for an illicit drink. Tonight the naval guard is away on maneuvers. Somebody might steal that boat, and I shall be most upset. My rage shall be heard all the way to China! But I suspect the skipper, afraid for his hide, will not report the theft for several hours, so there will be no alert." He wiped away a mock tear. "Such a fine boat, too! What a shame! But we have so few criminals, we do get careless. A thief could take that boat all the way to the Marquesas, and I really do not understand why the Maoist faction should be so upset about that, since it is no concern of theirs—that we know of."
He stood up. "It has been pleasant talking with you. We must get together again sometime, in better circumstances. Have a cigar!" He shoved a fresh Havana into my hand. "I always like to exchange views with others, even Americans." And with a careless wave of his hand he dismissed us.
I looked at Ilunga, and she looked at me. I looked at the damned cigar. She opened her mouth to speak as we passed through the door with the guards.
"You'll want to check the sifu's kwoon for weapons and food," Fidel called. "There is water aboard the launch."
Chapter 10
Everglades
It all fell out as Fidel had suggested. So long as we followed the charted course, his men took no notice of us. The moment we deviated, even to pick up extra food, they closed in. The message was plain enough. We had better perform.
We went to the sifu's kwoon, saddened that he had perished for nothing, and picked up an assortment of hand weapons for later use. Knives, daggers, a nunchaku, a kusarigama—the chained sickle—a sling, a manriki gusari, or chained ball, kamas, the Okinawan sickle, bows and arrows, and a powerful Chinese crossbow ornamented with silver and engraved with the figures of birds: an eagle fighting a phoenix. All in all, a deadly assortment of items, for we knew we were traveling into danger.
We also took some food: packages of dried shrimp ready to eat, salt fish, and even some leftover cooked rice. But it was sad, inheriting these spoils from Sifu Tuh. He had been quite a man, and I wished I had known him sooner.
The cache lay buried on a small island, but only the smugglers knew the specific spot. Since they could dig anywhere in the sand and have the tide wash out all traces, or dig away the turf inland and replace the squares carefully, a quick search would be futile. We had to catch them in the act of picking it up. Only then could we discover and destroy the weapons and heroin. Too early or too late, and we would miss the Hyena's men, or alert them.
We anchored the craft in a secluded cove in a nearby island, then swam across to the cache-island. I was concerned about sharks, but we had shark repellent, and Ilunga assured me that they rarely attacked men in this area. We used rubberized swim suits, frogmen outfits we found in the launch. Ilunga was really stunning with the black rubber clinging to her body and nothing underneath. We used snorkels and swim fins, and towed our weapons and reserve food in an inflated black rubber raft that could be deflated and hidden in the sand. The island was small—hardly a hundred yards across, jungle-covered. There would have been no place to conceal the launch, and it would have been a dead giveaway.
We were in plenty of time, as the Hyena's pickup party was not due till well after nightfall. We arrived in the morning, wanting no premature encounter. They had to think the isle was deserted, and no doubt they would spy it out hours beforehand, before coming ashore to dig up the cache.
It was going to be tricky, because only from one of those men could I get the rest of the Hyena's address, and they were unlikely to be eager to talk. We would have to capture their party, then radio the U.S. Coast Guard to pick them up. I had the suspicion that Fidel had known the exact location of the Hyena's estate, but had withheld the information as an added inducement for us to make contact with the Hyena's party.
We made ourselves comfortable under the concealing fronds of a palmetto patch, rubbed on mosquito repellent, and settled down for what would probably be a wait of several hours. Naturally we made love again.
Afterward, as the sun set across the restless ocean, we talked.
Ilunga told me in detail about her Taoist training with Sifu Teng, and I told her about the Shaolin training I received long ago in a Cambodian monastery, learning the meaning of weapons as training tools. "It seems almost sacrilegious to use them for violence, now," I said.
"Ha!" she snorted. "I wish I'd had a good weapon the first time I was raped!" But then she reconsidered. "'Weapons at best are tools of bad omen,'" she quoted, as Sifu Tuh had done, "'loathed and avoided by those of the Way.'"
I knew about her rape. She had been caught by four white men in a city park when she was only twelve years old, and brutally assaulted. Her nose had been smashed, and the white male police had taken a "boys will be boys" attitude. Thus her lifelong quest for vengeance against men, especially white men. Like me. Yet she had helped me try to save my fiancée, and she had saved my life. And now...
"Ilunga," I said carefully. "After this, are you going back to that life? Castrating men?" My groin gave a twinge; the first time she and I had met, she had damn near castrated me. One smashing kick... Yet I had been, if anything, more active sexually since that injury. Perhaps it was because it had given me reason to feel insecure about my masculinity.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I thought all whites were my enemies. But now I've been betrayed by a black man, Mustapha, and—" She gestured toward me. What could she say about me, after our passion of the afternoon?
I knew better than to speak of love. There had been too much between us, good and bad. "You have a lot to offer," I told her. "You could be a karate instructor, training women, black and white, to protect themselves. You could work with drug addicts, setting them straight. There is so much you could do, so positive—"
"Who would hire the Black Karate Mistress!" she snarled. She was still a creature of pass
ion; she could veer either way, now.
"I would!" I snapped without thinking. But then, reconsidering, I said it again. "I'm against rape and drug addiction. And I'm always in need of competent instructors in my dojo. I can't pay much, and some of my students can be difficult, like Thera Drummond, but..." I let it trail off. Would she listen—or laugh? Until this moment such a possibility had never occurred to me, yet it had its appeal.
"That white piece of ass," Ilunga muttered. Then she was silent a long time. What was going on in her mind? Maybe I shouldn't have reminded her of Thera, the heiress she had fought briefly, but that was the kind of problem she would have to face as an instructor. And men who would try to make her. She would have to learn to turn them down without kicking them in the crotch.
Did I really want her to accept? I could not place her in any good/bad category. Yet this could be her turning point. If she came in with me, she would become a productive citizen; if not, what was there but the ghetto and more violence?
"Yes," she said.
Suddenly I was glad. It was like a proposal of marriage, and its acceptance. In this moment we were commencing an association that might endure twenty years, or two hours, depending on the outcome of our mission on this beach. I knew the odds for our survival were not ideal.
I rolled over and brought her to me, kissing her on the lips. Once more we made love, slowly, methodically, thoroughly. Love? No, an insult to call it that. I'm no racist, but this particular affair was not made in heaven. Sex? Yes, of course—but if it was less than love, it was still more than sex. Perhaps it was détente. And Ilunga would make a damn fine karate instructor.
Now it was night, and suddenly I spotted it. One faint light, as of a small boat coming in with no more illumination than that necessary to find its way. We would not know which shore the cache was buried under, but on an island as small as this, it hardly mattered.