The third tried a straight defensive posture, shoulders forward, feet braced back. This can be very tough to overcome. I bent, pulled him forward, grabbed one leg with my arm, and picked him up in the kata guruma, or shoulder whirl. He struggled and managed to turn aside as he went down, making the throw imperfect, so I applied an ude gatame as he tried to push me away. I caught his outstretched arm alongside my face while I put pressure with both hands against his elbow, shoving it against my chest. He had to tap out, yielding.
I had completed the line in just over five minutes. Now they knew who I was; I saw the recognition in the faces of the black belts. But two more had shown up during the action. One was a white belt, a short man about five feet five inches, but big around. He weighed about two hundred pounds, had a big belly, and arms like tree trunks. His disheveled blond hair was flecked with white. He had big green staring eyes with a disconcerting glare. His face was square, and he wore a short blond goatee and moustache. A gold tooth showed when he opened his mouth. Well, you see all types in judo.
The other man was in street clothes, a huge black. Apparently he was just along to watch the fun; I gave him no more than a passing glance. Which, as I learned, was a mistake.
"You missed one," the white belt said, standing forward. "Don't leave out Loco."
Loco? The name meant nothing to me. I have enough trouble keeping track of the second-and third-degree black belts, let alone the myriad white belts. So I moved out to meet him, intending to put him down gently. A beginner with his evident strength would tend to bull through on muscle alone, not appreciating the finer nuances of position and balance which are the essence of judo. I went into a soft harai goshi hip sweep, pushing his right leg out from under him as I brought him over my right hip.
But his foot did not sweep properly. Bent half over, he came forward and picked me up in a savage sukui nage scoop throw, one hand across my waist, the other under my legs. He lifted me high and threw me backward against the wall. He was amazingly strong. I protected my head with my arms, pushing off from the wall as I fell. That was no white belt! The bastard had used my own unintentional ruse against me, concealing his true level. I was in for a real fight this time.
Loco came at me, leaping into the air to land on me feet-first. I reacted without thought; rolling aside, I let him land on the mat, then I kicked his legs out from under.
Real fight? Literally! This wasn't judo practice—it was mayhem! But why? I had to defend myself, but I had no idea why I was being attacked in this manner. As far as I knew, I had never run afoul of this man before.
We rolled on the floor. The man tried a hadaka jime naked choke on me from behind, but I profited from the bygone instruction of the very man I sought, Luis Guardia. I arched my body backward toward him, easing the pressure. At the same time, I tried an illegal yubi waza finger lock against one hand. If he played rough, so could I. There's a hell of a lot more to judo than is ever seen in the formal contests. He had to let go or suffer some broken fingers.
We stood, and now it came to blows. He swung with a vicious knife-hand strike to my face, shuto gammen-uchi, which I blocked with the edge of my own left hand to his forearm. I countered with a terrible punch to the pit of his stomach. It was an inverted-fist low thrust, uraken shita-uchi, snapping my fist slightly at the moment of contact for more force.
I almost broke my hand. His stomach was iron-hard. He must have practiced for years, hitting it with everything imaginable, until his muscles became so strong they could take almost anything. My hand felt numb and swollen, as it had when I hit the big shark.
His leg shot out, catching my ankle in a powerful combination foot-sweep and kick. His foot, too, was like iron. I fell to the floor; my ankle felt broken. I rolled out of reach of that terrible weapon.
I caught his leg, pushing upward as I leaped to my feet. It was a version of the kuchiki-taoshi throw, the dead-tree drop. I lifted his leg high and shoved him back, trying to make him fall, but all I succeeded in doing was to push him into a corner. This man's whole body was conditioned.
He braced against the wall and shoved me back and down. I rolled again, expecting him to kick me, but this time he stood back and let me regain my feet. Then he knocked my legs out again. But as I fell, I caught one of his ankles: it is always a mistake to try the same technique twice in succession, unless you are sure your opponent doesn't expect it. I used him as a crutch to regain my own balance, shoving him into the corner again. He couldn't right himself; I had control. For the moment.
I had to subdue him, before he subdued me. This was no running-the-line randori, and no friendly dojo rivalry. There was something ugly behind it, and I had the feeling, now, that it involved Luis.
I had no intention of disappearing the way Luis had. I had come to find him, and if this man knew anything, he would talk. When I got through with him.
Loco tried a series of strikes at my face. I dodged them. Then he made a numbing shuto blow to my forearm, the arm holding his leg. I was taking a lot of punishment.
Time to give him his own medicine. I brought my knee up, but I didn't go for the crotch. I twisted my hips and made a terrible hiza-geri strike to his abdomen—a blow that would have ruptured a normal man's intestines, possibly killing him from shock. It had no apparent effect. I kneed him again, and a third time. On the fourth blow his knees began to give, and on the fifth he buckled, losing consciousness.
"That's some man," I said, turning away. I wasn't being facetious; the guy had been damn tough, but he had also, in his fashion, been fair. There had been opportunities for really dirty stuff. I knew he knew how, but he hadn't tried it.
"Saaiii!" The other man, the one in civvies, gave an earsplitting kiai yell and took to the air with a vicious two-footed kick at my head. His hard-soled shoes made the threat all the more effective. I twisted away, and he missed. These kicks can be devastating when they score, but you can see them coming. Undismayed, he landed on his feet, whirled, and tried a powerful straight kick. But I aided his leg, pushing it upward with my hand, while I stepped in and swept his supporting foot in a ko uchi gari small inside clip, sweeping his supporting foot so that he fell.
He put his hand inside his shirt. A knife came out. "No, Eugenio!" Loco cried, sitting up.
But the blade of the knife was already moving purposefully toward me. I kicked it out of his hand as he jabbed, and it clattered against the wall. This was one of those cases when resistance had to be made to a weapon. I would have been dead if I had waited for him, for he obviously meant to kill me.
I don't like attempts on my life. I caught his wrist, pulled his arm around, and applied an ude garami arm wrap as I bore him to the mat. My left hand held his left wrist, while my right passed under his bent arm and joined my own left wrist. By lifting and putting pressure on his elbow and shoulder joints, I had him in pain and at my mercy.
"Why were you trying to kill me?" I demanded, pressing his elbow. His arm was strong, but I had all the leverage; I could snap his joint out, and he knew it.
Even so, he resisted for a moment. I gave him a surge of force to show I meant it, and suddenly he slapped the mat with his foot in surrender. I let him go, but remained on guard; this man lacked the nicety of discipline of the other, and I didn't trust him. "Because you are a Fidelista," he said. "Here to betray our cause."
"Me?" I said, amazed. "I have no interest in Cuban politics!" Loco stood up, listening closely but not interfering. "You were in Cuba!" Eugenio said. "You talked with Fidel himself for over an hour. We know!"
"Just how do you know that?" I asked.
"We have witnesses!"
"The only witnesses were Fidel's own guards." He was silent, so I continued. "Look, I know Fidel Castro. I didn't talk to him; he talked to me. I was his captive a few months ago. That doesn't mean I'm his agent—any more than it does for any of you who left Cuba. I also know Luis Guardia; in fact, he's the one I'm looking for now."
"We know," Eugenio cried. "To betray him!"
>
"To help him!" I cried back. "He's my friend. If you know him, if you know where he is, ask him! He'll tell you. I came down here in answer to a telegram—"
"You lie!" Eugenio said.
But Loco wasn't so sure. "I did send Striker a telegram, Eugenio. You know he's telling the truth about that. We knew he'd show up here sooner or later; that was the idea."
I stared at Loco. "You sent the telegram? I thought it was Luis!"
"You were meant to," Eugenio said. "You'd never have shown your face here if you knew the reckoning awaiting you!"
I turned to him. "Why do you call me liar and coward when you know I'm not?"
"Luis deserted Cuba!" he said. "You want to kill him! We had to stop you!"
"By summoning me here?" I shook my head. "Seems to me you were trying to do the killing."
Loco considered. "I was sure, but now I am not. His story stands up better than yours, Eugenio. It seems to me I have listened too much to one person."
"But all those betrayals!" Eugenio cried. "Someone had to—"
Loco looked at him with cool calculation. "Yes. Someone. But Striker was hardly in a position to do all that. He can't mix with us; he doesn't know our ways. His cause is not ours. He was far away. And Luis trusted him. Did Luis trust you?"
Eugenio looked away, and something like fear showed on his face. "I am your own kind! Why should I—?"
Loco took a step toward him. I was amazed at Loco's recovery from the beating I had just given him. "Why indeed? It does not make sense, if you are one of us. We wanted to get the truth from Striker. But you tried to kill him. It doesn't add up—unless you don't want the truth known. You called him liar, as though you were trying to put the guilt on him without even thinking. As though that is really why you want him here: to assume the guilt, dead. Your motive showed through; you made a slip. That doesn't happen to those with nothing to hide."
"No!" Eugenio cried, backing off. "I can explain—"
"Where is Luis?" Loco barked.
And Eugenio, seeing he could not hide any longer, said, "In the monastery."
Loco showed amazement. "He is there? It's not just the story we made up?"
Interesting, I thought: Loco had thought he was misleading me with the telegram, but it had been the truth after all. Wheels within wheels!
Loco turned to me. "My apologies, Señor Striker. I was misled."
"Accepted!" I said. "Let's go get Luis!"
He raised a hand in caution. "He may be prisoner. We must learn more first, or our very approach will kill him. We must make plans."
"All right," I said. "But there's still a lot I don't understand."
"I sent the telegram," Loco said. "Luis thought the G-2 was after him, to destroy the arms shipment he had aboard the Monk's Treasure. He thought there was a spy among us, so he didn't trust us. Not enough to—"
"You mean there is a ship called the Monk's Treasure?"
"Not registered as such. He called it that as a code name, and he scuttled it after he buried the weapons in a secluded place. Where, that is his secret. The G-2 wants to catch him or betray the weapons to the American police, so they will be lost to us. Their agents are everywhere, and the American government is really on the same side; we can hardly trust anyone. Luis said he was going to hide with a friend."
"I was that friend," I said. "He phoned me—"
"We knew. Then he disappeared. Your pardon; we drew a conclusion." So I saw. Had I been a spy, I could have betrayed Luis the moment I knew his location. But of course I wasn't, and I hadn't—and I hadn't even known where he was.
"Eugenio said we should protect Luis; if anyone came asking for him, we should—well, nothing too violent, just enough to discourage inquiries." He made a gesture. "Nothing personal, señor! We were not sure."
"I understand," I said. What a tangled web of deceit had been woven. Now it all seemed hopelessly contradictory, but that was in retrospect; it had probably seemed authentic as long as I was under suspicion. At least this solved the riddle of why Loco had fought me. "But Luis never told me where he was, and he never arrived at my place. That's why I came here. I was afraid something had happened to him. And I didn't really understand that telegram; I thought it was from him."
"You were meant to. Eugenio found out about his call to you; I curse myself for an idiot that I didn't think to question how. Only a clever spy has such resources! He said you had been in Cuba, talked with Fidel, that Fidel had actually given you a boat to return on, you and your black mistress. He said—"
"Uh-oh," I said. "That much is true. I did meet Castro, as I said before, and he did let me have a boat. I was in Cuba for the world judo meet, and he wanted some help in stopping gun and drug running, because it was interfering with his relations with the USA."
"Exactly!" Loco agreed. "They work together now!"
"I'm against drugs and gun running, too. So we cooperated. But that was all. Luis is my friend; I want him to teach judo at my dojo."
"And you have no interest in his weapons?"
Oops! "I do want the weapons, too, but I mean to buy them from him, for another party. I can't tell you who, but it's not American or Cuban."
"See?" Eugenio cried. "He has secrets too!"
Loco pondered. I realized my case had lost credibility, but I did not feel free to tell these people about Fu Antos and the ninjas. "I believe you," Loco said to me at last. "Now." He shook his head. "When Eugenio actually tried to kill you, I knew there was something he hadn't told me. He is clever; he used the truth, but not the whole truth. I think he wanted to kill you and put the blame on you."
"Blame for Luis' disappearance?"
"For all the betrayals we have suffered. Someone has exposed some of our best people to the G-2, and they have disappeared. Like Luis. Now I think we know who that traitor is—at last." He turned to Eugenio.
The big black backed away. "You have no proof!"
"You knew where Luis was, but you did not tell me! You knew Señor Striker was innocent but how guilty he might look. He was ideal for the patsy, to remove suspicion from you."
"It was a mistake! I thought—"
"We know what you thought! Now you will pray we find Luis alive and well at the monastery."
"He is! He is! I don't know in what room for sure, but he's there. Most likely in the power room. We wanted him to tell where the arms were sunk, but he refused to talk to anyone but Striker."
"So you had me send Striker a cryptic telegram-so the G-2 would not understand it, you said. But of course the G-2 already knew!" Loco took another step forward. "You played me for a patsy, me cojiste de comemierda."
I didn't know what that meant, but I was sure it was strong language.
"It was the only way!" Eugenio cried desperately.
Loco turned away, disgusted. "I think you are our traitor, but I have no real proof yet, and I will not act again on mere suspicion. But word will get around." He looked at the black belts and students. They looked back, smiling grimly. "Yes, word will get around. Not everyone is as finicky as I am. Those who lost their friends..."
Now Eugenio looked distinctly nervous. I did not envy him his position, despite his effort to frame me. He was tough, but so were a number of the exiles, and some had serious grievances, as certain other disappearances and assassinations had demonstrated.
The monastery was a huge stone edifice resembling a medieval castle in certain respects, but it was actually only half a castle. It was an ancient Spanish monastery that an eccentric millionaire, who had made his fortune in Cuban sugar in 1910, had brought stone by stone to his secluded estate. It was part of an elaborate system of gardens and artifacts. He had also built extensive wine cellars underneath, and added to the original structure. There was a huge central patio with many smaller walled vegetable and fruit gardens, genuine catacombs, halls full of trophies, and a big chapel. All were surrounded by a high stone wall. Medieval tapestries hung inside, and the furniture was of massive carved black ebony. The million
aire had died, and his sons had squandered his fortune. The state of Florida won possession of the monastery by default on the taxes. Now a deal had been made, and the recent kung fu craze was making the monastery pay again.
"We wish to tour," I said to the monk at the front gate. "There may be something we want here." Such as a captive black-belt judoka.
He was used to these requests. There was considerable tourist interest in this project. We paid five dollars apiece and were led through the somber halls and chambers by a silent monk. It was impressive. Everything was dense, almost black stone. Rows of lighted candles lined the passages. Statues of the Buddha were everywhere, seeming out of place, but of course this was supposed to be a Chinese kung fu monastery now, not a European Catholic one. Thus Oriental artifacts replaced the crucifixes. Where the chapel altar had been, there was now a huge golden statue of Buddha, with a number of worshipers before it, chanting Buddhist prayers. On an outer patio, other worshipers were dancing, whirling. Anything went, it seemed, so long as the customers had money.
The monks wore saffron robes, and yellow ones, while the ranking ones were in blue and golden kimonos with embroidered dragons and Chinese motifs. The heads of the men were shaven. It reminded me strongly of the real monastery I had stayed at in Cambodia years ago, where I had learned something of the philosophy of weapons and the art of the nunchaku. But all those genuine monks were dead now, and I shied away from the memory. It tied in with my lost fiancée, and with her murderer, Kan-Sen, and I could not afford to get off on that awful train of thought again.
But at the same time, this monastery was phony. The medieval monks, of whatever hemisphere, had hand-carried water in buckets attached to shoulder yokes, from a spring below the building. Here they had hot and cold running water piped into every residential chamber. The originals had used tallow lamps for illumination; now they had electric lights wherever the candles were not on show. True monks had eaten hard bread baked in great stone ovens heated by wood fires; now they had "Monk's Bread" delivered every morning by truck. Television sets were mounted in the walls, and the laundry room had automatic washing machines. It was really a huge hotel, with most of the modern comforts thereof.