Amazon Slaughter and Curse of the Ninja Piers Anthony

  "They turned too," Susan said.

  "Who?"

  "The car that's been tailing us the last twenty miles."

  "Who would want to follow me?" I demanded.

  "Maybe we should find out. I'd guess the news of your return spread pretty quickly. Why did you run the line at Taizo Sone?"

  "You told me to—"

  "It was a foolish feminine idea. You should have ignored it." No arguing with that. I had destroyed my privacy at the outset. I suspected that our alleged tail was coincidence, merely someone headed for this park at our speed. But if it were not—

  Well, it would not be hard to verify the matter. If anyone was after us, they'd have to keep pretty close, because it would be almost impossible to keep track in the hustle and crowding of the park. Once we were sure we were not being followed, we could resume our journey. Probably Susan had made it up, as an excuse to have a good time. I evidently had not impressed her sufficiently with the urgency of my mission.

  "If we park and leave the vehicle, and somebody is after us, they could plant a bomb in it," I said, hoping to shake her up so that she would change her mind about stopping here.

  "It's got a security system and a loud alarm," she said. "If anyone breaks in, the whole neighborhood will know."

  Sigh. She had countered my ploy without even trying.

  We bought tickets at the grand entrance. It was a good thing Susan had money to burn, because they weren't cheap. I felt a bit like a gigolo, having her pay for everything. Maybe that was the way she wanted it. Before, I had been short of memory, dependent on her for judo knowledge. Now I was short of money. The feeling was similar.

  Park personnel challenged us at the ramp to the interior. "Any food in that bag?"

  Susan frowned. "No food." She turned to me. "Must be they don't want any wrappings littering the premises."

  "Must be," I agreed. I had thought it was an inspection for weapons, like the checkout for boarding an airplane. Which showed how a person can overreact to the mere notion of being followed. But inside there was food being hawked everywhere. Paper cups, straws, and similar items littered the walks and lawns. We passed a stream, and it was so gray with pollution that most of the trash in it was hidden beneath the murk. "Why did they try to stop us from bringing in any food?" I marveled.

  "Because we'd never pay their prices if we had any alternative," Susan said. "They need a captive market."

  I glanced at their prices. They were sky-high. "I'll starve first," I said, disgusted. "What kind of tourist trap is this?"

  "An efficient one. Don't grump; food's on me."

  That didn't help. "Are we still being tailed?"

  "Yes."

  [Not yet written sequence here: it rains, and half the attractions are shut down so that Jason and Susan can't use up their tickets, and get soaked. They use the distraction of the rain to get behind the men who are following them, and there is a fight scene in a closed attraction. They demolish the thugs, but learn nothing, as they are merely hirelings. Except for one name: Mirabal. That triggers some more of Jason's missing memory. Susan, turned on by the excitement, seduces Jason before they leave the site. His extreme nervousness at the prospect of discovery in such a public place delights her.]

  It was late by the time we got out of the park, and I was tired. But it was necessary to get well away from the scene of the action, so that this mysterious Mirabal would not be able to trace our whereabouts. He surely knew what our vehicle looked like, so even being on the road was no guarantee of security.

  "Hey!" I exclaimed. "I know a place near here. A friend of mine has a dojo."

  "First place your enemies would look," Susan said. "I like adventure, but we're getting more than I bargained on this soon."

  "I doubt it. It's a small dojo, and I've never been there. I knew him up north several years ago, and promised to drop in if I were ever in the area. I know people all over the country, so nobody'd be able to guess that I'd visit this particular place. He can keep his mouth shut, and would give us a place to hide the vehicle. By the time they figure out where we are, we'll be gone."

  "In short, you want to see him again, just as I wanted to go to the park."

  I sighed. "I guess so. The camaraderie of judo—"

  "Well, no one can say I'm not fair about these things. What's his address?"

  So we pulled into the little dojo of Sensei Josef Fuentes, 3 dan. He was a dark haired Cuban of about 40. There were a lot of Cuban judokas in Florida, because of the sizable Cuban exile population. It was late, and no class was in session. But my friend welcomed me with a big Latin smile, and opened his dojo to us. So we had a little workout of three. It may sound funny, doing active judo practice when we were tired, but judo isn't work for me, its life. I feel better after doing good randori than I do after taking a nap.

  After a while I sat down at the edge of the mat and let Susan work with Josef. They did randori that was almost like a kata, or judo playlet, alternating throws. It was very nice, almost too nice. I began to grow restive. I was the one she was traveling with, after all.

  Then I caught myself. Was I getting jealous about a woman I hadn't wanted to travel with anyway? Because of standard judo courtesy? What was the matter with me?

  I knew the answer: Susan had set out to impress me, and had succeeded. I had always had a soft spot for female martial artists, and I did like a relationship with an attractive and amenable young woman. She had baited me like a fish, and the hook was halfway set. I had to school myself to accept what she offered without letting her lure me into a commitment I couldn't legitimately make. Not while part of my life was missing. So she was working well with Josef, and smiling at him, giving him pleasure. I should be happy for him, not resentful. It was just a passing interaction.

  Then we sat down and talked, reminiscing about old times. We soon discovered that Josef had a serious concern of his own. "Last month this man—I do not dignify him by naming him—came and told me that whenever I hosted a tournament in my dojo I must pay eighty per cent of the money to the Judo Federation. I asked him why, and he said because otherwise my people would never get promoted. My ikkyus would not make shodan, my shodans would not make nidan, and I myself—!" He shook his head, bewildered.

  I frowned. "That's impossible. Promotions are handled by the Board and they are based on merit. No one pays for his belt; that would be completely contrary to everything judo stands for."

  "So I thought," he said. "I showed that man the door in a hurry. But last week my best student went for his promotion, well qualified, and they turned him down. And I talked with other senseis, and they say the same. They don't like it, but they pay, and then they have no trouble. I did not agree to pay, and—shall I show you my student? Do you want to see what he can do?"

  "No, I believe you," I said, troubled. I was privately certain that he had overrated his students. It is a measure of an instructor's success how his students perform, and naturally he believes in them—sometimes unrealistically. But to try to blame the promotions board—that was an ugly tactic, and it disturbed me fundamentally to see my friend do this.

  Josef perceived my skepticism, and said no more. The evening concluded on a subdued note.

  Back in the motor home, Susan spoke up. "That man was serious, Jason," she said. "He's caught between honor and the welfare of his students."

  "He can't be," I snapped. "Judo doesn't work that way. I've been in it long enough to know, and I've never seen such a thing."

  "Maybe you just don't want to hear of it," she said. "I've seen things happen, like tournament dates fixed to coincide so that each tournament loses half its contestants to the other, and preferential treatment by referees, bad calls—"

  "Listen, I don't let anyone bad-mouth judo!" I said, whirling on her.

  She didn't budge. "So I notice. But if you want the truth—"

  I was so angry I stomped out of the vehicle. But as I walked alone in the dark, the doubt loomed larger. There are bad apples i
n any profession, even, alas, judo. Could someone have tried this kind of thing? The more I pondered it, the more it upset me.

  Finally I returned to Susan. She was sitting up in bed in the convertible dinette, looking so beautiful in her night-clothes that I was sorry I had ever argued with her. "I need some change for a pay phone," I said.

  Wordlessly she handed me a fistful of quarters.

  I phoned the secretary of the United States Judo Federation, whom I knew only by reputation. I did not give my name. "I just want to verify something," I said, and quickly sketched out the situation as Josef had presented it.

  There was a pause. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Who is making this complaint?"

  I started to answer, but froze. If I gave my name, the whole judo world would quickly know where I was, and I already had enough trouble. I had to keep my secret and get going on my private mission before word spread further. Most especially, I didn't want anyone knowing I was headed south. It might mean my life.

  "I can't tell you," I said lamely.

  "Well, what dojo was threatened?"

  Again I could not answer, lest I give myself away.

  "You expect me to believe an anonymous complaint?" the secretary inquired, his voice cold.

  Worse and worse! He was reacting exactly as I had, and I couldn't blame him. "I just want to verify that—"

  "There is nothing anonymous about my response," he said firmly. "I state categorically that no ranks are bought in judo, directly or indirectly. Not in America, not anywhere in the world. Not in Kodokan judo. The situation you describe would not be tolerated by the USJF. If anything of the kind were to come to my attention, I would investigate and take appropriate action immediately. I speak for myself and the USJF president. Send me a letter providing all the facts—the names and dates—and you will see how rapidly we satisfy you, if there is merit to your charge. But I will not accept anonymous denigration of our fine martial art."

  "Uh, thank you," I said, somewhat at a loss, but at the same time rather proud. This was the sort of response I subscribed to.

  In the morning I would tell Josef exactly how to resolve his dilemma. One letter with the facts to the secretary, and the whole sordid thing would be investigated. There would be a paper trail, what tournament money went where, and they would rout it out. Judo is an honest martial art; it cleans its own house. No 80% payoff can be tolerated, ever. No payoff of any amount.

  Meanwhile, Susan was waiting in that bed...

  [Unwritten sequence: Jason and Susan go on to Miami, where they get faked up papers and changed appearances and head for Brazil, sneaking out of the USA so that enemies can't trace them.]

  Chapter 6

  Two Pictures

  Our Catalina flying boat landed in the river near the city of Manaus. I saw the jungle close by, encroaching on river and city. "Jog your memory?" Susan inquired.

  "Not enough," I said. "I think I passed through here after the critical part, after my memory had been erased, and I wasn't here long, so it really doesn't count."

  [Enemy pursuit develops.]

  We fled up the Rio Negro, the Black River. I did not recognize the area, but since sections of my journey down had been overland, and much of my river travel had been while unconscious, that indicated nothing.

  [An airplane flies low to strafe them. The enemy is pulling out all the stops. They dive into the crocodile or piranha infested water and swim to shore, managing to make it through to an Indian tribe they befriend with gifts.]

  The Indians were wonderfully half primitive. The men had some modern western clothing, but not enough to go around. One wore trousers, with the top half of his body bare. Another had a soiled shirt, with the bottom half of his body bare. Some had loincloths, and most had tattoos in many colors covering many parts of torso, limbs, and head. Red paint was dabbed to beautify their genitals. They wore feathers in their hair.

  The women, in contrast, were big-eyed, innocent, and bare. The hair of their heads was long and black; they had no hair elsewhere. They were not old in years, but age comes rapidly to primitives. Women of 20 or so were already saggy of breast. Only the dawningly nubile girls of thirteen or so were pretty.

  Could this be the tribe whose harem I had—? No, impossible; I didn't recognize any of them, and they didn't recognize me. Probably the episode had never happened. I hoped it had never happened! Yet it was one of my few leads to the Black Castle.

  [But Mirabal's men soon catch up and invade the village, indiscriminately slaughtering men, women, and children. In the melee they save the life of a half-breed Indian who speaks English; grateful, he leads Jason and Susan to shelter in a house in the village of a secret tribe he knows, where no intruder can penetrate. It seems that the only reason these two white fugitives are accepted there, for now, is that it is clear that the military men want them dead. The enemy of their enemy just might be a friend. If not—it will be easy to kill the two. So the danger is hardly over.]

  "This is horrible!" Susan exclaimed. "They don't care who they hurt!"

  "This is the way it has always been," the guide said grimly. "It is what we expect from the white man."

  "But you have a white parent," I said, perhaps tactlessly. "If the natives hate the white raiders—"

  He glanced briefly at me. "Such liaisons are not always voluntary on the part of the natives."

  "Not—?"

  "Rape," Susan murmured.

  Oh. Unable to figure out anything to say, I turned and looked at the wall. There were two pictures on it, and they immediately compelled my attention.

  The first picture showed a young man with regular features, handsome, distant eyes, in the uniform and helmet of a Brazilian military officer. I was a amazed to see such a representation here, obviously well cared for.

  The second picture showed two ancient Indians seated side by side with sunken eyes, deeply wrinkled faces, similar in their piercing gaze.

  "What do you make of them?" the guide inquired. Now there were several armed natives with him. They seemed expectant, but I wasn't sure about what. Something was in the offing, and I hoped it wasn't a brutal game of turnabout, with Susan suffering the rape. We could fight if we had to, but we were both tired, and would be unable to find our way out of the jungle even if left alone. We needed the support of these people, not their enmity. Yet the Indians did not seem menacing, just waiting. I realized that this was some kind of a test, and my reaction might have serious repercussions, for good or ill. I had to say the right thing—and I had no idea what that might be.

  Honesty seemed to be the best policy. So I confessed my ignorance. "I don't understand," I said. "The first could be one of the soldiers who hunts you, rapes your women, burns your villages. Though he has some Indian blood, I think. While the second—"

  I broke off. "Wait, there is something—" I squinted at the second picture. "Something familiar about one of the—he's part white, isn't he! And he—the physique, the lines of the face—that old man is the same as the young soldier!"

  The Indians relaxed. They might not speak my language, but they understood that I had made a key connection. That, it seemed, was good.

  "Marshall Candido Rondon," the guide agreed. "The greatest man of the western hemisphere. In youth—and age."

  I had never heard of him, and found myself embarrassed. But I soon learned, for this man in the pictures had probably just saved my life and Susan's freedom. Because I, an ignorant outsider, had in my fashion recognized him.

  Rondon was a half-caste Indian, born in 1865, died in 1958, founder of the Service for the Protection of the Indians, SPI. He came from the Mato Grosso, a huge jungle section next to Bolivia, served by the twin Amazon tributary rivers, the Xingu or River of Gold, and the Tapajos, River of Fevers, and bounded on the east by the Rio das Mortes, the river of Death. Gold, fever, and death—apt terms!

  Rondon's father had been a gold seeker, his mother a Guanas Indian. Both died by the time he was two, and he was raised by the Indians unti
l adopted by his white uncle. He obtained an excellent education. As an adult he undertook to plant telegraph poles through the wilderness, so as to bring a measure of civilization there. This was a formidable undertaking; they had to carve paths through the jungle, and men died from disease.

  But the worst threat was from the Indians. "My people had been betrayed so often by the white man," the guide explained. "It was safest to kill him on sight."

  "But that would only bring more white men with guns," I protested.

  "Yes. But at least we died fighting."

  But Rondon instituted a radical new policy. "Don't kill the Indians," he said. And he enforced it. His men killed no Indians—even though Indians killed his men. He tried to pacify them with gifts and with great oaths of friendship. "I bring you peace," he said. And gradually his sincerity registered, and the Indians trusted him. He was, after all, partly of their blood.

  In the process Rondon traversed twenty thousand miles of jungle, learned ten Indian dialects, discovered fifteen new rivers, and became known as one of the greatest explorers of all time. The American president Teddy Roosevelt joined him in one adventure, and the two became friends.

  Rondon was a genuinely good man, revered by both the Indians and the Brazilian Congress. He founded the SPI.

  "The SPI!" another Indian spat, with the guide translating. "Service for the Prostitution of Indians!"

  I turned to him, confused. "If such a good man organized it, why do you hate it?"

  They told me: almost from the first, without Rondon's knowledge, the SPI was perverted from its original purpose. Instead of protecting Indians, it became the apparatus for destroying them. Its three great principles were exploitation, starvation, and murder—all under the guise of legitimizing, of helping the Indians.

  [The text ends here, written December 7, 1975, with notes for coming scenes of torture, rape, and massacre as Mirabal's troops continue their pursuit. Jason Striker had not believed that mass killing continued to the present day, but he sees it happen. This was to be another example of honest history and sociology, included as background for these adventure novels. But our research stopped at this point.]