She was in the clothing she had worn while dining with Jason, but now it was soiled and torn. A summer outfit: black skirt reaching to her knees, white off-the-shoulder blouse. Not much protection. The thug's hands were pawing over her body, tugging at her waistband. "God, what boobs!" he panted, his breath hot upon her face, smelling of Cachaca, cheap rum. His intent was obvious; he meant to take what had been put in reach.
Dulce remained woozy from the drug despite her mental awareness. She lacked physical strength; she would not be able to handle him unless she could score a kick to the groin, and that was problematical because her feet were tied. A rope bound her ankles together, and another her wrists before her. It was a signal of her drugged confusion that she had not noticed this before. She was in a Death Squad stronghold, and she would be lucky if only one or two men raped her and let her live. Yet she was so dopey that all she wanted to do was go back to sleep. Every time she tried to move her head she suffered the waves of pain of a migraine headache. She could neither coordinate nor think straight.
The thug jammed one sweaty hand on her knee, forcing her legs apart. She tried to bring them together again, levering against the rope on her ankles, but he already had his knee there like a doorstop. Her reactions were so slow! If only the lingering traces of the drug weren't so debilitating!
She concentrated, trying to clear her head so that she could at least consider alternatives. There seemed to be only two: relax and accept it, or try to fight and get it the hard way. It was an even bet that this man would prefer the latter. How could she struggle, except by thrashing about, in the process making her breasts bounce and her knees spread wide and her torso move against him? He might hurt her to make her scream even if she tried to accommodate him. Or rape her, then torture her, trying to get as many kinds of kicks as he could.
Of course she could try to turn him off by belching, blowing snot out of her nose and wetting her skirt; some anti-rape authorities (men, naturally!) recommended that. But the kind of man who would rape a drugged and bound woman would be likely to have other kinky notions, and might well be doubly excited by her incontinence. In fact, the authorities who advised such things might actually be catering to their own suppressed fantasies: the voyeurism of the printed page, the scatological image.
In which case she might do best to take it easy, letting him do with her as he would, hoping he took enough time so that her body could throw off the remaining effect of the drug. She did not want to get raped, but it was not, in the ultimate analysis, a fate worse than death. She had accommodated a masculine member before, a much better one than this lout's.
Jason, what have I brought upon you? she thought, knowing that he too had been drugged and captured. She should have cussed him out and sent him away, rather than betray him into the hands of the Death Squad like this.
"Liven it up, bitch!" the man said, shaking her again. He was frustrated because the rope that tied her hands prevented him from getting her clothes off readily. He had her blouse ripped open in the front and her skirt hiked up to her waist, but her panties and bra resisted his clumsy, overeager fingers. He yanked again at the bra, and this time it slid up so that her breasts popped out below it, making him suck in his breath in awe. "Scream! Fight! Think I want Alberto to think I'm a panty-waist, a Maricon?"
Unless there were after all a third alternative—
Now his sweaty fingers caught inside her panties and ripped them open at the crotch, giving her a rasping goose in the process. Too bad she had no teeth down there, she thought. But she forced a smile to her face.
"What's your hurry, mister?" she murmured in Portuguese. "A strong, handsome man like you..."
The man paused. Sometimes those least deserving of praise were most susceptible to it. This ugly bastard was quite ready to believe that he was God's gift to womankind, and that every vagina longed to have his penis lodged in it. Still, he was naturally suspicious of her sincerity. "So?"
He ran one callused palm up inside her thigh. Dulce writhed and moaned in simulated pleasure. Her head was clearing nicely; she was almost ready to act. "If you would only let my arms go so I could hold you."
He brought out his hunting knife and brought it toward her hands. But then he stopped. "You think to make a fool of me!" he snapped. "You don't need arms for love. Legs, maybe, but not arms."
Scratch one ploy. If he had released her arms—but perhaps something could still be salvaged. "Legs, yes," she agreed.
But, canny still, he refused. "Just spread your knees; that is enough."
Dulce spread her knees wide. His eyes almost popped as he peered through her ripped panties. He poked his finger in as if to see whether it was real.
"Kiss me, lover," she said, beckoning him down with her eyes. He was happy to oblige. A kiss, at least, was no risk. Now he had access to her crotch and breasts and mouth, all at once, and she was still safely tied. A rapist's dream! His beard-stubbled face dived onto hers for a hungry, smeary contact. His suddenly-heavy body almost crushed out her breath.
"Hurry it up in there, Claudio!" a voice called from outside. So there was another thug in range.
Prodded by that, Claudio took down his trousers and shorts and dropped down to embrace her more fully. But her bound hands got in his way, by no coincidence, half masking her breasts. He got up angrily, drawing his knife again. "You Cuban bitch, you are going to feel what a real man feels like! Your Cuban males are way overrated as lovers." And he cut the rope between her hands, freeing them.
He was of course a fool, but she could understand it. These Macho Brazilians were tough men who did not believe any woman could handle one of them. Obviously the ones she had fought at the beach had not wanted to lose face by admitting her combative skills; they would have laid the blame on Jason Striker, a known martial artist. So this man had no warning, and the irony was that the drug made her almost as helpless as he thought her to be. Even with her hands free, she could not resist him very effectively. He had been remarkably cautious until now, but the sheer lure of her body had overwhelmed him.
What was it about men that made them such suckers for female flesh? No woman would have acted this way. Well, at least it was an equalizing force. She would play it for all it was worth. "Call that a kiss?" Dulce demanded as she caught her gasping breath. It was his weight, not his sex appeal, that made her breath short, but she didn't say that. "Where's your tongue?" She wrapped her weak arms about his neck.
"So you want it that way!" Claudio said. "I'll show you my tongue!" And he thrust the slimy tobacco-stained thing deep into her mouth.
Dulce's jaws closed. With all her strength she clamped her teeth down on that tongue, savagely grinding them together as though severing a chunk of raw meat. Which was exactly what she was doing.
The man screamed: a strangled, stifled sound from the depths of his body. He jerked back his head, but Dulce held fast, her fingers locked together behind his head, holding it down while she chewed remorselessly through that living morsel. His struggles only magnified his agony. Blood welled from the expanding wound, its warm and salty thickness passing into her mouth, forcing her to swallow.
Claudio grabbed her by the shoulders and rolled desperately off the bed. They both fell to the floor, but Dulce was on top of him now, still crunching away at his tongue. With her hands weak and her feet tied, it was the only effective hold she had, and she dared not let it go. Now the blood was leaking down into Claudio's own throat, choking him. He tried to scream again, but it was hardly more than a bubbly gurgle.
"Hey, do not damage her too badly," Alberto called from below. He thought the stifled screaming was Dulce's. "The boss wants to interrogate her. You'll get us both in trouble."
She would be glad to give the boss a similar turn, if she could arrange it, only hoping the boss's tongue tasted better. At last Claudio's organ severed all the way. Dulce's head snapped back as the strands of flesh parted. She spat out the tongue.
Claudio, half delirious with pain, got one
hand up and hit her in the face. He was too close, and his eyes were screwed closed against his agony; he could not generate enough aim or momentum to really hurt her. He grabbed, and caught her by one elbow. He hauled her down, his eyes now opening, blazing with murder.
She was still too weak and hampered to balk him. She had hoped he would lose consciousness so that she could get at his knife and cut herself loose. No such luck. He got his hands around her throat and squeezed savagely. The grip was so fierce that it cut off air and blood together; in seconds she would succumb.
She drew back her hips, bending her knees so that her heels touched her buttocks. Then she bucked her hips forward with all the force she could muster. Her bony structure smashed against his crotch. Because he was poised, now, half above her, having wrestled her around while choking her, his genitals hung forward, exposed. The impact felt like the flattening of eggs. Claudio emitted one final scream of doubled agony and collapsed, his hands falling away from her neck. He was unconscious, finally.
His pants were draped across a chair. His gun was with them. But right now she needed the knife, to free her legs.
"You've had enough time, Claudio!" the other yelled from outside the door. "I'm coming in!"
Oh, God! If Alberto caught her now, she would be helpless! No time to get the knife and cut herself loose; she had to have that gun now.
She pushed herself to her feet and lunged for the chair. But her dazed reactions betrayed her; she forgot her feet would not separate. She crashed headlong into the chair, sending pants and gun flying. She scrambled on hands and knees, pawing through the tangle. Where was that gun?
The door burst open, showing a gross fat Branco da terra, a dark-faced mulatto. He was proud and vain, with curly black hair slicked down with perfumed pomade. He wore an open-necked shirt with a golden Figa: a little model of a human left hand closed into a fist, the thumb sticking up between the first and second fingers. A good-luck charm.
He blinked; it was dark in here, and the sunlight outside was bright. This was a break for her, but it would grant her only seconds. Now her fingers found the metal, but she still had to get it out of the holster, with her hands not cooperating, and then how could she aim it? She had to steady herself.
"We are down here," she called. "I have a gift for you. Right there on the floor before you."
Alberto did not know his companion was unconscious; he thought this was merely the conclusion of a love scene so violent it had finished on the floor. He stooped to pick up the object. It was the bloody tongue.
"What is this?" he demanded, casting it aside and wiping his hand off on his shirt.
"The tongue of an ass," she said. "See, your friend is dead."
"What!" He strode forward, his eyes adjusting. He caught hold of Dulce and rolled her off Claudio's clothing, realizing the situation. "Bitch, I'll kill—"
But as she rolled, the pistol she gripped came up. She pulled the trigger. It fired. The bullet struck him in the leg, and he dropped to his knee, cursing.
She was cursing too, inwardly. Damn this inadequacy of her body! She had always been a dead shot, and now she was firing like a duffer. She fired again, and this one caught him in the thigh. He fell almost on top of her, and the third bullet plowed through his stomach. Then his collapsing weight shoved the gun out of her hands.
But the job had been done. Dulce squirmed around until she got the knife. Then she severed her ankle bonds. She stepped over the bleeding, writhing body of the mulatto to freedom. What now? Her cover had been blown and her money was gone. Not all of it, fortunately; half a million dollars was quite a stack, even in twenty dollar bills. She had carried fifty packs of fifty bills each with her, or $50,000. The rest was safe with a friend who thought it was feminine baggage. But still, a formidable loss. And because of her, her friend and lover Jason Striker had been captured or killed by the Death Squad.
Dulce was not easily defeated. She did not collapse in tears. She put herself together as well as she could, putting on Claudio's pants and finding an unbloody man's shirt in the closet. Not a good fit at all, especially across the hips, but it would have to do. It wasn't as if she were in any fashion show.
The Brazilian Revolutionary Movement had never made contact with her, but she still had a backup name. Maybe that too had been betrayed to the Death Squad thugs, but she had to risk it. Why would they have saved her for interrogation, if they had all the answers already? And it was the only way she could help Jason—if it were not already too late.
She headed for an address within one of the city's favelas, not far from the Copacabana Beach where she had met Jason Striker. The Revolutionists had been supposed to send a representative from the urban guerrilla unit to the beach to pick her up, but the Death Squad had stopped that. Now she would have to take the initiative, and that was less pleasant.
Brazil was a marvelous land, and Rio de Janeiro was a lovely city. But the striking contrasts in the country's geography, that ranged from the magnificent mountain peaks to the burning deserts to the rain forests of the Amazon Basin were mirrored in the stark economic contrasts of its peoples. Brazil was a country of the very rich and the very poor, and they were often in close proximity. The favelas were the slums. They had begun around the turn of the century when soldiers had found themselves without employment. So they camped on a hill covered with the favela wildflowers.
When they came to Rio, these original "flower" soldiers took over any land that wasn't occupied and settled in dense shack colonies, bringing the name with them. Through the decades, the vicissitudes of economics caused alarming growth in these slums. In some cities, half the population lived in the sprawling favela colonies. Even in new Brasilia, the fabulous capital city, slum shantytowns developed faster than the ultra-modern buildings. The poor workers could not afford to commute from distant suburbs to their jobs in the center cities, so had to squat wherever they could.
What Brazil needed, Dulce thought as she moved along, was a People's Revolution, as in China and Cuba. Only then would the wealth be redistributed, this abject squalor abolished. No longer would starving children beg in the streets outside churches glittering with gold. And of course this was her mission: to bring salvation to Brazil, and eventually to all Latin America. One glorious year, perhaps soon, Communism would dominate the Western Hemisphere, as it did the East.
She smiled. Of course her friend Jason Striker might have a different view. He was politically naive. So many western men were like him, basically amateur in sex and economics. She had a certain nostalgic fondness for that innocence. Well, when things were finally righted in the Colossus of the North, the U.S. of A., she would take care of Jason, and he would be happier and better informed in both areas than ever before.
But first she had to save him from the much more immediate threat posed by the ruthless contemporary capitalism. He was likely to be tortured, and probably he would not even see the connection between that and her mission: her cause would abolish torture too. (Well, all but necessary torture.) But it was a lesson that was all too likely to cost him his life, and she couldn't allow that. Jason was ignorant, but he was a good man.
She came to the park in the southern section of the city, appreciating its beauty. This was Rodigo de Freitas lake. Once this very region had supported Rio's most notorious Favela of Catacumba, where some five thousand poor families had lived. Twenty percent of the residents had had criminal records, half of all dope peddlers arrested lived there, and more children under one year of age died in that single slum than in all the rest of Rio. Yet many of the denizens had refrigerators and television sets.
Catacumba was cleared by the authorities in 1970—but though some better housing was provided, it was up to 25 miles out of town, making it impossible for the people to get to work in the city. Thus they were unemployed, and had to be evicted, and new favelas replaced the old ones, sprouting up like mushrooms. Nearly a quarter of Rio's population still lived in them. The main difference was that the favelas w
ere no longer along tourist routes.
Dulce shook her head. The Capitalists simply refused to admit the magnitude of the problem, or to do anything about it. It was no answer to bulldoze a slum without providing a better and realistic alternative lifestyle for the inhabitants. What was needed was an entirely new social structure, as in Cuba.
She scouted the area carefully, decided she was not being watched, and made an unobtrusive detour to her friend's house. There she picked up another $50,000 in a shopping bag. She spread some ripe fruit on top to conceal it. Her friend, having no knowledge of Dulce's mission, insisted that she get better clothing, and so she donned a conservative dress and bound her hair into an almost masculine effect. She could not afford conspicuous femininity, where she was going.
Now on to the favela. At first glance, from a distance, it was like a pastel-painted jewel nestled into the mountainside, an enchanted subcity; but as she got closer, the enchantment vanished. It was a densely packed mass of hovels carrying the effluvium of raw garbage. As she entered it she tried to avoid glancing up nervously to spy advance warning of the slops that were tossed out the windows. There was no sanitation here. Children played barefoot amid the rubbish, stirring up great clouds of flies. Dogs and pigs rooted through the mess, adding their dung to it. Women carried cans of water on their heads from the single pump, much as in Biblical days. Not that Dulce had any fondness for the Bible, being a good Communist atheist, and if there were a God, how could He have tolerated this human degradation?
"Well, now!" a voice exclaimed beside her. Dulce jumped nervously, conscious of her bag of money. It was a man leaning in a ramshackle doorway. He wore a big-brimmed hat, an oversized sport coat, and he was cleaning his nails with a gleaming knife. It was a Malandro, the favela's special breed of sharpie. Tough, cynical, and completely unscrupulous, this type was sheer trouble. Dulce went on without comment, affecting not to have noticed him. But she couldn't get away with that; the man stepped out, caught up, and reached one dirty arm around to block her passage. "I don't know you, pretty doll; give me a kiss."