Bamboo Bloodbath and Ninja's Revenge

  My protest was disallowed. Tony was granted only half a point, a waza ari. Not enough to win. So the match continued. Something went out of Tony after that. Oh, he stood up and put on a good show, but I could see that his shock at the miscall had destroyed his concentration. I couldn't blame him; he had just learned the hard-way that America's fifth-rate judo status was not due entirely to the inability of its players. So many people of the world wanted so much to see the Yankee humiliated, and here was their chance.

  There was nothing we could do about it.

  Novokov faked a tome-nage sutemi, and changed to an arm-bar, a standing juji-gatame. Tony should have been able to avoid it, ordinarily, but he had lost his edge. That was the end; I knew it. All you can do in the face of such a hold is capitulate. But Tony tried to resist it.

  "No! No!" I cried from the sidelines in sudden alarm. "Don't fight it! Surrender!" That may sound like cowardly advice, but anyone who has experienced a standing arm-bar knows otherwise. Tony did not hear or heed. He tried a forward somersault, a foolish maneuver against an expert. The Russian did not let go; he twisted instead and pulled back harder; I heard the snap as Tony's arm broke at the elbow, like a sudden pistol shot. He gave a cry of pain, and there went the American hope for a medal.

  The judo meet continued, but it was over for us. I was abruptly more interested in our return to the States than in the tournament proceedings. We had arrived by plane, but would be going home by boat, via Canada. Such circuitous routings were necessitated because there was no direct communication between Cuba and the U.S.A., and we did not have enough money left to take a plane home. Money might have materialized had we made a decent showing in the meet; but we were dead, now, as far as any news interest went. So we would limp home in our shame and isolation. Well; variety, spice of life, etc. Maybe the sea air would wash out the taste of ashes.

  Dulce drove me to the harbor in a Volkswagen sedan. She was in uniform, gun and all; I suppose this counted as shore patrol or something for her. Quite possibly she had been assigned to keep an eye on me, but I wasn't worried, as I had nothing to hide except my chagrin about the meet results. I was sure our initial meeting had been coincidental, but after that she had been forced to mix business with pleasure, and I wasn't sure in which category I fit. Our romance, if you could call it that, never got beyond the polite stage. I knew she didn't mean me any harm, anyway.

  There were, it turned out, advantages. I got convenient chauffeuring service, and I hadn't realized that it required a special permit to visit the ship. Dulce had obtained it for me on her own. And she was nice company.

  We parked and walked down toward the docks. This was the Old Havana section, with small twisted streets and crowded houses, then the usual wharves and warehouses and ships. It was evening, and the harbor lights illuminated the water. A big moon was reflected on the sea, and I saw the glow of the refineries across the bay, their excess gas fires burning brightly. The sweep of the lighthouse beam passed us, adding romance. But then a mischievous sea breeze brought the smell of dead fish and the pungent effluvium of some chemical cargo. Over all hung the odor of the natural sea, with its clean, salty ambiance.

  We showed the permit and boarded the ship via a small gangplank. It was a Canadian cargo vessel, the Maple Leaf Forever, a small, well-kept ship with about five cabins for passengers and a large cargo hold. There were a couple of crewmen aboard who greeted us with friendly Canadian accents and gladly showed us around when they learned I was to be their passenger. They were polite even when they learned that bouncy Dulce was not coming along. I comprehended their disappointment.

  They explained that the ship had brought American spare parts to Cuba, the American companies evading the embargo by this device; patriotism took a back seat to profit, as always. The Maple Leaf usually returned with a cargo of Havana cigars that would probably infiltrate the U.S.A. illegally. Also sugar, refrigerated beef, and big lobsters. But she was empty at the moment, with most of her crew on shore leave.

  It would not be luxurious for my returning team, but it would do. And the people were nice.

  "Well, I guess that's it," I remarked we returned to the dock. I felt out of sorts. Everything in Cuba had lost interest for me since that disaster with Tony. Even Dulce. "I'll probably get seasick."

  Then it happened. Several black figures charged out of the night. I was walking around the front of the little car to the other door, having helped Dulce into the driver's seat, a male courtesy that she didn't need and may not have appreciated.

  Luis Guardia's comment about possible trouble for me sprang to my mind. Was this it? Ridiculous; these were wharf rats, stevedores, out to mug the stranger. Still...

  They were three large black men. One hefted what looked like a machete; I saw the big curved blade glint. The machete is the cane cutter's all-purpose tool. It was capable of lopping off a Spaniard's head when wielded by a mambi—the Cuban independence soldier, but was normally used for the island's main cash crop, sugar cane.

  He was the first to reach me, that weapon chopping down. I went in under the blade, blocked the descending arm at the wrist with my left hand, and went in low with my other arm against his legs. I threw him with a kata guruma hard against the car. He bounced off and fell in a heap. He tried to get up; he was tough. But my first kick sent the machete flying from his fractured wrist, and the second caught him in the side of the jaw, breaking it. The second attacker made the mistake of going after Dulce, trying to haul her out of her seat in the car. Her gun fired, once, and he went down. I had been right: a Cuban army woman was no easy mark.

  But the third man was on me already. He caught me on the head with a lead pipe. I fell with the blow, so that it only grazed me, doing much less damage than otherwise, but still it hurt, and I had to fight to retain my equilibrium. From the ground I kicked his knee with one foot while hooking his ankle with my other. He fell down with a dislocated knee. But he still held the pipe in his hand. I hunched near him on the pavement. Again my foot went out in straight stomp to his groin, putting him out of commission. No more attackers came. "You don't seem to have done much about crime in the street," I said to Dulce.

  My remark was half in jest, and I expected a short diatribe on how bad crime on American streets was in comparison. But she took me seriously. "We have very little crime," she said as she bent to search the body of the man she had shot, right through the heart if I was any judge. "There is something funny about this."

  "Is there?" I had the nasty suspicion, now, that there was more to this than met the eye, and that she was somehow involved. She was taking this too calmly. Had it been a setup to get rid of me, as perhaps Luis had warned? But why? Whatever threat I represented to Cuba had been dissipated when Tony lost his judo match.

  "He has no identification, no papers," Dulce said. "That means he's an outlaw. Come-we must report this to the G-2."

  "The G-2?" I asked blankly.

  "The political police. Like your CIA or FBI. Their three main functions are patrolling, intelligence, and legal. They arrest individuals they consider suspicious, like these." She nudged the corpse with her foot, and continued with a neat capsule description of the G-2. I didn't like her comparison to our FBI, but I also wondered about her ready knowledge. From her own description of G-2 activities, I realized that she herself could be a member, a secret agent. Was she trying to warn me without betraying her assignment? No, she would not have shot one of her own. This could not have been a put-up job. She had acted to protect herself, and me. If she had wanted me dead, she could simply have shot me, and said the thugs had done it. Still, I didn't like the sound of the G-2; I had heard stories of the way secret police operated around the world. Maybe it was a different sort of trap: I would be accused of murder and detained. But again, why? Luis's warning, and now this. Coincidence?

  "I'd like to take a look around," I said. "Maybe I can spot something."

  "The G-2 will check," she assured me. She wanted the G-2 here, all right.
br />   "How long will it take them to get here? We need to check now, in case there are others." I really wanted to see whether she'd balk at letting me search, and possibly leave the area.

  "Very well. You check. I will drive to the nearest phone and report. They will be here in a few minutes."

  What about that. She was letting me do it. No sign of connivance here. "Good. I'll duck down out of sight, so no one knows I'm still here. They'll think we both left in the car, if there are more than just these three."

  She nodded. Then she leaned over in the dark and kissed me. I was caught by surprise, doubly: first, because she had never before initiated such action, and second because of its extreme passion. Abruptly—too late—I realized the truth: Dulce did not merely like me, she had a full-fledged crush on me. Some intellectual women really go for the physical type of male; I should have read the signs. But her natural restraint and modesty had made it seem like less. I had an ugly premonition I would not see her soon again, if ever, and knew she had it too. Hence her ardent kiss. Then she started up the motor, turned on the headlights, and maneuvered around the bodies. I ducked into the shadow of a building and awaited developments. I was glad that whatever was afoot, Dulce wasn't involved.

  "So it was you, honky!" a low voice said behind me.

  I whirled, startled. I had heard nothing before that. I was further confused because I recognized that voice, and it made no sense at all. What was she doing here, in Cuba?

  I saw a tall black woman with her hair in a flaring Afro, her lips full, her nose broken and never properly set, ruining an otherwise pretty face. Large firm breasts, small waist, muscular arms and legs for a female, taut belly. A woman who could move with blurring speed and strike with uncanny accuracy, yet possessed, too, of a dynamic beauty.

  It was Ilunga, the Black Karate Mistress.

  Chapter 7

  Tao Vs. Kill-13

  "So you are mine," the Hyena said.

  Ilunga looked at him a moment. He was shorter than she, but massively constructed. He wore a grotesque animal-head mask, but it could not conceal the fact that his skin was white, not black. This was the leader of Blakrev? A renegade white?

  It was obviously a fraud, as she had expected all along. Blacks wanted freedom, equality, vengeance, so the white exploiter tuned in to capitalize on that drive. Even in revolution, blacks were not equal.

  She could overcome him, torture him to make him talk, use him as a hostage. Get Danny back, break up this fake revolution, or better yet, take over the apparatus and convert it to a real revolution. Right now she could strike...

  "Try it, black mama," he said.

  He was a fighter, and a deadly one—she could see that in his bearing. He was confident; he was challenging her. Which meant he thought he had the situation in hand. He must have studied her, analyzed her techniques. His house could be set up with every conceivable device. She could be shot down the moment she made her move.

  Better to bide her time, galling as that was. Find out what this man wanted of her. Play along, until she could deal with him effectively, without the risk of treachery.

  "You're smart," he said. "No wonder you did well in the Demon cult. You will do better with me. Now I'll take those tonki—the ones you hide in your hair."

  Slowly she removed the little blades and handed them over. She saw that his fingernails were longer than hers, and pointed like needles. When she fought him, her first move would be to break off those nails.

  "Now the drug," he said.

  "What?"

  "Your supply of Kill-13, the red-eye medicine. I will take charge of it."

  How had he known about that? She had to bluff. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  He made a gesture, a mere flick of his thumb, as though flipping out a marble. A tiny dart jumped from his hand and lodged in her arm.

  She yanked it out, but already something was wrong. Before she could do more, she fell forward.

  "Curare, my own special blend," the Hyena said, as he caught her neatly in his strong arms. "Used by the Amazon headhunters. Nerve poison. Completely disconnects the voluntary muscles, renders the subject absolutely immobile. But it has one intriguing attribute."

  He carried her into another room and set her on a laboratory table. The surface was hard and cold, and she felt both qualities readily. But she was unable to shift her weight, or to make any voluntary motion at all.

  "It does not impair sensation," he said. "As you are now aware." He made a bark of laughter, sounding like an animal. "It was once tried as an anesthetic for surgery, and seemed to work. But when the patients recovered, they claimed they had felt every cut of the scalpel." He put his hands to her head, his fingers removing her silk neckerchief and going through her Afro to the scalp. "Finally a doctor took curare himself, and found it was true. He never lost consciousness, and he retained full sensation—but while under the influence, he had been unable to react in any way, not even to make his discomfort known."

  His nails combed through her hair, searching methodically. He found and withdrew the little bags of Kill-13 pellets hidden there. He was right; she felt every tug of his fingers, but could make no protest. If he chose to torture her, she would be unable even to scream.

  "Since you are currently doped on your own drug, your awareness is heightened," he said. "No doubt you feel even more clearly than normal. But your drug dampens pain. An interesting combination; you cannot express the pain you cannot feel."

  Interesting, indeed, but she felt neither intrigue nor mirth. What was he going to do to her? Rape her? She had been raped before; it was no novelty, and no longer any torture.

  "There will be more of the drug elsewhere," he said. He poked one long nail into her ear, and for a moment she thought he was going to puncture her eardrum, or even her brain. But he moved carefully, showing precise control, and did not.

  His hands moved to her clothing, undressing her. Despite his long nails, his fingers were adept. He moved her arms, legs and torso about, getting all her clothing off, including the tight vest she wore beneath her blouse, and her black lace panties. So what use are undergarments? she thought. They are no protection. They only came off...

  He turned her over, and she flopped limply at the urging of his strong hands, still powerless to offer even token resistance. She would have killed him if she could. Not because she was sensitive to nudity, but because of his arrogant presumption.

  He palpitated her bare breasts with his knuckles, but found nothing beyond the knife sheathed between them. He squeezed her nipples, watching them react normally: no hardware there. He spread her legs, removed the little dagger strapped to one thigh, and ran one nail deep into her vagina, fishing for other packets. But probe as he might, there were none.

  It was a specialized, impersonal sort of rape, without even the excuse of lust. She wondered whether he was capable of such an urge. Perhaps he was a eunuch, invulnerable to betrayal via the wiles of women. Whatever she had, he would take, indifferently. She had castrated men for far less than this. But she made a note: Do not rely on the castration kick with this man.

  Then he turned her over, parted her buttocks, and thrust the nail into her rectum. There he found it: her last reserve of the vital drug, sealed in a small aluminum cylinder. He hooked it out. "Your body has excellent tonus," he remarked. "Well, sleep it off, now." He put a cloth over her face, and she felt herself fading. Any other man would have been driven to some, expression of carnal passion, for Ilunga knew she had remarkable anatomy. The Hyena had insulted her on more than one level. But perhaps she had already learned his vital secret.

  She woke with nausea, a splitting headache, and an odd, unpleasant taste in her mouth. Her body felt numb, with pin-prickling all over, as though all of it had gone to sleep.

  The Hyena was there, still in his animal visage. "Now you are conscious," he said. "Now you have volition. Stand." She ignored him.

  He brought out a single pellet of Kill-13, and suddenly she was awa
re of her need for it. She had been out for some time; her Demon-high had worn off. Soon the first withdrawal pangs would start. They would intensify until fatal, if she didn't take another sniff.

  The Hyena walked to the toilet, dropped the pellet in, flushed.

  Nothing could have shocked Ilunga more than that loud rush of water, carrying the pellet away forever. She had so few doses left! To see one deliberately wasted...

  The Hyena returned. "That one is gone. There will be no more today. I do not like to be balked. Stand."

  This time Ilunga stood. She was shaking.

  The Hyena had her. She could not live without Kill-13, literally; there was no way off the drug but death. When he had robbed her of her entire supply, he had captured her life force. She had to perform, or die. However much her mind sought to resist, her body could not. She had to obey.

  "You will go far in Blakrev," he told her. "You have had experience in forming terrorist bands. The blacks trust you. And you can fight. You will be my lieutenant—but first you must be trained. We have little time, so you will work hard."

  She stared at him stonily. If there were only some way to kill him! But he had the Kill-13 locked in a safe, surely, and he would be canny about the combination. She had had experience; she knew how these things worked. If he died, there would be no way to open the safe, and she would die too. And so would Danny; there would be standing orders.

  "This nation is running short of fuel," he said. "Blakrev is going to start blowing up petroleum refineries, to make that energy pinch worse. It will cause more disruption than a thousand raids on military or industrial targets. You will be in charge of Operation Fuel Crunch."