"I'm sorry," I mumbled inanely. "I didn't mean to—"
"No, no, Señor Kane, I wanted it to be you!" she whispered fiercely. "I love you! I saw you fight—"
That voice! "Amalita!" I exclaimed, horrified. "How did you—"
"I am not so naive as my uncle thinks," she said breathlessly. "Not anymore!"
Now I remembered the broken katana and realized what it meant. I should have broken my sword in some other living body!
"I have drawn the blood I promised to spare!"
"Now you must take me away with you," she said.
I had a vision of tapirs, jaguars, riflemen, dogs, poisonous snakes and liver parasites. Broiling days and cold nights. Starvation in the barren pine badlands. "I can't take you anywhere! I as much as promised your uncle I would leave you alone. Now I shall have to tell him what—"
"He would kill you—and me!" she cried, her terror genuine.
Vicente Pedro probably would, I realized. There were a thousand ways he could do it, here on his premises where he was the law, or somewhere in the wild countryside where it would seem an accident. A knockout drop in a drink, men hired to haul the body out, use those metal tiger claws on it to make it resemble a jaguar kill, and leave it there in the sun. Who would ever know—or who, suspecting, could ever prove anything? Such a pity: his own niece, showing the guest from America the countryside, and both struck down by a jaguar! Three days of mourning, followed by a massive jaguar hunt and another feast.
Talk to Pedro? I doubted he would be reasonable. If I convinced him of the truth, he would have proof of Amalita's complicity, and only execution of both parties would salve his wounded pride. After his scrupulous warning to us both...
There seemed to be no alternative but to cover up. Amalita had done what she had done of her own free choice, and did not deserve to die for it, however covetous of her body her uncle might be. It galled me to be a party to such deception, but since I was already party to the damage, I had to carry it through with expedience. If only I had been more alert before taking the supposed stranger to my bed! Such carelessness in a match would have cost me dearly, and the stakes were no less, here.
"Look, Amalita," I said, realizing with a lesser shock that we were still connected in the love-embrace. "I can not take you with me. Your uncle would never let you go, and if somehow we managed to escape his guards and get through the wilderness alive and make it out of Nicaragua, I still could not bring you into my country. You are not an American citizen, you probably have no passport—and even if we got around all that, how long do you suppose either of us could escape your uncle's assassins, anywhere in the world? There is no escape."
"There never was any escape," she said. "My uncle picked you for the tournament so that Judo would lose. You knew that, surely! But after the first match you changed your mind and fought so hard you made a fool of him! Now you can fight to get me out."
"Hey, hey, hey!" I yelped. "Pedro picked me? I thought—"
"You didn't know? About Uncle and his American business partner, Johnson Drummond? How most of the Pedro money is invested in the U.S.A. for safekeeping, a lot in Drummond Industries?"
"I didn't know any of that!"
"They're good friends," she continued relentlessly. "The American was here last month bragging about what a good instructor he had found for his daughter. An American judo champion. But Uncle knew how the U.S.A. is really a poor judo nation, and how big a difference just a few years retirement makes, so he was sure you would be no match. Drummond thought he was doing you a favor, pulling strings to get you in."
"God!" I exclaimed, appalled by what this innocent little girl knew. So Drummond had been my anonymous supporter, no doubt greasing his recommendation with money. On top of everything else, this indicated corruption in Judo's higher councils. No, better to believe that I really was the best of the poor lot that was American judo. My country had nothing to compare to the ranking judokas of the world, unfortunately.
That reminded me. "My original judo partnerwas it the same deal with him?"
"The East German? Yes. Uncle knew they would not let him go, not when he told them about the Kipchak defector already signed up. And he thought the Japanese would try to fill in, but he was too old and fat to get far. So Judo had the weakest team." She hugged me, laughing. "Now my uncle can't admit he made a mistake! You both are so much stronger than he thought possible, he's absolutely furious! He—"
"We're lucky," I said. "I've gambled and won, but that can't last. And the moment someone realizes that Takao has a weak heart—"
"I knew you'd help me, once you knew," she said. "I showed you my body, and came to you, so that you would."
So even her first nude swim had not been innocent. Everyone had plans for me! But I was tired of serving other people's purposes. "Amalita, I'm not helping you! I'm staying here to maintain the honor of judo in the Martial Open. I would never be able to face myself if I let your uncle use me to defame my profession."
"The American said you had a moralistic streak," she said, tearful again. But I refused to rise to that taunt, which was an accurate one. The truth was that I found Amalita quite attractive, physically. Less so, mentally. I had no illusions about any lasting relationship with her.
"Now you go back to your room," I said firmly, "and fix yourself up so there's as little evidence as possible of what has passed between us. Fix this in your mind: it never happened. This is the only way either of us will last out this tournament alive."
She nodded, finally understanding that I meant it. At last we severed our embrace. She mopped herself in the darkness, put on her robe and veil, and moved silently out the door. "Make sure the girl whose place you took doesn't talk!" I warned her. She nodded as she disappeared.
Then I turned on the light and checked my bed. There was an incriminating spot of blood on the sheet, and more on me. I washed myself quickly, then scrubbed at the sheet with a damp cloth. I managed to get most of it out, leaving a dark stain. Then I spilled coffee over the place, hoping that stain would conceal the remaining evidence, and took a long shower. I felt like a criminal.
Suddenly I remembered the intercom. Had Pedro been listening the whole time? Disaster! But when I checked it, the wire was loose; Takao had taken care of that detail before he left, thoughtfully, not suspecting how important it would be. Whew!
The first match of the ninth round was Karate vs. Boxing. Makato the Korean; Mustapha the American stylist. I did not expect to meet either Karate or Boxing again, as both Judo's matches against these arts had been completed; but a problem I could not discuss with anyone weighed on my mind. I needed distraction.
Makato, surprisingly, elected to box with Mustapha. I was surprised, and Mustapha himself was amazed. His nose had never recovered from my partner's smash, and he had taken humiliating beatings in every match. His early arrogance was gone; he no longer expected to win. I had to give him credit for courage in adversity for staying in the tournament. But I found it hard to fathom Makato's purpose. The karateka had never shown inclination to waste motions; he had been a single-minded engine of destruction throughout. He was one of the two undefeated men remaining in the tournament (the other being Takao) and he evinced no heart condition. Why was he fooling around now?
Mustapha, after his initial surprise, was more than ready to accept the Korean's gambit. He was taller and had a much superior reach. He began displaying pretty combinations, dancing around and scoring to Makato's head and shoulders. Those had to hurt; they were not light taps. But Makato ignored the punishment, advancing relentlessly.
Mustapha was the first to realize that this could not last long. He became wary, watching for the Korean's real move. And he tried his best to finish the fight, his way, while he had the chance. What an upset, if the winless boxer brought down the invincible karateka! He wound up for his best punch—and Makato delivered the bull-stunner blow. Mustapha reacted instantly, bringing up his fists to block while jumping back. It was a good try, but
neither move could foil that knockout express. It crashed through his guard as if through light kindling wood and struck the top of his head. Mustapha was out cold before he started to fall.
Takao was watching, and I saw him scowl. Could he be jealous of the karateka's success? A little of that had showed during the halftime festivities. Makato had just demonstrated that he could absorb a boxer's best punches without seeming effect; that nullified Takao's performance with Jesus. Would Takao try something new with his next match?
I hoped not, for that was with the kick-boxer from Thailand, Suphon Kitisathorn. I sat watching the two men. The Thai was the larger of the two kickers, being about five-feet six-inches tall and weighing 160 pounds. Still small by the standards of this tournament—but Suphon was the champion of Thailand, and therefore the world. Kick-boxing had not been doing well here, winning only two matches, and those against Boxing and Wrestling; but this was not because the art was inferior. Wrestling, Boxing and Thai Kick-boxing all suffered because they were essentially sport arts, normally governed by stringent protective rules. Had Aikido or Kung-fu been similarly restricted, with penalties given for injury to the opponent, this tournament might have had a very different complexion. Karate and Judo were dual-aspect disciplines, sport and business, so had the best of both. But complacency would be foolhardy. Takao had done extremely well so far, though his very brutality could indicate his own lack of confidence in his skill and stamina. If he tried to play around, showing up Makato, and got smashed by a hard kick—
Suphon kicked. Takao dodged aside, caught that foot one-handed, and struck with his other fist, one knuckle protruding. Struck at the sole of the foot! It was a powerful blow, but represented exactly the kind of foolishness I had feared. Suphon would twist away in a moment and counter devastatingly.
But Suphon was not twisting, he was falling. The judges and spectators stared as he lay unmoving. Then there was a smattering of applause that swelled as others realized what had happened. Takao had successfully executed one of the most difficult of all atemi blows: a strike to a nerve center in the bottom of the foot. The shock and pain had knocked out the Thai.
The applause continued, but I did not join it. I knew Takao could only have mastered this rare technique by practicing against Chinese prisoners already sentenced to death.
"That girl!" Takao demanded abruptly that night. "Pedro's niece—you have not seen her again?"
"I have no need to answer that," I said.
"The rumor is about," he said, concerned. "False, surely, yet if Pedro hears it—he is a jealous and vindictive man. All his pride is tied up in that girl."
Somehow the news had leaked. The girl whose place Amalita had taken—she must have talked. No one could know what had actually passed between Amalita and me, but the mere suspicion was enough to undo us.
Takao, watching me, swore in Japanese. "I thought you had better sense! You accepted the katana!"
"I thought I had sheathed it," I said simply.
"You had—so long as you confined it to the whore on order. Do you know she is dead?"
"Dead! When? How?"
"This morning. It must have been very soon after she left you, or after someone did! Small kris to the heart."
The kris was another exotic blade, originating in Java. There were many variants, straight and wavy, the larger ones up to two-feet long in the blade, the smaller only five or six inches. These were typically used on women, and often the blades were poisoned. Like the katana, the kris had a venerable history, and was surrounded by important conventions. Such a weapon would not be employed for a routine murder today.
I had told Amalita to make sure the other girl did not talk. Now I knew she had done so. She was a true niece to her uncle, lacking only his more experienced subtlety.
Takao shook his head and said no more.
Oleg Usk, the Kipchak sambo wrestler, was not as large as his partner Whale, but at six-feet two-inches and 250 pounds of muscle he was no midget. He sported a shaved bullet head and a ferocious mustache.
Sambo is distinct from American wrestling, and superior, being more scientific. It is closely related to judo, having borrowed many techniques from it, and on occasion judokas crossed over to compete successfully in sambo tournaments. The wrestling team had won three matches and lost six, so was not in contention for honors, but if Oleg got a proper hold on me, I'd be finished.
I had been fortunate so far in completing my matches quickly. This time my luck ran out. Oleg had learned things during this tournament, and must have had prior experience against judo, and was careful to avoid giving me any easy openings. I had to grapple him his way, and he was a bear. He was stronger than I, crushing me again and again in his ursine hugs. I broke his grips only with difficulty, by striking him repeatedly until he had to relinquish a given lock. He was also wary of the nose-finger Hiroshi had used against Whale, and I was unable to use my weak right hand to good effect. Oleg had the advantage, and wore me down implacably.
The only thing that saved me was an inhibition of his own: in sambo, strangle-holds are considered unsportsmanlike, so Oleg was not well versed in them. He knew they were legitimate for this tournament, but his reflexes and inclinations were not attuned, and under battle stress a man does what is most natural to him.
There was a thirty-minute time limit for any given match, with provision for overtime periods if required. Few bouts had come near this limit, but this one did. I was unable to put the big man down, and only continuous evasive maneuvering on my part prevented him from finishing me. He took me down, though. He grabbed my leg and pushed me back in a sambo takedown, then tried for a leghold that almost wiped me out. He had used the same techniques defeating the young aikidoist, gripping one of his legs and lifting it while sweeping the other foot from under. Then a leg-twist combined with pressure on the knee, forcing surrender. I foiled that, but remained at a disadvantage. The judges finally called time, and we broke, tired and sweating.
There was a five minute rest before the first ten-minute continuation. No draws were permitted; each match had to continue until a victor was determined. I was not optimistic; I was so tired I was bound to make a mistake. Oleg, used to this sort of combat, seemed stronger than ever. It was no longer difficult to appreciate how this man had defeated Sato, the second aikidoist: Oleg was about to do the same to me.
Normally Takao was on hand when I fought, but for some reason he was absent this time. This irritated me; didn't he care whether Judo won or lost? Or was this his way of expressing his disapproval of my situation with Amalita?
Amalita. If word of that affair were circulating, how long could Pedro himself remain ignorant? What would he do, once he learned? Even without proof, he would act.
The break was over, way too soon for me. I went to meet the sambo wrestler, and was taken down by surprise. He bent to grab one of my knees, lifting and pushing and forcing me to the floor. I grabbed for his hair, dimwittedly, for he was billiard-bald. He fell on top of me, giving me another good thump in the process, and tried for a leg lock. I managed to foil that, but I was pinned, and remained so, struggling futilely, until time expired again. In any sport match I would have been counted out.
The wrestler was trying to wear me down to the point where I could no longer interfere with his win, and he was succeeding. I was escaping more narrowly, and every minute on the mat was draining my scant reserves of strength.
In the next overtime period I summoned what remained of my energy and went for broke. I hit Oleg several times about the face and body, boxing him with my leaden-heavy left arm. Then we grappled again, and I got on his back and suddenly put a hada-kajime on him, a naked strangle, assisting it with a scissors hold on his body. I could not have set it up had he been more conversant with the form. I passed one arm in front of his neck, and with the edge of my right hand I pressed against his windpipe. This was painful for me, because of that infernal wrist, but this time I refused to let that deter me. I seized that hand with the other
to increase the pressure. This was a combination choke, interfering with the flow of blood through his carotid arteries and also stopping his breathing. It would not have worked against a neck like Takao's, and it almost failed here, because of Oleg's strength and my weakness. But he just didn't know how to handle a strangle, and finally he made the signal of submission. Rather to my surprise, I had won.
I checked my room, but Takao was not there. I was worn out, but could not relax, so went to watch the Aikido—Boxing match following mine.
Aikido was still in contention, with a 6-3 record, but it was in trouble. Sata had been eliminated through injury to his knee in his losing match with Oleg two days before and was no longer able to compete. O-Sensei Hiroshi was carrying it alone. The man was capable, as my painful finger attested, but he was sixty-two years old, and so tiny! How long could he maintain the grueling matcha day pace? Yesterday he had defeated Kung-fu; today he met Mustapha the boxer; tomorrow he would meet Karate, and the final day, me. Takao had planned to take the second Aikido match, but with Hiroshi now certain to appear, that was out. I had strong sympathy for the gentle, honest, discreet, indomitable old man, and I liked him personally, but I would have had to go for the win regardless.
At least I had no decisions to make at the moment. I could watch this match dispassionately, knowing that the best man would win. If Hiroshi had a tough schedule, Mustapha had his own problems. There was a band about his head, probably because of the bull-stunning blow Makato had given him. There could easily have been a slight concussion, perhaps not so slight. Actually, Mustapha himself should have rested today, but his own partner appeared to be ill. Pibe's last match had been with me, and I had not hurt him, I thought. I hoped.
What decimation was occurring. Yet this was to be expected, three quarters of the way through a no-rules tournament. That was part of the point of it. A martial art that looked good in the opening encounter but could not keep the pace after absorbing some bruises did not deserve acclaim as a world leader. This was the savage but fair law of the Martial Open.