Yet a detachment emerged from the main gate of the castle. Only a dozen men, but there was something odd about them. They were swathed in white robes and mounted on old horses, bearing lances. Strange cavalry!
The soldiers, thinking it might be a surrender mission, did not fire immediately. The horsemen approached, their clothing resembling nothing so much as tattered bandages.
Then one soldier caught on. "Lepers!" he screamed.
There was little in Latin America that carried greater horror, for less reason, than leprosy. Leprosy is one of the least contagious diseases known, but most people shun all contact with those afflicted. The soldiers panicked.
The horsemen charged among them. Their lances bore blades set lengthwise near the point that could cut open flesh without getting stuck. Indeed, the riders were so feeble that any direct strike of their lances would have unhorsed them; their gnarled hands could hardly bear their weapons. But the soldiers were not even trying to fight; they wanted only to get away, impelled by a horror worse than death itself.
Mirabal snarled another order. His sharpshooters aimed, and in seconds all the lepers fell. But it took some time to reorganize the troops for battle; the bloom was off, and the men were shaken. They would not pass anywhere near the fallen lepers.
Still, there were many more soldiers than ninjas. The last ragged charge crunched forward relentlessly. The ninjas were now out of arrows and had to use their captured rifles. Erratic as their aim with these unfamiliar pieces was, this was a net increase in their firepower. But they were so vastly outnumbered that they could not hope to stop all the troops.
Several hundred men stormed the ravaged ramparts. The defenders were out of hot oil, out of refuse, and low on ammunition. Their numbers had been thinned by inevitable casualties; only a dozen ninja men remained, and twice that number of women and children, who now were doing much of the firing. All were shaken by the mortar bombardment, many were wounded, and most were dead tired.
Fu Antos remembered almost four hundred years before, when the troops of Nobunaga, Shogun of Japan, had overwhelmed the first Black Castle and slaughtered all its brave ninjas and their families. He experienced a feeling of déjà vu. Those limited ninja forces had withstood the siege of the mightiest army in Japan's medieval history. Then it had been crossbows against Portuguese muskets; now it was crossbows, against Portuguese artillery. Mirabal's army lacked the sheer numbers of Nobunaga's, but possessed many sophisticated modern weapons. So it had been a fair match and a great battle.
Certain mistakes had been made in the Japanese siege, and Fu Antos had seen to it that those mistakes were not repeated. He had prepared his defenses of Air, Earth, Fire and Water to eliminate potential weaknesses. Modern technology and an intelligent, ruthless enemy commander had strained the ninja position to the utmost. But victory was assured, because this time Fu Antos had no traitorous female within his walls to betray him to the enemy when victory was within his grasp.
Mitsuko: after centuries, that name still stirred his gut with rage and desire. Lovely treachery! The love of woman was ever the undoing of man. This time he had no woman, and his enemy Mirabal was said to be no lady's man.
But it was time to finish, lest the battle be lost while he reminisced. "Water," Fu Antos said. A pigeon was released. It winged swiftly across the valley toward the river.
The siege continued. Slowly the massed troops gained the upper hand. The ninjas were now confined to individual towers, firing from upper embrasures, while the enemy overran the center court. It seemed to be all over but the mopping up. Then water appeared. It welled up from vents within the castle, poured out from sluices in the walls. The top blew off a centercourt fountain; a geyser of water gushed up. The castle was perched atop a massive subterranean conduit, and was now rapidly flooding. The enemy saw the trap too late. The soldiers were caught between sheer stone walls as the water rose. No way to climb out of it, not with armed ninjas on guard.
The sluices in the deep mountain reservoir had been opened; millions of gallons of water were rushing down to debouch within the castle. Yet those outside the walls were no better off, for now a giant wall of water was rushing down the valley, sweeping over everything in its path. The reason for the strange aspect of the valley was now apparent; it suffered periodic and devastating floods. There was no escape.
Many of the soldiers and Indians could not swim. They were caught by the developing current and spilled over the ramparts, carried along involuntarily. Now the water turned red, and it was lumpy with drowning bodies. Even those who could swim were at a disadvantage, because they were trying to keep their rifles clear and so could not use their hands. They had to disarm themselves in order to survive.
Still the water rose. A strong impetus carried the soldiers along toward the gap in the wall blasted by the first mortar strike. Those who somehow clung to the ramparts were picked off at leisure by the ninjas in the towers.
And of course there were now crocodiles in the lake forming around the castle. And assorted snakes, large and small, excellent swimmers. And giant electric eels.
The ninjas had won, thanks to the last of the elements, water.
Only the mopping up continued as the waters subsided. Only one enemy remained with the resources and cunning to escape, and that one was Fu Antos's special prey. For it was Fernando Mirabal, instigator of the entire persecution against the ninjas. Once he was eliminated, a minimum number of judicious assassinations would preserve the secret of the Black Castle forever.
The colonel, of course, had fled the moment he saw the water rising, knowing that it was over. But he knew better than to attempt the booby-trapped ninja road alone. It was impossible to drive through the virgin jungle, and anyway the ninjas had sugared the gasoline of the remaining army vehicles and disabled the helicopter during the animal-distraction. So Mirabal moved on foot.
And Fu Antos followed. His ninja skill made the colonel's trail easy to read; the man had concentrated on speed rather than concealment. He was a powerful man, and had made excellent time, but no one could traverse wilderness as swiftly as a ninja. Steadily the gap closed.
Mirabal came at last to an old prospector's cabin. He had spotted it in his preliminary survey of the area, circling about in his helicopter, and made a mental note: just in case. Now it was the case, and he had sought it out. It was almost over-grown by the resurgent jungle: a good place to hide.
Fu Antos arrived shortly after. He too knew of this cabin, as he was conversant with the entire area. His quarry was inside, unquestionably, gun ready. But from its small window waved a white cloth.
Mirabal wanted to parlay? Fu Antos raised an eyebrow. "Very well," he called in Portuguese. "Come out unarmed. I will speak with you." He did not need to add that any attempted treachery on Mirabal's part would void the truce instantly.
The colonel came. He was gambling that the ninja would honor the truce, at least long enough for the necessary dialogue. They met under a tree before the door, an incongruous pair: the huge man and the young boy.
"I have this place so full of booby-traps you'll never get me," Mirabal said. "And I am well armed. You might get through, but the chances of saving your own life are only fifty-fifty. Is it worth it?"
"I have fire-arrows," Fu Antos said.
And the cabin was dry wood. Set afire, it would force the man out, easy prey to a ninja arrow. Mirabal did not even bother to bluff further. He knew he was virtually helpless before this unimpressive adversary, like a giant cobra before a tiny mongoose. Fu Antos parlayed merely to savor his victory; had he had any doubt at all of his command of the situation, he would have struck instantly. Only the agility of the colonel's mind could save him from the implacable vengeance he had earned, and his prepared ace-in-the-hole. "I can be more useful to you alive than dead."
Again, no verbal parrying. The hopeless buzzing of the trapped fly was music to the spider. "Continue."
"I have resources that can rebuild your castle within a month, in c
omplete secrecy. You have mental powers and raw materials that could profit me immensely—diamonds and oil, for example. Working together, we could achieve the dreams of both."
Fu Antos raised an eyebrow inquiringly.
"You want to know how you can trust me not to betray your secrets the moment I am safe," Mirabal said. In effect he was groveling, relieving the victor of even having to put the questions. "You possess unparalleled hypnotic powers. Use them on me; verify my sincerity. If I mean to betray you, kill me now. I offer no resistance, only a new allegiance, penalty of my defeat."
The man had offered his services to the victor, in a time-honored gesture. But the ninja only shrugged slightly. The offering was insufficient.
So Mirabal played his trump. "And I have—this," he said. He reached inside his jacket, brought out a waterproof envelope, opened it, and held up the photograph inside.
Fu Antos looked, and froze. At the moment of his seeming nadir, Mirabal had struck at the ninja's most fundamental liability. "It is—her," the ninja whispered.
Mirabal bowed his head in mock surrender. "Now kill me."
The ninja was oblivious to the ploy. His intense interest had been hooked; to kill the Colonel now would be to throw away the compelling information he offered. "Tell me of her."
Mirabal had the grace not to gloat. His hook had lodged, and through it he would not only save his life, he could achieve tremendous wealth and power. Why hadn't he thought to cooperate with the ninjas before, instead of fighting them? There was no essential conflict of purpose. "She is Dulce, an agent of the Cuban intelligence network. She is highly intelligent, trained in combat, and absolutely loyal to her principles. She would foment an armed revolution to save her man. All in all, a woman worthy of the finest man."
Fu Antos hardly listened. For the image he stared at was that of Mitsuko, his beautiful wife of almost four hundred years before. The wife who had betrayed him to the enemy, bringing about the downfall of the first Black Castle. In all the intervening centuries he had cursed her, yet had been able to love no other. This was not precisely Mitsuko, for the picture depicted a Western girl, but still, the resemblance was remarkable.
"She is alive and well in my possession," Mirabal continued. "The photograph hardly does her justice. But there is one complication."
"Bring her to me," Fu Antos breathed, in those words signifying his capitulation. He was ready to trade his nascent empire for mere possession of this one woman, exactly as Mirabal had anticipated.
"This is the complication. Oh, I can bring her here an hour after I reach a telephone; she is confined in one of our offices in Brasilia, not far by air from here. But her loyalty is to another man. I would be delivering only her body; her heart would not be yours, so long as that man lives."
"I will kill that man," the ninja said with cold finality.
Mirabal raised his hands in a gesture of incapacity. "Please do not misunderstand, Lord Ninja. I do not seek to thwart you, only to clarify certain awkward aspects that may have already occurred to you. This woman Dulce is not a carbon copy of Mitsuko. Her love is not negotiable. If you killed her lover, she would seek to kill you, and I doubt even your hypnotic power could change her mind for long. She is a superior creature; she must be won gently, not by force, or she will be no better than your wife was. But, properly cultivated, her loyalty to you would be unflinching. She would be what Mitsuko should have been. It would be a mistake to—"
"Dare you preach at me?" Fu Antos demanded, his eyes blazing. Suddenly he had no faintest resemblance to a child, despite his size.
Mirabal bowed his head. "I apologize for my presumption. I shall have her brought directly to you."
Fu Antos was mollified. "Rephrase your thought."
"Obviously it will be necessary to eliminate her lover. But you should not do it personally. Rather you should side with her, and help her to avenge her loss. Gradually her appreciation for this support will convert to appreciation for you. It may take a few years, but some things are best done slowly, properly, like the maturing of fine wines and cheeses. Love must develop in its own fashion, at its own rate; only then is it deep and complete. Your body is growing yet; by the time it is ready, she will be ready."
Fu Antos nodded, impressed by the logic. His mind was centuries old, but his body was a stripling, really inadequate to the task of loving a voluptuous woman properly. He needed time.
"This is the first service I can perform for you," Mirabal continued. "I will kill her lover, and let her escape to you. You and I are known enemies; you will be guiltless. You will send your ninjas out to kill me, though they may not have any more success than they have in the past."
"Who is her lover?"
Now it grew ticklish again. "Jason Striker, the American judoka. I believe you know him."
"Striker!" the ninja breathed.
"I realize he has been a friend of yours, or at least has performed some small service," Mirabal said carefully. If the ninja was prepared to dispense with Striker... "But I can show you that he is the one she—"
"A ninja has no friends," Fu Antos said, his expression hardening. "Jason Striker must die."
Mirabal nodded, his victory complete. "I shall intercept him. He is now on his way to Brasilia, in the company of a lithesome dancer, to meet your agent."
"You are well informed," Fu Antos said dryly.
"It is my business to be informed. Striker has been intimate with her—" Mirabal paused, having a notion. "In fact, it might be best if Dulce were to have concrete proof of his infidelity, before he died. That would destroy her romance with him completely, leaving her ripe for..."
"If you were on hand, she would know it was false," Fu Antos pointed out. "She would suspect Striker had been framed."
"True," Mirabal said regretfully. "I did frame him before." He pondered another moment, then brightened. "But there is always an alternate method. It happens that the dancer's estranged husband is in my employ. He has shown little interest in his wife, but he has a jealous nature. He is proficient in capoiera, the great Brazilian fighting art. On my orders, he could help Dulce break out, he claiming to be a ninja agent with information where to meet Striker."
Fu Antos nodded, smiling.
And so it was arranged: Jason Striker's best friend in the Amazon collaborated with his worst enemy to have him slain, because of the girl who loved him, exactly as the god Exu had decreed. There was to be no escape from the voodoo curse.
Chapter 10
City of the Future
The truck jounced along the red dirt road, northwest through the highlands of Brazil. I saw endless fields of beans and rice, orchards of coffee trees, and huge herds of cattle ranging square miles of pasture. I had not really grasped before how big Brazil was. The sun was hot, but we were pleasantly cool, for huge blocks of ice surrounded the cargo: live crabs and lobsters from the coast, bound for the gourmet restaurants of the capital city. Every so often a lobster claw emerged from the slats of a crate and tried to pinch me: one of the defects in the service I had to live with.
Near the river—I had no idea which river—we passed a series of swampy lakes. The truck slowed to get around a wooden-wheeled cart drawn by half a dozen slow oxen, and the mosquitoes were on us in a swarm. We slapped and slapped; there was nothing else to do. I had visions of malaria and yellow fever, though really had no idea whether these were dangers this far south of the Equator. Our transportation from Rio de Janeiro to the wilds of the continental interior had been as abrupt as the rest of this crazy adventure. Kan-Sen's message had finally come through to the hotel, delayed by I knew not what bureaucratic snafu. It had been taken by an employee who was in Umbando and had seen me at the mass, so he took it to the pai-de-Santo, who delivered it to Oba's apartment. When we returned there, after the Kendo school massacre, we discovered it: orders to go to Brasilia, where a ninja would contact me at a certain restaurant.
So here we were, Oba still protecting me from the wrath of Exu. I had tried to sugg
est that she had fulfilled her assignment, and that little danger for me remained now that the Death Squad had been wiped out, but the language barrier had prevented her comprehension. It had not, however, prevented her from understanding that I had to go to Brasilia. So she had arranged transport for us on this truck, that happened to be going to the very restaurant I needed. That was either one hell of a coincidence, or there really was something about voodoo assistance. I hoped I was not, like the lobsters I rode with, heading for hot water.
Then at last, as the dawn came over the fringe of the huge tropical forest, it hove into view: Brasilia, capital city of the future. I could not see it all from the ground, of course, but Oba drew a picture in the dust that put it into perspective like an aerial photograph. The city looked like a modern swept-wing airplane, seven miles from the golf club in its needle-nose to the railroad station dangling from its tail, with a single highway traversing its entire length like a ramrod through its metropolitan gut.
Even from the truck it was impressive, but perhaps not in quite the way intended by the architect. For there were more favela slums here, massive ones whose population rivaled that of the city proper. Oba had explained something about the favelas, by gesture and pantomime, as we had had plenty of time to exchange communications. Quite an education.
We passed the airport and entered the city from the south: the tip of its right wing. We drove three miles up the center of that wing along a broad parkway, divided with triple lanes with green gardens between.
Oba pantomimed more detail as we went: to the east, in the nose section, were the ministries, courts, and towering congressional office buildings, like the brain in the cockpit of the craft. To the left, in the tail section, were some of the entertainment facilities: the ovals of the racetrack and sports stadium. Oba made two marks with her finger, clarifying the map. Somehow those smudges in the tail reminded me of ovaries, and that suggested another kind of entertainment, more of a participant exercise than football or horse racing. But I quelled my one-track male mind. I still hadn't recovered fully from our heroic triple indulgence in the kendo school, and anyway, if I tried to make time with Oba now, that damned lobster would pinch me in the ass.
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