by Nick Carter
I knew what it would have been like. Elicia would have crept beneath my blanket. Her soft, shapely body would have molded to mine under that blanket. Flesh would have responded to flesh. Soul would have responded to soul. And then…
I started to run on the trail, knowing that it is impossible to run away from love.
From the lookout point, I could see as much as I needed to see in the Reina Valley. The campfires of the Cuban Marines had burned low, glowing like red eyes in the blanket of darkness below. But farther down the valley, perhaps four miles from the Marine encampment, was something new.
Campfires blazed there as the night grew colder. Through my binoculars, I could see the shadows of hooded monks moving about the new camp, tending the fires. In the center of the new camp, firelight dancing on its ornate walls, was the tent of Intenday, the religious leader from Apalca. There were no sentries that I could see, but they could have been hidden in the jungle around the encampment. In a ring around the encampment, almost beyond the glow of the fires, were carts and oxen. The beasts were presumably asleep, standing with heads low to the ground, but not grazing. Lucky for me the travelers were using oxen and not jeeps; otherwise, they'd already have reached the base camp of the Cuban Marines.
The timing on this was perfect so far. I had caught up with Intenday and his contingent of monks just hours before they would break camp and make the final jaunt to the base of Mount Toro. If I had succumbed to Elicia's charms, or if my automatic mental alarm hadn't awakened me, I would have missed them altogether. Even as it was, there was no guarantee that my plan would work — and I still had no plan as to what I would do once I was on top of the huge mountain.
I had virtually forgotten my wound on the long trek down from Ninca lands. Old Pico's poultice of mosses and herbs had done a miraculous job and I toyed with the idea of taking his secret back to the States with me, if I ever got there. I discarded the idea, knowing the reception it would receive from the AMA. After thirty or forty years of testing, it would be discarded or shunted to the medical attic where it would never heal a single wound. Oh well.
Before leaving the lookout, I checked my personal arsenal. I had strapped four gas bombs to the insides of my thighs, to go along with the one in the lamb's wool pouch behind my testicles. Hugo, my faithful and reliable stiletto, was in his leather sheath along my left forearm. Wilhelmina, the luger, was taped to my back and I had six extra clips taped around the bandage on my side wound.
I was as ready as I ever would be. I crushed out my cigarette and buried the butt deep, just in case someone came along and saw the NC in gold.
The binoculars hadn't lied about the sentries. There were none. I slipped through the final section of jungle and peered at the firewatchers who were still piling on wood. Dawn was threatening to break over the top of the mountain dead ahead of us. I had to hurry.
From my cover at the edge of the clearing, I singled out a monk who looked about my height. I watched him closely, studying his movements. It was impossible to see his face because of the dim light and the elaborate hood that projected out beyond his head. That wasn't a concern. Once inside his hood and robe, my face would be equally difficult to see. To make certain, I dug my hands in the soft, black dirt of the jungle floor and smeared my face with it.
And then I moved forward just as the monk who was my height moved away from the ring of campfires to search for new firewood.
Patience is very much a part of my work, but I found that I had little of it as the monk kept stopping to peer at the ground and then in my direction. Could he see me hiding there at the edge of the clearing? No, impossible. I was behind a thick bush, watching him from the bottom edge. And the dawn light was still so dim that he couldn't have seen me from twenty paces away if I had been standing in the open.
Slowly, the monk made his way in my direction. When he came within those twenty paces, I was ready to make my move. I slid Hugo into my hand, knowing that the monk's death had to come quietly. He advanced within ten paces, still not enough, and I felt my muscles go taut, waiting, waiting.
The monk stopped, leaned over and plucked a piece of firewood from the dark ground. He had only four or five slender pieces in his arms, but I was afraid he'd go back with them and then find a new area to search. Before long, it would be too light for me to shift my position to intercept his line of search.
He was a slow one, that monk. He stood there examining that piece of firewood the way he might have gazed at a piece of the true cross. I was about ready to start cursing him under my breath, then I held back the curse. I was about to kill this man, this total stranger to me. The least I could do was hold back the curses, even if my heart wasn't bubbling over with compassion. And yet, compassion was there. This man was guilty of nothing. He was a simple (and perhaps simple-minded) follower who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. For him, that is. For me, and for the honest people of Nicarxa, this man doing everything right. Slowly, but right.
He came within five paces, still too far away, searched the dark ground, glanced back at the fires and his roaming comrades, then stopped cold. I was sweating with tension and my muscles were beginning to knot from being held taut so long. I took a deep breath, relaxed all my muscles, felt relief ripple through my body, then poised again to leap on the unsuspecting monk.
He looked in my direction, then scanned the dark ground near the jungle wall. He took another step, and another.
I leaped out so quickly that even I was surprised. I hit him with my body and he went down like a structure of straw. Even as my left hand was searching for his mouth to keep him from crying out, my right hand was bringing Hugo around in a wide arc. Both hands did their work simultaneously.
There was no cry. Only a soft grunt signalled the death of the monk. The stiletto made a wide, gaping gash of his throat, and warm blood spilled over my own chest. I lay on the ground on top of the monk, my left hand still on his mouth to make certain no final death cry would escape. He was soft as wet clay, and I knew he was dead. It was then that the compassion bubbled over and I wished him back to life.
It took only a few minutes to drag the monk into the jungle and strip him of his robe and hood. I barely noticed his shaved head, but was struck by the rough, unbleached shorts he wore under his religious attire. Those must smart on hot days, I thought. He also wore crude leather sandals and had a crude wooden cross on a cheap chain around his neck. I left the shorts and the cross on his body, and slipped into his robe and sandals. I raised the cowl until it virtually obstructed my vision, but hid my face.
I gathered up the fallen sticks of firewood and began looking for more, taking my sweet old time about it. Fortunately, I had watched the monk long enough to know that he had a specific fire to tend. I looked over, saw that the fire was burning low, and started off to put the firewood on it. Just beyond the campfire was Intenday's huge tent. I gave it a covert inspection as I stepped up and carefully put the firewood on the fire. There was a soft light in there, as though the holy man were awakening to start the day's journey.
"More quickly, Nuyan," a voice from my left called out softly. "We must build the fires for the breakfast. Move more quickly, if that is possible, you slow mule, you."
I turned slowly, but not all the way, to see who was speaking. Another monk, short and squat, was piling a huge load of wood on the next fire. I could see part of his chubby face and he was smiling.
"That's right, Nuyan," the monk said, laughter in his voice, "keep going at your own pace and the Iman will have a cold breakfast. And you, my slow-paced friend, will find yourself scrubbing the kitchens at home for a month. Try to make haste, won't you?"
I said nothing. Supposing the monk Nuyan was a mute? Supposing he had a lisp or a nasal twang or a different Spanish accent. Silence and slowness were my best friends now. I moved away from the fire and went seriously about the business of gathering firewood. It wouldn't do me any good to draw attention to Nuyan by having the Iman eat a cold breakfast.
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Things went well after that. I got the fire going furiously, though I was worried about that breakfast bit. Did Nuyan have to fix the religious leader's breakfast? If so, I would have to get too close to the man and he'd certainly notice that I wasn't the real Nuyan.
However, by the time I'd brought back my third load of firewood, the servants were already out preparing breakfast in great black pots. Along the road, other monks were readying the carts and oxen, getting them hitched for the short run to the base camp. Tents around the Iman's big tent were being struck and folded.
"Come, Nuyan," the chubby monk said from behind me. "We get to sleep while the Iman eats. Come, you slowpoke."
I turned, slowly of course, and saw the chubby monk joining the other fire tending monks near the base of a huge palm tree. The monks were stretching out on the ground and curling up inside their robes. I circled around to avoid the chubby man who was so talkative to Nuyan, picked out a spot and pretended to sleep.
But sleep wasn't a part of my program just then. I'd had precious little of it and wanted to drop off into dreamland, but I kept my eyes on the monks to see if I could spot weapons among them. I didn't. I did see Intenday, though, when he came out to warm his hands before the fire.
He was a small, wiry, insignificant-looking man in a bright red robe and hood to match. He pushed back the hood and I saw a brown bald head and an enormous nose. But his eyes were so large and glistening that the corpse-like ugliness of the man was soon forgotten. There was no benevolence in that man and I wondered about the people of Apalca and why they would choose a holy man who obviously was so full of greed and evil; and completely devoid of compassion. At least in those great, penetrating, conniving eyes.
A half hour later, the camp was struck, the Iman had his breakfast tucked away in his stomach and the call went out to the oxen. The carts began to roll.
"Come on, slugabed Nuyan," the chubby monk called across to me. "Rustle your bones. Time to go."
I got up and followed the others. Leading the caravan were the oxcarts. Following them was the ornate wagon carrying Intenday and his lieutenants. Other monks strung out in a double line on the narrow road. The firewatching monks were last, straggling along single file. That was fine with me. I held back, waiting for the fat monk to fall in line, then brought up the rear.
It was, I learned, the customary position for Nuyan. He always brought up the rear. The monk directly in front of me turned occasionally to smile, as though he were giving encouragement to a dimwitted child. I bent my head and tried to pull it deeper into the hood.
The sun was up full when we reached the base camp. Ahead, I could see a group of Marine guards letting the oxcarts go past. Then, a group of officers came out of the main building to greet Intenday's carriage.
Leading the officers was my old nemesis: Col. Ramon Vasco. I checked my weapons under the robe. In spite of my heavy sweating, everything was in place. But I still felt a tremor of fear and excitement through my body. What if the man recognized me? No, he was paying no attention to the humble monks. All his attentions were centered on the holy man in the carriage.
As I waited at the end of the line for the officers and the religious leaders to observe the customary amenities, the chubby monk came back to stand alongside me. I sucked in my breath, and my head, and pretended to be watching something back down the road.
"You're quieter than usual, Nuyan," the gabby one said. "Did you lose your tongue during the long night tending the fires?"
I shook my head no, hoping that was another of Nuyan's habits. It apparently was. The fat monk went on jabbering about how sleepy he was, how slow I was, how hot the sun was, how high the mountain was, how glad he'd be when we reached the top and had decent food. He talked enough for eight monks and I was happy to let him ramble. Suddenly, I could feel him staring at me.
"Something is wrong, Nuyan," he said, stepping closer. "Come, turn and look at me. Tell me what's wrong."
Away from him, I twitched the muscles of my left forearm and popped Hugo into my hand. If this man discovered I wasn't Nuyan, I would have to kill him before he set up the alarm. With luck, I could be a hundred yards into the jungle before the others figured out what the hell had happened.
In that moment, as I felt the monk tugging at the sleeve of the robe and my hand was tightening on the stiletto's hilt, the Iman's wagon began to roll forward and the extenders let out a loud "Yo-ho, yo-ho."
"Come on, slowpoke," the fat monk said, tugging harder. "Try to keep up. The trail gets rough now."
Old chubby took his usual place near the head of the line of firetenders. I realized then that even these lowly monks had a pecking order and a kind of protocol of position. My position was last in line. Somehow, I wasn't offended or humbled by that.
After an hour, the oxcarts and the leader's carriage had to be left behind. Monks carried the I man on a chair attached to long poles until the trail got so steep that the wiry man had to actually walk. Even so, two of his lieutenants were right beside him, gripping his skinny arms and helping him up the narrow trail.
We reached the first gap in the trail about ten o'clock. The sun was hot above us and not even the stiff breeze from the ocean helped to dissipate the heat. Sweat was showing through the robes of the monks ahead of me, and through the uniforms of the Cuban Marine guards who manned the station ahead.
I spotted movement high above and saw that a basket on a rope was being lowered by monks in red robes and green hoods. These were the special monks, from the private order of Don Carlos Italla. There were four of them working a winch at a tiny building on a ledge a hundred feet above where the mountain trail ended. I held back, observing what was happening, watching the Cuban guards to see if they were searching anyone. There were no searches.
The Iman was taken up first, then his lieutenants. The Cuban guards observed the operations closely, looking into the face of each monk as he was taken aboard the basket and hoisted up by the rope and winch to the next level. I looked up again and saw that the Iman and the monks who had already been raised were already moving along a trail up there. This was only the first of several points where the trail had been blasted away and where we would be hoisted to a new level. It was also the first of several points where Cuban guards would get a good look at my face.
Well, it was nothing to worry about. They couldn't know me, couldn't know that I was not really Nuyan, the slowpoke, the slow-witted. If they wondered about the dirt on my face, they'd just have to accept the fact that Nuyan was also untidy.
When the others had been hoisted and the basket was being lowered for me — for the last monk in the procession — I held my breath and waited. There were six guards at this point in the trail. Two of them had already gotten a good look at my face and hadn't shown any suspicion. I had given them a beatific smile, befitting a humble monk. I waited, mentally checking the whereabouts of my luger, my gas bombs and, of course, Hugo. I had calmed all earlier tensions and felt quite at ease as the basket nudged the ground and a Cuban Marine signalled for me to sit in it.
The basket was actually part of an old wicker chair that had had the legs sawn off. An extra piece of wicker was hinged to fit across the front, to keep the occupant from tumbling out. The Marine guard latched the piece in place and signalled to the monks above. They began turning the crank on the winch and I felt myself being raised into space.
The view was incredible from this level. I could see the capital several miles to the south. I could see the ocean on either side of the island, east and west. When I had been raised fifty feet, I could also see the base camp of the Marine detachment at the foot of the mountain. The wind was higher now and it was flipping the robe and hood around with cracking sounds.
The winch worked with unsettling creaking sounds above me. I looked up through the web of ropes holding the chair and saw the green-hooded monks at the little station house on the upper trail. They were smiling down at me, knowing I was the last of this particular party, knowing tha
t they could rest now, perhaps have a little wine and swap monk stories at their tiny station. I was only ten feet from the top.
At that moment, the wind caught my hood and whipped it back over my shoulders before I could catch it.
The winch stopped.
I snatched my hood back in place and looked up, wondering why the winch had stopped. The four monks were chattering agitatedly above me, pointing to my head, reaching under their own hoods. The wind was whipping me and the chair about. I was hanging suspended in mid-air, ninety feet from the watching Marines below, only ten feet from the winching station and safety.
Why had they stopped?
And then it hit me. They had seen my head and I had a full head of dark brown hair.
Only then did the significance of Nuyan's shaved head come to me. Only then did I recall more sharply the brown bald head of Intenday.
Monks in this part of the world, I knew then, had no hair. It had all been shaved off. I was obviously an imposter.
The monks above me were still chattering among themselves, trying to decide what to do next. They obviously weren't empowered to make many decisions on their own. I could hear them calling for the monks of Intenday's party, to come and identify me: With my luck, the fat monk would be the first one to show up, confirm that I was not Nuyan, and order the green-hooded monks to drop me like a hot potato.
I looked around wildly, inspecting the wall of the mountain not more than a few feet away. There were narrow ledges against the facing of the rock mountain. There were also shiny bits of metal and I remembered being told that those bits of metal were all over the mountainside, off the trails, and that they were coated with poison.
While the shouting continued above me, and the Cuban Marine guards below me were alerted that something was amiss, I began to arch my body back and forth, like a child in a harmless playground swing. If the winch gave way from the extra pressure, or if the green-hooded monks suddenly released the lock on the winch, it was all over for me. I kept arching my back, swinging in closer to the mountain.
