War From The Clouds (10 page)

It was getting there, though.

With such thoughts in my mind, and with the torch still fizzing brightly on the wall of the thatched hut, I fell into a deep sleep. I remember glancing over at Elicia just before falling asleep. She was gazing at me, her eyes bright and clear, her lips slightly parted, her bosom heaving with passion. Whether she knew it or not, we were making passionate love in that moment. It was a good thought to sleep on.

Three hours later, to the minute, I snapped awake. I had programmed my mind to come alert in three hours. Sometimes, it works, sometimes it doesn't. This night, it worked.

The torch was out and Antonio was snoring lightly, but Elicia was as silent as stone. Was she faking sleep? Would she follow me from the hut? I waited, then heard her deep, heavy breathing. She was sound asleep.

I made my way to Purano's hut, having been told that the son slept to his father's right hand. The chiefs hut was unmistakable, clearly the largest and most elaborate in the tribe. I crept in and gently shook Purano's shoulder.

"It's me, Nick Carter," I said. "I have dangerous business in the valley and I don't want to disturb your father. But I want a promise from him — from both of you."

I'm certain he nodded there in the blackness, unwilling to speak. Finally, he muttered an almost inaudible, "what is the promise?"

"Keep the young people here," I said. "What I must do, I must do alone. If they follow me, they'll only endanger themselves and perhaps the whole plan. Will you keep them here, keep them safe until it's all over?"

After a long silence, he asked: "What will you do?"

"I'm going to join Intenday, the Apalcan religious leader, on his way to meet with Don Carlos. I don't know just how, but I've got to try. We don't have time to search for that ancient sacrificial cave. I may not even have enough time to do what I'm planning."

"You go to Alto Arete?"

"If I can."

"And then?"

Truth to tell, I hadn't really given that part a lot of thought. I had begun to plan ways to infiltrate the contingent of the religious leader from Apalca the minute I had heard of him going there. Somehow, some way, I would kill Don Carlos Italla once I got to Alto Arete. Just how, I didn't know right then.

"It's a military secret," I said, grinning at myself in the dark hut. "Will you keep Antonio and Elicia here?"

"If I succeed," I said, "I'll come back for them. If I don't succeed, I think you and everyone else on the island will know about it. Thank you — and thank your father — for all your help."

I could tell he was nodding from the sound of his head on his rough pillow. I got up and left the hut, wondering why in thunder I was doing such a foolish and dangerous thing for these foreigners in this foreign land. If I merely walked to the ocean and stole a boat and sailed it to Florida, who could blame me? Certainly not David Hawk, who would understand that the odds were clearly against me. Not the President, who would also know that my mission had become suicidal. Not Elicia and Antonio, who would marvel at my foolish courage when they awoke and learned from Purano where I was going. Then who would blame me? Nick Carter would blame me. He always had and he always would. I would blame, myself, and that is blame that I've never learned to live with.

Even so, I was a lonely and slightly terrified man as I made my way down the jungle trail from the Ninca lands. Some of my thoughts remained behind with Elicia, wondering if she had awakened and found me gone. Wondering also what it might have been like if Antonio hadn't been studying that cryptic map and had put out the torch before I fell asleep.

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.

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.