The Death’s Head Conspiracy

Twelve

As the boat moved smoothly and soundlessly to-ward the shore, my exertions of the past sixteen hours began to catch up with me. The fight and escape from the Gaviota, the long swim, and the battle with the sharks had exhausted me. I let my head nod and closed my eyes just to rest them, and in a second — so it seemed — the bottom of the boat scraped gravel and people were running down from a cluster of huts to pull the craft up on shore.

All activity ceased when I stepped out and stood on the beach. None of the Mayans stood any higher than my armpit. And, like my companions in the boat, they showed neither welcome nor hostility on their faces though they eyed me with some curiosity.

These were the descendents of the tough, rebellious Mayans who never submitted to Spanish rule during the days of colonization. After the rebellion of 1847 in western Yucatan was put down by the Spaniards, those who could, escaped to the jungles of Quintana Roo, where armed resistance continued into the twentieth century. Even now, remote villages like the one where I had been brought were left strictly on their own by the federal government to rule themselves in accordance with the old tribal traditions.

Two of the men from the fishing boat stepped up to flank me on both sides. Each placed a small brown hand on my elbow and urged me forward. I didn’t know whether I was being escorted or taken prisoner.

They marched me through the village of some twenty dwellings between lines of silent, watchful Mayans. We stopped in front of a hut smaller than the rest at the outer perimeter of the village. The roof was thatch, and the adobe walls had no windows.

As one of my escorts began to lead me through the door, he nudged against the metalic lump of Wilhelmina, still holstered at my hip. He raised my damp shirt, and drew out the Luger.

“Pistola!” he snapped, in the first word of Spanish I’d heard from any of them.

“No se funciona,” I told him. It was the truth. The gun didn’t work after a night’s immersion in salt water. “No tiene balas,” I added. Also true. I’d used all my cartridges shooting my way off the Gaviota.

No response from the Mayans. Apparently they knew only a word or two of Spanish. Confiscating Wilhelmina, the Indian shoved me into the hut and banged the wooden door shut behind me. He spoke in Mayan to his companion. From the tone I gathered that one of them was to stay there and guard the door while the other went off on some errand. I sat down on the hard-packed dirt floor and leaned back against the wall.

For the first time in many hours I thought about the mission that had brought me to the Caribbean. Was it only yesterday that I’d been on the verge of nailing the whole suitcase-bomb conspiracy when I had started toward Fyodor Gorodin with the Luger in my hand? Yet how far I was now from doing anything to prevent the nuclear destruction of New York in three more days.

I tried to wrench my thoughts back to the present predicament, but a vision of Rona Volstedt flashed into my mind, greyhound slim and nordic blonde. Where was she now? Dead? Better that she be drowned than to be plucked from the sea by Gorodin.

The door of my hut was yanked open and my two guards entered. By gestures and grunts they made it known I was to accompany them. I got up and went along with them, back into the village.

We approached a hut larger than the rest. Once painted white, it was fading to gray. The two Mayans marched me in through the door, then came to a halt before an old man seated on a platform. He had shaggy white hair and a face as hard and wrinkled as a walnut shell.

He raised a gnarled hand and my two guards backed out, leaving me alone with him.

“I am Cholti,” he said in a strong deep voice that seemed incongruous to his age and tiny chest. “Here I am el jefe, the chief.”

“I am honored,” I said, “and pleased to find someone who speaks English.”

“In the village, only I speak English,” he said proudly. “I learned at school in Merida. I would teach my sons, but they do not wish to know the language of the yanquis.” He paused then, hands folded in his lap, waiting for me to speak.

“My name is Nick Carter,” I said. “I am an agent of the United States. If you would take me to the nearest town with a telephone, I would be grateful. I would pay you well.”

“I am told that you carried a pistol,” Cholti said.

“Yes. In my work I must sometimes defend, sometimes kill.”

“White men are not well liked in the Quintana Roo country, Carter. White men with pistols are not liked at all. My people have had very bad treatment from white men with pistols.”

“I mean no harm to you or your people, jefe. The men I fight are evil ones who want to destroy the great cities of my country and kill a great many of my people.”

“What should that mean to us here in Quintana Boor

“If these evil men are allowed to win, no place in the world will be safe from them, not even your village. They have just destroyed an island in the Pacific Ocean where the people were much like your own.”

“Tell me how you came to be floating in the sea, Nick Carter.”

I told him the story from the time Rona and I stepped aboard the cruise ship in Antigua. Cholti listened with eyes so narrowed they were all but sealed, hands motionless in his lap. When I had finished he sat for a full minute in silence. Then his eyes opened and he studied my face.

“I believe you, Nick Carter,” he said. “Your voice does not lie, and your eyes speak truly. The telephone you seek can be found to the north in Vigfa Chico. I would have you taken there, but…”

“But what?” I prompted.

“You are a white man. You brought a pistol into our village. For these reasons my people want you to die. They will listen to me as el jefe, and perhaps I can make them believe, as I do, that you mean us no harm. But there is one who cannot be swayed.”

“Who is that?” I asked.

“His name is Tihoc. He is my son. When I am dead, he will be chief here. I fear that will be very soon. Tihoc will never agree to let you go until you have faced him.”

“Faced him? I thought you said no one else here spoke English.”

“There are other languages,” the old man said. “My son awaits you now outside my house. How you conduct yourself with him will determine your fate. So it must be.”

“I understand,” I told the old man. Cholti nodded his head toward the door of his hut. I turned and walked out.

Before I had taken two steps into the clearing In front of the chiefs hut, something whooshed through the air and thudded into the ground at my feet. It was a six-foot spear, its narrow, double-edged point buried in the earth.

Across the clearing from me stood a young Mayan, naked to the waist, his brown skin taut and glistening over tensed muscles. He clutched a twin to the spear at my feet, held across his body at an angle, in the traditional position of challenge. Ringed about us were the villagers, their faces impassive, but their eyes alert.

This, then, would be Tihoc, son of the chief. This was the man I would have to face in combat if I was to leave the village alive. Yet, if I killed him, would his father give me passage to Vigia Chico? Even if the old man agreed, would his people let me live? Somehow, I had to defeat Tihoc, yet not rob him of his honor.

Before touching the spear, I deliberately removed Hugo from the forearm sheath. I held up the stiletto for the villagers to see, then sent it spiraling to the door of the chiefs hut where it stuck fast, the handle quivering. Though there was no audible response from the watchers, I could sense an undercurrent of approval.

I pulled the spear from the ground then, and holding it in the same position as Tihoc, advanced to the center of the clearing. There we touched spear points in a salute oddly like that used in the art of quarterstaff. A deadly difference here was the twelve inches of steel blade that tipped our spears, a blade capable of impaling a man or slicing a limb from his body.

I backed off a step in the ready stance, and Tihoo attacked at once with an upstroke of the butt of his spear. I dropped my spear to block the blow, then raised it swiftly to fend off the downward slash of the blade that would have cleaved my skull.

My riposte was an upstroke of my own, which the Mayan anticipated and blocked. He moved then to counter the blow he expected, but I merely feinted with the blade and wheeled the butt in a side stroke to his rib cage. Tihoc grunted in pain but adroitly crossed his spear, ready to block a fatal thrust.

We backed off, resumed the ready position, and the combat began again.

The art of quarterstaff is in many ways as formalized as fencing or even dancing. Every blow has a block, every block moves to a counter. The only sounds in the Yucatan clearing were the clack of the shafts and clang of the blades, punctuated by the huffing breath of Tihoc and myself. More than once I had seen an opening to drive home the spear point, but slowed my thrust just enough to allow the young Mayan a block. I had so far managed to keep his own blade away from me except for a crease along my side that left a crimson stain on my shirt.

The break came when I knocked the spear out of one of his hands with a double upstroke when he had expected the usual upstroke-slash attack. With his spear dangling uselessly in one hand, Tihoc’s throat was exposed to my blade. I pulled my thrust a fraction of an inch to the side, barely slicing the skin. I saw in a flicker of the Mayan’s eyes that he knew what I had done.

Regaining control of his spear, Tihoc now went to the attack with a deadly ferocity. I gave ground before his battering charge and began to fear that the contest could only end with Tihoc’s death or mine.

The end came, with startling suddenness. Tihoo feinted me high, then dropped to a crouch and swung the butt like a baseball bat, catching me just above the ankles and knocking my feet out from under me. I crashed to the ground and rolled to my back just in time to see the blade of Tihoc’s spear thrust into my face. At the last second it bit into the ground so close to my ear I could feel the heat of it.

I flipped to my feet, spear again at the ready, and faced my opponent. A new message was in his eyes— the camaraderie of battle. We were even now. I had spared his life, a thing he could not forgive until he had spared mine.

I gambled. Taking a step forward I tilted my blade toward Tihoc in salute. He dipped his own spear to meet mine, and the battle was ended. We dropped our weapons and clasped hand-to-wrist in the Mayan style. The villagers chattered their approval, and for the first time I saw smiles on the dark Indian faces.

The old chief approached us and spoke in Mayan to Tihoc. Then he turned to me and said, “I have told my son that he fought bravely and with honor. I say the same to you, Nick Carter. Vigia Chico can be reached within an hour. Two of my strongest men will take you there by canoe.”

He handed me a package wrapped in a waterproof fabric. “You must clean and oil your pistol before the salt water dries, or it will be of no use against the evil men you seek.”

I thanked him and retrieved Hugo from the door of the hut. Then I followed the two muscular men who were already waiting to take me to the canoe.