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.
Thirteen
The canoe trip up the coast was swift and silent. The two Mayans stroked us powerfully along just outside the tumbling surf. Neither of them spoke.
We came ashore at Vigla Chico, a settlement three times the size of the village we had left. The dwellings seemed more permanent, and a railroad track from the east terminated at the outer limit of the town. My oarsmen took me to what appeared to be the house of the local headman, talked with him briefly in Mayan, and left me abruptly without a glance.
I asked for a telephone, and was taken to an all-purpose building that apparently served as school, general store, meeting hall, warehouse, and what-have-you. The telephone was an early model in a scarred wooden frame with a crank on the side.
The next two hours were spent getting through to Merida, the capital of Yucatan, and from there through a maze of relays and intermediate operators until the familiar voice of David Hawk Anally crackled over the line.
I told him where I was and gave him a condensed version of how I got there, talking fast for fear we might lose the connection at any moment.
“I need a fast way out of here,” I told him. “There’s a railroad, but from the looks of it, the train must run once every total eclipse of the sun.”
“I’ll get a helicopter in to you. What’s the mission status?”
“The suitcases are coming aboard the Gaviota from a launch out of Curasao. Fyodor Gorodin seems to be the field man for the operation with Zhizov apparently stationed at their headquarters and making only an occasional appearance outside. No confirmation that Knox Warnow is the key man, but the evidence is strong enough that we can consider it a certainty.” I hesitated, then added, “We lost Rona Volstedt.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Nick,” David Hawk said. I knew he meant it. As director of AXE, he was familiar with death, yet the loss of an agent hurt him more deeply than most people would believe. “Can you work alone from here?” he added.
“I can, but it would be a help to have someone familiar with the territory along. It’s getting dark here now, and I don’t have to remind you we’re fighting a deadline.”
“You certainly don’t,” Hawk said drily. “Hang on a minute.”
The telephone crackled emptily in my ear for several seconds, and I knew Hawk was punching information into his desk-side computer. Then he returned with the answer:
“The CIA has an agent stationed in Veracruz, code name Pilar. She will contact you there at the Hotel Bahia Bonito.”
“She?”
“Yes, Nick, your incredible luck seems to be holding. I am told this one is a redhead well equipped with… uh… all the extras.” Hawk cleared his throat, then went on in another tone. “Can you make arrangements for a helicopter landing at Vigia Chioo?”
“There’s a clearing just beyond this building. How soon can you send a chopper?”
“I’ll have to work through the State Department. If they’re on the ball, you’ll have your bird in three to four hours.”
“Fine. I’ll arrange to have flares or fires laid out to mark the landing area.” As we discussed these details, it occurred to me that under normal conditions such information would never go out unscrambled over public telephone lines. The circumstances, however, were anything but usual, the conditions primitive.
“You’ll need money,” Hawk said. “I’ll have it waiting at your hotel in various Central American currencies. Is there anything else?”
“Yes. My Luger took a salt water bath, so I’ll want to have a gun cleaning kit handy. Also 9mm. ammunition.”
“It will be waiting.” There was a pause on the line, as if Hawk wanted to add something more. But then he said merely, “More than luck to you, Nick” and rang off.
I had a Job persuading the local head man to get the signal fires going to guide in the helicopter. He was not eager to help me. The natives of Vigia Chico were a little less hostile to the outside world than the Mayans had been in the village down the coast, but their ties to the old ways were still strong. White men had seldom come to Yucatan on peaceful missions, and the people were not eager to bring in one of their flying machines.
I finally got their reluctant cooperation through an age-old method. By promising them money. Privately, I had hoped the State Department CIA pilot would bring some cash. It might be a little sticky getting out of Vigia Chico if the villagers thought they’d been conned.