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 that 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.
On the fifth swing, I was nearing a ledge that was perhaps ten feet wide and about ten inches deep. Below that were other ledges at about ten and twenty-foot intervals.
On the sixth swing, my feet touched the ledge. On the seventh, I was able to make a slight purchase with my toes. To give myself a better chance, I kicked off Nuyan's sandals and heard them clatter down the rocky mountain, knocking loose pebbles down on the Marine guards.
"Bring him up," I heard the fat monk scream from above.
"Drop him down, drop him down," another monk yelled.
I had just pushed away from the mountain and was at the apex of another swing out into space when I looked down and saw the Cuban Marines aiming their rifles up at me. I had to make the ledge on this try or I wouldn't have another chance. Even so, where would I go from there? I tried not to think of that. I put everything I had into that swing, bearing down so hard on the wicker chair and tugging so hard on the ropes as I arched my body that I was certain something had to snap — the ropes, the lock on the winch, the winch itself.
Bullets were now plunking into the rocks. My feet landed on the ledge and I dug in my toes for maximum purchase. I felt the chair drop away behind me and knew that it was all between me, the ledge and gravity. And, of course, the poison-coated steel scraps on the ledge.
The wall above the ledge bulged out from the mountain, giving me little room. My feet had adequate purchase on the ledge, but I had to double over fast to keep from slamming my shoulders in the bulge of rock and being knocked back into space. In one swift, writhing movement, I curled my body and landed on the ledge on my right side. My hands and feet grasped for holds and, as the wind still ripped at my robe and hood, I felt myself settle onto the solid surface.
I had made it, just barely, but there were other problems. Bullets were smacking into the outcropping of rock above me, sending splinters of rock in a shower all over me. A ricochet could easily do me in. And I could feel the sharp pricks of the metal shreds beneath my body as I clung to the ledge. Fortunately, the two thicknesses of cloth — the robe and my own clothes — had so far kept the metal from puncturing my skin. So far.
The bulge of rock above me proved to be a salvation for now. The clustered monks above couldn't see me. Even if they had guns and would let down their religious tenets long enough to fire them, they had no clear line of vision. For the moment, if a ricochet didn't get me, I was safe.
Slowly, carefully, I moved about on the narrow ledge and plucked up the bits of sharp metal. I flung them over the side, hoping the wind would catch them and drive them into the Marines still firing from below. The Marines also had no clear line of vision, but their bullets were just as dangerous as if they had me as an easy target.