"Stay here," Deferens barked at Remo. He hurried to the guards, pointing them in various directions. A few stayed with him when he came back to Remo's side. "Why are you here?" he demanded, his face stern.
"You know, this looks like kind of a bad time," Remo said. "I can come back later."
"Why?" Deferens snarled. "Tell me now or, by God, I will have you shot where you stand."
Remo glanced to the guards. "Just stopped by to see you," he said, keeping his voice low. "But if this is hell week, I think I'll pledge another frat." Deferens seem only to be half listening. With the immaculate toe of an expensive hand-sewn shoe, he flipped over a corpse. Deep gashes slit face and throat.
"This is obscene," Deferens grumbled. He found a clean spot on the dead man's uniform and used it to wipe the blood from his soles. "These men were killed with weapons," he announced as he rubbed every last trace of sticky blood away.
"I noticed that, too." Remo nodded. "Unarmed," he offered, raising his hands helpfully. "Looks like some kind of knife."
Deferens's chiseled face was suspicious. "Machetes," he supplied tightly. He turned to his remaining men. "Search the grounds," he ordered. "Shoot to kill. And be more careful than these idiots." He kicked the man on whose uniform he had cleaned his shoes.
Wheeling to Remo, he barked, "You are with me."
Remo fell in beside Deferens as the minister stormed toward the palace.
"You picked a bad time to visit," Deferens growled as they walked.
"It was either this or the local Global Movieland, but my tour guide said that got blown up by terrorists."
Deferens whipped open the door. A quartet of Citizen Force guards nearly tripped over them on their way out.
"This wing is secure, sir!" one exclaimed. "Join the others searching the grounds," Deferens commanded. As he and Remo entered the palace, the running guards spilled outside.
The interior was cool.
"Have you registered yet?" Deferens demanded as they mounted the marble stairs.
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," Remo said. "Like I said before, I really don't like to advertise."
"I'm not interested in your likes or dislikes. In East Africa you register with the government. The penalty issued by the finance ministry for failure to comply is far greater than any your IRS could imagine."
"You haven't been to America lately," Remo said. "And anyway, this isn't a tax dodge. I like to keep a low profile. If I register with you and my name gets out to the wrong people, it could prove hazardous to my health."
"Your health is already in jeopardy," Deferens warned.
Remo's smile was coolly confident. "I feel fine." On the second-floor landing, Deferens led Remo to a polished mahogany door. The defense minister noted as they walked that Remo's shoes made not a sound. Deferens's own footfalls echoed like rifle cracks off the fresco ceiling.
At the door, he paused. "You were good with those men at the restaurant," he said, crossing his arms. The movement did nothing to wrinkle his white suit. "Very good. Of course, you realize I could have you shot right now."
"If you shoot me, I won't be able to work for you."
The defense minister's lips tightened. Wordlessly, he slapped the door open and marched inside. The office suite was large and tidy. A few empty desks and a row of comfortable chairs filled the waiting area.
"Wait here," Deferens commanded.
He marched ahead, down a long hallway to a distant office.
"I'm bad at judging interviews," Remo called after him. "Does this mean I got the job?"
In response, he heard what sounded like an oldfashioned rotary phone. The dialing was cut off by the sound of L. Vas Deferens's office door slamming shut with a palace-rattling crack.
Chapter 13
The intrusion of the ringing phone into Mandobar's afternoon came at a time when no servants were present to answer it. It rang and rang and rang in the small house, the last in the isolated village of bungalows that had been constructed for the Great Day.
Looking absently out the window, Mandobar ignored the telephone.
Thoughts drifted to this week's work.
Mandobar was in China. Yet Mandobar was here. It was all so delightful. Gooseflesh appeared on the dark neck of the Great Day's architect just thinking about the timing of the week's events.
A broad smile stretched across the wide, famous face.
It was a face that had gone all around the world. Lauded by presidents and kings, kissed at Hollywood parties, beloved by those who didn't know or refused to see what was truly going on behind those smiling eyes.
Out the window, the East African sun beat harshly on the dusty strip of arid land where the drug cartel lawyer had been necklaced. What was his name? Russell something.
There had been a minor backlash from that. The Cali cartel had been upset that their man had been singled out. Of course, they didn't know he had been working under the table for Mandobar. In the end, they had been mollified by a few extra tax breaks. Plums granted only the best clients of East Africa, Mandobar had promised.
A black smear indicated the spot where Russell Copefeld had been burned alive. The day after the necklacing, someone had suggested raking the dirt over to cover it up. Mandobar had gone wild. It was to stay until the sun bleached it away-a sign to the rest. And when it finally faded ...well, there were always more lawyers.
Copefeld's mortal mark baked in the afternoon sunlight. A washed-out streak of black fading to gray was all that remained to mark the passing of a life. For Mandobar, not the first such marker. Definitely not the last.
The smile broadened, threatening to spill off the sides of the world-famous face.
Ring, ring! Ring, ring!
The phone finally became an annoyance that demanded attention. A weary fat hand dropped down to the telephone, lifting the offending lump of plastic to an ebony ear.
"What is it?"
The voice of L. Vas Deferens was tight.
"There has been an incident at the presidential palace. An attack on the grounds. Many are dead."
Mandobar sat up straight. The wicker chair in the sitting room of the bungalow creaked in gentle protest.
"Do I need to be concerned?"
"I am afraid containment will be difficult," Deferens continued. "I had kept the spillover from our enterprise away from this part of Bachsburg. The international press isn't interested in anything that happens beyond these gates."
"Yes, yes," Mandobar said, already impatient. "Who was it?"
"Luzu, according to initial reports," Deferens replied. "Or at the very least, men in native garb. Somehow they penetrated our security using only spears and machetes. We suffered heavy casualties, but the attackers managed to escape unharmed-at least that is what I was told."
Mandobar leaned back in the chair. The wicker groaned.
"This is not good, Vas."
"No," the minister agreed. "And beyond what I have told you, there is no more information. I have men scouring the grounds as we speak. However, I thought you should know as soon as possible."
"Yes." Mandobar hummed pensively. "Spears and machetes? You are certain of this, Vas?"
"I saw the bodies myself," he insisted. "Assuming it isn't an enemy unknown to us attempting to distract us at this crucial time, there is only one real suspect."
Mandobar sighed deeply. A big, wheezing exhalation of air. "I have too much at stake to risk having this plan ruined by a backward fool." The well-known cheerful voice grew cold. "Go to Luzuland, Deferens, and kill Chief Batubizee." White teeth bit gleefully at the order.
The receiver fell back in the cradle, severing the connection. Mandobar pushed the offending phone far to the back of the table beside the big wicker chair.
Struggling to find a comfortable position in the chair, Mandobar's eyes once more found the window. This time there was a wistful glint in their dark depths.
Beyond the dusty pane, far down the scorched road and its cluster of bungalows, ye
llow sunlight gleamed brightly on the high mirrored walls of Mandobar's great meeting hall. The dawning sun two days hence would wash its warming rays across the ruins of that same magnificent auditorium. The birthplace of the new East Africa.
A ridge of low mountains-pocked with the shafts of played-out diamond mines-rose above the hall. And out beyond was Luzuland. Where that perpetual thorn in the side of East Africa, Chief Batubizee, ruled like a pathetic throwback over his dead empire.
And alone in the air-conditioned bungalow, the famous Mandobar eyes sagged into gloomy lines, sad that they would not be present to witness the murder of the last Luzu warrior chief.
Chapter 14
The closed door to the heavily soundproofed room cut off all sound from the office of L. Vas Deferens to the rest of the suite. Even Remo's supersensitive ears could only detect a low murmur of one voice. The person to whom the defense minister spoke proved impossible to hear.
The call didn't take long. In less than five minutes, the door swung open and Deferens came down the hall.
Remo was sitting in one of the waiting-room chairs.
"My office, please," Deferens said. It was clearly an order, not a request. He spun without another word.
Remo followed him to the open door. Deferens's office was large and tastefully furnished. Wainscotting rimmed the white wails. A big desk commanded a broad section of floor. Behind it, a massive curving window bracketed by tidy bookshelves looked out across the front entrance to the presidential palace.
Remo noted as he entered the room that the remains of the slain Citizen Force soldiers had already been removed from around the main gate.
"You people work fast," he commented as he took a seat before the desk.
As he was sitting down behind his desk, Deferens glanced out the window. "You would be wise to not mention to anyone what happened here today," he suggested, settling into his chair. "Now, what is your name?"
There was no sense in lying.
"Remo. I'd have to check my wallet to see what last name I'm using this week," he answered truthfully.
Deferens leaned back, steepling his slender fingers to his chin. "You know, Remo, I could still have you executed at any time." He studied his visitor's face for a reaction.
Remo shrugged. "We've all gotta go sometime."
Deferens lowered his hands. "You are either very confident or very, very stupid."
"Confident, not stupid," Remo assured him. "But for the record, some of the most confident people I've ever met were also the dumbest. You ever hear of Kim Basinger?"
Deferens wasn't really listening. He was studying Remo's face. He seemed particularly interested in his eyes. All at once, he dropped a hand to his desk. "You're hired," the minister announced.
Remo was surprised. "Just like that?"
Deferens nodded sharply. "In spite of all evidence to the contrary, you have come here at a fortunate time. I am in need of good men. Now, either you are boastful, in which case you will wind up very dead very soon, or you are as good as you think you are. If this is the case, I will consider myself lucky to have found you. Are you working for anyone right now?"
"No," Remo lied. He tried to exude the confidence of a suave hired gun. "But I like to keep my options open. In my line of work, you sometimes have to go with the flow, what with all the killing and guns and stuff." He looped a confident arm around the back of his chair.
For his part, Deferens was hoping he wasn't making a big mistake. This man sitting before him struck the minister to his core as someone who was exceedingly dangerous. Yet he acted like a complete ignoramus.
"Good," the defense minister ventured slowly. Tugging open a drawer, he took out a ledger. He flipped it open and, after Remo had supplied him with his cover surname, began writing on a yellow check.
"We will waive the regular government fees for you. You will be paid directly from this office, tax free, in the form of East African government checks. They can be cashed at any bank in Bachsburg."
Remo instantly thought of Chiun. Although this wasn't a real job, the Master of Sinanju would go ballistic if he ever found out Remo accepted anything less than cold hard cash.
"I get paid in gold," Remo insisted.
Deferens gave him a baleful look. He tore a check loose, sliding it across the desk to Remo.
"This is a retainer of five hundred thousand dollars. You will get a similar check every year you work for me, with bonuses based on a formula of my design."
Remo looked at the check lying on the desk. He'd never been good at negotiating. Deferens hadn't even entertained the notion of paying in gold. Maybe Chiun wouldn't be as upset if he got the price up.
"One million," he pressed.
The defense minister continued talking as if Remo hadn't even spoken. "You may continue to work for other clients. But by accepting this retainer, you agree to drop whatever it is you are doing at any given time if I need you. I mean this, Remo. Any time."
"That part sounds okay," Remo said hesitantly. "But the money's not enough. How about 750 grand?"
"The money is not negotiable," Deferens said coldly.
Remo studied the check. Chiun would kill him if he found out he'd accepted someone's first offer. Across the desk, L. Vas Deferens studied Remo's deeply thoughtful face. He resisted the urge to frown.
"Of course, if it's not to your satisfaction, I can still have you shot," Deferens warned. "When word of what has happened here today gets out, I will say you were part of the assault team responsible for the massacre. If your reputation is as you claim, it will be easily believed. Either way, you will be working for me."
Remo considered not Deferens's words but the situation he found himself in. He could kill the minister right now and doubtless sever one of Mandobar's major links. But Smith didn't want him killing Deferens at the moment.
Weighing more heavily on his mind was Chiun. With all the weirdness of the past two days, he shouldn't give a damn what the Master of Sinanju might say about his accepting a check, but that was just like Chiun. Always piling on. Even when he wasn't around.
"Ah, the hell with it," Remo growled, snatching up the check. "I'll take the job."
When he stuffed the check into his pocket, his fingers brushed the hard edges of the small crucifix. Thoughts of baby Karen's wake and the apparition that had been following him ever since flooded Remo's mind.
Across the desk, Deferens didn't see the dark expression that settled on Remo's brow. "Excellent," the minister said efficiently. "You'll be happy to know I already have a job for you." He steepled his fingers. "It is far more important than removing a few common drunks in a restaurant."
Remo noted a flickering smile of satisfaction on the defense minister's bloodred lips. With his pasty skin and dark mouth, he gave the impression of a sated vampire.
"Remo," Deferens announced simply, "I want you to go to Luzuland and kill Chief Batubizee." And this time when the sad-faced Korean boy appeared before Remo, his cherub's face was filled with fear.
Chapter 15
Chief Batubizee saw the clouds of dust rising high into the clear African sky in the wake of the speeding trucks. They could be seen for miles around as the vehicles drove across KwaLuzu, the "land of the Luzu." The fire of the setting sun burned the sky above the spreading clouds.
After the old Master of Sinanju had left with his small band of warriors earlier that day, the chief had changed back into his everyday clothes, which consisted of faded blue polyester slacks and an old red shirt.
His flowing purple robe was for ceremony only, and since he had only the one, he did not wish for it to become as worn and tattered as all his other clothes.
With the appearance of the dust clouds, Batubizee ducked back inside his large hovel. He emerged in his traditional robe and Luzu crown. Symbols of a bygone age.
It took another twenty minutes for the trucks to reach the village. A handful of pitiful natives was sprinkled about the square.
Batubizee was standing bef
ore his home when the Suburban finally appeared at the far end of the main road, leading two more trucks. All three vehicles rolled to a stop before the chief. Luzu warriors sprang to the road.
As Bubu jumped out from behind the wheel of the lead vehicle, the Master of Sinanju appeared like a wisp of wrinkled smoke from the passenger's side.
Batubizee was again struck by the age of the wizened Asian. His impression had been the same when first he laid eyes-on the Sinanju Master. He was old. Frail. Weak.
The oral history of his people spoke of Master Nuk as a powerful figure, strong limbed and tall, with piercing eyes that could cut more sharply and precisely than any of the diamonds from the nearby barren mines. This was Batubizee's image of a Master of Sinanju-not the old man who had just emerged from his Suburban.
Batubizee again struggled with disappointment as the Korean hurried over to him.
"Welcome back, Master of Sinanju," the chief intoned. "You have brought me the head of the evil one?"
He was looking beyond the old Korean. From what he could see, none of his warriors carried the head of Willie Mandobar to present to their ruler.
As Bubu took up his silent post behind the chief, his young face was grim.
"All is not well," the Master of Sinanju said gravely.
At his tone, Batubizee felt the first stirrings of concern. "What has happened?" the chief demanded, turning from Bubu. "Where is the head of the fiend Mandobar?"
"Still attached to his shoulders," Chiun replied. "According to his lackeys, he has fled East Africa." Batubizee's big eyes grew wider.
"And you took them at their word?" he snapped. The truth of the feeling he'd been having since first he laid eyes on the little man began to creep into his booming voice.
"They spoke truth," the Master of Sinanju responded, silently noting the chief's change in tone. "He is not here."
"They lie!" Batubizee insisted. "He would not leave at such an important time! They have deceived you, old one."
Chiun could not keep the ice from his voice. "Sinanju has methods of detecting deceit in a man's words," he explained evenly. "I saw only truth."
"Can you even see at all?" Batubizee snapped, throwing up his hands in disgust. "Exactly how many of his minions did you have my men slay to find this truthful information?"
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