A Pound of Prevention td-121

by Warren Murphy

  Batubizee nodded. "It is as I feared, Master of Sinanju," he said somberly. "Our attack has brought a swift response from my enemies. When Mandobar learns these men have failed, he will have Deferens send others."

  At the door, Bubu suddenly chimed in. "They will need to get past the old Master and me," he insisted, his eyes burning with the fire of passion.

  Remo was surprised when the guard wasn't scolded for speaking out of turn.

  Batubizee simply held up a silencing hand, and the young man took an obedient step back. The flames of fierce loyalty that burned within Bubu did not ebb.

  "After his presidency ended, when news of what Mandobar had in store for East Africa reached my ears, I sent men to investigate," Chief Batubizee said. "This was before I summoned you, Master of Sinanju."

  Chiun nodded silent understanding.

  "Now it is sad yet true that many Luzu have left their ancestral land," the chief continued. "Some found their way to Bachsburg, so when my warriors reached the city, their Luzu brothers there aided them in their quest to learn the truth of what was happening in the city built by oppressive whites that was now being corrupted by a wicked black. In their search for the source of evil, they found Deferens."

  Remo hadn't been interested in Batubizee or Mandobar or what either man wanted for East Africa. He wanted only to get Chiun alone in order to discuss the strange happenings of the past two days. But Chiun clearly had no intention of moving any time soon. And, in spite of himself, he found that he was being drawn into the chief's account of what was happening in Bachsburg.

  "I don't get it," he said. "Why'd they stop at Deferens? Why didn't you just send them after Mandobar?"

  "By this time, Mandobar had retired from public life and was living in Kequ in the province of Pretraal," Batubizee explained. "Well guarded and far away from the minions working on his terrible plan."

  "Okay," Remo said reasonably. "Then bump off Deferens."

  Batubizee shook his head. "A man can live with one hand or foot. To kill Deferens would have been meaningless. Mandobar simply would have promoted another in his place."

  "But not necessarily the new defense minister," Remo argued. "I can't believe everyone in the government is in on this."

  "No," Batubizee said. "But we do not know who is and who is not. The Kmpali government is as corrupt as Mandobar's was. This much is admitted to by all. There is no telling who in Bachsburg is an honest man any longer."

  Remo couldn't argue there. The Luzu chief had just expressed the sentiments Remo had been feeling about the entire world before coming to East Africa.

  "When I realized the extent of this poison and the threat it represented to the Luzu people, I at last summoned Master Chiun," Batubizee said. "No other chief had invoked the Sinanju contract since the time of Kwaanga, and I did not wish to be the first. But in the end, I was helpless to do anything else. When I learned that Mandobar had been given an office at the palace, I saw it as my opportunity. Perhaps the last for my people." He shook his head sadly.

  To Remo, the chief's sorrow for his subjects seemed genuine, yet he could not banish the image of the starving tribesmen he had seen outside, nor of the bloated man who sat before him now. "Well, Mandobar's out of the country for now," Remo said. "So if you want to make a dent in his plan by capping his loyal defense minister foot soldier, I won't stop you."

  The chief gave a mocking laugh. "Deferens is loyal only to himself," he said. "My warriors tracked him for days. That fiend has secrets, even from his master. He and a criminal called Spumoni are even now plotting an evil unknown to Mandobar. They meet in areas of Bachsburg Deferens would ordinarily not travel to. He has been seen climbing in and out of sewers several times."

  "Sewers?" Remo said, surprised. He pictured the fastidious L. Vas Deferens. "We're talking about the same guy here, right? Dresses like Mr. Roarke? Looks like he's had his hair Scotchgarded?"

  "A sewer sounds an appropriate lair for one such as he," the Master of Sinanju offered.

  "I'm serious, Chiun," Remo said. "The guy I met would have his neighbor's dog shot at sunrise far making on his lawn. What was he doing climbing in a sewer?"

  "My men attempted to find out," Batubizee said seriously. "Two groups of Luzu warriors followed Deferens and the rest down into the Bachsburg sewer system. Only one group returned alive. The bodies of the rest were pulled from the waste at a sewage-treatment plant the next day."

  Remo frowned as he considered this information.

  "What do you suppose he's doing down there?" he mused aloud.

  Unscissoring his folded legs, Chiun rose to his feet like a puff of fussy steam. "A mystery we must leave to another time," the old man announced. He turned to the Luzu chief. "Though this attempt on your life has failed, I fear it will not be the last," he said seriously. "While your highness prepares your warriors, I will confer with my son. Perhaps he has learned something from your enemies that could be of value to us."

  Batubizee nodded grimly. With Bubu's aid, he struggled up from his mound of pillows. Gathering his robes up from around his ankles, he ducked out the hut door, guard in tow.

  "It's about time," Remo said, standing to face his teacher. "It looked like you were gonna sit there all night."

  "It would have served you right," Chiun replied thinly. He shook his head. "There is no reason, Remo, to behave as rudely as you did to the chief. Master's disease or not, a client should always be treated with respect."

  "Some client," Remo scoffed. "This whole tribe looks like it doesn't have a pot to piss in. He probably paid you with a sockful of his own subjects' gold teeth. Which, by the way, it looks like they don't need anyway."

  At the mention of payment, Remo completely missed the downward-darting eyes of the Master of Sinanju.

  "And I didn't come all the way out here to kiss up to Batubizee." Remo's tone grew worried. "Something weird's going on, Little Father. Weirder than I can get a handle on. I need you with me right now, not traipsing around the outback with King Hungry-Hungry Hippo."

  The pleading in his pupil's eyes gave Chiun cause for concern. Pursing his lips, he shook his eggshell head.

  "I cannot leave, my son," he said softly. "Until Batubizee says otherwise, my place right now is at his side. There are obligations we of Sinanju have to these people." He took a deep breath, exhaling thoughtfully. "I have not yet told you the full story of Master Nuk, he who discovered the Luzu." And the way he stood made it seem as if the burden of his responsibilities was almost too great for his frail form to bear.

  Remo's shoulders sank. When he spoke, it was with no animosity. Merely somber acceptance. "All right. Stay here," he said quietly. "But if I have to sit through the entire story of Master Nuk and how Sinanju became tangled up with the Luzus, I vote you tell me the tale of the Master Who Never Was first."

  He watched for Chiun's reaction, assuming he'd elicit some surprise for even knowing anything at all about the young ghost boy who had been dogging him the past few days. But it was Remo who was surprised.

  Chiun's papery skin failed to flinch. Only one quizzical eyebrow rose slightly.

  "There is no such Master's tale, Remo," the old Korean said, shaking his head in confusion. And there was not a hint of deception in his puzzled voice.

  Chapter 18

  Oily water dripped from mossy, slime-covered walls. Even the corroded metal rungs embedded in the ancient brick felt greasy to Nunzio Spumoni. Revulsion touched his sweaty face as he climbed the ladder to the lower platform.

  Although it was cooler in the sewer tunnels that crisscrossed beneath the busy streets of Bachsburg, the Camorra representative still perspired. But with hands slick from the ladder, he dared not dig in his breast pocket for his handkerchief.

  Nunzio delicately tugged the collar of his damp cotton shirt with one finger as the defense ministry men led him down the arched tunnel.

  The stench was powerful, even through his surplus gas mask. The stink of tons of human waste battled past rubber and f
ilter. He had always had a delicate stomach. Nunzio had no idea how his companions could stand coming down here with faces uncovered.

  A dark river of frothy filth rolled relentlessly by the raised platform on which he walked.

  The sewage was wide and deep. The last thing in the world Nunzio wanted was to fall in. He kept his eyes on the floor as he stepped with slow caution on the wet stone.

  Feet clattered with the urgency of their purpose. "This way," directed the man in the lead.

  He ushered Nunzio and the rest into another subterranean corridor. This one was older than the last. Sheets of salt-white slime stained the century-old walls. Clumps of rust-colored mold chewed away at the crumbling mortar.

  Nunzio stepped gingerly along the slippery walkway.

  The men who led him through these catacombs were all whites. It still amazed Nunzio that somehow in the modern East Africa, a government official as highly placed as L. Vas Deferens managed to associate with no blacks whatsoever.

  In the 1980s, Hollywood stars and music industry giants in search of a cause had focused on the racial injustices of East Africa. Russia and China had racism, oppression, state-mandated feticide, imperialism, gulags, religious intolerance, expanding nuclear stockpiles and enough murdered dissidents and purged peasants to make the Altamont Rock Festival look like a half-filled phone booth. But they also had communism, which made every despicable thing done by their governments an exercise in equality. Since the East African system wasn't Communist, it was fair game to every empty-headed millionaire entertainer with a soapbox and a mouth. It was almost twenty years since the start of their crusade and, thanks to their great work, integration in East Africa had progressed to the point that criminals of all races could work together in peace and harmony. Except, it would seem, for those employed by Minister L. Vas Deferens.

  As Nunzio Spumoni picked his careful way along the catwalk, his thoughts were far from the political upheaval that had transformed East Africa. His only concern right now was not falling into a river of shit.

  His toe touched a slick, fat brick. When he brought his heel down, the stone popped loose. Before he knew what was happening, both feet flew out from under him. Nunzio was about to topple off the platform when strong arms grabbed hold of him, pulling him upright.

  His companions seemed more disgusted by the skinny man's sweaty jacket than by the sewer. Worried that they wouldn't bother to catch him a second time, Nunzio exercised even greater caution than before as they turned into an adjacent tunnel. Minister Deferens was walking toward them, a gas mask obscuring his soft features. In spite of their surroundings, there was not a single smudge on his snow-white suit.

  "Ah, Nunzio," Deferens said, stopping as the Camorra agent approached. The minister's voice was muffled. "I see you've survived the perils of the Bachsburg sewer system."

  Nunzio's breath was hot inside his mask. He could feel the first itching of a prickly red rash beneath the rubber.

  "Barely," he replied. "I don't know why we have to meet down here."

  "Business, my friend," Deferens insisted. "And speaking of business, how is our last holdout?"

  "I spoke to Don Vincenzo this afternoon," Nunzio replied. "He has been in contact with Don Giovani, who will personally represent the Sicilian Mafia. He'll be here tomorrow."

  Although the defense minister's mouth was obscured, his eyes crinkled happily beyond the wide plastic goggles of his mask. "That is wonderful news," he enthused. "And Don Vincenzo will be coming, too?"

  Nunzio shook his head. "No certain answer," he said. "Given what we have planned, he is still hesitant to come."

  Deferens's eyes steeled. "No, no, no," he said. "If Don Vincenzo doesn't make an appearance, Don Giovani will not stay. And if Giovani leaves, others might, as well. Forgive me, Nunzio, but your people are deeply suspicious. I must insist that Don Vincenzo come to the city for an hour or two. Don Giovani need only see him here. He may leave then."

  Nunzio Spumoni shrugged his sweaty shoulders. "I'll call him when I get back to the hotel," he said, exhaling.

  Deferens nodded. "Stress that all the major syndicates around the world will have representatives here within the next twenty-four hours. Given the size of their entourages, we should be able to wipe out the upper echelon of nearly every organization in the world, save Camorra." He stepped aside, extending a pale hand. "Speaking of which, we're about finished here. If you are interested."

  He ushered Nunzio farther up the tunnel.

  A few dozen yards more and they came to a confluence of sewer lines. Their own tunnel split off in three directions. Near the mouth of the nearest aqueduct, a recessed well was built into the slippery wall. In the opening sat an ominous stainless-steel device.

  Nunzio Spumoni gulped. Fresh trickles of sweat formed beneath his reed-thin arms, running down his torso.

  "Are the others in place, as well?" he asked. He kept his muffled voice low.

  Deferens nodded. "We would be ready to go now, if Don Vincenzo desired us to." The minister's eyes grew sadly pleading. "Please, Nunzio, convince him to come." Delicate hands pressed against the breast of his perfect white suit. "Promise him from me that no harm will come to him."

  "I will do my best," Nunzio promised. His wide eyes behind his plastic goggles studied the casing. "Although you should know he was not pleased to learn that Mandobar has fled to China. If he is not willing to take the risk for his own plan, why should Don Vincenzo?"

  "Why didn't you say, Nunzio?" Deferens said, frowning. "If this is the problem, tell Don Vincenzo there is more than one Mandobar. Ours never left East Africa."

  Nunzio Spumoni raised a surprised brow. He'd heard before that some heads of state employed doubles for certain situations. The world had come to know that Saddam Hussein used many. But as far as Nunzio knew, the doubles didn't function as full replacements for high-profile events. Was it possible that the Chinese were so blind they couldn't tell a phony Willie Mandobar from a real one?

  "So I may tell Don Vincenzo that Mandobar is here?"

  "Absolutely," Deferens insisted. "And please tell your employer that he may leave in complete safety as soon as he is seen here. You will be joining him on the flight back to Naples, presumably?"

  Nunzio glanced at the device planted in the mosscovered wall. "I have no desire to be here when it happens."

  Deferens caught his troubled look.

  "There is nothing to worry about," he promised. "I am staying here until not long before, Nunzio. It will be perfectly safe ...provided, of course, the wind is blowing in the right direction afterward." His eyes smiled once more.

  Another gesture from his delicate arm and the defense minister led Nunzio from the tunnel to his waiting entourage.

  "I suppose I really cannot blame you for wanting to leave, Nunzio," Deferens mused as they threaded their way along the slippery path. "It will be safer for you back home. After all, as far as I know, in Italy the terrorists have not yet started using nuclear technology."

  Nunzio had to be careful not to lose his footing when Deferens gave him a cheerful slap on his sweaty back.

  Chapter 19

  Both Masters of Sinanju had decided that Chief Batubizee's hut was too depressing. Remo and Chiun were strolling amid the pitiful huts of the main Luzu village.

  The night was warm. Despite the surrounding rules of drought-ravaged land, a sweet scent carried on the breeze. White moonlight bathed the shabby village.

  Once Remo had told the Master of Sinanju all that had occurred to him over the past two days, a thoughtful expression found root on the old man's age-speckled brow.

  "Most strange," the wizened Asian nodded. As he padded along the dusty path, slender fingers stroked his thin beard.

  "You're telling me," Remo said. "So who is this kid, Little Father? And why is he following me around?"

  "I do not know who he is," Chiun admitted. "The scrolls do not speak of a Master Who Never Was. But you first saw him in the company of your wisewoman. Both spoke
of your destiny, so we can assume they are both merely acting as vessels of the gods, speaking to you on their behalf."

  On this subject, Remo remained mute. He had once had a healthy skepticism for Chiun's tales of gods interacting with mortal beings, but that was long ago. He had seen too much by now to continue in the role of doubter.

  "If they know what the grand plan is for me, I wish they'd just spit it out," Remo muttered. "Everything doesn't have to be so damned cryptic all the time."

  "It sounds clear enough to me," Chiun replied. His voice grew soft. "The boy was speaking of your pupil, Remo. The one you will take to train as Master to succeed you."

  Remo stopped dead. "He didn't say that." He frowned.

  Chiun's smile was sad. "Did he not say it was nearly your time? And the crone told you that the coming years will be difficult for you. Such is the case when a Master takes a pupil. Believe me, I know." He resumed walking.

  Remo followed beside him in thoughtful silence. Luzu men and women watched them as they passed.

  "I never gave any of that much thought," Remo said after a long pause.

  "Perhaps that is why the gods found it necessary to dispatch an emissary," Chiun replied.

  "I wouldn't even know how to find a pupil." He was speaking to himself now, trying to absorb the ramifications of all that was being said.

  "It is traditional for a Master to train his own offspring," Chiun offered.

  Remo's eyes widened. "No way," he insisted. "Freya's not having anything to do with any of this."

  Chiun's face puckered in displeasure. "Of course not," he said, scowling. "Why would your thoughts fly immediately to your daughter? You have a son, as well."

  "Oh." Remo nodded. "Winston."

  Winston had been a grown man when Remo met him. Remo's daughter was still a teenager. Both were living with Remo's biological father on an Indian reservation in Arizona.

  In truth he did not know why he thought of his daughter and not his son first.

  "I don't know about Winston, Little Father," Remo cautioned. "He's not exactly Sinanju material."