A Pound of Prevention td-121

by Warren Murphy

  "What about Don Vincenzo?" Mandobar asked. "Giovani is concerned that Camorra will back out."

  "Nunzio assures me that he can convince him to come," L. Vas Deferens said. "I believe in the end he will. After all, he cannot afford not to."

  "What about the Luzu?" Mandobar asked. "I don't need that headache now, too."

  "I've sent men to Luzuland to neutralize Batubizee. I expect them back with good news by tomorrow morning. As far as today's incident at the palace, it has been contained for now. I cannot promise that word will not leak out, however. There were too many killed and too many involved in the cover-up. We have a couple of days at best."

  Mandobar sat back heavily in the car seat. "This is all the fault of that aborigine Batubizee. Things were going perfectly up until now."

  An image of the Luzu chief came to mind, a flaming, gasoline-filled tire around his fat neck. As quickly as it came, it went. The streets of Bachsburg again stretched out beside the gleaming black sides of the speeding limo.

  "I want him dead, Deferens," Mandobar said menacingly.

  "The man I hired for the job is a real find," the defense minister said with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. "He actually wished to go to Luzuland with only one guide. I insisted that he take a few more men."

  "Alone against those savages? He sounds a bigger fool than Batubizee."

  "You have not met him," Deferens said with irritating confidence.

  "The Luzu may boil him in a pot to feed their starving bellies for all I care. Just as long as Batubzee is dead by tomorrow. Keep me informed." Mandobar hung up the phone.

  One man against the entire Luzu nation. Alone in the back of the limousine, Mandobar snorted derisively. Deferens could be so limited sometimes.

  That had been the defense minister's problem since the outset. Deferens was ambitious, but not creative. He would never think beyond the initial plan to turn Bachsburg and eventually all of East Africa into a haven for crime.

  Mandobar, on the other hand, was not limited like the prim little defense minister. The plan to get the crime leaders to gather here was just a ruse. Leaning back in the car seat once more, Mandobar realized that Chief Batubizee would most likely be dead by the following day, one way or another. If the explosion didn't get him, the fallout would. Picturing mound upon mound of whimpering, screaming Luzus covered in sheets of bleeding, peeling radioactive flesh, Mandobar's smile returned.

  The grin never left the fat face for the entire ride back to the tiny bungalow village.

  Chapter 21

  Savannah faded to shanty villages, which in turn eventually became the outskirts of Bachsburg. Remo had remembered the carved stone figure in his pocket only when they'd passed the spot where he had seen the young Korean boy. He had no idea why he had forgotten to mention something so important to Chiun. It sat in his pocket now, next to baby Karen's crucifix.

  Depression swelled anew as he thought of both children and what each represented. By the time they reached the city with its tall buildings, windows gleaming in the early-morning sun, he felt more miserable than ever.

  Bubu steered the Luzu chief's Suburban through the spotty postdawn traffic.

  "Where does Master Remo wish to go?" Bubu asked agreeably as they headed into the heart of the city.

  Remo had tried a number of times during their long night's drive to get the native to drop the "master," but the younger man seemed determined to remain respectful.

  "You can drop me off at my hotel," Remo said. "They should have the floor mopped up by now." Bubu apparently knew his way around town. When Remo gave him the address, the Luzu native didn't need to ask directions.

  "Looks like most of the delinquents are sleeping it off," Remo commented as they drove past empty sidewalks.

  "Soldiers began clearing the streets last night. I have heard that this is an important day for Mandobar," Bubu said seriously. "According to Luzu who have fled their ancestral land to live in this place, today is the day that the wicked chiefs descend on this city for some great meeting."

  Remo raised a surprised eyebrow. "No kidding?"

  Bubu nodded. "May I tell you something for your ears alone?" he asked.

  Remo was struck by the native's innocence. He barely knew his passenger yet he was already willing to trust him.

  Remo nodded. "What's on your mind?"

  "Our chief feels that the problems Luzuland now faces were created by Mandobar here in Bachsburg. But the danger this city poses existed long before Mandobar. It has been such since the whites came here centuries ago. Even with Mandobar gone, I fear that the threat from Bachsburg to our way of life will live on."

  Remo knew he was right. The world had long ago moved away from the simple life the Luzu once lived. Times had changed. And the tribe hadn't kept up with that change.

  Bubu's face was deadly serious. "There are times I wish the Luzu gods of old would reach down from on high and crush this wicked city in their hands," the native intoned.

  Remo's jaw clenched. "That wouldn't be such a bad idea right around now," he admitted.

  "You agree with me?" Bubu asked, surprised. His eyes darted from the road. "But you are from the West."

  "I don't mean we should stomp out the whole Western world," Remo explained. "Your problem is with the modern age-mine's with the rats who are ruining the world for decent people. The guys responsible for a lot of the misery going on out there are here in Bachsburg. If this one city was wiped out today, we'd be a long way to curing the troubles of the whole world."

  Bubu studied Remo's troubled profile. "No matter the reason, we both wish for the same thing," the native said with quiet sadness. "That which is impossible."

  The silence remained between them for the rest of the ride to Remo's hotel.

  Stopped at a traffic light one block from the hotel, Bubu made a sudden surprised exclamation.

  "It is one of them!" he barked. Eyes wide, the native was looking down a side street.

  Remo glanced down the narrow lane.

  A city truck was parked near the curb. Yellow hazard posts slung with matching tape were positioned around a hole in the roadway next to the truck. The heavy flat disk of a manhole cover sat nearby.

  Bubu was looking at neither truck nor hole, but at the three men loitering nearby. Each wore matching powder-blue coveralls and hard hats. Tool belts were slung around their waists. On their backs, an oval patch identified them as Bachsburg city workers.

  When the streetlight changed, Bubu didn't even see it.

  "One of who?" Remo asked, peering at the workers.

  "The men Chief Batubizee spoke of," Bubu whispered excitedly. "Those who we followed into the sewers, only to have half of our party slain."

  "We?" Remo asked. "You were there?"

  Bubu wasn't listening. He threw the truck into park, fumbling over the seat. When he spun for the door, spear and machete were in hand.

  "Whoa," Remo said, grabbing the native's wrist before he could spring the driver's-side door.

  "Release me!" Bubu cried. "I must avenge my tribesmen!"

  "Think you could avenge a little louder?" Remo griped. "I don't think they can hear you in Liberia." Over Bubu's protestations, Remo slipped the truck back into drive. As he flicked Bubu's foot off the brake, the big truck rolled forward. Once they'd passed through the intersection and were out of sight of the city workers, Remo took his toe off the gas. "You sure it's the same guy?" he asked, slipping the truck back into park.

  Bubu nodded. "He was there that day. He once worked for the defense ministry."

  "Defense ministry to sewer workers?" Remo asked. "Remind me not to look for temp work through his agency."

  When Remo popped his door, Bubu jumped out the other side. Luzu weapons in hand, he hurried after Remo.

  The truck was still there, but the sewer workers were gone. Hurrying to the roped-off manhole, Remo cocked an ear.

  The distant echoing sounds of the men carried back through the stone tunnels.

  "I do
n't suppose I can convince you to stay topside?" Remo asked.

  Bubu's jaw was firmly set. "I owe my brothers vengeance," he insisted. His hands clenched weapons.

  "Didn't think so." Remo sighed. "Okay, but stay out of the way and keep the dying to a minimum. Chief Jabba the Hut doesn't like me enough already without having his favorite guard buy it on my watch."

  At this, Bubu seemed about to say something more, but Remo didn't give him a chance. Snapping his ankles together, Remo slipped like a silent shadow down into the inky well.

  Grabbing his spear and machete close, Bubu scurried down the ladder after him,

  THE REAL East Africa was dead.

  For F. U. Gudgel, the country of his birth had fallen victim to internal meddlers and international do-gooders.

  East Africa was now a zombie. It stumbled around wrapped in its familiar geography and name, but inside it was rotten to the core. A dead country with a mooka president.

  Mooka. The mookas wouldn't even let you use that word anymore. Because the mookas ran the country. Because the gutless whites had caved to mooka pressure and turned it over to them. F. U. Gudgel fervently wished all the mookas would join old East Africa in its grave.

  Before the collapse of the old structure, Gudgel had been a member of the defense ministry. But sometime around the point when the last white president, O. C. Stiggs, handed the reins of power over to Willie Mandobar, someone in the new government had gotten it into his fool head to make East Africa nuclear free. The nukes were ordered dismantled. And almost the entire defense ministry was summarily tossed out in the streets. Replaced by mookas.

  When the transfer of power was complete in the early 1990s, F. U. Gudgel became a former government official with no experience in the job market. Gudgel had been forced to find work-not an easy task for a man who had risen from enlistee in the East African army to a position with the Advanced Projects Agency of the Ministry of Defense.

  When he was faced with chronic unemployment, Gudgel's savior had come in the unlikely form of Minister L. Vas Deferens.

  Deferens had been the ultimate boss of Gudgel and the others at the A.P.A. He was thought by most to be a slippery bureaucrat who had betrayed his race by cozying up to Willie Mandobar when the former political prisoner became president of East Africa. When Mandobar retired and Kmpali had assumed the presidency, Deferens had remained in place. The defense minister had the cold outward appearance of a typical mooka-lover. But as F. U. Gudgel learned, the pale man in the perfect white suit was more complex than he seemed.

  Deferens had to have had this planned right from the start. As the old East Africa was in its death throes, the man charged with the defense of the nation was working diligently to endanger it like none other before him.

  In the months following its dissolution, Deferens had reassembled many of the old Advanced Projects Agency personnel. Some were experts in the field of nuclear technology, while others, like Gudgel, were men with strong backs and strong opinions. All of these men were of the same mind when it came to Mandobar and the rest of the mookas.

  A.P.A. was not dismantled after all. It merely went underground. Literally.

  As F. U. Gudgel and his companions made their careful way through the sewers beneath the heart of Bachsburg, Gudgel wished that "underground" meant the old Luzu diamond mines and not these slime-filled catacombs.

  This early in the day, the water level was low. The system had been flushed from the night before, and chemicals for decomposition had been pumped into the old aqueducts.

  Gudgei kept his breathing shallow as he picked his way along the slippery walkway. The plain white masks he and the others wore did little to ward off the stench of shit mixed with chemicals.

  One of the smooth rocks of the walkway had come loose. The first man, a scientist, kicked it into the river lest someone trip and fall. It struck water with a mighty splash.

  "Watch it!" Gudgel growled as sewer water flew up, staining his pant cuffs.

  Cursing, he shook his leg in disgust as the small group made its way up a side tunnel.

  Gudgel's anger faded when they stopped before an alcove.

  Nuclear technology in East Africa had developed further than the world community knew. Although the world was led to believe that the entire East African nuclear arsenal was dismantled, such was not the case. The proof was right before their eyes.

  The scientist in the group pulled a Geiger counter from his tool belt. He ran it up and down the stainless-steel device secreted in a fissure in the wall. The handheld counter let off a series of crackling pops.

  The scientist tsked unhappily. "I figured," he commented to the third man in the group. "Leaking."

  Behind the others, Gudgel's ears instantly perked up. "Radiation?" he asked, worried.

  "Nonlethal levels," the scientist assured him.

  "Should we seal it?" the third man asked.

  "Not necessary. In eighteen hours, a radiation leak this small will be the least of Bachsburg's problems."

  "Maybe we should ask Deferens," Gudgel suggested. He had taken a few steps back from the leaky hydrogen bomb.

  "No," the scientist said. "It will work." Gudgel missed the wink he gave the third man. "Of course, there is the slight risk of impotence after short-term exposure."

  Gudgel didn't stick around long enough to see if the man was joking. Hands pressed firmly to his lap, he turned and ran down the tunnel.

  The remaining two men laughed and shook their heads.

  "Let's catch him before he accidentally sets one of them off," the scientist said.

  Leaving the first nuclear bomb in its cranny, the two men hurried after their panicked comrade.

  THE BACHSBURG SEWER system was a confusing labyrinth. Plastic-encased droplights were strung like weak Japanese lanterns along the slippery walls. The yellow glow sickly illuminated the stream of sewage that ran beside the path.

  As soon as he'd entered the tunnel, Remo had found three soggy sets of footprints pressed into the black moss that sprouted along the platform walkway

  Once he'd come down from the street, Bubu had scampered out before Remo. Trailing the native, Remo was impressed with the way the young man carried himself. The Luzu moved confidently through the catacomb-like sewers.

  Bubu's keen eyes had detected the footprints in the moss as well, which was unusual for someone of normal vision.

  Only once did Bubu hesitate. At two intersecting tunnels, he glanced back in confusion. When Remo jerked a thumb right, Bubu struck off in that direction.

  That was it. No hesitation. No questioning. He simply looked to Remo for direction and then went. Watching the native in action, Remo wondered if Chiun's gods might not have brought him to East Africa at this time for their own purpose. While pondering a possibility that the day before would have seemed preposterous to him, Remo became aware of the three men closing in on their position from an adjacent tunnel.

  One was ahead of the others. All were far enough away to not be a problem. Remo was moving to overtake Bubu to get him out of harm's way when a shout issued from out the long tunnel far away. "Gudgel, slow down!"

  That was all Bubu needed. Without looking back to Remo, he ducked around the corner and raced down the tunnel.

  Remo flew into a full sprint, racing after the native. By the time he tore around the corner and into the gaping mouth of the tunnel, he was too late.

  A man stood far down the platform, automatic in hand, face angry. The explosion from his barrel cracked off the stone walls of the sewer.

  Between Remo and the gunman stood the young Luzu native.

  The bullet struck Bubu with a meaty thwack. One hand sprang open as he spun in place. His spear clattered to the stone walkway.

  For a moment, his eyes met Remo's. Where there should have been a look of shock or fear, there seemed only calm acceptance. He blinked and was gone.

  Momentum whirled him off the ledge. Still clutching his machete, Bubu spun into open air and plunged into the river o
f waste, disappearing below the water without a trace.

  Remo didn't slow his pace. Loafers gliding over stone, he ran down the passage.

  Far down the tunnel, F. U. Gudgel whipped his gun up. Leveling it on Remo, he fired.

  He was stunned when the bullet missed.

  Before he could squeeze off another round, Remo reached Bubu's dropped spear. He scooped it up in one hand.

  To F.U., it looked as if the primitive weapon leaped off the ground and onto Remo's fingertips. No sooner had it brushed the pads of his fingers than it was airborne.

  The impulse to flee could not hope to match the rocketing speed of the spear. As the first sense of danger sparked in the limited brain of F. U. Gudgel, the weapon found its mark.

  With a speed and accuracy far greater than any mere bullet, the spear slammed the East African in the dead center of his chest. Feet left the ground, and he was carried back on the shaft. When spear point met wall, the wooden tip buried itself in the mossy stone.

  Gudgel hung slack from the quivering shaft of the spear, his toes dangling to the catwalk.

  And in his brain's last functioning moment, as the blood from his shattered chest cavity filled his mouth and lungs, F. U. Gudgel recognized the irony of his being killed with a mooka weapon. He almost laughed. Instead, he died.

  Farther back, Remo saw the other two bogus sewer workers frozen in shock. They had watched all that had just transpired with mounting astonishment.

  As Gudgel twitched his last, they seemed to find sudden focus. Spinning, the two ran back in the direction from whence they'd come.

  Remo had taken but one step toward them when he heard a noise to his left. When he glanced into the river, he was just in time to see Bubu break the surface.

  "Master Remo!" the native gasped before slipping back below the greasy waves.

  Remo could hear the two fleeing men in the distance. They slipped on rock as they ran. There came the sudden hollow metal scraping of a manhole cover being pushed away.

  Remo spun back to the river.

  "Damn, damn, double damn," he groused as he kicked off his loafers.

  He was still cursing when he dove from the platform. He struck the water without so much as a splash.