A Pound of Prevention td-121

by Warren Murphy

  Remo shook his head firmly. "You've got a lot to learn about sucking up," he said. "And I'm not telling."

  Chiun pulled at the tufts of hair above his ears. "Stop this madness!" he demanded, jumping up and down. "Do you care nothing for the Luzu? If these devices go off, they will be destroyed, as well."

  "You don't know that," Remo said, his brow furrowing. "Luzuland is pretty far away from Bachsburg. If the cloud blows the right way, they could come out of this fine."

  Chiun threw up his hands. "Woe to the Luzu that they must risk their futures on your feebleminded guesses."

  "Well, why don't you go back and get them the hell out of there?" Remo snapped, color rising in his cheeks. "Chiun, if these bombs go off, the whole world wins. Don't you think I haven't thought about the people here? I have. But when I weighed them against the whole rest of the planet, I'm sorry. They lost."

  "I cannot believe what I am hearing," Chiun gasped. "You have truly gone mad."

  "I was mad before I got here," Remo said. "Mad that we were losing the fight. Mad that I wasn't making a difference. Now I've been given a chance to do what I couldn't do on my own. When the bombs go off, we sweep the planet clean of nearly every bigwig bastard there is. We can start again with a clean slate."

  "Oh, why did you have to be afflicted with Master's disease?" Chiun wailed. "Could I not have a pupil who was blind? Or lame?" He stabbed a sharpened fingernail at Remo. "You say you are worried about the entire world. Tell me, Remo Williams, what has the world ever done for you?"

  Remo's shoulders sank imperceptibly. Only the Master of Sinanju would have seen the subtle motion.

  "Not much, I guess," he answered quietly

  "How dare you!" Chiun shrieked, his shrill voice rising ten octaves. Stemware in the hotel bar twelve stories below rang in protest. "The world has given you me! And what have I ever asked from you? Nothing! I give, give, give while you take, take, take. Well, I am asking for something now. I command you to tell me where those booms are!"

  When Remo spoke, his voice was small. "I'm sorry, Chiun. I can't."

  Chiun studied his pupil's face for a long moment, his thin lips fading into an invisible rictus of disgust. Remo refused to meet his teacher's penetrating gaze.

  "Pah!" Chiun spit all at once. "You are an obstinate fool." He spun away from Remo, his kimono swirling wildly at his ankles. He marched into the bedroom, calling angrily over his shoulder as he went, "If you will not listen to true reason, perhaps you will give ear to the idiot logic of another blockheaded white."

  "YOU WHAT!?"

  The voice of Harold W. Smith over the international line was a mixture of shock and horror. Remo could actually hear the crack of Smith's arthritic knuckles as they tightened on the receiver.

  "Aside from his overuse of the word 'lunatic,' Chiun got it about right," Remo replied thinly. The Master of Siaanju had placed the call to Smith from the bedroom. He was on that extension now as Remo spoke on the living-room phone.

  "It is the waning days of his illness that has made him do this thing, Emperor," Chiun interjected. "The Master's disease I told you about many years ago has nearly run its course. He has decided to mark the occasion of his recovery with an act of utter lunacy."

  The old Korean had mentioned Remo's illness when first he called Smith. It had been so many years since he had heard of it that it took the CURE director a moment to remember.

  "Illness or not, this is totally unacceptable, Remo," Smith insisted.

  "Accept it," Remo said flatly.

  "How many bombs are there?" Smith begged.

  "I don't know," Remo replied honestly. "I only saw the one. But Deferens said there were more."

  "You must find out their exact locations," Smith said, trying to inject a reasonable tone into his lemony voice. "They must be disarmed."

  "No way," said Remo. "I didn't decide on this on a whim, Smitty. We've been presented with a real opportunity here. Think about all the skunks who are in this town right now. We could get them all. No more of this nickel-and-dime water-treading crapola we've been doing all these years."

  Smith did not allow his own earlier doubts to invade their conversation. "That cannot be a factor," he said.

  "Why not?" Remo pressed, his voice passionate. "These creeps are like weeds. We pull one out, and another five sprout up. We've been giving the world's problems an ounce of CURE all these years when what they've really been screaming for is a pound of prevention. We can do that here. Today. Think about it, Smitty. We'll finally have the upper hand after all these years. That's got to be worth one crummy city."

  Smith remained unmoved. "And what of the innocent people in Bachsburg?" he asked. "Have you given them any thought at all?"

  "Yeah, as a matter of fact, I have," Remo said. "What's the population of Bachsburg?"

  Smith hesitated. "About one hundred and fifty thousand, including the wider metropolitan area," he replied slowly.

  "And how many people are victims of crime every year?"

  He saw now where Remo was headed. "On a global scale, those statistics are not available," Smith insisted.

  "You don't have to tell me," Remo said. "I know it's more than the population here. A lot more."

  "You would not stop common criminals, Remo. Everyday killers, pushers and rapists would still exist."

  "But we can cut off the head of crime," Remo stressed. "Local police can mop up the rest. The guys who are here today are the ones running the show. They have the network that gets the drugs to the addict who has to steal to feed his habit. You know I'm right, Smitty."

  "I know nothing of the sort," Smith answered tartly. "And if you will not follow orders, let me speak with Chiun alone."

  "Don't count on him to do the heavy lifting," Remo said. "I think his Luzu gig's turning into a full-time job."

  "Silence, madman," the Master of Sinanju snapped in rebuke. "I am here, Emperor," he said to Smith. "It is as I warned you. Remo is not given to many thoughts, so when one roots in his granite skull, it is difficult to dislodge."

  "Sweet-talk me all you want," Remo warned. "It ain't gonna work."

  "Remo, hang up," Smith ordered.

  "Look, Smitty," Remo said. "Why don't I save you both some grief. Deferens is the only one who knows how to turn them off, and Elvis has left the building. He's out cold someplace safe, and I'm the only one who knows where he is."

  "You did not eliminate him?" Smith asked, his sharp tone growing puzzled.

  "No. Listen, Smitty, I have to go. Chiun and I are gonna need tickets out of here before the fireworks start."

  After he hung up the phone, he heard Chiun speaking in hushed tones a few moments longer. The old Korean made it impossible for Remo to hear either side of the conversation. When he was through, he hung up the phone and padded back into the living room, a dull expression on his wrinkled face.

  Remo was loitering near the door. "Smith is not pleased," Chiun said flatly.

  "He'll get over it."

  "Perhaps," Chiun said. Like a collapsing parachute, he settled cross-legged to the living-room rug.

  "What are you doing?" Remo asked.

  "Waiting," the Master of Sinanju said blandly. "Thanks to you, there is nothing else for me to do."

  "You're just gonna sit there?"

  "There is time. You have said so yourself."

  "But don't you want to go back to Luzuland and get your stuff?"

  Chiun shook his head. "Bubu has already returned with the chief's vehicle. I doubt a taxi would take me there. I am content to wait." With his long tapered nails, he fussed with the robes at his knees.

  "If you're waiting for me to change my mind, don't bother," Remo warned. "I'm not going to."

  "Of course not. The seed has already germinated in the sidewalk that is your brain. And because of this, an entire city must be made to suffer. Perhaps more."

  "Guilt won't do it, either," Remo said. "I'm right and that's that. Case closed." He turned for the door.

  "B
ut consider," Chiun called after him.

  Remo had his hand on the doorknob. "Consider what?" he asked, turning warily.

  "The lesson of Nuk," Chiun explained. "For although it is written that his sole purpose in this land was to exploit the rich diamond mines of the Luzu, there has always been a sneaking suspicion among later Masters that he had more esoteric reasons. A paternal fondness for the Luzu people."

  Remo's face fouled. "Chiun, I don't give a wet fart in a windbreaker about those people."

  "No," Chiun agreed, his eyes flat. "Your concern is far greater. You care for the entire world. You are Remo Williams, the Great Preserver of Peace and Justice for all Humanity. And because of your great caring soul, hundreds of thousands will die this day."

  And having delivered his final word on the subject, the Master of Sinanju closed his papery eyelids.

  Across the room, a scowl formed deep on Remo's face. And in the furthest recesses of the cruelest lines, the shadows of doubt appeared. He refused to entertain them.

  "Put a sock in it," Remo growled, flinging the door open. The hotel door slammed violently behind him.

  Chapter 28

  The helicopter grew from a tiny black speck in the pale white African sky. It swept across the plains to the south, cutting up over the bungalow-lined street in the small village at the outskirts of Luzuland.

  Standing on the great, flat roof of the huge meeting hall, Mandobar watched the helicopter close in. The rear wall of the big auditorium was set into the side of a rocky hill. The hill itself was a natural plateau that had been made perfectly level. The helipad would soon be filled to capacity. A few helicopters were already there, rotor blades sagging inert.

  Mandobar held a knot of fabric from the billowing skirts of the burnoose to keep it from blowing immodestly up. Another fat hand held the big fruit hat in place.

  Almost time...

  "THERE ARE NOT enough houses here," Don Giovani complained over the radio headset. He was a portly, white-haired man of seventy with a tomato-garden tan.

  The chopper was flying over the last of the bungalows.

  "Perhaps there are more elsewhere," Nunzio Spumoni suggested over his own slender microphone.

  "I see no others," Giovani scowled. "If I am expected to sleep out in the desert, you will return me to my hotel in Bachsburg immediately."

  "Amen, Marlon Brando!" shrieked another voice over the headset. "And if you've got bread, you can count me in. 'Course you gotta promise I won't wake up with a horsie's head in my bed, luv! Shudder!"

  Don Giovani and Nunzio Spumoni had endured the endless interruptions of the Seasonings for the entire ride from Bachsburg. The singers were crammed like a row of garishly painted dolls on one of the helicopter's broad back seats.

  Pushed in tightly, the huge bellies of the four women were wrinkled and buckled at inhuman angles. Nunzio swore at one point that Trollop's stomach flesh had come apart and that she had refastened it. Of course, that was impossible.

  The Camorra man tried to ignore the annoyingly distracting women as he spoke to the rival Mafia leader.

  "Please, Don Giovani," Nunzio pleaded. "I did not know of this place until an hour ago. I was asked by the office of the defense minister to bring you here."

  "Why did Defense Minister Deferens not bring me here himself?" Giovani demanded.

  "Perhaps he is busy elsewhere," Spumoni suggested. Even as he spoke, he felt the first cold trickles of sweat.

  The truth was, Spumoni wished he knew where the East African defense minister was. He had been trying to contact L. Vas Deferens for much of the day. The man had vanished.

  As far as he knew, the nuclear bombs were still hidden beneath the streets of Bachsburg. However, they would do little good if the crime leaders were to be brought out into this wilderness. Nunzia had only just learned of this change of plans from the defense ministry. His own boss, Don Vincenzo of the Napoli Camorra, would not be pleased if this costly plan of Spumoni's were to fail at this late stage.

  Nunzio was sweating and twitching by the time the helicopter soared up to the roof of the grand glass-and-stone structure at the end of the village's only street.

  Nunzio saw the familiar fat face smiling up from the auditorium roof. He still couldn't believe it. Most still thought that the former president of East Africa was behind all this. Until today, Nunzio had been one of them.

  He should have known. If Willie Mandobar were the true architect, he would never have been able to leave his country at such an important time.

  Nunzio was amazed at the coy act L. Vas Deferens had been playing all this time. The minister had led Nunzio to believe that the beloved former East African politician was playing an active role behind the scenes. Pulling the strings of this great plan. But now it was clear. It was entirely her plan.

  The plastic-fruit hat was nearly thrown from Nellie Mandobar's head by the downdraft from the big rotor blades. The chopper settled to its skids in the wide landing area.

  Servants rushed over to open the doors.

  Don Giovani and Nunzio Spumoni were helped out onto the helipad. Behind them, the Seasonings hopped out.

  "Find me a loo, pronto!" Slut Seasoning screeched to one of Nellie's men. "Either that or me and baby're gonna break yellow water all over your roof!"

  "Girl domination over the johnny closet!" agreed Ho.

  The singers were ushered quickly away. Grateful for the relative silence of the pounding rotor blades, Nunzio Spumoni escorted the Don to the former first lady and ex-wife of Willie Mandobar.

  "Mrs. Mandobar, Don Giovani," Nunzio shouted over the helicopter noise.

  Nellie Mandobar smiled broadly. "Welcome to the new East Africa, Don Giovani," she shouted. Still holding her fruit hat in place, she leaned forward, kissing the old Italian lightly on the cheek.

  "I must get back!" Spumoni called.

  Nellie Mandobar nodded. "Thank you for giving our first guest a ride. It was most kind of you. How soon will your Don Vincenzo be arriving?"

  "I'll get him now," Nunzio replied. He tried not to show his reluctance. He was thinking of the bombs under Bachsburg, and of what his Don would do to him if this expensive plan failed.

  Bowing a polite goodbye, Nunzio hurried on long legs back to the helicopter. As soon as he climbed aboard, it ascended, roaring back across the savannah toward Bachsburg.

  The landing pad grew blessedly quiet.

  "Forgive the arrangements, Don Giovani," Nellie Mandobar apologized, taking the Mafia man by the arm. "My man in Bachsburg has taken a few hours off before the event for personal reasons. When I learned the Camorra helicopter was available, I assumed you would not mind."

  Don Giovani allowed the plump woman to lead him across the roof. "Is one of those mine?" Giovani asked. As he shuffled along, he pointed to the row of helicopters already at the edge of the broad airfield.

  "Yes," Nellie Mandobar replied. Her broad smile had not yet left her fleshy face.

  Giovani's tan face was humorless. "Make certain it is ready to leave at a moment's notice," he ordered. "I am not staying here one second longer than is absolutely necessary."

  "Both of our helicopters will be ready long before tonight's festivities-" she smiled broadly "-wind down."

  And Nellie laughed the laugh of a woman for whom death was an old friend.

  The Mafia man's hand rested in the crook of her arm. Clapping her own fat mitt atop it, she ushered the old Don into the chilly interior of the huge auditorium.

  Her joyful laugh echoed hollowly up from below.

  Chapter 29

  Pedestrians cut a wide swath around Remo. It was as if his dark inner mood projected an invisible charged field around his body. As he prowled, unmolested, through the streets of Bachsburg, he was a thing to fear and avoid.

  After leaving the hotel, Remo hadn't gone to the airport for tickets out of East Africa. Wandering alone, he was deep in thought, wrestling with an inner conflict he thought he'd already put to rest.

  Ther
e shouldn't have been any turmoil. He had made up his mind. But both Smith and Chiun with their carping and calls to duty had chipped away at the rock of his certainty. Now, though he would never admit it to either the CURE director or the Master of Sinanju, Remo did not know.

  He wandered aimlessly.

  With the discovery of gold in the late 1800s, Bachsburg had become a boomtown. Peeking out through the present-day city were remnants of its nouveau riche past, evidence of the frontier town that had made good.

  Many of the hotels Remo passed were of a variety of different styles. Baroque, Gothic and Byzantine architecture were interspersed in a matter of two city blocks. Remo's own hotel, which dated back to just after the turn of the century, looked like a cross between the Pantheon and a New York skyscraper. Somehow, the sharp contrast of styles worked.

  In spite of himself, Remo had begun to look at Bachsburg as a city where actual people lived and not as an abstract model in which an untold number of faceless criminals would die.

  His face growing hard, Remo started walking with more purpose, as if by hurrying he could outpace his own doubts.

  Although it was barely midafternoon, midnight had begun to loom large and real as Remo headed from the hotel district. As he crossed one street after another, his mind could not but go to the bombs beneath his feet.

  Just outside the modern business district, the largely played out and abandoned gold mines of Bachsburg's past had become tourist attractions. There were men and women there now, dressed in vacation clothes, cameras slung around their sweating necks.

  On the sidewalk in front of an information center, Remo had to avoid a busload of chattering tourists who were crowding excitedly down to street level.

  Even though the East Africa they were in wasn't the one from their glossy tourist brochures, these people were oblivious. They were insulated, hiding in hotel rooms and restaurants, only venturing out by bus to whatever local sites their package tour had picked for the day. It was very likely they had no idea at all what kind of city they had come to. Remo kept his eyes locked on the sidewalk as he walked past the happy band of tourists.

  He would not be blamed for their bad timing. Was it his fault they'd picked now to come to East Africa? And anyway, if they wandered into the wrong part of town, they'd likely end up shot or stabbed. By the end of the day, they'd wind up just as dead.