The Last Alchemist td-64

by Warren Murphy

  Francisco knew how their minds worked. First, they would think he was an incredible fool to give up the best parts of the victims. Second, they would assume that the trio had to have much more gold with them than he was offering to pay; otherwise why would he pay it at all? And third, they would plan to kill the three, keep the best parts, take their gold, and then collect the gold Francisco offered, as well.

  For the Giri it was a foolproof scheme.

  For Francisco it was a way to finally eliminate the men with the incredible powers. While a hundred men fired hundreds of little poisonous arrows, Francisco would get off three good clean shots. Then he could fly out of this armpit of the planet and return in triumph to Harrison Caldwell.

  When Francisco heard the coughing engine of the river craft, he knew it would only be a few moments. The forest seemed to wriggle with the beetlelike bodies of the Giri. The whole tribe had heard of the great treasure and the good pickings that would be coming up the river. The warriors packed themselves into the slice of jungle that overlooked a narrow bend in the river. Some of the women brought pots for cooking, old iron pots taken from Portuguese traders now of course long passed through the intestines of the ancestors of the Giri.

  "The Anxitlgiri are an innocent people," Chiun said as the craft chugged up the churning mud of the tributary toward a leafy point so dense with foliage no light shone through. "They do not know evil, but are susceptible to the blandishments of the more sophisticated. They served the ancient great empires as hunters and guides. What has become of them now, who knows, but they were good hunters at one time."

  "Probably hunted babies," said Remo.

  "Don't you ever give up?" said Consuelo.

  "I've known him a bit longer than you," said Remo. "Ever heard of Ivan the Good?"

  The crew did not notice the leaves in the brush, but Remo saw they did not move with the wind. They jostled in peculiar ways. Up ahead, at the point, he sensed a great mass of men. Something was going to happen. He thought of moving Consuelo behind the cabin of the river craft now, keeping her facing the farthest shore.

  But Chiun refused to let him do this. Instead, the Oriental raised a single finger and ordered the boat to go directly into the shore.

  "What are you doing, little father?" Remo asked in Korean.

  "Shh," said Chiun.

  The boat headed into the hidden mass of men. Chiun strode to the prow, letting the wind rush against his flowing yellow kimono, a small man like a flag in the front.

  On shore the Giri could not believe their good luck. Sometimes riverboats got through their arrows and they would have to chase in their canoes. Sometimes they lost many men storming a boat. But this one had come ashore among them. Some of the women asked if they could start the fires now for the pots. The Giri saw the wisps of white hair floating on the breeze. They watched the beautiful pale yellow cloth billow in the wind. The men were already planning to cut it into strips for loincloths when they saw the yellow man on the prow raise his arms. And then the Giri heard a strange sound, an ancient sound, a sound they had heard spoken only around their campfires during the great ritual times.

  They heard the old language of their ancestors. The small yellow man did not call them Giri, but their full proud name: Anxitlgiri. And what he was telling them in their own tongue was shame. Shame on the men and shame on the women, and shame on the children who followed.

  "You move through the forests like logs, like whites. What has happened to the hunters who served the great empires? What has happened to the Anxitlgiri men who moved like the wind kissing the forest leaf, or the women so delicate and pure they hid their faces from the sun? Where are they now? I see only clumsy stumbling fools."

  So shocked were the Anxitlgiri to hear their ritual language spoken that they rose from behind their cover. A few pots falling softly on the forest floor could be heard.

  "Who are you?" asked an elder.

  "One who has memory of what the Anxitlgiri were, one who knows of your forefathers."

  "There is no need to do the hard work of our ancestors anymore. There are people to kill. Fat animals raised by the whites to steal. We need no such skills," said a younger hunter.

  "The tales of our ancestors are but stories for children," said another.

  In Korean, Chiun told Remo to listen to what they were saying. Remo answered: How could he, he didn't know the language-and Chiun said that if Remo had learned all the histories of the Masters he would have known Anxitlgiri.

  Remo answered: The only thing he wanted to know about them was which direction was upwind. Consuelo, fearful of all the little brown men now rising from the forests, many with human bones in their noses, asked Remo what was happening.

  Remo shrugged. The boat crews shut themselves in the cabin and loaded guns. The pilot, panicked, threw the engines into reverse. Chiun told him to quiet the engines. He wanted to be heard.

  He challenged the Anxitlgiri to send forward their best archer. He opened his palm.

  "Come now," he said in that ancient language. "Hit this target."

  And he held out his right hand, his long fingernails separating, indicating he wanted the archer to hit the center of the palm. But the archer was hungry for the gold and other things. He aimed directly at the center of the pale yellow cloth covering the man who stood on the prow, the one who had challenged the honor of the whole tribe.

  The short arrow sang out from the bow. And was caught in the old man's left hand, right in front of his chest.

  "How much do you miss by, little worm of a man?" Chiun asked in the old tongue of the tribe.

  The archer lowered his head in shame, and put another shaft against the hide of his bow. Carefully he drew it back, and then fired at the palm. He had felled flying birds with this bow. The arrow sang out and stopped where the palm had been, clutched in the hand of the visitor.

  The man had caught it. Women cried out old praises for the hunt. They banged the kettles. Youngsters cheered. Old men wept. There was pride again in the Anxitlgiri. They could hunt animals, not men. They could show pride in themselves. As one, the entire tribe began to chant the glories of the hunt.

  Francisco Braun felt the vibrations of the chanting through the jungle floor as he centered his telescopic sight on the Oriental at the prow. The old face turned to the gun sight and smiled triumphantly into the cross hairs.

  Chapter 8

  The crew remained locked in the cabin. Consuelo refused to leave the deck. Remo stood at the stern, and Chiun, triumphant, raised his arms to the multitude coming out of the jungle. One of the women brought her child that he might touch the hem of the garment of the Master of Sinanju who remembered their ancestors.

  A great hunter fell to his knees and kissed the sandals beneath the pale yellow kimono.

  "See how proper respect is paid," said Chiun.

  "I'm not kissing your feet. C'mon. Let's get out of here."

  Remo banged on the cabin. He told the crew everything was all right. But the guide refused to go on. "I don't care how much you pay me, I'm not going on up this tributary."

  "We're looking for someone," said Remo. "If he went up, we go up."

  The guide took a quick peek out a window, then buried himself beneath pillows.

  "No one went up. There's no point to going on."

  "What about Brewster? Your company took James Brewster up the river. If he got up, we can get up."

  "That's not exactly so," said the guide. "We did a bit of promotion for your trip."

  "How can you promote a trip that we wanted to take in the first place?" asked Consuelo.

  "We lied through our teeth," said the guide. "There never was a James Brewster."

  An Anxitlgiri hunter had found a way into his cabin and was examining the guide's teeth. He took the pillow as a souvenir.

  "I know there's a James Brewster," said Consuelo.

  "And maybe the other guy knows there's a James Brewster, but he never took a cruise on one of our ships. We received a bonus t
o enhance your cultural horizon."

  "Whadya mean a 'bonus to enhance our cultural horizon'?' asked Remo.

  "We were bribed to steer you here."

  "Who bribed you?" asked Consuelo.

  "A man who wanted you to appreciate the joys of the Giri tributary. Now let's get out of here. This Indian is poking around my liver."

  Chiun, hearing the conversation, called out:

  "He won't harm you in my presence. He is a good man. They are all good men and women, these Anxitlgiri."

  "You'd say that about anyone who would kiss your feet, little father," said Remo.

  "It is not the worst form of obeisance," said Chiun, sticking out the right sandal. The left had been properly honored enough.

  Remo warned the guide that the Indian standing over his cowering figure would harm him if he said so. "Who bribed you?" asked Remo.

  "I don't know his name but he had a very compelling argument for telling you that a James Brewster had gone up this tributary. He was a handsome man. Now get this Indian away, please."

  "Was he blond?" asked Consuelo.

  "Very," said the guide.

  Consuelo turned from the cabin and dropped her head into her hands.

  "I led you into this. I led you into this like a foolish girl. A trusting, foolish, lovestruck girl. I did it."

  "Shhhh," said Chiun. He was about to publicly acknowledge the bowed heads of the village elders.

  "He was gorgeous, Remo. The most beautiful man I have ever seen. I trusted him."

  "It happens," said Remo.

  "He said he was from the NCA, the agency that controls all nuclear projects and factories in the country. He had good identification. He wanted to know where you were all the time."

  "I've seen him around," said Remo.

  "But I saw the flight manifest. I saw Brewster's name going down to Rio. I double-checked the passport numbers. His was there. I know he went down to Rio."

  "I could see him going to Rio, but not to this cesspool. Let's check Rio."

  "It's such a big city. We don't know anyone."

  "We can get help. You've just got to know how to be friendly," said Remo. Downriver, a bullet of a speedboat pulled away from the shore with a very blond man driving it. It kicked up a spray a full story high as it headed down the Giri tributary toward Rio. Chiun saw Remo watch the boat.

  "We are not leaving yet," said Chiun. The tribal elders were preparing a dance of laudation, to be followed by odes to the greatness of the one who came in yellow robes.

  "A decent people," said Chiun, "decent to those who know the histories of Sinanju."

  "Decent if you like having your feet licked in a jungle," said Remo. He spoke in English now, and so did Chiun. Consuelo listened, fascinated. She couldn't miss the mass of adoring people. Who were these men? And why were they on her side?

  "The histories will teach you about peoples. They will teach you who they are and who you are. The histories will teach you to survive."

  Consuelo asked Remo what the histories were. "Fairy tales," said Remo.

  "I saw what happened with the Giri. They're more than fairy tales."

  "The names are right. The incidents are right. But everything else is bulldocky. The good guys are the ones who pay their assassins. That's it."

  "So you're assassins. Isn't that illegal?"

  "Only if you're on the wrong side," said Remo.

  "Who do you assassinate for?"

  "You don't understand," said Remo. And he left it at that. Once again, he turned to Chiun. "Consuelo is being eaten alive out here and your foot is getting chafed. Your skin isn't used to so much adulation in one day. Let's get the show on the road."

  "Exactly," said Chiun. He clapped his hands twice. "Let the laudations begin."

  Harrison Caldwell had moved himself out of New York City, although the office remained there. He kept in touch every day by telephone. He had purchased two hundred and fifty acres in New Jersey, drained a swamp, planted a lawn, and had a large iron fence built around it. It was patrolled day and night by his own guards, who wore the sign of the apothecary jar and sword on their liveries.

  He placed his own agents in charge of the bullion office in New York City. The great talk, of course, was why gold had not gone higher. It was the favorite metal of international disasters. Whenever a war threatened or broke out, whenever stocks did wild and crazy things, people around the world invested in gold. It was the one commodity that could be traded anywhere. Money was paper, but gold was wealth.

  And yet despite numerous small wars, numerous warnings about the stock market, gold had remained steady. It was as though someone was constantly feeding in a source of gold to the international market, absorbing any frenzy for it. There was always more gold than there was cash and the price remained steadier than at any time in history.

  For a bullionist like the Caldwell company, the profits should have been modest. One did not buy gold and sell it at relatively the same price and make money. Yet there was more money coming into the shop than at any time in its history. More people selling for Caldwell. More accountants. Larger bank balances around the world. It seemed that whatever Harrison Caldwell wanted, he could buy.

  In fact, the one thing he wanted most, he could not buy. Nor could it be rushed. There was one phone call Harrison Caldwell wanted, but he had not gotten it. He had told his valet that he should be awakened for this one call. He said it would come from South America.

  When it did come, Caldwell dismissed everyone. He wanted to talk alone.

  "What's wrong?" asked Caldwell.

  "They are proving very resourceful."

  "I have not made you my sword to find out that there is competition."

  "They will be taken care of very soon."

  "In the grand days of the court, there would be combat between men to decide who would be the king's champion, who would be the king's sword."

  "I will take care of these two now. There is no way they are going to escape now. There will be no problem."

  "We appreciate your assurances," said Caldwell, "but we cannot help but remember the grand tournaments of royal Spain. This does not mean we do not have faith in you, Francisco. This only recalls our pleasure in thinking about such tournaments. Can you imagine finding another king's champion today?"

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. "What seems to be the problem, Francisco? We know that if there is a problem with the king's sword, there soon is a problem with the king's neck."

  "They are exceptional. And they will soon be exceptionally dead."

  "How can you give us those assurances, since obviously you have failed at least once or twice before?"

  "Because, your Majesty, they cannot escape the world they live in. I am simply going to destroy their world, and them with it."

  "You please us, Francisco," said Harrison Caldwell, wondering what a destroyed world would look like. He also wondered whether he should have searched more diligently for a personal sword.

  Francisco Braun's Portuguese was not as good as his Spanish but it was good enough to get just the kind of engineer he wanted. The man had a drinking problem which fortunately did not impair his competence, but most fortunately impaired his morals.

  He kept looking at the diagrams and shaking his head. "Why don't you just shoot them?" he asked after he had been paid.

  "Why don't you finish the diagram of what has to be done?"

  "Shooting is kinder," said the engineer. And he thought of what it would be like for those who would know they were going to die, those who would be helpless to do anything about it. He took another drink.

  "Are you sure it will work?" asked Francisco.

  "I'd bet my life," said the engineer, who had worked on some of the high rises on the beautiful beaches of Rio.

  "You just have," said Braun.

  There were problems in finding James Brewster in Rio. For one, the South American police were not that cooperative. Second, the three of them could not canvas the
whole city, nor would it help them if they could: if James Brewster had stayed in Rio, no doubt, he had changed his name. Last but not least, none of them spoke Portuguese, except Chiun, who refused to help when Consuelo explained what they were looking for.

  Chiun made his feelings clear in a luxury hotel room, while he prepared a scroll. It was time to record the second meeting of Sinanju and the Anxitlgiri.

  "Chasing thieves is not my business," said Chiun, trying to capture exactly each syllable of the laudation odes so that future generations would know how well Sinanju had been received again in the person of Chiun.

  "We may be saving the world from nuclear destruction,'' said Consuelo.

  And with that, Chiun dismissed her from his presence. Consuelo didn't know what she had said to offend him.

  "Why should he be so angry about saving the world?"

  "Because that's what I was trying to do when I should have been helping him recover the treasure of Sinanju."

  "Is it that valuable?"

  "Some of it was junk. But after a few thousand years you have to collect some valuable things. Gold, jewels, and the like."

  "You make it sound trivial."

  "If you don't spend it, what good is it? One gold bar could feed a Korean village for a century. They eat rice and fish. Sometimes duck. They like duck. But they never spent it. Look, don't worry about it. We don't need him to find Brewster."

  "But you don't speak Portuguese."

  "A friendly manner overcomes all barriers," said Remo.

  Remo was right. You did not need a pocket translator to find a policeman who spoke English. You simply grabbed a policeman and twisted, speaking plainly and clearly in English: "Take me to your commander." There was no language barrier this simple gesture could not overcome.

  Soon they were in the commander's villa. No decent police career in South America ever resulted in anything less than a villa. And no decent citizen would arrive at that villa to request justice without enough cash to pay for that justice. Remo, unfortunately, had not brought money, he explained.

  The commander expressed his sorrow, but he would have to arrest Remo for assaulting the policeman he had by the neck. One didn't come down to a South American country and rough up a policeman without money in the pocket. The commander rang for the guards. Remo took their weapons and shredded them neatly onto the commander's lap. Then he showed the commander a very interesting North American message. It made the shoulder blades feel as though they were being ripped out of the body.