Unite and Conquer td-102

by Warren Murphy

  "Looks fine to me," he said.

  "In Sinanju's eyes, they are maimed and disfigured. If my ancestors-who are your ancestors-"

  "Half ancestors," Remo corrected.

  "If our ancestors could see you with your sacred Knives of Eternity cut to the quick and discarded like mere lemon peels, they would tear out their hair, rend their kimonos and shriek against the whiteness that has tainted you."

  "I met a few of them in the Void. Nobody mentioned my nails."

  "They were too embarrassed. If you had an extra toe or a hideous scar, would you expect them to point it out?"

  "You would."

  "I am!" Chiun shrieked. "You embarrass me before your-our-ancestors by clinging to transient Western ways. How can you walk in my sandals when you cannot gouge out the eyes of the enemies of the House properly? How can you hold your head up when you blunt your fingers with crude steel implements? Next you will insert copper studs in your ears or brass rings in your nose as they do in the West."

  "Cut it out, Chiun. We had this argument years and years ago. You lost. Get over it."

  "I did not lose. I retreated. Now I am back, more determined than ever before that I will have my way."

  "I just want my dinner," moaned Remo.

  "When you can fillet your own fish, you may eat fish again. Not until then."

  The phone was still ringing, and Remo, annoyed, jumped for it.

  "What is it?" he barked into the mouthpiece.

  "Remo, is something amiss?" It was Harold Smith.

  "Oh, Chiun is just ragging me that my fingernails are longer than your fingernails. Nyah. Nyah. Nyah. Unquote."

  Smith made a throat-clearing sound. "I need you in Mexico."

  "What's in Mexico?"

  "A major earthquake."

  Chiun crowed, "Hah! I told you so, but you refused to heed my warning."

  "What was that?" Smith asked.

  "Just Chiun busting my chops. He claims to have felt the earth move a couple hours ago. And he was alone."

  "The Mexican situation is precarious, Remo. A nationwide state of emergency has been declared by the Mexican president. Already, frightened immigrants are flooding U.S. border checkpoints, clamoring for refuge."

  "So? Either we let them in or we close down the border. It's our country, isn't it?"

  "There is more. You are familiar with Subcomandante Verapaz?"

  "Yeah. The rebel leader who thinks he's the next Fidel Castro."

  "Exactly. He had called upon his followers to take to the streets. He wants revolution and he sees this as the historic moment. It is time to take him out of the political equation."

  "Good"

  "I am glad you agree."

  "I don't care two fingers about Mexico. I just want someone to take my frustrations out on," Remo said fiercely.

  "You have no frustrations," Chiun countered. "I am the frustrated one. I have exalted you above all others and am now forced to endure the sight of your disfigured, impotent fingers as my reward."

  "Blow it out your barracks bag," said Remo.

  And as Remo watched, the Master of Sinanju flung himself about and ran the perfect fillets of sea bass down the complaining garbage disposal.

  "Your tickets to Mexico City will be waiting for you at the Azteca Airlines counter at Logan Airport," Smith was saying. "Connections to the Chiapas city of San Cristobal de las Casas will be through Aero Quetzal. From there, pick up his trail in the town of Boca Zotz. It is a hotbed of Juarezista sympathizers. Verapaz holds most of his press conferences there."

  "If we know that, how come the Mexican army doesn't?"

  "They do. But liquidating Verapaz would create more political problems than it would solve. This is why we are taking the initiative. Make certain it looks like natural causes."

  "Anything else?"

  "Be discreet. Relations with Mexico City are delicate. We want no diplomatic incidents."

  "Is there a meal on that flight?" asked Remo.

  "Yes."

  "Good." And Remo hung up. "We're going to Mexico, Little Father."

  Chiun did not look up from the sink. "Do not forget to pack your gloves," he said thinly.

  "It's jungle down there. I won't need gloves."

  "Then allow your fingers to flower like the fearsome thorns they are so that shame-concealing gloves will not be necessary."

  Remo rolled his eyes ceilingward.

  Chapter 8

  The Extinguisher approached Mexico City airport customs bearing a passport that identified him as Laszlo Crannick, Jr. His hair was darkened to a jet black. Wraparound mirror-finish sunglasses concealed the piercing blue color of his eyes. A gray sport coat thrown over his black turtleneck combat shirt gave him a vaguely Continental look.

  He carried a duffel bag, his rucksack hanging off one heroic shoulder.

  Divided among them were the nonmetallic components of his Hellfire supermachine pistol, the most sophisticated and versatile hand weapon ever designed.

  In the leather holster at the small of his back was a backup pistol made of space-age ceramics undetectable by conventional airport magnometers.

  The customs area was equipped with stoplights. You pressed a button. If the light came up green, you were passed through. If red, you were subject to a baggage search.

  Striding to the button, he pressed it confidently. It glowed red. No problem. It happened. He'd ace it no sweat.

  The Extinguisher dropped his bags on the table while the customs man sized him up with an unreadable glance.

  "Pasaporte, por favor."

  "Huh?"

  The customs man looked closer, his eyes hard as obsidian.

  "American?" he demanded.

  "Yes."

  He held up his hand. "Let me see your passport, senor. "

  The passport was offered. Here was the critical moment. If he cleared customs without incident, all of Mexico was open to him.

  The customs officer in his dark green uniform looked at the passport carefully. If he knew the real name of the wildhaired warrior who sought entry into Mexico, he would wear a more respectful face. But he did not know he was facing Blaize Fury. He did not know he stood within killing distance of the internationally feared Extinguisher.

  When his eyes came up, they were hard.

  "I must see other identifications."

  He was just being thorough, the Extinguisher decided. Chances were he wouldn't check the baggage. Odds were long he would be passed through without a hitch.

  "Here."

  The bogus U.S. driver's license was surrendered.

  The customs man gave it only cursory examination. He motioned for another customs officer to join him.

  The Extinguisher stood his ground. He had no quarrel with these two. If it came to a fair fight, then he would do what was necessary. All that mattered was the mission. Nailing Subcomandante Verapaz. In his war against tyrants, he and Mexican customs were on the same team. They just didn't know it. If they were fortunate, they never would.

  He made his voice low and steady as a rock. "Is something wrong?"

  The customs man's response was like the soft crack of a whip. "This passport is not valid."

  "Not valid! Screw you, taco breath! It says Laszlo Crannick, Jr. I'm Laszlo Crannick, Jr. Just ask my father, Laszlo Crannick, Sr."

  All eyes were drawn to the formidable figure of the man in gray sport clothes. Other customs officials approached.

  If it came to a fight, he would have to take the customs men out first. Then bolt for the exit. There would be a car, maybe a taxi. After that, it would be easy to blend into the congestion of Mexico City traffic. Urban camouflage was an Extinguisher specialty.

  "I must ask jou to step out of line," the senior customs man said sternly. "Jou are being detained."

  "You can't detain me!"

  "Nevertheless, jou are being detained. Come with me."

  Before the Extinguisher could reach for his backup weapon, two pairs of hands came from nowhere to s
eize his arms. His bags were taken up, and he was marched away under the frightened gaze of American tourists whose faces wondered if they, too, would receive such harsh treatment if the customs light came up red.

  The Extinguisher allowed himself to be led way. It would be easier to deal with his opponents behind closed doors, where there were no witnesess and no backup. A master of hand-to-hand combat, he could take them all. There were only four.

  The room was a cubicle, and with the door shut, the sounds of airport bustle abated.

  As two green uniforms stripped open the zipper of his bag, the senior one said, "I must ask your business in Mexico."

  "I'm a tourist."

  "Jou come to see the sights, not to do business?"

  "I have no business in Mexico City," the Extinguisher assured them in his firm, no-nonsense voice.

  Out of the duffel came the barrel of his CIA designed Hellfire, wrapped in metallic gold-and-green Christmas paper. It might have been a Cuban cigar. Except for its weight.

  The chief customs officer frowned angrily. "What is this?"

  "A Christmas present."

  He extracted more wrapped packages. "And these?"

  "More presents."

  "Christmas was two months ago, senor."

  The Extinguisher managed a cool shrug. "So I'm late. People bring Christmas presents late all the time."

  "To whom are jou bringing these presents if jou are only a tourist?" the interrogator asked as the others began tearing off the wrappings.

  "Hey! You can't do that!"

  "We are merely opening these innocent presents of yours."

  "You know how long it took me to wrap those?"

  "Jou may rewrap them once we are done. Now I must ask for the name and address of the person or persons to whom these presents are intended."

  Before he could form the next words, the Extinguisher saw the colorful green-and-gold paper come off the Lucite ammo drum filled with skull-faced Hydra-Shok rounds and decided to shift tactics.

  "Look, I'll level with you."

  A pistol was in the act of being drawn from side leather. The Extinguisher made sure his hands were open and in full view.

  "Speak."

  "I'm not Laszlo Crannick, Jr. That's not my true name."

  "What is your true name?"

  "It's-" he let the pause hang heavy in the air "-Blaize Fury."

  The eyes of his interrogator grew darkly sharp. Those of the others went wide in their brown faces. The man holding the ammo drum dropped it to the floor. It rattled like the deadly dice of death.

  The tactical advantage belonged to the Extinguisher again.

  "I'm here on an important mission," he announced in grim tones.

  "State this mission."

  "You all know about Subcomandante Verapaz."

  Eyes hardened at the despised name.

  "Good. I've been sent to take him out. Cold. Savvy?"

  "Jou are to kill him?"

  "The Extinguisher doesn't merely kill. He extinguishes."

  "Can jou prove jou are Blaize Fury?" the chief customs man asked in a guarded tone.

  The Extinguisher lifted his arms. "ID cards in the band of my pants."

  He was quickly searched. They found the backup pistol before the tiny card case. It no longer mattered. They were all on the same side. Everybody knew that now.

  The man who found the card case exploded in his excitement.

  " iMadre de Dios! It is true! These cards proclaim him to be El Extinguirador. "

  The customs official grabbed a card and read it quickly.

  "But jou-jou are a myth!"

  The Extinguisher allowed a cool, confident smile to warp his lips. "Camouflage. If people think I don't exist, they drop their guard. Then I move in for the kill."

  "Jou mean the extinguish, do jou not?" an impressed customs man said.

  The chief interrogator snapped, "Who sends jou after the insurgent, Verapaz?"

  "I'm not at liberty to divulge the name of my employer. You understand. Deniability."

  "Jou must tell us this thing."

  "Sorry. It's a need-to-know kind of deal."

  "Then jou are under arrest."

  "Are you shitting me? We're on the same team."

  This time all four side arms were out of leather and aimed at him. One trembled in the hand of the man who pointed it.

  "Jou will place your hand at your back, Senor El Extinguirador. "

  "Look, you don't want to do this. Just let me through, and Verapaz will be a bad memory inside of forty-eight hours."

  "Jou will be turned over to the Federal Judicial Police for further questioning and disposal."

  "Look, how much will it cost for you guys to look the other way?"

  Interest flickered in the senior customs officer's dark eyes.

  "How much have jou in mind, senor?"

  "There's three hundred bucks in my wallet. Take half."

  While the guns kept him at bay, a hand fished his wallet from the inner pocket of his gray sport coat.

  "It is true, there is three hundred American dollars here."

  The senior customs official said something in Spanish, and the money was quickly divided into two unequal piles.

  Seeing this, the Extinguisher began to relax. His strong, angular face had a slight sheen of tension upon it.

  The senior customs man took the larger pile while the other was divided equally among his subordinates. Then the wallet was returned to the inner jacket pocket. Its weight no longer tugged at the coat's fabric.

  "You can't do that. How will I pay my way to Chiapas?"

  "Jou will not. Jou will instead cool your boots in a FJP cell."

  "You're making a big mistake here," the Extinguisher protested as the cold steel handcuffs were clamped to his unresisting wrists.

  "It is jou who have made the mistake, coming to Mexico intent upon mischief as jou have."

  "You want this whole country to careen into civil war?"

  "Being the man who captured the much-wanted Blaize Fury is more important to me today. I will worry about civil war manana. "

  They led him out of the terminal and into the stagnant, smoky air of Mexico City. It tasted foul. But not as foul as the betrayal raising his gorge.

  The Extinguisher had been captured. Well, it had happened before. It was always temporary. There wasn't a prison built that could hold him for long.

  There was an olive green Light Armored Vehicle waiting at the curb, and he was loaded into this. He noticed the ground was cracked in spots and wondered if the entire country was this badly maintained. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the Extinguisher recalled something the airline captain had announced about the present emergency. He had a really thick accent, so he hadn't paid much attention. Mexico was always having problems anyway.

  As he stepped into the back, the Extinguisher supressed a thin smile of contempt. The LAV was small and toylike compared to the Armored Personnel Carriers of major powers. US. police SWAT teams had LAVs exactly like this. They were a joke. Their armor wouldn't turn a hollowpoint slug.

  The doors clanged shut, and the LAV moved into traffic.

  On the other side of the LAV interior, two brownuniformed soldiers sat as stony faced as Aztec idols.

  "You guys always look this happy?" he asked.

  They said nothing. Their faces were a dark mask.

  "Screw you mothers, then."

  They said nothing to that. Only then did the Extinguisher realize they spoke no English.

  The traffic sounds were horrendous. Horns honked and blared, and the air coming through the body armor smelled of car exhaust and sulphur. He wondered if it was a muffler hole, or the smog that hung in the Valley of Mexico like a perpetual shroud of death.

  The LAV rattled and jounced as it moved through the stop-and-go traffic. It seemed to hit a light every hundred yards.

  On the floor the Extinguisher's duffel bag sat unzipped. A soldier noticed the bright-colored packages and reached
down to help himself to one.

  Seeing this, the other soldado decided he couldn't be left out. He took up the rucksack and began rummaging through it.

  "Hey! That's not your property."

  They pointedly ignored him as they stripped the "presents" of their colorful metallic paper wrapping.

  Quickly the true nature of the contents was revealed.

  They were soldiers and knew armament. They began to assemble the pieces one by one, as if doing a puzzle. The dreaded Hellfire supermachine pistol slowly took shape.

  "That's right, you dillweeds. Put it together. Make it easy for me."

  The LAV stopped at a light. Cross traffic hummed all around. The gun ports were closed, so surreptitious visual recon was impossible.

  Abruptly the LAV started rocking on its springs. It started as a side-to-side rocking, then shifted to a vertical bouncing. The LAV began pogoing. Everyone grabbed for something to hold on to. Except the Extinguisher, whose hands were pinioned at his back.

  "What the hell's going on here?" he growled.

  The soldiers swapped startled looks. One dropped the half-assembled machine pistol.

  "Ay!"

  The LAV kept rocking. Outside, something shattered. It sounded like glass. More glass shattered. And suddenly it seemed as if every mirror in the universe was breaking all at once.

  One soldier screamed out a word. "iTemblor!"

  "What?"

  "Temblor de tierra!"

  The other soldier screamed, "Terremoto! Terremoto!"

  "Say it in English, will you?"

  "Terremoto!"

  The rocking grew more violent. The Extinguisher's head collided with the LAV roof.

  "Ow!"

  And the two soldados jumped from their seats, throwing open the doors and evacuating the LAV.

  "Wait! What's going on?"

  The LAV was literally bouncing on its tires now.

  The cacophony of Mexico City took on a new ferocious quality. Men screamed. Woman wailed. Glass shattered. Something like stone cracking turned into a protracted splintery rumble.

  As if a blind giant were pushing it around, the LAV started swinging on its braked tires. Visible through the open back door, a city falling into chaos was revealed.