A Pound of Prevention

Destroyer 121: A Pound of Prevention

By Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir

PROLOGUE

In the glory days of the great Luzu Empire, on the fringes of what would one day become East Africa, before the final encroachment of Europeans, which would change the face of the continent for centuries to come, before the bloody Boer Wars and the countless deaths that they would bring, the people of the tribe of the mighty Luzu chief Kwaanga met in ceremony on the shores of the great azure sea.

The day was warm, not hot, the sky as clear as glass and as blue as the smooth waters of the sea that stretched out boldly to the horizon. At some distant point, sea snatched sky from the heavens and clutched it firmly to its undulating bosom.

In the center of the small bay--barely an inleta sleek, strange ship from some distant land lay at anchor. The wooden vessel bobbed lazily on the gentle waves that rolled toward the sandy yellow shore, where they became thin froth.

Out of respect for their parting guest, the females of the Luzu tribe covered their breasts with silks from far-off lands where dwelled men with slits for eyes and skin the hue of a lion's belly. The Orient. The place from where their honored guest had come. The place to which he would now go, never to return to the land of the Luzu.

The elders of Luzuland were dressed in flowing caftans and dashikis, the wealth of the empire reflected in their raiments. The young males were smeared in green and red paint and carried finely crafted metal-tipped spears-an honor guard for the man who had served them all so well for so long.

The recent news of the revered one's departure had been a surprise to all. Or perhaps not all. Surely great Chief Kwaanga had known. It was he who had summoned the mysterious warrior from his faraway land to aid the Luzu. They had not been told because, as mere subjects, it was not their place to know. But Kwaanga had to have long known that the thin man with hands and feet as swift as an arrow in flight would this day take his leave of the Luzu.

The people had turned out at dawn. Hurrying to prepare for the ceremony, they were ready by midday. Just in time.

When the white-hot sun reached its highest point in the heavens, the great men arrived.

Chief Kwaanga strode in front, a powerful man with a broad, smiling face and flowing, colorful robes. This day, Kwaanga did not smile. Behind their chief, astride a huge black pony, rode the protector of the Luzu people.

The chief's horse had once belonged to the Spanish. It was a demonstration of both gratitude and humility that the chief should lead his guest like a common Luzu.

A hush fell over the people-ten thousand strong-gathered at the foamy shore.

The man atop the horse wore a ceremonial robe of a green deeper and more vibrant than anything the Luzu had ever seen. Upon his head bobbed an awkward hat of thin rice paper, stained black. The hat was too small for his head and seemed ready to blow off from the slightest breeze.

He was known as Nuk, the Master of Sinanju. He who had taken as seed a small band of warrior peasants and helped them to grow into a mighty empire.

Nuk did not meet the eyes of the crowd. As his pony walked closer to shore, he stared over the heads of the people. He looked beyond the land, beyond even the waiting ship in the harbor. He was gazing at a point where sky met sea, to distances the Luzu people could not perceive and to depths none but he could fathom.

A warm breeze came across the ocean, pushing landward. It disturbed silken robes and blew a cloud of fine sand inland. Passing through the multitude, the Master of Sinanju and Chief Kwaanga paid the wind no heed.

Where the men walked, the Luzu people parted. Silently, proud black features glistening in the merciless African sun, the chief led the horse through the throng. At the shore, he stopped.

A small rowboat listed on the sand of the beach. Two anxious sailors stood near it.

A nation strong, the Luzu people crowded on beach and bluff.

Near the boat, Master Nuk slipped from the pony's bare back, his wooden sandals failing to disturb even a single grain of sand.

The Master of Sinanju was tall but thin, his black hair lately touched with streaks of coarse gray. When Nuk turned to address the chief of the Luzu, his voice was loud enough for all to hear. He spoke in the language of their fathers.

"Sinanju would take its leave of you, fearless Chief Kwaanga of the Luzu," the Master of Sinanju intoned.

Before the lean man, whose face was the color of sand in shade, Chief Kwaanga drew himself up to his full regal height. The top of his head came only to the bridge of the Master of Sinanju's nose.

"I would grant you your leave, Great Master Nuk, he who graciously throttles the universe, from the fearsome House of Sinanju."

A nod that was not quite a bow passed between the two men. Afterward, Master Nuk looked out at the gleaming black faces of the Luzu nation. Though his words were directed at their leader, they were intended for his tribe.

"You are a wise and powerful ruler, O Kwaanga. Your people are brave and strong, your diamonds pure. You give your nation both physical strength and strength of character. The leader serves the nation and the nation, the leader. And Sinanju is honored to have served both." There was a hint of pride and sadness in the Master's hazel eyes. "Remember you this-though I now depart this land, if ever there comes a time when your people are in need of the services of Sinanju, you need but summon us. This is the pledge of Nuk, current Master of Sinanju, to you, Kwaanga of KwaLuzu."

And from his robes, the Master of Sinanju produced a small ceremonial dagger. Its cudgel was of ivory, its blade the purest gold. It had been given to the Master by Chief Kwaanga. Master Nuk returned the small knife to the Luzu leader.

Accepting the blade, Chief Kwaanga found that a new symbol had been carved into the handle of the knife. It was a simple trapezoid bisected with a vertical slash. The symbol of the House of Sinanju.

"This is a sign of amity between our peoples," Nuk proclaimed. "Keep it always close."

With that, the Master of Sinanju lifted the skirts of his robes and climbed into the waiting wooden rowboat.

The two nervous sailors in attendance had eyes round like a Luzu, but their skin was neither that of the Luzu nor of the departing Master. They had skin as white as the clouds above Kilimanjaro and spoke in a tongue foreign to native ears. Once the Master was seated in the boat, green skirts arranged around his knees, the sailors pushed the tiny vessel into the gentle surf. Climbing aboard themselves, they began rowing quickly toward their waiting ship.

And as Master Nuk left that shore for the last time, a soft sound rose up from the gathered Luzu nation. The cheers grew in size and strength until the very air shrieked with joy. As the rowboat passed the anchor of the moored ship, great raucous ululations carried over the bay.

The Master of Sinanju did not look back as he scurried aboard the big vessel.

Chief Kwaanga did not see the Master clamber into the boat, nor did he wait with his cheering people as the ship put to sea. As soon as Master Nuk had climbed into the rowboat, the chief had mounted his own black horse. As his people shouted their joy and gratitude, he rode off alone. Away from the sea. Back to the seat of his empire.

The chief was quietly concerned. In the hollow place where dwelled his spirit, he wondered if the words spoken this day were merely for ceremony. If there ever came a time that the Luzu were in need of the Master of Sinanju, would the head of the ancient House of assassins truly take heed?

As the cheers of his people faded on the wind, Kwaanga returned to the heart of KwaLuzu, alone and with a deeply troubled heart.

Chapter 1

The Mafia was represented.

The Cosa Nostra delegations from the United States and Sicily had insisted on a place of honor near the head of the table, and they still commanded enough respect to get it. Truth be told, everyone there knew the Mob's time had nearly come to an end.

Once rich and powerful, it had flourished before most of the men there were born. But that was before there was any real competition in the world. Now...

Now. Well, politeness did not allow the other delegates to speak of the hard times that had befallen the Mob of late. Now it was more out of respect for what it had been in the past that its demands were acceded to in the present. Like a doddering father too beloved by his family to place in a home, the Mafia was allowed its seat of honor.

An agent from the Camorra was there, as well. Looked down on for years by the more powerful Mafia, the Camorra was thought to have had been abolished by Mussolini early in the twentieth century. It had survived, but only with a fraction of the power it had previously enjoyed. It had experienced a resurgence of late, poised to make inroads in what had previously been purely Mafia territory.

Black Hand was there. This was the crime syndicate thought at various times in its history to be one and the same as both the Sicilian Mafia and the Naples Camorra, but which was never part of either. It was strong and stealthy, its leadership unknown. So complex were its transactions that its influence was impossible to calculate.

The current titans on the world scene were the powerful drug dealers. And from France to the Far East, from the Russian Mob in the north to the Medellin cartel in the south, all had sent representatives to this introductory meeting.

The promise of peace had brought them all there. But that had been shattered the moment Jamon Albondigas spied Russell Copefield, the ambassador for the Cali cartel.

"You are a fool who works for fools," Albondigas spit viciously. The La Cosina drug lord was pudgy with a dark brown complexion. Even in the chilly air-conditioned hall, he perspired like a Venezuelan stevedore. Crescent moons of sweat stained the underarms of his white, open-necked shirt.

"If you and your brothers cannot compete..." Copefield shrugged in a delicate shift of Armani. The Cali agent was a New York lawyer in his midforties. His weasel's face was tugged forward in perpetual condescension.

"Cali is dead," Albondigas snarled. "We are the new power. My brothers and I have buried you."

"We'll see who'll be dead at the end of the day," the American lawyer taunted with infuriating smugness.

Albondigas gripped the edge of the huge table. Furious eyes darted to the double doors.

The bodyguards and hired killers waited beyond. Albondigas had brought with him a hulking Paraguayan with arms as wide around as tree trunks and a chest as broad and muscled as the hindquarters of a charging rhino. If Albondigas called, the giant would break down the door. The other bodyguards would follow him in, guns blazing. In the ensuing bloodbath, they'd all be killed.

Albondigas's face twitched with barely contained rage.

The others in the room glanced anxiously to the head of the table for guidance. For a soothing voice. For something to stop this madness. But only silence issued from the most prominent chair in the big room.

"You are very certain of yourself, gringo," Albondigas hissed abruptly.

The softness of his tone was jarring. All eyes returned to Albondigas.

"I'm paid to be certain," Copefeld replied tightly. There was something in his voice, in his eyes. Like a cornered animal. Almost as if he didn't believe what he was saying. Yet he did not back down.

Albondigas clenched his jaw. Slowly, his gaze shifted to the main doors. And as all watched, his lips pursed with jeering malevolence.

Before Albondigas could utter a single word, another sharp voice broke in. The English was clipped and precise.

"This is foolishness. We are not here to squabble. Stop this now, Mandobar."

Sham Tokumo of the Yakuza was looking to the head of the table, to their silent host.

The faces of the men were bland-deliberately willed calm to mask inner unease. Flat eyes focused once more on the world-famous chocolate-black face of Mandobar. Their host's eyes were unreadable; the mouth held an expression of puckered impatience.

Mandobar's reaction to the war of words surprised them all. There was a long sigh, followed by a very slight raising of shoulders. Utter helplessness.

"I did not believe it would come this quickly," Mandobar clucked unhappily. "Of course, I knew a conflict was likely inevitable. But here? Now?" The head shook, the eyes were sad and slightly downcast, as if lost in weighty thought.

Albondigas licked his lips. He glanced from the lawyer up to Mandobar.

Albondigas's temper was legendary. Yet no one seemed ready to prevent his calling his bodyguard into the room. Not even the person who had summoned them all there for this great meeting of the world's most powerful crime syndicates. For Albondigas, it was now a matter of honor.

With agonizing slowness, he pushed his chair away from the big table. The mahogany legs groaned a sad protest across the dry, buffed-marble floor.

Across the table, Sham Tokumo was stunned. The Yakuza man could not believe Mandobar wasn't stopping this. Wasn't that what this whole plan was all about? Unity among these organizations? Tokumo didn't want to die because two squabbling idiots couldn't get along.

Albondigas was walking slowly to the door. Tokumo glanced desperately around the gleaming conference table for someone to stop the madness. When Albondigas ordered his man to shoot, it would all be over.

Tokumo had not spent four months negotiating with the East African government to be slaughtered over some petty remarks not even related to the current meeting.

"Stop this, Jamon," Tokumo called, rising to his feet.

Pausing, the drug dealer turned. He stood in the middle of the wide, vacant room, as big as a large auditorium. The table was far behind him, illuminated by sheets of cascading light pouring in from a latticed network of skylights that filtered the ultraviolet from the burning African sun.

"Do not worry, Sham," Albondigas said blandly. "I am only stepping outside for some air. It has suddenly gotten foul in here." He began walking once more.

Tokumo spun to the Cali lawyer, who sat a few seats from the Yakuza agent. "Apologize, fool," he hissed, whipping off his owlish glasses.

There were beads of perspiration on the lawyer's upper lip and forehead. Again, there was the sense that he hadn't expected a few ill-chosen words to go this far.

Tokumo saw a single bead of sweat form just beneath the neatly shaved hairline at the back of the lawyer's head. It slipped to the top of his white shirt collar.

Albondigas was barely a yard from the door when the Cali attorney called to him.

"The business day," Russell Copefeld called abruptly, his voice echoing in the big hall. Albondigas turned slowly, eyes narrowed. The harsh sunlight, muted through the blackened glass, cast weird shadows on his burly form. He was so far across the huge room they almost needed binoculars to see the expression on his face. "What?" Albondigas said, his tone flat.

"I meant to say 'we will see who is dead at the end of the business day,'" the lawyer offered, his voice suddenly going timid. "Rhetorically, there's a big difference. It wasn't a threat-it was a metaphor. For our healthy business rivalry. If you took it another way, it was not intentional and I do apologize, most sincerely."

Near the door, Jamon Albondigas weighed Copefeld's placating words carefully. It took him a moment to react. When he took a step back toward the table, Sham Tokumo felt the very air lighten. It was over.

"I accept your apology," Albondigas said tightly as he strode back to the table. "And I wish you dead, as well. In the healthiest, business-metaphor sense, of course."

As the others laughed, Albondigas resumed his place at the conference table.

When Sham Tokumo glanced at Copefeld, the Cali lawyer was mopping sweat from his tan face. Tokumo frowned at the man's strange behavior even as he felt relief that they could now resume the more mundane business before them.

At the head of the table, Mandobar had been a surprisingly silent observer. Not a word had passed the broad lips. Even now, that famous face remained unreadable. As though it could have been carved from a chunk of gleaming coal. But as Tokumo and the others returned to their papers and briefcases, a happy chuckle rose from the far end of the great table. When those gathered glanced up, they found that the stern mouth had melted into a broad grin.

Mandobar laughed a deep, rolling belly laugh. The black eyes sparkled, and the familiar laugh lines returned. It was the same face they'd all seen on newspapers and television screens since the nation of East Africa had been so abruptly thrust into the world spotlight some fifteen years before.

"Do you not see?" Mandobar happily asked the puzzled faces. "This was the first real test of our new union, and the crisis has been resolved peacefully. With words, not violence. Gentlemen, we have already succeeded. It is as I have promised. There will be no conflict here. The Republic of East Africa will be ally to all of you." Mandobar looked to Albondigas and Copefeld in turn, eyes beaming. Far, far down the enormous table, the Tadzhikistan representative began to applaud. Near him, the agent for the Sons of Belial started clapping, as well. What began as a polite ripple quickly grew. Tokumo, Copefeld-even Jamon Albondigas joined in. Like thunder rumbling in across the vast Serengeti, the cheers grew and grew, echoing across the great hall.

And in the place of honor at the head of the table, Mandobar reveled in the accolades from this collection of the world's greatest purveyors of misery and dependence.

THE MEETING DISBANDED late in the evening. The cheers were long dead by the time Russell Copefeld crept alone through the shadowy compound near the darkened meeting hall.

The night was warm. Distant animals until now familiar only from PBS documentaries howled sad, desperate shrieks at the bejeweled African sky.

A line of neat bungalows to his right housed some of the delegates from around the world. Many others had been helicoptered back to Bachsburg after the meeting.

It was now long past midnight, and all of the tidy little houses were bathed in blackness. The only light Copefeld could see came from the cottage of the French delegate. A local brothel had been supplying prostitutes for the delegates since first they arrived at the secret VIP village. No doubt the French agent was at it again.

Copefeld didn't care about the Frenchman or his whores. Right now, all he was interested in was getting paid.

This cloak and dagger was ridiculous. Stealing around like common thieves in the dead of night. He'd be sure to let Mandobar know when they met.

There was nothing wrong with bank transactions. Hell, wasn't that what all of this was about? Untraceable cash, banks willing to look the other way at huge deposits and, most importantly, no tax man breathing down anyone's neck.

Copefeld was a great proponent of electronic cash. It was part of why he had convinced his Cali bosses to look seriously into this East African deal. A haven for crime that didn't care where the money came from? A fixed rate of graft with the local government locked in more securely than a United States government treasury note? Approval for the entire enterprise at the highest levels of government?

It was a sweetheart deal. East Africa was going to be a nation like none the world had ever seen. Every country or state or city had its lawless suburbs. Many countries looked the other way at certain types of crimes. But the promise of East Africa was everything under one roof. You could wire transfer your wealthy wife's cash to one of Bachsburg's banks, hire someone to kill her from the classified section of a local newspaper and be out on the links at the famous Sin City resort all in less than one hour.

Of course, that sort of thing was for the truly wealthy. Russell Copefeld was just a struggling New York attorney, someone who could use a couple of extra bucks now and then. That was why, when Mandobar had offered him fifty thousand U.S. dollars to start that little fight with Albondigas that afternoon ...well, a fool and his money.

Copefeld didn't know for certain why Mandobar was so insistent that he disrupt today's meeting. However, he had an inkling. Doubtless it was to prove to the other crime lords that things could be worked out easily here. There were no wars here in the new East Africa. This was the demilitarized zone of crime.

As he skulked through the brush, Copefeld thought of how resistant his bosses had been to this scheme. They'd been burned on something similar once before. But that was way back in the 1970s. The world was older, wiser and far more sophisticated now. It was an idea worthy of resurrection.

Copefeld's sleeve suddenly snagged on a thorny branch. When he tugged, he heard the material tear. "Dammit," he whispered to the empty black air. Eyes squinting, he held up the cuff to his nose. As he rubbed the expensive silk between his fingertips in search of a hole, Copefeld heard a sound behind him.

A cracking branch.

Fearing an animal attack, he whirled. But it was no animal.

Strong hands grabbed his arms, pinning them painfully behind his back, yanking them up until they threatened to tear from the sockets.

As Copefeld tried frantically to pull away, a figure moved in front of him. The black face was filled with menace.

"What are you doing!" Copefeld gasped.

In response, a balled fist slashed across his face. The man's ring tore an angry gash in Copefeld's cheek.

Unseen men fought with his wrists, tightening something around them.

Rope twisted and knotted. Copefeld's legs were growing weak. Wriggling, panicked, he caught a glimpse of their sweating, gleeful faces.

A smell now. Strong. Something sloshing in a tin can.

"God, please, no," Copefeld begged into the pitiless African night.

One of the men, whom he now recognized as an assistant to Mandobar, carried forward a familiar large doughnut shape. The harmless object-recognizable to even the most rural villages around the world-had a special meaning in East Africa.

A tire. The Goodyear logo was visible along the smooth black side.

Something sloshed within the hollow basin interior of the wheelless ring of rubber. Gasoline. Copefeld wanted to vomit, but paralyzing fear locked food and bile in his knotted chest.

A necklacing. That's what they called it. Mandobar had even gone to trial for it before East Africa's laws had been subverted in favor of criminals. As the others held him, Mandobar's man dropped the grimy tire around Copefeld's neck.

"Please," Copefeld wept. "Please, no."

As the lawyer cried hot tears, an oily rag was stuffed in his mouth. They pushed it in so hard, it triggered his gag reflex. Copefeld vomited his dinner of veal scampi and red wine. Some of it spewed from his nose, burning and mixed with bile. The rag blocked the rest. When he swallowed, the thick acid tasted of motor oil.

As his stomach clenched, gasoline from a can was splattered on his clothes. The men were shouting jubilantly.

Some of the bungalow lights came on. Sleepy delegates had come out onto porches in their nightclothes to investigate the commotion.

Floodlights flared to life, bathing the square in a sick yellow haze.

As he was shoved into the center of the broad road, Copefeld felt dozens of eyes upon him. He saw Sham Tokumo and Jamon Albondigas. On the nearest, largest porch stood Mandobar. Eyes flat, head shaking somberly. So sad.

And in that moment before his murder, Russell Copefeld had a sudden flash of realization.

It wasn't the fight in the conference room that was to be Mandobar's example. It was what would happen to anyone who decided to pick a fight in the new East Africa.

Russell Copefeld was the example.

A match was lit. Copefeld heard the stick drawn across sand and phosphorous.

He smelled the gas, the sharp odor burning with the bile in his nostrils.

Mandobar had set him up. Set him up to make a point. The hook had been baited with Copefeld's own greed.

The match danced before his eyes, the yellow flame quivering hypnotically.

Mandobar on the porch, head shaking sadly. Copefeld wanted to scream about the treachery, but the gag prevented him from shouting.

And in another instant, it no longer mattered. The match was tossed. Copefeld's chest ignited in a blinding, brilliant flash of yellow and orange. The pain was horrible, the heat unimaginable. As the flames engulfed his body, the rag in his mouth ignited, burning his face, his eyes. Screaming, Copefeld spit. The rag came out in a soggy, half-flaming knot. It fell, hissing and smoking to the dusty ground.

Fully ablaze now and already blind, Copefeld mustered his last ounce of strength. Staggering, he managed only a few garbled words.

"Mandobar, you b-"

And the crackling flames consumed him. Russell Copefeld pitched forward into the dirt. Quivering, burning. Dead.

As the sickly smell of cooked human flesh began to dissipate in the warm air, the delegates began slowly returning to their bungalows, softly shutting their doors on the horror they had just witnessed.

No one said a word. Only Sham Tokumo and Mandobar remained.

Eventually, Mandobar disappeared into the last house. The lights inside shut off moments later. The lawyer from New York crackled gently for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually, one of the men who'd set him ablaze put a bullet into the back of his head, just to make certain. After that, Copefeld's killers threw a blanket over the smoking remains.

Sham Tokumo watched the smoldering blanket for a long time. His thoughts were far away. Some remnants of the sweet smell of cooked human flesh clung to the lazy African air. Smoke from some perverse barbecue.

Something told Tokumo this would not be the last body he would see in this venture. Eventually, he turned his back on Russell Copefeld, clicking off the porch light of his bungalow. It was after 1:00 a.m. when he returned to bed.

Though Sham Tokumo closed his eyes, sleep eluded him.

Chapter 2

His name was Remo and what he really wanted to do was bring the baby back to life. Unable to do that, he planned to do the next best thing. He was going to kill the baby's father.

A few dozen mourners clustered together on the damp sidewalk in front of the Simeoni Funeral Home in downtown Peoria. Their eyes were as black and dreary as the upturned collars of their sopped jackets. The stink of damp cigarette smoke hung in the drizzle.

Remo ignored the thin mist that had begun to collect like a wet, gray shroud to the somber, swollen night air. As he walked up the street, he noted that the crowd was smaller than he'd seen on television the previous night.

That he had seen anything about this on TV was repellent. A family's tragedy had been broadcast coast to coast. As a result, the turnout at the funeral parlor was greater than anyone could have imagined. And so, like a popular play, the run had been extended. This was the wake's last night.

As he approached the somber two-story building, he saw that the sidewalk in front of the funeral parlor was piled high with cellophane-wrapped bundles of flowers. Mixed in with these were candles, cards and photographs of the infant victim. Soggy teddy bears drooped morosely against the curb.

It was part of a relatively new practice that clearly heralded the end of Western civilization. People starving for celebrity were no longer content to simply hear about catastrophes. They had to participate somehow. And so now whenever there was a cause for national sorrow, they insisted on stampeding to the florist waving their overcharged MasterCards in a frantic bid to be "involved." As a result, the lives of the deceased and the genuine sorrow of their families were reduced to things no more important than a wadded-up Big Mac wrapper.

This, among other things, did Remo think as he passed the mound of junk near the funeral parlor driveway. He steered a course toward the main entrance.

In his black T-shirt and chinos, Remo could easily be mistaken for a casually dressed mourner. He was a nondescript man of indeterminate age. The only thing outwardly unusual about him were his inordinately thick wrists. He looked to be in his thirties, had a lean build and what had been at times described as a cruel face.

Ordinarily, Remo didn't agree with that assessment. Ordinarily, he thought he had a pretty nice face-in spite of what anyone else might say. This day, however, he wouldn't be surprised if someone thought he looked cruel. This day, he wanted to look cruel. And in the effort, he wore an expression that was light-years beyond cruel. The violence which churned in perpetuity just beneath the surface now roiled in twin pools of menace in his dark, deep-set eyes.

A gaggle of reporters had staked out a wide area near the entrance. News crews from around Illinois and the nation had spent the past two days pouncing on everyone who came within a three-block radius of the Simeoni Funeral Home. Remo was no exception.

A reporter for one of the bigger Chicago stations spied Remo gliding like a desolate fog up the wet sidewalk. Smelling fresh meat, the man sprang into action.

"We got a live one!" the reporter barked to his cameraman. He snapped a thumb in Remo's direction. "Move in here! Fast!"

Fumbling with video camera and microphone, the reporter and his cameraman jumped in front of Remo, blocking his way.

"Are you a friend of the family?" the reporter demanded, thrusting his mike in Remo's hard face. Remo stopped dead, a frozen shadow. He said not a word.

Silence was death on camera, the reporter knew. If this was going to air, he needed talk. "Were you saddened by the tragedy of baby Karen?" he pressed.

Remo remained silent. Immobile.

Next to the newsman, the camera operator slowly lowered his camera. He had seen something through his lens that the eager reporter had missed.

The newsman caught the camera movement out of the corner of his eye.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, wheeling.

The cameraman was staring at Remo. The young man's eyes had taken on a look of quiet dread. His camera was angled toward the sidewalk. He swallowed hard.

"Get that camera up," the reporter demanded. The cameraman shook his head. His eyes were still locked on Remo's dead, dark orbs. There was something there. Something terrifying. Something inhuman. The cameraman felt like a cobra's prey, afraid to move an inch.

"I think we should let this guy go," he whispered softly. His hands were locked at his sides.

"What?" the reporter snarled. "Since when do you get paid to think? Get that up here now!" The reporter was grabbing for the camera when, for the first time, his would-be interview subject spoke.

"Listen to him," Remo said in a tone colder by far than the chilly rain that had begun to soak newsman and mourner to the bone. "He just saved you from getting that microphone buried in your eye socket." And to the cameraman, he said, "Destroy that tape."

The cameraman couldn't obey fast enough.

As the reporter watched in shock, the young man dropped to his knees on the wet sidewalk and began tearing streams of heavy black camcorder tape from the belly of the device. It unspooled in long curling sheets that shimmered when hit with fat droplets from the growing rainstorm.

"What do you think you're doing?" the reporter screeched, lurching for the camera.

When he yelled, a few curious faces turned his way. Those who did saw two men. One kneeling in a pile of ruined tape, the other standing above him, shrieking.

While the reporter continued to scream at his cameraman, a lone mourner slipped up the green-matted staircase and under the somber beige canopy to the Simeoni Funeral Home.

When a few of the other cameramen at the entrance tried to videotape him, they later found as they examined the footage back at their studios that the thin man in black somehow managed to be everywhere the camera wasn't. As if he were possessed with some mysterious instinct to avoid the lens.

THE COFFIN COULD HAVE BEEN a large jewelry box. It was a highly polished red, with gold handles and silver accents.

The tiny lid was closed.

Remo noted the family as he slid through the door and into the shadows at the rear of the room. They were typically wholesome. A mother and father, both caught in the snare of middle age. Beside them, an older son in his midtwenties. And at the eye of the storm, a pretty young girl of eighteen. Remo knew her age exactly. It had been on the news.

He had seen her high-school yearbook photo dozens of times on all the networks. Ellen Carlson had become a national celebrity in the worst way imaginable.

The previous year she had been a bright young national honors student with a promising future. Then she met Brad Miller, the ne'er-do-well son of a wealthy Peoria family.

Brad was a sullen drug addict whose resume included a dozen run-ins with the law. When their daughter began dating the twenty-three-year-old college dropout, the Carlsons were upset. Their anger only grew when Brad got Ellen pregnant.

Pregnancy derailed Ellen's plans for college. After she had the baby, she moved out of her own family's modest home and into the Miller mansion. A summer wedding was planned. Ellen had quietly hoped that fatherhood would force Brad to grow up. When it didn't, she had suffered in silence. Until that day one week ago when he had come home at 5:00 a.m. It was her first and last complaint.

Brad had gone to the kitchen and gotten a pair of pinking shears. He brought them upstairs to the nursery that adjoined their suite. And as his infant daughter quietly sucked her hand in sleep, Brad took the scissors and jammed them into her soft, pulsing skull. He left the shears sticking out of the baby's head for Ellen to find.

The rest was national news.

After the murder, Miller had vanished. There were reports that his father had already sneaked him out of the country. Others had him hiding right in Peoria. Everything was denied by a family spokesman. The facts, it was insisted, would prove Brad Miller innocent.

But in the entire grisly episode, there was one solid fact, unknown to the Millers or the world at large: no matter where Brad Miller was, Remo Williams would find him.

Even as he lurked at the rear of the crowded funeral home, Remo really didn't know what he was doing there. Logically, he should have started his search with the Miller family. But something had compelled him to come to this place. To see firsthand, without the dulling filter of the television screen, the result of this unspeakable act.

But the results were proving as bland as a newscast. So many days after the event-with all that had gone on between then and now-the circus had been reduced to a small circle of tired family and a line of grim-faced mourners.

Remo was turning to go when he suddenly felt a set of eyes focus on him. Years of exacting training had given him an innate sense to know when he was being watched. What he felt at this moment was more than just a casual glance. It was a knowing, penetrating look.

He quickly honed in on the source.

An old woman on a folding chair sat with the Carlson family near the tiny casket. Her long black dress was in stark contrast to the crush of flowers that threatened to engulf her frail frame. As she stared at him, her rheumy eyes didn't blink.

A young boy stood next to the woman, holding her gnarled hand. Remo was surprised to see that he was Asian. He was only about five or six years old. His black hair was thick and tousled, framing a flat face.

If he was somehow connected to the Carlson family, he didn't seem dressed for a wake. The boy wore what looked like black pajamas. Remo knew it was actually a two-piece gi, the uniform of the martial arts.

The boy's hooded eyes were downcast. The sadness that clung to him was far older than he.

In a moment, the young Asian child became irrelevant.

The instant Remo's gaze met the old woman's, she released the boy's hand. Pushing herself to her feet, she began walking toward Remo. Although age had slowed her pace, her stride was confident.

Remo didn't know who she thought he was, nor did he care. An undertaker wearing a black suit and professional look of sympathy stood at a nearby archway door. When Remo turned to him, the man reached a helpful hand for the handle.

"Wait, please," an elderly voice stressed from behind.

At the door, the undertaker pointed over Remo's shoulder. "Sir?" he offered politely.

Remo's first instinct was to bolt, but he didn't want to create a scene. Reluctantly, he turned. The old woman stood before him. No one had paid her any attention as she threaded her way to the rear of the room.

A pair of powder-blue eyes, the whites of which had been washed pink from days of crying, stared up at him. A blue-veined hand gripped his forearm. "I knew you'd come," the old woman insisted. Her pale brow was furrowed. Dry patches on her face indicated where she'd had recent minor skin surgeries.

Remo offered a tight smile. "I'm sorry, but I think you have me confused with someone else," he said.

"No," she insisted, shaking her head firmly, "it's you. I saw you. They all think I'm crazy. They almost wouldn't take me from the home for this." She waved her free hand up to the line of mourners. "But I knew you'd be here. I told them I had to come. To see you."

Remo wasn't certain what to do. The woman was obviously out of her mind.

"I see things," the old lady continued. "I know things. Ever since I was a little girl and knew my daddy shouldn't go to the docks the day of that terrible, terrible fire. My mother cried for weeks afterward. But I told them. They just wouldn't listen...." Her eyes took on a faraway look.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Remo said, gently trying to coax the crazy old woman's hand from his arm. Her grip tightened. Eyes red from weeping stared deeply into his own. "There are decisions you must soon make," the old woman said, her voice becoming strangely distant. "Difficult decisions. Your life is going to be hard these next few years... Remo." And she smiled.

In spite of himself, Remo felt a chill tighten around his spine.

As a secret assassin in the employ of the United States government, there were only a handful of people who knew his name. And a demented old inmate of a Peoria nursing home was definitely not part of the inner circle.

He shot a glance at the undertaker. The man was engaged in conversation with another mourner. Remo turned back to the woman.

He studied her face, trying to find something that might trigger a memory. But there was nothing. As far as he knew, he'd never met her before in his life. "Do I know you?" he asked quietly.

She gave him the sweet smile of a grandmother he had never known-of the great-grandmother baby Karen would never meet. "You want this," she insisted.

She pressed her hand into his. There was something in it. Remo opened his hand on a small scrap of torn notebook paper. When he unfolded it, he found an address.

He looked up, puzzled.

"The bad boy is there," she said with simple innocence. "They told me. Just like they told me you'd come for him." She finally released the grip on his arm. He hadn't even realized she was still holding him. "Oh, and there's one more thing." A small black purse hung from her elbow. The old woman clicked it open and rummaged inside. She pulled out a small silver crucifix. "It was little Karen's. I got it for her at the religious store the day she was born." She forced the cross into Remo's palm.

"I don't underst-" Remo began, shaking his head.

Before he could finish, a voice cut in. "Ma, what are you doing back here?" Remo glanced up dully.

Mr. Carlson had left the rest of his family near the coffin. He stood before Remo, a look of deep apology on his sad face. "I'm sorry, sir," he said softly to Remo. "She's in and out lately. Ma, you really should be with us."

Taking his elderly mother gently by the elbow, he led her back up to the front of the room. When she retook her place in her folding chair, she didn't even look Remo's way. Her eyes were glazed, distant.

She took firm hold of the young boy's tiny hand. Remo could see now that he was Korean.

Fighting his confusion, Remo looked from the old woman to the crucifix in his hand. It was cool against his flesh.

He thought of baby Karen, her flesh made as cold by her own father. His face growing resolved, he closed his hand tightly on the cross.

Slipping the crucifix into his pocket, Remo walked down the short staircase and out the side door. In another moment, he melted away into the shroud of the swelling storm.

LIGHTNING CRACKLED in jagged lines across the swollen sky above the tenement, ripping through black clouds. Two seconds later, thunder roared from the nearby darkness. It was quickly followed by another burst of lightning.

Through the dirt-streaked pane of the fourth-floor bedroom window, Brad Miller watched the raging storm.

He had been cooped up in this apartment for six days. Almost a week of doing nothing at all.

His father owned the building. The elder Miller had promised his son that he'd have to stay there only until the lawyers figured something out. The fact that Brad was still stuck in this dump was proof enough that the army of Miller attorneys was having a rough go of it.

Behind Brad, the television played softly, the flickering images keeping pace with the lightning. It was the news. He caught some of what was going on in the screen's reflection on the pane.

He had stopped watching for himself. At first it was a kick seeing his face on the news day and night. Cabin fever had long wiped that thrill away. Now it was just boring.

He had no idea what could possibly be taking so long. That baby of Ellen's was only a month old. Barely human. More like an animal.

Brad hoped fervently that the days he'd wasted in this slum would count toward his probation. The lawyers should get on that, too. He'd be sure to mention it to his mother the next time she called.

Brad watched a lazy droplet of water roll along the uppermost windowpane. It intersected with the blurry reflected image of the television screen.

For a moment, he thought his eyes were not in proper focus. The TV screen seemed to be obscured by something.

Bored, Brad turned away from the storm... and blinked.

There was a man in the room with him. Even standing perfectly still, the intruder exuded menace. His face was a death mask.

"Who are you?" Brad demanded as he took an involuntary step back.

The intruder didn't move. He just stood in front of the flickering TV, his gaze directed beyond Brad. "You're a bad father," Remo Williams intoned. The scrap of paper with the tenement's address given to him by baby Karen's great-grandmother lay crumpled at his feet.

A crackle of lightning split the night sky.

Brad swallowed. In that moment, a lifetime's worth of arrogance derived from privilege drained away.

"I got lawyers," Brad Miller gulped. "Tons of them."

If Remo heard him, he didn't acknowledge it. "My father wasn't around when I was growing up. He left me on the steps of an orphanage when I was a baby. I finally met him just a couple of years ago. He's a good guy."

Brad didn't like the sound of this. His ears thrummed as he watched the strange intruder across the room.

"I didn't meet my adoptive father until I was full grown," Remo continued. "I didn't know it at the time, but I was just an infant in a man's body. He's been a real pain in the ass almost the whole time I've known him, but..."

As his voice trailed off, Remo closed his eyes. He thought of that tiny coffin. Of the Carlson family-robbed of daughter and granddaughter.

Brad didn't know what this guy's story was, but he was getting an inkling. The moment Remo's eyes were closed, he saw an opportunity. He lunged for the door.

He barely took two steps before he felt a strong hand grab him by the shoulder. He was ripped from the floor in midstride and thrown back across the room. He landed on the unmade bed, his head smashing against the peeling varnish of the headboard. The cheap wood cracked in two.

When his groggy eyes opened, he saw Remo seated in a chair next to him, his own eyes still closed.

"I have a daughter," Remo said with eerie stillness. "Because of my line of work, her mother took her from me. My father has her now-my biological father. Even though I hardly ever see her, she matters more to me than I ever could have imagined."

In the bed, Brad pulled himself to a sitting position. A section of broken headboard thudded to the floor. When he pressed fingers to the back of his head, they came back smeared with blood.

"Dammit, man, I'm bleeding," he panted. When Remo said nothing, Brad shifted awkwardly. The bed squeaked.

At long last, Remo opened his eyes. "I've failed," he said simply. Face hard, he stared out into the bleak night.

For the first time, Brad noticed something in the intruder's hand. It was a tiny cross. In fact, it looked just like the one Ellen's crazy grandmother had given the baby just before they put the old woman in the home.

An image of the demented old hag suddenly sprang into Brad's mind. Her dust-gray face grinned teeth of brown.

She was forever claiming to have visions of this and that. "Talking to the angels" was what she called it. The first time Brad had met her, he vowed it would be the absolute last time, as well. The wrinkled old biddy creeped him out.

For an instant, Brad felt as if he were trapped in one of Grandma Carlson's visions. She sat before him in her nursing-home chair, shawl draped over her knees, cackling and cackling a row of dingy teeth. And then she was gone.

The image receded and Brad was back in his hideout.

Remo still sat before him. Baby Karen's crucifix jutted from the hooked knuckle of his index finger. He absently stroked the medal with his thumb.

"My family's got dough," Brad offered weakly. He tried to blink away the aftereffects of his weird vision. He could still hear the old woman's fading laughter.

Remo seemed in his own world.

"For more years than I care to remember, it's been my job to protect America from creeps like you. I was supposed to make a difference. But I haven't. You're proof. You grew up rich and spoiled in the wealthiest nation on Earth. You had everything, except a soul. That's the country I kill to preserve. A country with a dead national soul."

On the bed, Brad gulped. "Uh, kill?"

"In a minute," Remo promised. "And even if by some miracle you got caught," he continued, "the best you'd get'd be a slap on the wrist. And there are more like you. A lot more than when I started. Back then I thought I could make a difference. I was wrong. You grew up in the new improved Great Remo Williams Society. The America where the killers got killed, justice was served and in the end everyone was safe to walk the streets. But that's a crock. You're a direct product of the country I was supposed to be pulling back from the brink. And you put more value in a crumpled Kleenex than in your own daughter's life."

His bitterness was as thick as the clumps of moist dust that skulked in the corners of the dingy bedroom.

This was all too unbelievable to Brad. With an entire town-an entire country--looking for him, this nutcase somehow managed to track him down. He had gotten inside silently, had prevented Brad from escaping and was now talking some psycho talk about killing to save America.

But, for a spoiled rich kid like Brad Miller, this lunatic's last words were a godsend. Brad had lived a life of blaming others for everything bad he'd ever done, and he'd just been served a way out of this mess on a silver platter.

"Yeah, this is your fault," Miller agreed, his eyes flashing cunning. He sat up in the bed, swinging his legs over the side. "You're the reason I did what I did. You didn't fix stuff like you were supposed to."

It was crazy talk, of course. But this guy had some kind of delusions about personally righting the world's wrongs.

"Maybe." Remo nodded thoughtfully. His deepset eyes-now grown sad-glanced down at the crucifix in his open palm.

"You bet your ass," Brad enthused, standing. His legs wobbled. "It's your fault my baby's dead. You didn't do enough. Maybe if you'd tried a little harder, things would have even worked out between Ellen and me."

Carefully, cautious not to make any sudden moves, Brad inched his way past Remo. For his part, Remo remained seated. Almost as if he were pondering Miller's words.

"I had to do it," Brad offered over his shoulder. "Society made me. You were supposed to fix society. Somebody really dropped the ball here, and I think we all know who that somebody is."

Brad was halfway to the door by now. It was clear sailing. He took off like a rabbit. Running full-out, he ate up the remaining distance between himself and the bowed old door. When he fumbled for the knob, however, Brad felt a brush of warm air against his ear.

Remo's voice was frighteningly close.

"Just because I've failed, it doesn't mean you're my fault," Remo said coldly.

With that, Brad felt himself being lifted off the floor. As before, he rocketed back across the room. But this time, he did not land on his lumpy bed.

The window through which he had viewed much of the past six days flew up fast. It cracked into a thousand sparkling shards as Brad Miller soared through it into empty space. For one brief instant, his horrified face was illuminated by a streak of yellow lightning. As the light vanished, so did Brad. He plummeted four stories to the street.

The driving rain obscured the wet splat of Brad Miller on the pavement.

The storm was loud through the open window, the rain close. Thunder and lightning trailed off across the city toward Peoria Lake. Droplets struck the sill, splattering the grimy floor.

Near the window, Remo slipped the small crucifix back into his pocket.

He felt dirty. As if Miller were a communicable disease that could be caught through touch. No rainwater was enough to clean the grime from his soul this night.

Remo left the rain to wash away Brad Miller's sins. Feeling deeply troubled, he left the empty apartment.

Chapter 3

Fourteen lacquered steamer trunks had been carefully arranged around the tidy bedroom. The wizened figure in the red silk kimono clucked and chirped as he fussed between them.

Chiun, Master of the House of Sinanju, the most awesome and feared assassins in all of recorded time, was packing. It was an awe-inspiring task.

Hurrying around the small back room in the Massachusetts condominium complex, the old Korean carried to the trunks the ornately decorated kimonos he had retrieved from his closets. Still more robes were lying folded on his unused dresser and on a low taboret.

Many of the kimonos were older than he was, having been handed down from previous Masters of Sinanju. Yet despite their age, they seemed like new. The same could not be said for their owner.

Chiun was old. His almond-hued skin was the thinnest vellum. Above each shell-like ear, a wisp of white hair protruded, each as insubstantial as a cough of fine dust. A thin thread of fine hair extended from his bony chin.

He was five feet tail and had never weighed over one hundred pounds. His diminutive stature and advanced years combined to create an outward image of a creature of infinite frailty. Graveyards the world over were filled with those who had leaped to that unwise conclusion.

The tiny Korean with the youthful hazel eyes was one of the two most dangerous beings on the face of the planet. The only other man who could match his awesome skills had just entered the building.

Chiun had heard Remo's car park in the lot next to Castle Sinanju, the converted church that was their shared home. A few seconds later, the front door clicked shut.

As he worked in his room, Chiun cocked an absent ear. Yet, though he listened, he heard not another sound.

It was unusual for Remo not to bray his arrival whenever he returned home. Briefly, Chiun thought that his pupil might have forgotten something in his vehicle and gone back outside. He realized this wasn't the case when he heard Remo's voice at his open doorway.

"What are you doing?"

Though he did not show it, Chiun was surprised that he had heard neither Remo's rhythmic heartbeat nor a single sound from his pupil as he climbed the stairs. When he looked up, the old Korean's parchment face was bland.

"Packing," he replied simply. He collected a fiery orange kimono from atop the dresser and placed it in the azure trunk.

Framed in the doorway, his hands jammed in his pockets, Remo frowned. "I can see that," he replied.

"Then why did you ask?"

The green silk kimono with the red-and-gold piping went on top of the orange one.

"Did Smitty give us an assignment while I was gone?" Remo asked as the Master of Sinanju shut the blue trunk.

"The emperor telephoned," Chiun admitted. "He wishes for you to call. Beyond that I do not know." With a flourish, he latched the lid of the steamer trunk.

"Then why are you packing?"

"Why does one generally pack?" the old man countered. He stooped to collect his sleeping mat.

"I don't know," Remo said wearily, his shoulders sinking. "You're going somewhere, I take it?"

"Yes," Chiun replied as he rolled the reed mat tight.

"Does Smith know?"

"I do have a life separate from our current employer." Turning from his pupil, he brought the bedroll to an open trunk.

"I already don't like the sound of this," Remo grumbled.

There was a yellow trunk just inside the door. On its closed lid sat a gleaming dagger. Beneath the knife sat a sheet of parchment.

The knife was about five inches long, with a pure white handle and a blade that appeared to be fashioned from solid gold. The cutting edge was dull, indicating a ceremonial purpose. When Remo picked up the dagger, he found that a familiar symbol had been etched into it,

"What's the sign of Sinanju doing on this?" Remo asked as he inspected the bisected trapezoid. When Chiun looked up from the trunk at which he was working, his wrinkled face grew horrified. He flounced across the room like a petulant bird.

"Keep your nosy hands to yourself," the old man snapped. He snatched the knife away from Remo. In a flash, the yellow trunk lid sprang open and both knife and parchment disappeared inside.

The lid slammed shut.

"Okay, okay," Remo groused. "I just figured I should know if you cut a deal with Ginsu." His furrowing brow clouding his dark eyes, he sank to a lotus position on the floor.

For a time, Chiun tried to ignore him, but Remo's silent attention finally got to the old Asian. The younger Sinanju Master had dragged into the room a palpable sense of gloom. To Chiun, it was a feeling both familiar and disturbing.

"What troubles you, my son?" the old man asked, his voice softening.

"You don't wanna know," Remo replied with a sad sigh.

"Do not try to maneuver me into begging for a response," Chiun warned. "I can see that something bothers you, but I am very busy." He waved one hand at the organized mess of his room. "Speak."

Remo wrestled with a reply, finally exhaling. "It's just that I don't feel good about the hit I just made," he said.

Chiun lowered the purple kimono he'd been folding. "Of course you do not," he said. "You debase our art by calling a flawless Sinanju assassination a 'hit.'" A horrible thought suddenly occurred to him. "It was flawless?"

Remo rolled his eyes. "No," he replied. "My elbow was bent, I used ten machine guns and I was dancing the hoochie-coo. Of course it was flawless. I'm always flawless."

At this Chiun cackled.

"With your hits and poochie-poos, the best you can hope for is mediocre," He placed the carefully folded purple robe into the chrysoprase-green trunk from the Chou Dynasty.

"Mediocre or not, Brad Miller's dead and I still feel like crap," Remo said bitterly. He stared at the floor.

Across the room, Chiun paused in his work. They had been watching a news story on Miller the previous night when Remo up and left the room without so much as a single word. Chiun now knew where he had gone.

The old Korean quietly left his packing. On silent sandals, he padded over to Remo, sinking to the floor before his somber pupil.

"You have done the world a service, my son," Chiun said, the wrinkles of his face drawn into a tight frown. "For a man who would murder a child robs the world of a life that will never be realized."

"So you've said," Remo replied. "But that doesn't make any of this any better." His wrists rested on his folded knees. He clenched and unclenched his hands in frustration. "I met an old woman in Peoria," he announced. "I think she might have been senile or something. She knew where Miller was when everybody else on the planet couldn't find him."

At Remo's words, Chiun's frown only deepened. "She also said the next few years were gonna be hard for me," Remo continued. He laughed sadly. "Can't say I like the sounds of that."

The Master of Sinanju's eyes narrowed. "This crone," the older man asked, "was she a soothsayer?"

"A what?" Remo asked, glancing up. He shook his head. "No. No, she was just some crazy old lady who knew where Miller was. Probably overheard someone mention it at the wake." He deliberately left out the most important detail of the story-the fact that Grandma Carlson had known his name.

Chiun's face was troubled. He tipped his head, considering. "Do you remember, Remo, how I once told you that you suffered from Master's disease?"

That got Remo's attention. The illness to which Chiun referred occurred in every fifteenth generation. It was an old Hindu curse imposed by one of their gods on Sinanju. Chiun had claimed years ago that this was the reason why Remo felt that he alone was charged with righting the world's wrongs.

"Yeah, I remember." Remo nodded. "It was when I met the Great Wang. You dumped that on me at what was supposed to be my final step to full Masterhood. Of course, you neglected to mention the Sinanju Rite of Attainment," he added with creeping annoyance.

With a flurry of long fingernails, the tiny Asian erased Remo's last words from the air. "How else could I keep your wandering mind alert?" he said dismissively. "The important thing here is the Master's disease. It has nearly run its course."

Remo's face took on shades of dark confusion. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"I told Smith then that it would take fifteen years for you to get well. It has been that. The disquiet you now feel is from the final phase of the disease."

Remo bit the inside of his cheek in contemplation. "Okay," he said. "So what now?"

The old man's face grew suspicious. "Your prophetess did not tell you?" he asked.

"No," Remo said, shaking his head.

Chiun breathed deeply. "In that case, I do not know," he exhaled. But the depths of his hazel eyes were troubled.

"Chiun-" Remo began.

He was interrupted by a silencing hand.

"I have told you of the legend of my village?" the Master of Sinanju asked abruptly. "How in dark times, when the fishing was poor and there was nothing to eat, the villagers sent their babies home to the sea?"

Remo was confused by this sudden shift in the conversation. "About a billion times," he said cautiously.

"There is wisdom in the retelling." Chiun nodded. He forged ahead, his singsong voice taking on the cadence of instruction. "Sinanju was and is a poor village on the West Korean Bay. The harsh winters and bleak summers punish the land. The soil yields meager harvests, and the frigid waters of the bay surrender few fish. At those times when food was most scarce, the people of my village would gather at the shores of the bay and hold their infants beneath the icy water, robbing them of life."

"And they called it 'sending them home to the sea' even though they knew that it was nothing but mass infanticide," Remo added. "I know the story, Little Father."

"Then you know, as well, O Wise One, how only with the discovery of the Sun Source did this barbaric practice end. For countless years has the Master of Sinanju left our village to ply the assassin's art to courts of kings and caliphs. We are but the latest in an unbroken line extending back into the mists of time."

"So what?" Remo asked. "What's that got to do with me?"

A thundercloud passed over Chiun's features. "You are ill, so I will let that lie," the Master of Sinanju said. "My ancestors toiled so that the children of our village could live. No longer must we resort to the dire practice of drowning our young. The Master's duty to the village has carried down through the ages. I bear that responsibility with pride. One day, you will do so, too."

"I don't know where you're going with this, Chiun," Remo said, "but I'm sorry. I'm not sure it's enough to say I kill to feed the kids of Sinanju anymore."

"And if I reminded you that I was a child of Sinanju once?" Chiun offered. "What if my father was possessed with your attitude?"

"He wasn't," Remo said. "And anyway, he wasn't afflicted with this dumbass Master's disease-which I'm not sure I believe in, either. Sinanju is just a dump infested by fat-faced ingrates who'd bash you over the head with a rock and steal your frigging eyeballs if they thought they could get away with it. You just happen to come from there and you just happened to stumble on me when you hired out to train some faceless American hit man for a couple of sacks of rice and a hunk of gold. We were lumped together by chance, not destiny, I kill people for a living, I hate what I do but I'm really good at it, and I just don't think I'm making a difference anymore. That's it. Case closed." Remo clenched his hands in impotent frustration.

By the end of Remo's tirade, Chiun's papery eyelids had closed to slits so tight a laser could not have penetrated the space between them. "Do you truly mean that?" he asked.

"Which part?"

"That idiocy about hating what you do?"

Remo shook his head. "Yes. No. I don't know. It used to make me feel good sometimes to ice a creep like Miller. Today..." His voice trailed off.

"That is part of your destiny," Chiun said. "A larger part than you know. You still see yourself as the savior of all mankind. It will pass."

And with that, Chiun rose to his feet like a puff of steam. He padded thoughtfully back to his luggage.

Remo remained seated on the bedroom floor. For a long time, he said nothing. When he finally looked up, his eyes were moist.

"When will it pass, Little Father?" he asked quietly.

Chiun glanced to his pupil. He was shocked to see that he held a small shiny silver object in his hand. Remo was staring at it with lost, sad eyes.

The Master of Sinanju buried his surprise. "Call Smith," he instructed. "He is waiting for you." Remo only nodded. Slipping baby Karen's crucifix back into his pocket, he rose to his feet and left the room.

Behind him, the Master of Sinanju was deeply disturbed. There were eventful signs on the horizon for the two living Masters of Sinanju. All the omens pointed that way. Remo's circumstances made things all the more problematic.

Rerno had been raised in an orphanage by nuns. There was no telling what pagan sorcery those vestal virgins had used on him. Chiun prayed to a thousand gods at once that some latent Catholicism was not manifesting itself in his pupil. Not now of all times.

He reached to collect another kimono. The weight of five thousand years of tradition heavy on his frail shoulders, the Master of Sinanju returned to his packing.

Chapter 4

The dark cloud of Remo's mood hadn't improved on his way downstairs to the phone. In fact, if anything the parched nasal tone of his employer only put him in a lousier humor.

"The situation is grave," announced Dr. Harold W. Smith, head of the supersecret organization known only as CURE.

"It's always grave, Smitty," Remo replied morosely. "Everything around me is grave. Or graves."

He was sitting on the kitchen counter. A bird had just landed on the windowsill over the sink. Its tiny head darted left and right. As they spoke, Remo watched the bird.

Smith let the remark pass. "As I was saying, it was pure serendipity that this even came to light. One of our old CURE contacts in another government agency reported it through the old network. The CURE mainframes had nothing to track, since at the time there was little electronic information. That has changed dramatically of late."

"I thought you cut all those people loose years ago."

"Most, not all. As you know, in the early days CURE relied largely on scraps of information relayed from a network of thousands of individuals. People who, although strategically important, did not know for whom they worked. The computer age eliminated the need for most of them. Fortunately, I retained a few."

"Yeah, good thing," Remo said absently. "Smitty, what kind of bird has a brown body and a red head?"

The bird hopped along the sill. It didn't even seem aware of Remo's presence on the other side of the screen.

"I don't know. Remo, please pay attention. It's still incredible to me that a scheme so massive in scope could have gone this far undetected."

"I don't know why," Remo said. "East Africa's been a mess for years. I don't think it's a cardinal. Cardinals are all red."

Smith exhaled exasperation. "Only the male. The female is a drab, grayish brown. Remo, please-"

"Really?" Remo asked. "I thought they were all red. Anyway, they're big with orange beaks, right?"

"Correct," Smith agreed. And before Remo could expand on his ornithological theme, he quickly forged ahead. "Political and social upheaval have little in common with criminal activity. East Africa was on the right track when it ended its policy of institutionalized racism, but this has the potential to be as evil. I have tracked billions of dollars from other nations that have found their way into East African banks. Representatives of different crime interests have been shuttling back and forth for several weeks. In some cases, the leaders of criminal fraternities themselves have begun to make the journey. There is every indication that the East African government has decided to look the other way as far as crime is concerned."

"Wait a minute," Remo interjected. "Isn't this like what happened in Scambia years ago? These guys are just ripping off someone else's idea."

"In crime there are no new ideas," Smith said somberly. "Merely new opportunities and variations on old themes."

"Okay, but does Willie Mandobar know about this?"

Smith's reply stunned him.

"Three confirmed sources point to former President Mandobar as the architect of this scheme." Willie Mandobar was one of the most famous men on the face of the planet. A political prisoner in the old racist system, he had risen to the position of president of East Africa once that system was abolished. He had recently retired from office, turning over the reins of power to a handpicked successor in a free election. Mandobar was a smiling, grandfatherly figure. Remo couldn't believe he'd be behind something like this.

"Mandobar is pretty old," Remo offered cautiously. "Maybe someone else is pulling his strings on this."

"I would like to believe that, as well," Smith replied crisply. "But according to a private E-mail sent to the La Cosina drug cartel, Mandobar is clearly behind this. Two other sources confirm the fact that Willie Mandobar, in retirement, has opened the doors of his nation to criminals."

"Couldn't he just gripe about social security from his winter home in Florida like every other old codger?" Remo grumbled, Scowling, he turned his attention back to his bird. Maybe it was some kind of finch.

At that moment, the Master of Sinanju breezed into the kitchen. He immediately spied the bird on the windowsill.

"Scat!" the old man snapped, slapping his hands sharply near the screen. The bird fluttered off in a panic.

Wheeling, Chiun marched to the nearest cupboards. Flinging the doors wide, he began rummaging inside.

"This is a matter that needs our attention," Smith said as Chiun banged pots. "The world cannot allow what would amount to a wholesale terrorist state to emerge from the old East African system."

"Just a sec, Smitty," Remo said.

He cupped his hand over the phone. "Chiun, wanna keep it down?"

Inside a cupboard, backside sticking out into the kitchen, the Master of Sinanju continued clanging metal pots and pans. The racket was deafening.

"I cannot hear you," Chiun sang from the depths of the cupboard.

Remo jammed a finger in his free ear to block out the noise. "Speak up, Smitty." He frowned.

"This is an extremely delicate situation," the CURE director warned. "Willie Mandobar is a hero to many. His death could have international ramifications. Neutralize him only as a last resort."

"So what do you want me to do?"

The banging stopped. A harrumph of deep consideration emanated from the black depths of the cupboard.

"Obviously, there are co-conspirators involved. Mandobar could not manage such an elaborate scheme alone. Find out who these people are and remove them. With them gone, the foundation will collapse beneath their leader."

"You hope," Remo suggested.

"Yes, I do," Smith agreed without irony.

Remo closed his eyes. "Want an alternative suggestion?"

The tone of CURE's enforcement arm made Smith instantly wary. "What?" he asked guardedly.

"A lot of these kingpins are there now?"

"Yes. It is already the largest number of criminal leaders ever collected in any one place."

Remo opened his eyes. They were cold steel. "Bomb the whole damn country," he said, his voice perfectly level.

As the CURE director absorbed Remo's dispassionate, almost clinical suggestion, Chiun emerged from the cupboard, a fat pot clutched in one bony hand.

Although the words were strong, the delivery was not. It was as if Remo's idealism had fought a battle with his practical side and realism had won. Yet his old longing for a perfect world still remained.

So distracted was Remo by his own thoughts, he did not even notice that Chiun had begun to test the strength of the cast iron pot by banging it mercilessly on the countertop.

"You are serious," Smith said after a brief pause.

"One hundred percent," Remo replied in a tone icy enough to chill the phone in his hand. "We've been kidding ourselves that we've been making a difference, Smitty. Ever since you bamboozled me into this rinky-dink organization, you've had me running my ass off all over the world supposedly safeguarding American values. Well, rah-rah for the flag and apple pie. I'm telling you those values are shot to hell. If you nuked that whole damn country now, in one fell swoop you'd be taking out an entire generation of predators. You want something that'll make a difference, Smitty? That would make a difference."

"That is not an option," Smith said stiffly.

"It ought to be," Remo replied.

"No, it should not. You and I are of a different opinion," Smith said. "I think we have made a difference. Right now crime is fragmented. But if it is allowed to consolidate under one roof, as it were, there is no telling how much more powerful it could get."

"Don't worry," Remo muttered. "Wait a few years and you'll see." He sighed deeply. "I'll go, Smitty. Because that's what I do. But I'm not happy about the world right now or my place in it, so don't come bitching to me when I rack up a body count on this one."

"Yes," Smith said cautiously.

Periodically during his tenure with the agency, CURE's enforcement arm had lapsed into melancholia. The last time had been about a year ago. But Smith could not remember Remo ever sounding this bad.

"Er," Smith ventured carefully, "perhaps it would be wise if you brought Chiun with you on this assignment."

Across the room, the Master of Sinanju was examining the bottom of his pot in the sunlight that poured in through their kitchen window. At Smith's suggestion, the old Korean scowled. He shook his head violently. The wisps of hair above his ears were cotton blurs.

"He can't," Remo said. "He's already packing for some other trip he won't tell me anything about."

The pot went flying at Remo's head. Remo snagged it before it cracked his skull.

"What?" he asked as the old man bounded across the room.

"I will what you," Chiun whispered, yanking the receiver from Remo's hand. "Remo is in error, Emperor Smith, whose every word is a pearl that enriches my unworthy ears," he announced in dulcet tones. "I am merely in the process of reorganizing my meager possessions. A task suited to one as old and frail as I."

"Frail?" Remo whispered. A sharp elbow caught him in the belly.

"Yes, frail, Emperor," Chiun said, suddenly weary. "I have toiled happily in your employ lo these many years, yet lately a fatigue has set in. Not uncommon for one of my advanced years." He forced a pathetic cough.

"Oh, brother," Remo muttered.

"I hope it is only temporary," Smith said seriously.

"At my age, who knows?" Chiun said. The words were an effort to get out. "My Masterhood has gone on much longer than the norm. Perhaps it is the start of the end for me. We will not know if this is merely a passing debility until I have taken to bed for a week or two. Make it two. And please do not come to visit during that time, for I fear I will be too weak to answer the door. Or the telephone," he added quickly.

"I am sorry to hear that," Smith said. "Remo doubtless could have made use of your expertise as a cultural guide while in East Africa."

Chiun had been handing the phone back to Remo. But at the mention of the country's name, the receiver flew back to one shell-like ear.

"You are sending Remo to East Africa?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

"Yes," Smith said. "But I understand if you cannot-"

"Wait!" Chiun interrupted, breathless. "Is it possible? Yes. My lassitude of body and spirit has vanished. I do not know how you accomplished this miracle, but simply by conversing with you, O Emperor, has my robust health been restored. Your lilting voice alone must act as remedy."

"So you will be able to accompany Remo after all?" Smith asked, confused.

"On wings of doves I do your bidding, Smith, Son of Hippocrates," Chiun proclaimed.

He threw the phone back at Remo.

"Make the arrangements, Smitty," Remo said blandly. "In the meantime, I'll see if his transmission held together with that sudden shift into reverse." He hung up the phone.

Chiun had gathered up his cast iron pot and was on his way out the door.

"What was that all about?" Remo called after him.

"It is called conversation," Chiun replied. "It is a bit more advanced than the grunts and rude hand gestures you are used to."

"Ha-ha. You know what I mean. What was with that line of pap you were feeding Smith? You haven't been tired since I've known you."

"That is not true. I cannot begin to count the times you have exhausted my patience." He slipped from the room.

Hopping down from the counter, Remo dogged him to the bottom of the main staircase.

"I know you," he accused as Chiun mounted the stairs. "You're up to something."

"Yes," Chiun agreed without turning. "I am up to packing my eighth trunk. Summon a carriage to take us to the airport, and you may load the first seven for our trip. I must make haste!"

With that, the old Korean vanished into his room, slamming the door behind him.

Chapter 5

Fortunately for Remo, Chiun packed light, taking only nine of his usual complement of fourteen steamer trunks.

The Master of Sinanju made it Remo's responsibility to see to it that the trunks were undamaged on their transfer flight to New York from Boston's Logan International Airport. After much arguing and a few well-placed bribes, he was allowed to retrieve the cases from the belly of the 747.

"I'm not used to being a luggage monkey anymore," Remo complained as he hauled the trunks through the terminal at JFK International Airport.

The Master of Sinanju marched at his side. "The monkey part should be second nature," Chiun said. "As for the other, bend at the knees, not the waist."

"Har-de-har-har," Remo replied. "What are you taking all this garbage for, anyway? You've been leaving these stupid trunks home the past couple of years."

"You have admitted yourself that you have allowed your baggage transporting skills to deteriorate. What kind of teacher would I be if I let your slide into indolence continue without addressing it?"

"A merciful one?" Remo suggested, annoyed. The dolly on which the trunks were balanced hit an uneven spot on the broad floor. Remo had to hold the yellow trunk steady to keep it from falling.

"Be careful of that one," Chiun cautioned.

It was the trunk he'd dropped the parchment and dagger into. His voice betrayed more than normal concern.

"You didn't answer me back home," Remo ventured.

"Sometimes I ignore you in the hope that you will go away," Chiun replied blandly.

"About the knife," Remo pressed. "That was the symbol of Sinanju carved in the handle. And it was done by a Master other than you. The fingernail downstroke was sloppier than your work. And that ivory was stained from age."

As they walked, Chiun appraised the proud expression on his pupil's face. "Who died and appointed you Sherlock Holmes?" the Master of Sinanju said flatly.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Remo challenged.

Chiun looked away. "I will tell you what I told you last night," the old Korean said. "Mind your own business."

"Sinanju is my business, Little Father," Remo insisted.

With that, the old Korean fell silent. Remo attributed it to his general moodiness. He didn't notice the contemplative look on his teacher's weathered face.

As he pulled the dolly across the terminal floor, Remo was suddenly distracted.

There was a line of seats across from a ticket counter. Seated in one of them was a small boy. He was so little, his feet didn't touch the floor. The toes of his sandals hung to a V in the air.

"What's he doing here?" Remo puzzled, recognizing the little Korean boy from the Carlson wake.

The boy still wore the same black clothes and the same sad expression. Far too reflective for a child his age.

"Who?" the Master of Sinanju asked, uninterested.

"That kid," Remo said. "I saw him with that weird old lady at the wake in Peoria last night. What do you suppose he's doing here? And all alone, by the looks of it."

Chiun followed his pupil's gaze. His bright eyes narrowed as he scanned the plastic chairs.

"I see no child," he said.

"Of course you do," Remo insisted. "A little Korean kid. He's right-"

But when he went to point him out, the boy was gone. The seat he had been sitting in was empty. As Remo watched, a middle-aged man sat in it.

"Well, he was there," he said. "I wonder where he went?"

As they walked, he scanned the area. He didn't know why, but the air of the terminal seemed suddenly very cold. And despite his Sinanju training, Remo felt an involuntary shudder.

SMITH HAD RESERVED them two first-class seats on a direct flight to Africa. After hours in the air, a long nap and a short conversation during which the Master of Sinanju warned Remo to keep his musings about the strange dagger to himself, the plane touched down on the simmering black tarmac of the main airport in Bachsburg, the capital of East Africa.

As Chiun's luggage was being unloaded by careless, unseen hands, the two men deplaned. Side by side, they walked amid the other passengers to the main customs area. When they got there, a quartet of bizarrely dressed women was already screeching at a uniformed East African agent.

"I don't need my bloody passport!" yelled one. "I'm a bleedin' star!"

"Yeah!" shrieked two of the others in unison. "Girl domination!" screamed the fourth.

It was the trademark line uttered by the fourth woman that caught Remo's attention. Only when he looked closer did he realize he knew who they were.

The Seasonings had been a red-hot all-girl group for about eight minutes two years before. Assembled after a wily record promoter ran an ad in a small English porn magazine devoted to anal fetishes and bed-wetting, Tramp, Trollop, Ho and Slut Seasoning were still trying to recapture their glory days.

The girls had been livid when their bandmate Strumpet Seasoning had quit the group. After a failed solo act, a failed tell-all biography and six failed marriages, Strumpet was still the only member of the group anyone talked about. The other Seasonings had, thankfully, vanished from the world stage after their one and only hit. But for a terrible time two summers before, no one could get away from their signature song. Indeed, Smith had been repeatedly forced to pay to replace the radios Remo regularly smashed in his various rental cars whenever he found "I Know What You Need (Really, Really I Do)" blaring from his speakers.

"Girl domination!" shrieked Ho Seasoning at the East African agent. Ho, like the rest of the group, hadn't technically been a "girl" since the Truman administration.

"We're here for a bleedin' important gig!" screeched Trollop Seasoning.

"And if I lose my baby 'cause of you, I'll rip your fuckin' balls off and feed 'em to me cat!" screamed Slut Seasoning. She pointed to her very pregnant belly.

That was another thing about the Seasonings. In addition to their bimonthly tabloid-inspiring weddings, they all seemed to be perpetually pregnant without ever actually giving birth to anything. The four women each had a huge belly that hung out in colossal gestational fashion from beneath revealing halter tops and above skin-tight rubber capri pants of various bright rainbow colors.

After a few hushed words from the agent, the stewing Seasonings seemed to strike up some sort of bargain. When the customs official ushered the four women through a small door behind his counter, he was already unbuckling his belt.

Fortunately, there was another agent on duty. When they stepped up to the second uniformed clerk with his white shirt, black tie and wide-brimmed blue hat, Chiun pushed his way in front of Remo.

"Business or pleasure?" the customs man crisply asked the Master of Sinanju. His accented English sounded Australian, but with harsher emphasis on the consonants.

"Pleasure," Remo said.

"Business," the Master of Sinanju corrected. "Nature of business?"

Chiun spoke before Remo could answer for them. "I am an assassin on an important mission for the ruler of this land," the old Korean announced ominously.

Remo tried to mask his annoyance. Two minutes in East Africa and Chiun had already blown their cover.

"He's joking," Remo assured the agent. In Korean he whispered, "Quit screwing around, Chiun." At the customs checkpoint, the uniformed man had slowly raised his eyes beneath the brim of his cap. He ignored Remo. "You work for President Kmpali?" he asked seriously.

This was the man who had succeeded Willie Mandobar as East Africa's ruler.

"Pah!" Chiun spit, waving an impatient hand. "I have had my fill of presidents as secret assassin for America. My business is with the true ruler of this land."

"Oh, great," Remo grumbled. He was already thinking about how mad Smith would be after they busted out of some dingy African jail.

But the customs official only frowned at Chiun. "President Kmpali or not, you must register with the Finance Ministry if you intend to advertise your services in the Republic of East Africa," He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Next!" he called, waving Chiun and Remo through.

They passed through the metal detector and into the air-conditioned terminal's main concourse. As they walked along, Remo glanced back in bewilderment.

"What the hell just happened?" he asked. Chiun didn't reply. As they strolled across the tile floor, the old Asian avoided the baggage carousel where his luggage had just begun to slide into view. He steered a beeline to the terminal's main entrance. "This is amazing," Remo continued, shaking his head. "You told him you were an assassin, and he didn't bat an eye. And what was that about registering with the Finance Ministry? What kind of country registers its assassins?"

"A civilized one," Chiun replied tightly. They were through the doors and outside.

The oppressively hot East African air assaulted them immediately. The body temperature of both men instantly regulated to compensate for the change.

"We can debate that later," Remo droned. "And why aren't we getting your luggage?"

The Master of Sinanju was too distracted to reply. A glistening black limousine was parked by the curb at the far end of a broad carport. Standing beside the car was a somber young man with skin as dark as the limo's paint.

Although his blue suit was impeccably tailored, he fidgeted uncomfortably, as if unused to his garments. At Chiun's appearance, a curious frown crossed the man's face. Pushing away from the car, he took a tentative step forward.

"Master of Sinanju?" he asked, with the same British-influenced harshness of the customs agent. Suspicion creased Chiun's aged face as he stopped before the young man. "I am he," the wizened Korean replied, with a bow that was more perfunctory than ceremonial.

"What's going on?" Remo asked. "Who the hell is this?"

"Hush, Remo," Chiun hissed. Back straight, he addressed the native. "You were sent by Batubizee, son of Kwaanga?"

"I was, Master of Sinanju." He spoke Chiun's title hesitantly, as if uncertain he had truly found the right man.

"Then why are you dressed in that Western garb and not in the raiments of the glorious Luzu warrior empire?" Chiun asked, his face puckering in displeasure.

"The Luzu are greeted with disdain in the cities of East Africa. My clothing makes it easier for me to blend in."

His words did nothing to dispel Chiun's sour expression. Exhaling disapproval, the old man reached into the folds of his kimono. In a rustle of fabric, he produced the dagger embossed with the Sinanju symbol.

When he saw the knife, any doubts the black man had entertained fled. His features bloomed in pleasure, his smile revealing a row of perfect white teeth. He bowed formally at the waist.

"I bring you greetings from the son of the sons of Kwaanga, Chief Batubizee, of the line of the first great Luzu warrior chief. Hail to you, O awesome and powerful Master of Sinanju, he who graciously throttles the universe."

Chiun handed over the knife, hilt first.

"What's this all about?" Remo demanded, his face registering growing confusion. "And when the hell did you unpack that?"

"You ask too many questions," Chiun said from the corner of his mouth.

"And you haven't answered one yet. What the Belgium is going on here?"

This time, it wasn't Chiun who ignored him. "Come," the young man said. "The chief waits for you in the heart of the Luzu empire." He clapped his hands loudly.

There was a truck parked before the limo. Men spilled out, racing back to their small group.

"My luggage is inside," the Master of Sinanju said.

The men dutifully ran inside the terminal. Through the tinted windows they could be seen swarming for the luggage carousel.

"Please wait with me in my vehicle," the native offered, opening the door to the limousine.

Chiun took a step toward the car.

"Everybody freeze for one goddamn minute!" Remo snapped. "Chiun, you are not getting in that car."

"If the Master so wishes, you may accompany us in the limousine," the young native offered helpfully. "Where do you wish your servant to ride, Master?"

"That other vehicle is good enough for him," Chiun said, waving toward the parked truck. "But I would be certain to keep the windows down," he added in a low voice.

The men appeared through the terminal doors, bearing Chiun's trunks. They loaded the baggage into limo and truck.

"This is why you were so quick to change your mind," Remo snapped as the men worked. "You were coming here already."

"For a mere servant, your deductive skills are impressive," Chiun droned near the open car door.

"Servant my ass," Remo growled. "This is incredible, even by your standards. You bilked Smith for the airfare. You were coming to freaking East Africa anyway, so you just hitched a ride at his expense."

Chiun's face was stone. "Mad Harold's coffers are deep," he said dismissively.

"He even sent us first class," Remo muttered to himself. "Smith never sends us first class."

Chiun had been scrutinizing the men as they loaded his luggage. The trunk and front seat of the limo were crammed full. There was only a little space left in the ATV as the men climbed inside. Hiking up his kimono skirts, Chiun started to get into the rear of the limousine.

"You can't just leave, Chiun," Remo said, exasperated.

"I must," the Master of Sinanju said seriously. "For I have an appointment in Luzuland. You may come if you wish. But this one is correct." He nodded to his driver, who was even now getting behind the wheel. "It would not be seemly for a servant to accompany me in my vehicle. You may follow with my luggage." He slammed the door.

"Smitty sent you here to help me," Remo insisted through the open window.

"You are a full Master of Sinanju," Chiun said impatiently.

"And you're a thief. Don't think you're gonna get away with this. I'm telling Smith."

"Tattletale."

''Fraud."

"I do not have time for this," Chiun hissed. "You will be fine without me. There are only two things one needs to know to survive in East Africa."

"Yeah," Remo snapped, "what's that?"

"Do not trust anyone. White or black." "And the other?"

Chiun considered. "Perhaps there is only one thing."

He powered up the window, and the limousine drew away from the curb. The truck waited for it to pass, then fell in behind. The miniconvoy headed away from the Bachsburg airport terminal and out into the sweltering street.

Remo Williams could only stand helplessly on the sidewalk and watch them go.

Angry. And alone.

Chapter 6

Nunzio Spumoni was melting in the heat.

It was East Africa. The heat and humidity were infernal. Oppressive. Relentless.

Although he kept the air conditioner cranked up to its maximum, the air in his hotel room was still wet enough to wring out by hand. Outside, it was like trying to breathe underwater. And more aggravating than the heat itself was the fact that it didn't seem to bother anyone as much as him.

"Try wearing a lighter suit, Nunzio," his cousin Piceno Spumoni suggested.

"This one is one hundred percent cotton," Nunzio snapped in reply. He mopped his forehead with a paper napkin.

The two men were sitting in a busy Bachsburg restaurant. The dining room was filled with the worst humanity had to offer. Nunzio recognized a few of the criminals from some of the many meetings he had recently attended. They were much seedier than the men he ordinarily associated with.

The air in the cramped restaurant was thick. So many people in such a confined space. So, so hot. Nunzio wanted to scream. Either that or strip off his clothes and run outside. He'd seen a fountain down the street.

He tried concentrating. Maybe if he thought hard enough, he could feel what it might be like to stand naked in the ankle-deep pool, cooling water dripping down his bony shoulders and running down his scrawny legs.

But though he taxed his imagination to the limit, it was no good. The heat was just too great. He flung the sopped napkin to the checkered tablecloth, wrenching a fresh one from the stainless-steel dispenser.

"Maybe it's the color," Piceno ventured as Nunzio ran the napkin around neck and chin.

"White! I'm wearing white, for God's sake! I have it dry-cleaned every day and it's still knotted in the ass and stuck to my back. Any color suit is a damnable sponge in this humidity, so please keep your ridiculous suggestions to yourself and kindly shut up."

Piceno ordinarily wouldn't be put off so easily by one of Nunzio's trademark outbursts. But today was different. Piceno dutifully fell mute.

Nunzio flung another soaked napkin to the growing pile. The rattle of silver and china in the overcrowded restaurant assaulted his ears.

"Damn climate," he muttered, tugging out the collar of his shirt. With a flapping menu, he tried to force some air down onto his sweaty chest.

Nunzio had been plagued by perspiration since childhood. It was ironic, considering the fact that all the other men in the Spumoni family weighed over three hundred pounds and rarely broke a sweat. At six foot two, 140 pounds, Nunzio was the skinniest Spumoni in Napoli, yet he perspired like a man three times his size.

At least back home in Italy he knew how to control his environment. From homes to cars to offices, he carefully mapped out his schedule to spend as much time as possible in the relative comfort afforded by air-conditioning. But since arriving in East Africa two weeks ago, he had been forced to spend more time in the natural air than he could bear. He'd lost ten pounds of sweat in the past fourteen days.

"I cannot take much more of this," Nunzio breathed, flinging the menu to the table.

The napkin dispenser was empty. Fishing a sopping wet handkerchief from his pocket, he began sponging the back of his pencil-thin neck.

Piceno had been watching the front door. As his cousin smeared sweat with his hankie, the younger Spumoni sat at attention. "He is here," Piceno whispered gruffly.

Limp rag hanging from his long fingers, Nunzio glanced at the door.

The man who had just entered the restaurant was handsome enough to be called beautiful. Blond hair, grown long and greased back, framed a cover model's face. In spite of the years spent in the hot East African sun, his skin was pale and perfect. With eyes of rich green he searched the crowded room. When he spotted Nunzio, rosebud lips pouted a perfect smile. The man wended his way through the crowd to the back table where Nunzio and Piceno sat.

Although the man was maddeningly handsome, Nunzio did not envy him his looks. The thing that bothered the Italian most was the fact that this man stubbornly refused to perspire. The white cotton suit he wore as he slipped in across the table from Nunzio was a perfect match to Nunzio's in every respect, save one. The infuriating man's suit was not tinged gray with sweat.

"Nunzio, how good to see you." L. Vas Deferens smiled.

Dentists had been known to weep openly at the sight of the man's naturally perfect white teeth. Nunzio waved a sweaty hand. "Vas," he said, nodding.

Despite the fact that a handshake had not been offered him, Deferens extended a soft, manicured hand to Nunzio.

Nunzio detested shaking hands. Especially with someone who did not sweat. Reluctantly wiping as much perspiration from his palm as his sopped handkerchief would accept, he took the offered hand.

"Piceno, you are well?" Deferens smiled. He didn't wipe Nunzio's perspiration from his palm as he shook hands with the other man.

Nunzio's cousin nodded.

"Good, good. Would you mind excusing us?" Deferens suggested, his smile never wavering. "Your cousin and I have some important matters to discuss. You understand."

Half out of his seat, Deferens extended an arm, ushering Piceno Spumoni from the napkin-covered table. At a nod from Nunzio, Piceno excused himself.

Deferens waited until the big man was out of earshot before speaking. Once Nunzio's cousin was gone, the East African placed his dust-dry hands on the table, his fingers comfortably interlocked.

Nunzio only wished his cool demeanor were contagious. The Italian continued swiping at pooling pockets of salty perspiration.

"Don Vincenzo is pleased, I trust?" Deferens said in a cold voice. His eyes were cold, as well. Deep pools of green confidence.

"He's satisfied. For now," Nunzio stressed. "He'll be happier when this dark business is over. As will I."

Deferens tipped his head. "Nunzio, my old friend, is it possible after all this time that Camorra still does not trust me?"

"Trust is not easy in our business," Nunzio admitted. He waved to a nearby waiter, pointing to the empty water pitcher nested among the discarded napkins. The waiter nodded and scurried off.

Deferens was nodding. "I can't blame you." He sighed. "Camorra certainly has not had an easy time of it. Survival sometimes precludes trust."

Of that, Nunzio couldn't disagree. The secret criminal organization for which he worked had spent much of the past century lurking in shadows. Once powerful, Mussolini's fascists had done their best to eradicate the syndicate after the First World War. Entire families had been dragged into the streets and slaughtered. Betrayed by their countrymen and attacked on every level by the Mafia, the survivors of the Camorra purges remained in hiding for eight decades. Licking wounds and plotting revenge.

"Let's just say we do not do leaps of faith very well," Nunzio grunted.

The waiter arrived with a fresh pitcher of ice water. Nunzio poured a glass and drank greedily. "That will end," L. Vas Deferens promised with icy assurance. "Camorra's future as the premier crime organization in the world is secure." His voice became a conspiratorial whisper. "By week's end, you will eclipse even the Mafia."

Nunzio snorted through his water. Coming up out of his narrow throat, his laugh sounded like a donkey's bray. "We've nearly done that without your assistance."

"Yakuza, then. Or the cartels. The Vietnamese or Chinese crime syndicates. The chorus will fall silent. All the voices that overpowered your own for so many years-all gone. Camorra will seize power like none has before."

"We had better hope so," Nunzio warned. "For both our sakes. Don Vincenzo will not be pleased if we fail."

Deferens waved a dismissive hand. He didn't deign to respond to such a ludicrous suggestion. Nunzio only wished he could share this ice man's utter confidence. Sweaty rivulets rolled from his underarms. Maybe if it wasn't so hot...

"I have advised Don Vincenzo that you wish to do this thing at the end of the week," he said, careful to keep his voice low. "He agrees."

Deferens nodded. "All of the delegations will have arrived by then."

"The invitations are all out?"

"The last were sent yesterday."

"Any refusals?"

Deferens grinned. "None. The celebrity stature of our leader has given us great credibility. No one wishes to be left out. There will be a weekend of grand meetings throughout the city, presided over by Mandobar. At least, that is the plan. Of course, we have a different plan."

Sitting in his rumpled, sweat-stained white suit, Nunzio Spumoni pictured the familiar smiling face of Mandobar. That the former East Africa president was involved in something as nefarious as this was still almost too incredible to believe.

"When will I finally get to meet him?" Nunzio asked.

A thin smile. "If all goes well, never." Deferens's smile was oddly disconcerting; it gave the impression of a man with a secret. But then, he had conveyed that image since the first time they'd met. The pale man in the white suit seemed always to be guarding some precious, private thoughts. Thoughts he dared not speak aloud.

As he was talking, Deferens had turned a curious, distracted eye across the restaurant.

The main wall opened on a sidewalk cafe. A commotion seemed to be breaking out beneath the green-and-white-striped canopy. Three men in ill-fitting suits sitting at a wrought-iron table were exchanging hot words with the lone man at the adjoining table. For his part, the stranger they were speaking to seemed unnaturally calm.

Even across the crowded restaurant, Deferens could see that the man's wrists were exceptionally thick.

Nunzio Spumoni wasn't at all interested in the dispute. His thoughts had turned to his hotel airconditioning.

"I should get back," he said, standing. "I must call Naples."

Deferens only nodded. He was still watching the activity across the room. The thick-wristed man had just said something that seemed to upset the other men.

"Oh, please say goodbye to Piceno for me," Deferens called absently to Nunzio's retreating back. He didn't hear Nunzio's reply. There was something coldly fascinating about the thin young man across the room. His presence alone seemed to chill the humid African air.

Deferens crossed his legs neatly and leaned one elbow on the table. His instincts told him that something profoundly interesting was about to happen. And the instincts of L. Vas Deferens were never wrong.

REMO HAD TRIED HIS BEST. No one could fault him. Not Smith, certainly not Chiun. Not anyone.

He'd found the crowded restaurant after an intensely unpleasant cab ride from the airport. The cabbie had spent the bulk of the trip trying to interest him in the local narcotics and prostitution trades. Remo eventually had the driver drop him off in downtown Bachsburg.

On the street, everyone seemed tied in with some kind of vice. Remo counted six of the seven deadly sins on the way to the restaurant. The last holdout was gluttony, which reared its ugly face the instant he was seated next to a trio of thugs in the outdoor cafd. They were all over six feet tall, weighed well over two hundred pounds and looked as if they could punch their way through a prison wall.

The men had been loud already. It only got worse when Remo's meal arrived.

"Hey, get a load a dat," one of them said to his companions as the waiter set a plate before Remo. His New Jersey accent was thick. "What kinda faggy shit is dat?" He turned his attention to Remo. "Hey, what kinda faggy shit is dat?"

Remo did his best to ignore the question.

The brown rice was clumpy. That was fine. But the steamed fish had a thin aroma of garlic. Remo had specifically requested no seasonings.

"Hey, I'm talkin' to you," called the gangster at the next table.

"And I'm ignoring you," Remo said absently as he frowned at his fish. He didn't look at the man. "And everything you say doesn't have to be prefaced with 'hey,'" he added.

"Hey, what did he say?" the man asked his companions.

"Says he's ignoring you," one of the others said. The first man's face grew at first shocked, then angry.

"Do you know who I am?" he growled at Remo.

Remo finally turned a bland eye to the man, looking him up, then down. "Homo erectus?" he said, uninterested.

The man's face turned purple. "What the fuck did you call me?" Veins bulged on his broad forehead.

The others had at last taken note. Their rat eyes trained fury at Remo.

"He called you a queer hard-on, Johnny," one snarled.

The face of Johnny "Books" Fungillo, of New Jersey's Renaldi crime family, went from fluorescent purple to rage-drained white. He clambered to his feet, flinging his table away. Chairs and pastafilled plates crashed to the floor. People in the immediate area scattered.

Fat fingers ripped a heavy automatic pistol from beneath his jacket. Johnny aimed the gun at Remo, his hairy knuckle tickling the trigger.

"Whaddaya gonna call me now?" he snapped. "Huh?" His eyes were wild.

Now that he was standing-flanked on both sides by his Renaldi Family companions-Remo was far better able to get the full view of Johnny Fungillo.

"I'm not sure now," Remo mused, thoughtful. "You are standing upright. But you look more like one of the great apes. Maybe you're Australopithecus."

Johnny had no idea what that last word meant. But it didn't matter. The skinny little rice-eating fag had just gone from calling him a homo to an ape. It was more than Johnny Books could stand. Face contorting with raw fury, he pulled the trigger of his automatic.

The explosion brought shrieks from the main restaurant area. Some people fled into the street, though many remained where they were.

In the middle of the sidewalk cafe, Johnny Books was panting, sweating. He'd fired point-blank into the rat bastard's face. That'd teach him to call somebody a homo hard-on ape. He peered through the thin cloud of gunpowder smoke, looking for the body that would be sprawled on the ground.

When the adrenaline haze cleared, however, he was shocked to find his target still seated in his chair, a contemplative expression on his face.

"And yet you use tools," Remo commented. "Do true apes use tools? Maybe we could get Jane Goodall to classify you. You could be a whole new subspecies."

Johnny Fungillo didn't know what was going on. He stood there in shock, staring at the distant smoking barrel of his gun. In all his professional life as a Renaldi Family enforcer, he'd never once had an instance where he used his weapon and the target he was pointing at didn't wind up dead. Yet there was the insulting little creep sitting before him, breathing and talking as if he hadn't a care in the world.

He wouldn't miss a second time. Johnny took aim again-more carefully this time than before. He fired. This time when the explosion came, Johnny Books swore he saw movement, a blurry image of the skinny guy sliding to one side.

It was impossible. Men just couldn't move fast enough to avoid a bullet fired point-blank.

But to his shock, his target was still sitting calmly in his chair.

"And now it's time for Lancelot Link to surrender his opposable thumbs," Remo Williams said coldly.

He knew he shouldn't make a scene. Not in a crowded restaurant. Smith would go ballistic. On the other hand, the world sucked, Cluun had abandoned him and he was alone in a country that seemed to welcome depravity with open arms.

As Johnny Books squeezed his trigger a third time, he thought he saw another blur. Then the world seemed to spin wildly and he was suddenly sighting down on Jimmy "Mooch" Muchelli, his tablemate and fellow Renaldi foot soldier.

Jimmy's face grew shocked, there was a loud explosion and Jimmy's face turned very red.

Mooch Muchelli's features were little more than a crimson smear as he toppled back onto their overturned table.

"Bad pre-hominid," Remo chastised, very close to Johnny's ear.

Johnny Books wheeled to the voice.

Remo wasn't there. But Johnny's other companion was.

Bobby DiGardino had apparently drawn his own gun at some point during the commotion. But the Browning was now planted smack-dab in the middle of Bobby's forehead, barrel shoved deep in the gangster's nonfunctioning brain. As Johnny watched-now with more horror than rage-Bobby dropped to his knees and plopped face first into a plate of scungilli.

"Until you chimps can prove you've mastered fire and the wheel, no guns," Remo lectured them. Panicked now, Johnny whirled once more, his hand shaking as he met Remo's dark eyes.

There were only two options open for Johnny "Books" Fungillo, as far as he could ascertain. He could try once more to shoot the skinny guy with those deep menacing eyes. But so far that hadn't exactly been a rousing success. The other option was the better bet. Made all the more so after he'd given the body of Bobby DiGardino a quick glance.

Turning from Remo, Johnny hauled back and heaved his automatic as far into the depths of the restaurant as he possibly could. Waiters covered their heads with trays to deflect the ricochet when the gun discharged on impact. Throwing up his hands in surrender, Johnny smiled sheepishly at Remo, a sheen of prickly sweat darkening his perpetual five-o'clock shadow.

"Hey, you know somethin'?" Johnny Fungillo ventured. "You're right. I'm a monkey-fag-hard-on-ape-astroturf-pitcherpuss. You got anythin' else you wanna call me, you go right ahead, mister." Hairy knees knocked inside baggy pants legs.

Standing before the trembling gangster, Remo was already regretting his actions. The three mobsters hadn't given him much of a choice, but that didn't matter. Killing in broad daylight in a crowded restaurant was a stupid thing to do.

That was it. The mission was over. He had been depressed coming into it and had allowed his own problems to cloud his judgement.

After this, Smith would probably make him slip quietly out of the country. If the CURE director wanted something done in East Africa, he would have to rely on Chiun to do it. Assuming he could find the Master of Sinanju. All of this passed through Remo's mind in one angry moment.

But as he stood there, wishing he could melt into the background, a startling thing happened. Something he had never experienced in all his time as a professional assassin.

A tiny trickle of applause rose softly from one corner of the restaurant. Someone else quickly joined in. And in a shocking instant, the entire restaurant erupted in thunderous applause.

At the eye of the outburst of approval, Remo didn't know what to do.

Johnny Books glanced to the main restaurant, a dumb expression on his sweating face. Hands still raised, he offered the crowd a shrug that turned into a confused bow. When he turned nervously to his assailant, he was surprised to find that Remo had disappeared.

Johnny spun left, then right.

No sign of the skinny name-caller anywhere. Great relief drained the blood from Johnny Fungillo's underused brain. Eyes roiling back in their sockets, the New Jersey mobster fainted face first onto his spilled plate of fettuccine. He fell so hard, he broke one of his opposable thumbs.

"EXCUSE ME, SIR!"

Remo heard the smooth, efficient voice a minute after he'd slipped out of the sidewalk cafe.

He scowled as he looked over his shoulder.

The coldly handsome man had trailed him from the restaurant. Jogging, he caught up to Remo, a perfect smile on his chiseled model's face.

"We should talk," the man said, puffing to keep up. Though he had run half a city block in the sun and heat, he'd failed completely to break a sweat.

"I'm kind of busy," Remo said, still walking.

"Not for me," the man insisted. For an instant, the too genial smile vanished. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am L. Vas Deferens, defense minister and head of internal security for East Africa."

"Whoop-de-do for you," Remo replied.

The sidewalk was alive with foot traffic. A steady hum of street-clogging cars rolled by to their left. Remo noted a single limousine had pulled to the shoulder of the road and was now trailing him. He felt the mistrustful glare of Deferens's bodyguard driver through the tinted windshield.

"Yes," Deferens said flatly. The smile returned, though it seemed more forced than ever. "And your name is ... ? I make it a point to learn the identities of the men who impress me. It happens so rarely."

"Try a different bathhouse," Remo suggested.

Deferens's rosebud lips pulled to a faint frown. "I cannot legally compel you to tell me your name now. But it will be necessary eventually. Are you registered?"

"Not even engaged," Remo said.

A hint of confusion. "This would be what? American banter? I'm afraid it impresses me far less than your work back there." Deferens nodded back beyond his trailing limo, toward the restaurant. "I was the one who started the applause, by the way."

Still walking, Remo glanced at the pale blond man in the spotless white suit.

The East African was somewhere in his early to late forties. His cool outer demeanor wrapped a cold angry core. His grin was flash-frozen conceit.

Remo had a sudden desire to plant his hand, wrist deep, into that pale, smug face.

Instead, he screwed his mouth shut and kept walking.

"You must register properly if you are going to advertise your services in East Africa," Deferens insisted.

"Advertising's for amateurs without reputations," Remo muttered, paraphrasing an old Sinanju tenet. "The truly great don't have to hawk themselves in the classifieds."

At this, Deferens shook his head. "You don't strike me as a fool. If you are here now, you are serious about your business. Given your performance in the restaurant, I don't think there's any question what that business is. Of course, we take a relaxed attitude toward that sort of thing here. But not commerce. You must register within the twenty-four-hour required period or face the consequences."

"I won't be here that long," Remo promised.

Deferens tipped his head thoughtfully. "Pity," he said.

A business card appeared in one soft hand. If he'd been carrying it since he'd left the restaurant, it didn't show. Despite the intense heat, there wasn't a sign of perspiration on the cardboard. He slipped the card into Remo's hand.

"If you decide to stay and need work, contact me," Deferens said seriously. "If we do not see each other again, it has been a distinct pleasure to meet you."

Braking behind Remo, Deferens stepped briskly to the curb. His car stopped obediently. The door sprang open as if from its own volition and Deferens climbed inside. With a thrum of its powerful engine, the car was absorbed into traffic and slipped off down the busy street.

Alone on the sidewalk, Remo looked down at the card in his hand. Deferens's name, title and Bachsburg number were printed in black, raised letters.

A manipulation of fingers brought the card from thumb to pinkie. By the time it had gone from one side of his hand to the other, the card had been slit into five neat strips.

He let the sections flutter to the concrete. "Dipshit country," Remo muttered to himself. For a brief instant, he was angry at Chiun once more for abandoning him. But almost as soon he realized that the East Africa the Master of Sinanju knew would almost certainly not have anything in common with this one. Chiun would have as difficult a time interpreting the customs of this modern Sodom as he was having.

The revelation brought little comfort.

Stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, Remo wandered off down the busy Bachsburg street.

Chapter 7

And thus it was that a Master of Sinanju did return to the land of Kwaanga Luzu, discovered by Master Nuk in the year of the Dead Milk Sky. But, lo, the nation to which this current Master did come was not the rich and prosperous land described by Nuk in the Master's Scrolls...

AS THE TRUCK bounced along the rutted path, a cloud of thick dust rose in its wake. The Luzu tribesmen accompanying Chiun jounced on their threadbare seats. Beside his Luzu driver in the front seat, the Master of Sinanju could have been frozen in amber. Though the rest were thrown from side to side, the old Korean remained suspended in space, as if beyond the vicissitudes of tire ruts and bad driving.

Although his face was an inscrutable mask, his thoughts were deeply troubled.

Nuk had painted an image in the Sinanju histories of a Luzuland blessed with rich soil and full crops, with a people strong and proud. But where Chiun expected to see fields of gently waving grain, he saw mile after mile of barren wasteland. Where he thought he would see powerful men and robust maidens, he found emaciated husks of human beings.

They had left the rented limousine in Bachsburg. Chiun had been transferred to a battered GMC Suburban at the edge of the East African capital. He was glad Remo hadn't been around for that disgrace. The big truck bounced and creaked its way along the winding, rutted road in the desert wilds north of the country's urban center.

"Who are these pitiful creatures?" the Master of Sinanju queried as they passed a miserable collection of people squatting forlornly in the dust at the side of the road. He assumed they were vagabonds from some other tribe who had found their way to Luzuland.

His driver had stripped off his jacket and tie. Most of his dress shirt buttons were open.

"They are Luzu," his young driver said, shame in his voice. His name was Bubu.

"How is this possible?" Chiun said, a hint of bewilderment in his squeaky tone. He shook his aged head. "These dirt eaters cannot be the children of Kwaanga."

"They are, Master Chiun," Bubu insisted. His jaw quivered in impotent fury at the admission. There was much strength in the young man, although his well of disgrace ran deep. They passed many more pitiful Luzus on their way to the main village, yet Chiun said not another word. But when they reached the main settlement, it was all the old man could do not to cry out in shock.

Houses of peeling clapboard and pitifully thatched roofs lined the dirt streets of the poverty-stricken shantytown that was the heart of the Luzu civilization. The Suburban and the other truck containing Chiun's steamer trunks slowed to a stop in the broad cul-de-sac that was the town's dead center.

Chiun was stunned at the appearance of his welcoming committee. He had hoped that the people they had passed along the long road to the Luzu city had somehow found themselves in disfavor with the current chief. To his horror, he found that he couldn't have been more wrong.

The people who waited to greet him looked as if mere existence were an effort. Their secondhand clothing was threadbare and drained of color. Their eyes were sunken and bereft of hope. Skin was pulled taut and dry around fat, protruding bones. Teeth jutted forward in large and yellowed overbites of malnutrition.

Chiun hid his stunned disgust behind a look of imperious indifference as the Suburban rolled to a stop in front of the largest of the ramshackle buildings. Behind the first truck, the other vehicle squeaked to a groaning, dusty standstill.

A faded purple carpet, gilded along the edge with gold embroidery, extended from the open black mouth of the huge shack in front of which Chiun's truck had stopped. The moment his sandals touched the threadbare rug, a large figure emerged from the shadowy doorway.

The man's fat face glistened brightly. As he strode forward, his voice boomed out over the sullen crowd in the square. "Greetings, O great son of Nuk!"

"Greetings, Batubizee, son of Kwaanga, king of the Luzu," the Master of Sinanju replied when the two men met in the center of the rotted carpet.

Each bowed deeply and formally.

Batubizee wore a purple ankle-length burnoose. Although the carpet and robe had once been the same color, the chief's raiments had better withstood the assault of time. The ceremonial purple was rich and vibrant. On Batubizee's head sat a squat golden crown, the front of which held three fused circles. Tiny diamonds were embedded in the front of the headpiece.

Bubu had followed Chiun up the carpet.

"He was possessed of the sign," the young native announced quietly, passing the chief the ceremonial dagger.

Batubizee took the knife, nodding as he did so. "I do not need some trinket to tell me who this is," Chief Batubizee proclaimed. "His bearing alone tells me that this is the true son of Nuk." But though his words were strong, there was an undertone of uncertainty.

Chiun noted the hesitation in the Luzu leader's voice.

"Many generations have passed since the time of Nuk, ruler of the Luzu," the Master of Sinanju intoned. "Nuk has long since sought the repose of the Void. I am son of Chiun, pupil of H'si T'ang."

"Of course." The Luzu chief nodded. "Great warriors, all, I am sure."

Standing in the squalor of his village, dressed in the finery of days long past, Batubizee couldn't help but give the impression of someone embarrassed by the pitiful state he found himself in. He was like a once rich man, now destitute, in a losing battle to maintain as much of his former air as possible.

"We must confer," the chief said softly. Chiun nodded silent agreement.

Batubizee turned to his people, raising his flabby arms high in the air. "My people, this is truly a glorious day! One that will be spoken of for generations to come! Today is the beginning of the new Luzu Empire!"

The cheers that had trailed Master Nuk as he sailed away centuries before had long before faded to morose silence. The men and women gathered in the dust of this day remained sullen and quiet as the Master of Sinanju and Chief Batubizee ducked inside the big house.

Afterward the crowd silently dispersed.

THE ENGINE Hum of Defense Minister Deferens's limousine had faded in with the other background traffic. Remo drifted down the sidewalk, lost in private thoughts.

The businesses in this part of town seemed devoted to all things pornographic. He therefore wasn't surprised when Trollop Seasoning bounded out onto the sidewalk from one of the small shops, her arms loaded with packages. Her thick purple heels clattered loudly as she hustled to a waiting car. "Girl domination!" she shrieked over her shoulder at the store's closing door.

The other Seasonings screeched the same words from somewhere in the dark recesses of the sex shop.

Trollop dumped her booty in the car. As he passed by, Remo noted that the vehicle had government plates.

He had gone only a few feet more when a grating voice chimed in from behind him.

"Well, hello, sailor!" cried Trollop. Balancing on five-inch heels, she hurried up beside him. "You look like a guy who likes a good time!"

"I like my eardrums more," Remo replied.

"Huh?" Trollop asked. She didn't wait for a response. "What say we find someplace quiet and make it loud!"

Remo stopped so abruptly, Trollop plowed into him.

There was something distinctly odd about her exposed belly. It felt too soft and cold.

"Are you talking sex, Austin Powers?" he asked.

Her crow's-feet wrinkled appreciatively. "The best you ever had, baby," Trollop vowed.

"Will you talk while we're doing it?"

"Talk?" Trollop scoffed. "Baby, I'll scream."

Remo mused for but a second. "Pass."

He continued on.

Trollop obviously was not used to rejection.

"I can rock ya till your fillings pop out," she promised, hurrying after him.

"Don't have fillings," Remo said. "I lost a couple of teeth playing high-school football, but they grew back."

"You still had baby teeth in high school?" she asked.

"Nope," Remo replied simply.

She didn't even hear. As she clip-clopped beside him, Trollop rubbed the sides of her strangely elastic protruding belly in what was supposed to be a seductive manner.

As her tongue lapped her glossy lips and her eyelids batted ropy lashes, Remo briefly wondered what kind of parent in their right mind would have allowed their teenaged daughter to buy into the whole "Seasonings" concept.

"Next alley we pass, I'm yours," she breathed. "I know what you need, what you really, really need."

That did it. It was the quoting of her band's most famous song that finished Remo. He stopped dead. "Condoms," he announced.

Her smile broke full on bleached teeth. "Got 'em," she replied excitedly. She began fishing in her purple purse.

Remo shook his head. "Not enough. I know where you've been. I'll need seventy or eighty. Enough that I won't even have to be in the same room while we're doing it. And you're going to need some kind of gag. Preferably one with some kind of locking mechanism and a key that can be easily lost."

"I'm on it!" Trollop promised. "Wait right here!"

Turning on one huge heel, she thundered down the street.

The rest of the Seasonings were just walking out of the sex shop, their arms loaded with overstuffed bags when Trollop plowed into them. The big boxes that were balanced on their massively pregnant stomachs went flying in every direction.

Remo wasn't around to witness the fallout. When the screaming started, he was already ducking around the corner of the busy four-lane street.

He didn't have time to revel in the little bit of unhappiness he'd delivered into the lives of the four women who had irritated him so much. The instant he turned the corner, he became aware of someone watching him.

It wasn't one of the Seasonings, or even one of the many prostitutes who trolled the streets of Bachsburg. With a shudder, he realized that it was the same strange sensation he'd felt at the Carlson wake.

Without breaking stride, he casually sought out the source.

Years of exacting training designed for the express purpose of not telegraphing moves to an opponent couldn't prepare him for the shock of what he found. Any pleasure he'd gotten from tormenting Trollop Seasoning bled away.

Standing on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the busy street was the child from baby Karen's wake. The same Korean boy he'd seen at the airport in New York.

Remo stopped dead. Someone bumped into him from behind, cursing him for stopping so abruptly. Remo didn't even hear.

It was impossible. First in Peoria, then the disappearing act at JFK and now here.

There was something very odd going on.

As the cars continued to rush past, Remo caught only glimpses of the boy between them. At one moment he was staring at Remo, his big brown eyes filled with a world of sadness; the next he had turned away. With small, mournful steps, he began walking slowly down the adjacent street.

On the other side of the road, Remo shook his head. "Not this time," he muttered firmly.

There wasn't time to wait for a break in traffic. From a standing position, Remo vaulted into the street.

His toe caught the hood of a speeding Jaguar. It made neither dent nor scratch as he pushed off. Brushing the roof of a Volvo, he skipped over the two racing Saabs that were heading in the two opposite lanes before landing at a full sprint on the far sidewalk.

But when he reached the spot where he'd last seen the boy, he was no longer there.

Remo scanned the sidewalk, spinning a complete circle.

The foot traffic was not so great that the boy could be swallowed up by it. Yet he was nowhere to be seen. As he had at the airport, the young Korean child had vanished.

Remo didn't know what to make of it. But one thing was certain. The depression he had been feeling was beginning to be eclipsed by a growing sense of apprehension.

Keeping his eyes peeled for the strange apparition, he began walking down the suddenly eerie East African sidewalk.

Chapter 8

Tea and fruit had been laid out on a long low table in the center of the small dining area. There were also strips of fish that had been cured in salt, making them inedible to the Master of Sinanju.

Choosing a small sliver of citrus fruit, Chiun settled amid the rugs and pillows arranged on the dirt floor of the oversize hut. On one knee, the Master of Sinanju balanced a china teacup and saucer; on the other knee was a matching plate with his meager slice of fruit.

"Your journey was a pleasant one, I hope," Chief Batubizee said. The big man had settled into a comfortable pile of cushions across from the old Asian. Bubu stood behind him, off to one side.

"As pleasant as travel through the air can be," Chiun replied, lifting his china cup.

Batubizee nodded. "I have never been in an airplane. They are frightful contrivances. I fear the wings will drop off and they will plummet to the ground."

"A wise concern." Chiun nodded. "Yet to avoid all progress is to be mired hopelessly in the past." Letting his words hang in the air between them, the old man bit into the wedge of fruit. It was sweet and pulpy. Frowning, he ate only one-quarter, leaving the rest on the expensive china plate.

Batubizee fidgeted on his pillows. He shot a quick glance at Bubu before looking back at the Master of Sinanju.

"Do you not wish to know why I summoned you?" the chief asked.

"I assumed you had not brought me all this way to eat what little food is left in this barren land," Chiun replied.

As the old man sipped carefully at his green tea, a dark cloud passed over the Luzu chief's brow. Batubizee took a deep breath, drawing the musty smell of the big room deep into his lungs.

"Mine is not the tribe your histories describe," he admitted. A proud man, he fought hard to hide his shame. "We are not as the Great Nuk left us, all those years ago."

"Nuk the Unwise," Chiun corrected.

The chief's brow furrowed once more. "I beg your pardon?" he said, confused.

Chiun set his teacup to the floor. "In the annals of my House, the honorific 'great' is not bestowed lightly. All Masters aspire to it, but only one has yet achieved it. And Nuk is not that man."

Batubizee shook his head. "Forgive me, Master of Sinanju, but this cannot be. Nuk was a man like no other. So it has been told from the time of Kwaanga, passed down from one generation to the next. Your ancestor was a warrior of great strength and skill."

"As are all Masters of Sinanju," Chiun said simply. "And if a man gives all of his sons the same name, how will any of them know when he is being called? Imagine the confusion in our histories if everyone was described as the 'great this' and the 'great that.' Hence Nuk the Unwise."

"But he was wise," Batubizee insisted. "He shepherded the Luzu Empire to greatness. If not for him, we would be but poor vagabonds, dwelling forgotten in the wilderness."

At this, Chiun fell silent.

The stinging silence wasn't necessary. Batubizee realized the irony of his own words the instant he had uttered them. Still seated, he pushed his shoulders high in a sorry attempt to recapture his dignity.

"It was not always so," the Luzu chief said bitterly.

"No," Chiun agreed. "Nuk the Unwise set sail from a thriving civilization. For centuries after his departure, when word of the Luzu reached the shores of my village, it told of the strong and prosperous empire Nuk had established in the wilds of Africa."

"For many years it was true," Batubizee admitted. "Until the Europeans." The last word was spoken like a curse. "Our wars with the English went poorly. The whites established settlements that grew into cities. They took our land and called it East Africa. Because of them, we die." His strong voice quavered with passion.

Chiun considered the chief's words for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft.

"What the whites have done to you with their socalled civilization is not unique. My own land has been visited many times by the armies of emperors, khans and presidents. The Luzu I have seen seem infected in their souls. You cannot blame the government in Bachsburg for what I have witnessed here."

Batubizee's nostrils flared with thin impatience. "The whites showed my people a new way of life. They had power and wealth that dwarfed our own. Over the past century, many of our young fled to the cities. Poverty flooded the void they left. Now even the slums of Bachsburg are richer than the land of my fathers."

"I have traveled much in my long life, O Luzu chief." Chiun nodded wisely. "The West's influence is inescapable, though one flee to the most distant corner of the world."

Nodding at Chiun's words, Batubizee willed himself calm. "There was a time that I thought I could affect the white system from within. When free elections were established, I campaigned for president of East Africa."

Chiun raised a thin eyebrow. "A Luzu chief run for president?" he clucked in disapproval. "Surely things are not so bad. If you want for anything, rally your people and take by force from the whites in Bachsburg."

Batubizee shook his head. "The whites are no longer the problem-though the system they created has outlived them. As for my taking anything by force, the government in Bachsburg with its tanks and guns does not fear the spears of a few starving tribesmen."

Chiun had been growing quietly annoyed by the Luzu chief's defeated air. But at this he shook his head firmly, gossamer tufts of hair quivering with the first blush of real anger. "That cannot be," he insisted. "Or has the gift of Nuk been lost with your ability to plant and hunt?"

Batubizee stiffened. "No," he said thinly, "it has not. But though it has been passed from one generation to the next-- even to this day-we are not Masters of Sinanju. While we faced men who were our equal, we were strong, but those days were gone long before my time. East Africa is proud that it is the only nation on Earth to have dismantled its nuclear stockpile, but it still has many guns. And while Sinanju might not fear these weapons, my people do. I need your help, descendant of Nuk, to help them overcome their fear." He leaned forward. "I would remind you that this was part of Kwaanga's original agreement with Master Nuk."

The chief's defeated tone had only fed the Korean's frown. But now it was clear the Luzu leader also felt that Chiun was a doddering old man who needed to be refreshed on the details of Nuk's contract. Chiun hid his offense behind a veneer of irritation.

"This is why you summoned me from the side of the emperor I now serve?" he asked, his irritation clear.

Batubizee shook his head. "It is but part of the reason. Do you know of Willie Mandobar?"

Chiun exhaled impatience. "Of course. He is the convict president who is a hero to the idiots of the West."

"He is president no more," Chief Batubizee said ominously. "His lackey, Kmpali, rules from the white palace. But the evil Mandobar yet lingers like a disease. He is using his influence to turn the nation he ruled into a haven for wickedness."

At this Chiun's brow furrowed. "Is not his wife the evil one?"

The chief shook his head. "It was thought by many that she was the evil behind the good. But they were divorced many years ago, and she was driven from power. While he ruled, she was even punished in the courts. It is Mandobar himself who is the wicked one. If he is successful in his scheme, East Africa will become the focus of corruption for all the world. And that poison will flood into Luzuland."

Try as he might, Chiun couldn't imagine a Luzuland any worse than the one he had already seen. "What is it you wish from Sinanju?" the old Asian asked.

Shifting his broad bottom on his mound of pillows, Batubizee clapped his hands.

Bubu stepped quickly forward, a sheet of wrinkled yellow parchment in his dark hand.

"I invoke Kwaanga's contract with Nuk," Batubizee announced imperiously. Pulling the paper from Bubu, he presented it to Chiun. "This wicked shadow from the south threatens to destroy the whole of the Luzu Empire. To ensure the safety of my people and honor the bond of your House, Sinanju must slay the evil Willie Mandobar."

Chiun took the paper in his long, tapered fingers, giving it hardly a glance. He already knew it was a standard agreement for the era. Nuk's mark appeared at the bottom alongside the symbol of Sinanju.

"You have read your contract well," Chiun said, even of voice. The parchment quivered at the end of his long talons.

Batubizee nodded gravely. "You are bound to obey."

Chiun nodded agreement. "That is true," he said. "My House is obligated by the terms of this agreement to assist you at any future time if ever there is a threat great enough to topple the Luzu Empire. If what you say is true, clearly that threat now exists."

A smile of cunning split the Luzu chief's face. "Excellent," he enthused. "I will have you taken-"

Chiun raised a wickedly sharp nail. "Except," he interrupted.

The contract still remained in his other hand. But it no longer quivered. In fact, Batubizee noted, not even the normal currents of air passing through the squalid hut seemed to disturb the delicate sheet.

The chief's smile settled into sagging jowls of suspicion. "Except what?" Batubizee asked.

An index fingernail sought a spot on the parchment. "You have forgotten this mark." When the old man saw the look of confusion on the Luzu chief's face, he tipped his aged head. "Surely Kwaanga passed down its significance?" Batubizee squinted at the proffered contract. Chiun's long nail tapped at a single squiggle, faded from age but still visible, above the Sinanju symbol. Batubizee glanced up, his puzzlement only deeper. "Is that not an error?" he asked of the small mark.

Chiun sat back to the floor, finally examining the contract for himself.

"Sinanju does not make errors," he sniffed as he studied the ancient paper. "That is the symbol for payment. Yes, my House is obliged to take on any task that meets the terms of this agreement, provided the Luzu compensate us for the service." When he looked back up, his eyes were steady.

Batubizee was clearly stunned. He looked helplessly at Bubu. An angry frown had sprouted on the young man's face. When the chief looked once more at Chiun, all vestiges of his regal attitude had fled. An expression bordering on frightened despair clutched his broad features.

Chiun was nodding gently, his tufts of trailing hair a thoughtful echo to the slow movement. "Nuk might have been unwise. But he was not a fool."

And the Master of Sinanju offered a faint smile.

Chapter 9

Remo wandered morosely through the streets of Bachsburg for nearly three hours. In all that time, he didn't see his little Korean shadow again. He was assaulted twice by muggers and was propositioned countless times by prostitutes who seemed to sprout like weeds from the cracks in the sidewalk. Upon eyeing his lean frame and pensive, cruel eyes, most of the ladies of the evening broke with tradition, offering to pay him. Each time, he declined.

Smith had wanted him to knock out the underpinnings of Willie Mandobar's corrupt scheme, but Remo found that since the latest disappearance of the mysterious Korean boy, his depression had worsened. Whether it was caused by Chiun's Master's disease or the boy didn't really matter. Whatever the reason, at the moment he didn't feel much like killing his way up the chain of command in the African nation.

At a busy intersection, Remo found a bank of gaily colored public telephones. He stopped near them for a while to watch the traffic. After counting 106 blue cars and 61 red ones, he finally grew bored enough to make the call he didn't really feel like making.

Reluctantly, he snagged up a phone. Dropping in a fistful of change, he began depressing the 1 button repeatedly, activating the special rerouters that would transfer the call to Upstairs.

As he waited for the static clicks to finish, Remo tried to spark some enthusiasm in something. To this end, he made a private bet with himself that it would take the CURE director two rings instead of the usual one to answer.

DR. HAROLD W. SMITH was amazed.

These days, it was not often the taciturn New Englander with the perpetually dyspeptic expression and enveloping gray demeanor experienced any kind of emotion at all, let alone something as strong as utter amazement. Yet there was no other way to describe what he was feeling.

The scant reports from East Africa had come to his attention barely a handful of days ago. But ever since he had dispatched Remo and Chiun to that nation, information had been increasing every hour-almost exponentially. What began as a trickle rapidly became a flood.

Weary eyes of flinty gray scanned the raw data as it was collected by the CURE mainframes, which were hidden behind a secret basement wall far below.

The wall that hid the Folcroft Four from prying eyes was representative of everything around Smith. Nothing was as it appeared. The building in which he worked was an elaborate disguise. To the world, Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, was an exclusive institution for the chronically ill and mentally deranged. Its public face masked the work of CURE, the most damning secret in the history of America.

Even Smith himself was a lie. His post as director of Folcroft occupied almost none of the, time he spent locked away in his Spartan administrator's office. As the efficient head of CURE, Smith had spent nearly forty years safeguarding America from threats both domestic and foreign. East Africa certainly fell into the latter category.

Over his shoulder, a pane of one-way glass overlooked the sanitarium's private back lawn, which stretched down to the gently lapping waters of Long Island Sound.

Smith didn't have time to even glance at the serene beauty of the yellow sunlight as it sparkled off the rolling black waves. His spotless glasses were trained with laserlike focus on the computer screen buried beneath the surface of his gleaming onyx desk.

When the blue contact phone jangled to life at his elbow, Smith barely reacted to the sound. The rest of his body continued to study the information on his monitor as a single arthritis-gnarled hand snaked out to pick up the old-fashioned receiver.

"Smith," he said crisply.

"Dammit, why do you always have to pick up on the first ring?" Remo said in an irritated voice.

"Remo," Smith said. He blinked away fatigue, turning his attention away from his computer. "Yeah, it's me," Remo said. "And just so you know, I'm in East Africa, I'm alone and I'm irritable. So don't piss me off."

"Alone?" Smith asked, surprised. "Didn't Chiun accompany you?"

"He sure did," Remo said aridly. "And then bagged out on me the minute we got here. Don't start on that, Smitty. I've already explored that particular canker sore one time too many."

Remo's tone was such that Smith decided not to press further. Changing topics, he forged on. "What do you have to report?"

"Well, Chiun ditched me at the airport, they put garlic on your fish here even when you ask them not to, I kacked two guys at lunch and the country's defense minister is heavy into plantation suits and hiring hit men."

Smith sat back in his chair. "Are you saying East Africa's defense minister is in on Mandobar's scheme?"

"It sure looked that way," Remo said. "He isn't fazed by dead bodies, anyway. Guy's name is Elvis something."

"His name is L. Vas Deferens," Smith corrected. "That is Vas, as in pause."

"However it's pronounced, he's one cool customer," Remo said. "I've gotta admit, I'm thinking of taking him up on his offer. He's way better looking than you. I could clean up on his sloppy seconds."

Smith refused to become distracted. "And you are saying Deferens saw you-" he searched for the right euphemism "-at work?"

"Him and a restaurant full of people," Remo said. "And before you start on me, it was not my fault."

Pushing up his rimless glasses, Smith pinched the bridge of his nose. "Were you seen with him?" he asked wearily.

"Beats me," Remo said. "I skedaddled from the restaurant, but he caught up with me outside. His driver saw us for sure. Plus there were about a billion cars going by."

"Remo, given the delicate nature of this assignment, it should have been a priority with you to avoid public exposure-more so than usual." Smith's hours at his computer had made him bone tired. Exhaling the acid stench of bile, he readjusted his glasses. "As defense minister of East Africa, Deferens is known. By allowing yourself to be linked publicly to him, you automatically remove him from the list of those you can eliminate."

"What kind of dopey reasoning is that?" Remo said sourly. "No one's gonna make any connection."

"Perhaps. However, we cannot take that chance," Smith said. "Given the circumstances, it might be wise if you kept a low profile for now. Where is Chiun?"

Smith could almost see Remo's foul expression. "I told you, I don't want to talk about it."

"Remo, be reasonable," Smith said. "It's possible you cannot follow through on the mission as outlined. Perhaps Chiun can. I need to speak with him."

"Good luck," Remo snorted. "The last I saw him, he and the rest of the Royal Explorers Club were schlepping off into the wilds of Luzuland."

A knot of concern. "Luzuland?" Smith asked, puzzled. "Why was he going there?"

The answer was the one he hoped he wouldn't get.

"Who knows?" Remo groused. "Another million-year-old Sinanju contract, by the sounds of it. But if he expects me to get tangled up in some ancient House obligation where I've got to wrestle a hippo or marry the chief's spinster sister, no way. Remo don't play that anymore."

Smith's thin lips had tightened. As Remo spoke, he tapped an angry finger on the smooth surface of his desk.

"You have succeeded, Remo, in making this situation more problematic for us than it already was," he said, his voice tart with accusation.

"Don't blame me for Chiun going AWOL," Remo warned.

"I am referring to both of you," Smith retorted.

"You're the one making this harder than it has to be," Remo accused. "Why don't we just do what we should have done in the first place? Let me go zap Mandobar. He's the chief crook and bottle washer here. With him gone, the rest of them will just fade into the woodwork."

"Mandobar is already gone," Smith said tersely.

Remo paused. "What do you mean?"

"He left the country during the night. It was only announced an hour ago. President Kmpali was on a goodwill tour of the Far East that was not going well. According to reports, Mandobar was recruited because of his stature to aid the current president in his mission to bring investment to East Africa."

"Then let me go after him."

"No," Smith insisted. "That is not an option." The CURE director sighed. "We can assume Mandobar has left the country to maintain some of his integrity should word of what is happening in East Africa leak out. Perhaps we can still follow through on our original plan. Give me a little time to see if another option presents itself." Smith checked his Timex. "Call me-"

He was interrupted by a new voice on the line. "Hands up!" the muffled voice barked.

Seated in his cracked leather chair, Smith's spine stiffened. "What was that?" he demanded worriedly.

He held his breath, awaiting Remo's response. When Remo spoke, he was more irritated than concerned.

"Just a sec, Smitty," he said, aggravated.

STANDING AT THE East African phone booth, Remo had sensed his assailant's furtive approach. When the stiletto jabbed into the small of his back, his body had already willed blood to flow into the dense muscles.

Given the surprisingly unyielding nature of its target, the knife skipped out of his attacker's hand, clattering to the sidewalk.

"Don't move," warned his as-yet unseen assailant as he pounced on his lost weapon.

The East African voice had the usual harsh consonants of the former British colony.

Remo turned, already knowing what he'd find. The kid was no more than nine years old, with features a mix of white and black. He had retrieved his small knife and was brandishing it menacingly. "Gimme your wallet," the kid scowled.

"Isn't this a school night?" Remo replied tersely. The youth didn't appreciate the unexpected response. To prove he meant business, he jabbed his knife at Remo's belly.

With his free hand, Remo snagged the blade. When his two extended fingers closed around the sharp metal, the knife blade snapped in two. A long silver section clicked to the sidewalk.

"Scissors break knife," he said.

The kid wasn't listening. He was staring in wonder at the broken remains of his weapon.

Before the shock of what had happened could trigger the kid's impulse to flee, Remo reached out and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. Twirling him in place, he gave the youth a good solid kick in his hindquarters.

The broadside of Remo's loafer propelled the would-be mugger five yards down the busy street. He landed in a painful protracted slide on his bottom that lasted another five yards. When he scampered to his feet, most of the seat of his trousers was missing. Thin smoke rose from the tattered edges. Visible flesh had been scraped raw.

Howling in pain, the boy scurried away, fanning his smarting derriere.

"Unbelievable." Remo scowled, returning to the phone.

"What was that?" Smith's worried voice asked.

"Freaking Sodom and Gomorrah," Remo snapped. "I'll call you in a while, Smitty, assuming I haven't turned into a salt lick first."

And when he slammed the phone into the cradle he did so with such ferocity the concrete around the steel pedestal cracked.

Chapter 10

The mountain route to the Luzu treasure storehouse had been carefully recorded in the histories of Sinanju by Nuk. Chiun made no note of this as the rotted old Suburban steered the familiar path into the hinterlands of KwaLuzu.

Bubu drove Chief Batubizee's truck along the old trail across a vast arid plain and up into a jagged collection of low-lying rock hills. When they were halfway up the mountain road, Chiun spied what appeared to be a new development at the distant fringes of the Luzu territory.

"What is that place?" the old Korean asked, his eyes narrow.

Batubizee shared the back seat with Chiun.

"It was built in haste by former government workers," the Luzu chief replied. "It is said to be a place of evil."

Chiun eyed the distant bungalows with suspicion until the Suburban crested the mountain. The dollhouses disappeared behind an outcropping and were gone.

The path took them down the other side of the mountain and into a barren valley. Scars in the rock denoted many an abandoned diamond mine. They drove beyond these decaying ruins of the ancient Luzu empire until they reached a secluded part of the valley.

Chiun recognized the huge stones that served as markers to the Luzu treasure house. They looked like two giant's feet that had been petrified in rock. Turning, Bubu backed the Suburban into the shade between the rocks.

"I did not know we would have to pay," the Luzu chief said, creeping anxiety in his voice. "Failure to accept prompt payment for a service is unforgivable in Sinanju," Chiun announced. "Worse is to extend credit. That was Nuk's error, and his lesson. No Master before or since has ever engaged in his folly."

Batubizee and Bubu shared a glance in the rearview mirror. Unlike his nervous chief, the young man's expression was unreadable.

When the three of them got out of the truck, Batubizee took the lead. He brought them up an ancient path that although seeming to be a natural formation-had been chiseled into the rock with great care.

The path led up the side of the mountain and to an angled plateau. At the rear of the ridge, the rising wall indented deeply. Batubizee walked into the wide declivity.

The rock at the rear of the passage was sheered in such a way that it made the face of the mountain appear unbroken. At the far end of the hollow, Batubizee stepped close to a tall chunk of fingered rock. He turned back one time to Chiun, anxiety brushing his big eyes. All at once, he vanished, swallowed up by the stone face of the cliff.

Chiun had sensed the hollowness beyond the stone wall. When he got close, he found that the rock behind which the chief had gone was a few feet from the wall of the cliff. The gap between offered a narrow opening to a black cave.

The Master of Sinanju slipped around the rock and entered the cavern. Bubu followed on silent feet.

The treasure cave was nearly bare. The Luzu Wars and subsequent poverty had siphoned almost everything away.

Empty coffers had been piled against a handcarved wall. On the floor were rolled a few dusty and rotted tapestries-the tattered remnants of a once great empire.

In this empty cave of the Luzu, the Master of Sinanju saw a lesson. Even though the Sinanju treasure house was full, there could very well come a time when the tiny Korean village found itself in this same dire situation. He only wished Remo were there so that he could impress on him the importance of what this represented.

"We are not as rich as we were in the time of Nuk," the Luzu chief apologized, interrupting Chiun's thoughts. He stood across the cave near a small linen-covered chest. The only one of its kind in the large, empty room.

"You were not rich when Nuk discovered you," Chiun replied, his singsong voice echoing against the bare cavern walls.

Batubizee nodded stiffly.

With Bubu's help, the chief hefted the chest from the dirt floor. Carrying it over, the two men placed it at Chiun's sandaled feet. After a second's hesitation, the chief sprang the lid.

Although the chest was large, it was only halffull. Chiun saw at once that the greenish-tinged gold coins contained within it were of the kind minted for Nuk centuries before. In spite of the many abandoned mines they had passed on their way there, not even a single diamond was in the ratty old box.

Crouching next to the case, Batubizee looked up at the Master of Sinanju, a hopeful expression on his broad face.

"Is it enough?" he asked sadly.

Chiun looked from the chief to the gold. Bending, he removed one of the rotting coins from atop the pile. He held up the gold piece, inspecting it in the stream of wan light that slipped into the cave between the fissure in the rock.

The old man's silence spoke volumes. Batubizee suspected what the answer to his question would be. Bitter disappointment flooded the chief's soul as he looked despairingly on what little remained of the glory days of his once mighty empire. He did not have the right to expect anything anymore.

Above him, Chiun harrumphed abruptly. When the chief looked up he was just in time to see the coin vanish within the folds of the old Korean's brocade kimono.

"This will do as a down payment," Chiun intoned, his face dull. He folded his arms inside his voluminous sleeves.

Batubizee was beside himself with joy. He clambered to his feet. "Thank you, Master of Sinanju!" he exclaimed.

"Do not thank me," Chiun sniffed. "I will need a dozen of your most fierce warriors. If you cannot pay for our services in full, do not expect Sinanju to do all the work."

He started for the door of the cave.

Batubizee nodded as he followed, his chins bobbing excitedly. "It will be as you say, son of Nuk."

"And stop saying I am that fool's offspring," Chiun grumbled, annoyance creasing his wrinkled face as he stepped back into the sunlight. "I am not some three-hundred-year-old son of a dimwit." Batubizee didn't argue.

Perhaps the legends were true. Maybe this was the one man who could lead his people from despair.

Feeling the hope rising within him for the first time in a long, long time, the Luzu chief hurried out of the murky treasure cave.

Chapter 11

The first thing Remo did after he'd checked into the most expensive hotel in Bachsburg was to order thirty thousand dollars' worth of Iranian caviar. When it arrived, he promptly flushed the black sturgeon eggs down the toilet.

He was surprised that so little caviar cost so much, but was pleased when such a small amount still had the effect he'd been looking for. Bluetinged toilet water overflowed onto the bathroom's tile floor and spilled out onto the plush carpeting of his expensive hotel suite.

When angry workers arrived with buckets and boots, Remo claimed he was only returning the caviar to its natural habitat. Their intense displeasure was precisely what he was shooting for. That coupled with the fact that he knew Smith's grayish face would turn purple when he got the room-service-and-repair bill bolstered Remo's mood.

Stepping more lightly than he had the past few days, he left the hotel and wandered down the main streets of Bachsburg. He didn't know it at the time, but he was heading in the direction of the presidential palace.

TWO BLOCKS AWAY, Private V. D. Pecher of the Citizen Force of the Republic of East Africa was completing the last of his late-afternoon rounds. He marched crisply around the exterior of the huge presidential palace, the barrel of his semiautomatic rifle braced smartly against his shoulder.

President Kmpali was away. A missing president always meant a peaceful shift at the ornate building of French and Portuguese design. Such had been the case for several days.

Private Pecher liked it when it was quiet. Truth be told, he didn't know what exactly he might do if it ever got noisy when the president was there.

Pecher-like many of the guards-was white. And in his most private thoughts he still didn't like the idea of having to guard a mooka president. Of course, Pecher kept this to himself. While most of the other white guards agreed with him, one could not say such things in this new East Africa.

And so Private V. D. Pecher did his job, always wondering what it would have been like if the last white president, O. C. Stiggs, hadn't turned the keys to the kingdom over to Willie Mandobar and his band of mooka rebels.

On this last afternoon of his young life, Pecher was thinking unpleasant thoughts about Mandobar as he rounded the north side of the palace complex and began marching across the broad east face of the main five-story building.

He instantly saw the commotion at the front gate. Several other guards were already gathered there.

Even as Private Pecher began stepping more lively in that direction, a voice cut in on his hip radio. "Code 3 disturbance, main gate. North and east security personnel close it up, double time."

As soon as the command was issued, Pecher broke into a sprint. On his race to the gate, he was joined by other guards. Although his training was supposed to have prepared him for anything, what Pecher found when they arrived at the gate startled him.

An ancient Asian in a sea-green kimono stood before the small guard shack. Fanned into a semicircle behind him were another dozen men attired only in the traditional yellow loincloths of the Luzu Empire. Purple paint streaked their ebony faces. Braced beside the right leg of each Luzu was a long, curving machete. Daggers jutted from loincloth straps. An angry Citizen Force lieutenant stood at the mouth of the open gate, barring the old Asian's way.

"I would see the fiend Mandobar," the visitor announced imperiously.

Panting and confused, Private Pecher and the other new arrivals looked to their commanding officer.

"I told you already," Lieutenant I. P. Freeley replied with thin impatience. "Former President Mandobar has gone to China with President Kmpali."

Hazel eyes narrowed craftily. "Ah, but is he away for the Master of Sinanju?" Chiun asked. Lieutenant Freeley assumed that the man to which he was speaking was this Master of Sinanju-whatever that was. The old man alone would have been little more than a comical nuisance. It was the presence of his silent entourage of armed Luzu warriors that made the Citizen Force man nervous.

"He is away for everyone," Freeley insisted. "You will have to leave here now." Taking a step back, he nodded to a guard in the shack. "Close the gate."

With an electronic whine, the tail barred gates began sliding slowly in from either side. They hadn't gone more than five feet before they stopped dead.

When the lieutenant searched for the reason the gates had stopped closing, he found that the little Asian had placed a sharp fingernail against one thick metal bar. A painful groan of metal issued from the straining track.

"Remove your hand," the astonished lieutenant commanded.

Chiun remained where he stood, one arm extended.

"I will check myself," the Master of Sinanju said. Turning, he confided to Bubu, who led his Luzu companions, "Politicians are notorious liars, presidents doubly so."

The motor began to shriek and smoke. "Remove your hand now," Lieutenant Freeley repeated.

He reached for his sidearm. Following the lead of their commander, Private Pecher and the other Citizen Force soldiers aimed their weapons at the wizened figure.

Near the shack, the smoking motor screamed loudly. Something snapped, and it stopped making any noise at all.

Chiun finally removed his fingernail from the gate.

"This man is under arrest!" snarled Freeley. "Take him!"

Hands tucked inside the sleeves of his kimono, Chiun seemed ready to offer no resistance. But when Pecher and another private came forward, there was the tiniest flicker of a smile at the papery edges of the old man's thin lips. And, unnoticed by the guards, he gave the subtlest of nods from his ancient, speckled-egg head.

The instant Pecher reached for Chiun's silk sleeve, Bubu's machete sought air, flashing up and around. Catching a glint of brilliant East African sunlight at the apex of its curving arc, it soared down, thunking solidly into the nearest extended rifle barrel.

Private Pecher felt the hollow clang of metal upon metal. Reflexively, he tugged the trigger of his rifle. Unfortunately, the young private didn't have time to realize that Bubu's machete was buried halfway through the barrel.

There was a blinding flash as the bullet struck the lodged blade of the machete. When the gun exploded, shards of twisted metal blew back into Pecher's face. He flipped to his back, his face a pulpy ball of flesh and fused rifle.

Even as the private fell, the rifles of the remaining guards flashed alert, sighting down on the machetewielding Luzu warriors.

"Drop your weapons!" screamed Lieutenant Freeley at the motionless natives. As he yelled, he noticed that the old Asian who had started the confrontation was gone.

At the gate, the Luzus held their ground. They offered the soldier no choice. "Fire!" he shouted to his men.

To his left, a green blur. The same color as the old man's kimono.

Rifles suddenly flipped this way and that. The lieutenant tracked the flash of movement through the line of soldiers. When Chiun appeared at the far end of the line, not one weapon was aimed at the Luzu warriors.

"Get the Luzus!" Freeley commanded, wrenching his side arm from its holster. "I will take care of the old man!"

But before he took a single step, he realized the horrible truth. The natives were no longer outside the gate. His stomach froze to ice when he heard the first warrior cry.

A flashing machete. The head of a man rolling onto the nearby lawn.

Lieutenant Freeley wheeled around.

One of his men ran toward him, his face split open in a sideways smile. Gripping the front of the lieutenant's uniform, the man slid to the ground.

The Luzus were everywhere. Machetes attacked necks and arms. Gun barrel struck gun barrel as panicked soldiers ducked and swirled. Horribly sharp blades found chests and bellies. Glistening entrails slopped onto burning asphalt.

The guard from the shack raced into the fray. A hurled machete thudded between his shocked eyes. His men dying all around him, Lieutenant Freeley sought out the man who had brought these maniac Luzus to this place. At the edge of the lawn, Chiun was watching the massacre, his face puckered in displeasure. The lieutenant aimed his automatic at the delicate, bald head.

Freeley felt the whir of air before he even had time to pull the trigger.

The machete struck his forearm on the downstroke. With a fat thump, both hand and gun plopped to the driveway. The automatic clattered away.

Grabbing his pumping arm stump in horror, the lieutenant stumbled away from the growing pile of East African corpses. As he fell, dazed and bloodied, inside the guard shack, the final standing guard surrendered his last breath.

THE LUZU WARRIORS stood proudly in the baking sunlight, ankle deep in bodies. Faces beamed beneath purple war paint. Panting, Bubu sought the Master of Sinanju's approval. But, still standing to one side, Chiun was anything but satisfied.

"I have never beheld a more pitiful display," the tiny Asian clucked unhappily. "It is no wonder you people have found yourself in such a pathetic state."

"But Master Chiun, we have won," Bubu insisted.

"Win, lose," Chiun said dismissively. "Words created for foolish games of chance." Bending at the waist, he picked up Bubu's machete. It was still jammed through the barrel of Private Pecher's rifle. "Such sloppiness," the old Korean complained. "If you lost your weapon in a true battle, how would you defend yourself?"

Bubu could feel the eyes of his fellow natives on his flushed skin. "I still have my knife," he offered, embarrassed. The bloody dagger he had used to defend himself during the battle was back in his waistband.

With an impatient snort, Chiun tugged at the machete's handle. The hopelessly wedged metal came free in his hands like Excalibur from the stone.

The Master of Sinanju didn't give the natives time to be awed. "This is not the blow Nuk taught you," he frowned, throwing the V-chopped rifle away in disgust.

As he spoke, there was a sudden scuffling noise behind Bubu. The Luzu warriors spun to find Lieutenant Freeley stumbling from the guard booth. He braced a rifle in his one good hand.

"Observe and learn," the Master of Sinanju told them.

Before Bubu or the others could react, a whirl of green flew past the assembled Luzus.

Face ashen from shock and loss of blood, Freeley tried to draw a bead on the advancing terror in green. He was still trying when Chiun descended on him.

In a blur, the machete flew up, then down. There was a gentle sound, like soft church bells on a snowy winter's midnight.

The first stroke severed half the barrel. The second invisible chop cleaved the stock in two. The third downstroke removed the screaming guard's other hand.

With a side-to-side chop, Chiun sliced the scream in the man's throat. Eyes open wide in shock, Lieutenant Freeley's head tumbled onto the hot East African pavement.

Chiun spun from the falling body.

"That is how it is done," he announced unhappily. He slapped the machete into the amazed Luzu's hand.

Bubu nodded dumbly.

"Gather your other weapons," Chiun commanded.

The Luzus had left spears beyond the fence. Quickly collecting them, they hurried onto the rolling lawn of the presidential palace. With a pensive frown, Chiun stooped and snagged the hair of the dead lieutenant, hefting the head in the air. Grisly bundle in hand, he joined the natives in their determined race across the lush green lawn.

THE LATE-DAY SUN WAS HOT On Remo's back as he wandered up the broad sidewalk.

This section of town was far better than the part he'd been in earlier that day. It seemed that the criminal activity of the rest of Bachsburg wasn't tolerated near the main government buildings.

His stroll along the tidy, well-swept sidewalks was a balm to his troubled soul. He had almost begun to feel better when he stumbled on the first body.

The man was some kind of soldier. A long blade had slit his abdomen from sternum to pelvis. Dead organs yawned from the wide gash.

Blood ran like a sticky red river away from the palace gates. There it collected in dry pores in the concrete, soaking into the arid sidewalk.

Remo stepped around the still damp stain, peeking around the high brick column to which the open gate was attached.

More bodies were spread all around the mouth of the drive. The blade strokes employed against all these men were surprisingly clean. Almost as if...

A troublesome thought suddenly occurred to him. Frowning, he crouched beside the nearest body. There were deep lacerations in the man's neck but very little blood on the face of the wound. The blade had gone in and out fast. Blood loss had occurred after the body had fallen.

The cuts were clean. Too clean.

Standing, Remo's eyes darted left, then right. "What are you up to?" he muttered as he searched the immediate grounds. No one was around.

Stepping farther up the drive, he found the final proof he needed.

The headless body of a Citizen Force lieutenant lay near the empty guard booth. A rifle sat in three neat sections near the man's severed hand. His head was nowhere to be found.

"Dammit, Chiun, can't you ever give me a minute's peace?" Remo growled.

Bloodstained footprints led to the lawn. Twelve barefoot men. Even though he didn't see a trail, Remo knew with certainty that a thirteenth set of feet had followed that same bloody path.

"Smith is gonna go apeshit over this one." Scowling with his entire spirit, Remo stole across the lawn, following the path made by the skulking Luzu warriors.

ASSISTANT CHIEF OF STAFF O. U. Queene was preparing to leave his small office in the East African presidential palace when the door burst open.

Looking up from his desk, he was startled to see a group of armed natives swarming into the room. Queene fell back in his chair.

"What is the meaning of this?" he gasped. He eyed their spears and machetes with dread.

The natives failed to answer. As Queene blinked in abject terror, the two men standing directly before his cluttered desk silently parted. Between them stepped a tiny figure in a green robe. The wizened Asian carried something in his long, tapered fingers. When Queene saw what that something was, he clapped a horrified hand over his mouth.

Chiun plopped Lieutenant I. P. Freeley's severed head onto a pile of paperwork. Dead eyes stared vacantly forward, a hint of last-minute terror etched forever in their darkest recesses. From within the black orifice of a mouth, a fat white tongue jutted out at O. U. Queene.

"Where is the evil one?" Chiun intoned.

"Oh, my ...oh my..." Queene blinked. He was staring into the hypnotic orbs of the dead lieutenant.

"Answer me!" Chiun snapped, slapping a palm to the desk. The severed head bounced.

"Oh, um, who?"

"Mandobar," Chiun said.

"Oh." Queene nodded. "He's, oh... He's not here. Election. New president. Um, Kmpali. Maintains a small office. But not here now. They're both gone."

Chiun whirled to the Luzus. "This one spoke the truth," he said, waving to the lieutenant's head.

"I can pencil you in for an appointment," Queene offered numbly, gathering up his blackbound scheduling book. When he reached for a pen, he found a lolling tongue. He recoiled. "Tell you what, I'll remember," he promised.

When the assistant chief of staff looked up hopefully, the old man and the Luzu warriors were gone. Unfortunately, they'd forgotten to take their decapitated head with them.

The political aide rose stiffly from his chair. He found a small towel and tossed it gingerly over the head.

On deliberate, plodding feet, he made his way to the bathroom where he proceeded to vomit up a year's worth of stomach acids into the gleaming white bowl.

THE TRAIL OF CITIZEN FORCE bodies led to a side door of the palace. Slipping through the massive door, Remo found three more bodies on the polished floor of the ornate foyer.

Again, he noticed the cleanness of the blade strokes. They were too precise for normal men. To Remo Williams, Apprentice Reigning Master of Sinanju, the incisions were disturbing on a level far beyond mere murder.

There was a time when Masters of Sinanju used weapons. But after the Great Wang-the first Master of the modern Sinanju age-weapons became obsolete. Never ones to throw away a potential moneymaker, however, some of the earliest Masters of the post-Wang age had sometimes sold some of the outdated weapons techniques to wealthy clients-this so that the buyer could feel as if he were getting some kind of lasting legacy from Sinanju. As far as Remo knew, this practice and the skills of those thus trained hadn't survived much beyond Sinanju's earliest contracts with Egypt and Phoenicia. Yet here it surfaced, a full continent away.

Another body steered Remo up the grand marble staircase. Aside from the ghosts of those slain, the palace seemed deserted. Remo followed the grisly trail up to the third floor. A few droplets of blood led him to an open office door. He found the missing guard's head peeking out from under a towel on a desk. Somewhere distant came the sound of violent retching.

"Okay, I give up," Remo grumbled from the doorway. "Where are you?"

As if in response, an angry shout issued from beyond the closed office window. Hurrying across the room, Remo found that the window overlooked a broad rear parking area.

He spotted Chiun instantly.

The Master of Sinanju and a dozen loinclothwearing natives were running alongside an L-shaped addition that stabbed out behind the palace. The group had fled the main wing of the building in which Remo now stood. The old Korean was obviously taking a slower pace so as not to outdistance his companions.

From his vantage point, Remo was able to see something Chiun and the natives couldn't. A phalanx of armed soldiers was sweeping across the lot from the other direction.

Alone in his upper-story office, the sound of desperate dry-heaving issuing from an adjacent bathroom, Remo had a moment's hesitation.

Chiun had abandoned him at the airport without so much as a backward glance. It'd be just deserts to leave him here. Let him and his pack of Johnny Weissmuller wanna-bes figure out a way out of this mess.

But though the impulse to abandon his mentor was strong, conscience got the better of him. "Ungrateful old geezer," Remo snarled as he snapped the seal on the bulletproof window.

The window rocketed up into the frame, embedding itself deep in the thick wood casing. Glass panes rattled as Remo scampered out onto the inch wide ledge beneath the window. He took off along it at a sprint.

Far below, the two converging groups had just encountered each other. Across the parking lot, the pop-pop-pop of automatic rifle fire rose into the humid air.

At the corner of the main palace wing, Remo's hands and feet snagged the inlaid white bricks. Using toes and fingertips, he descended rapidly to the ground. He was off in a flash the instant his feet touched the earth. The soles of his Italian loafers failed to disturb a single blade of grass as he flew after the Master of Sinanju. Gliding from grass to asphalt, he was halfway to Chiun before he was finally spotted by the approaching Citizen Force guards.

Bullets began whizzing in his direction.

Though the president was away, there were still many state vehicles parked in the lot. As Remo raced past a big sedan, trailing bullet holes peppered its side in his wake. Still more bullets shattered car windows, spraying glass onto empty seats.

Dodging flying lead with every step, Remo caught up with the Master of Sinanju in a small garden at the far edge of the parking lot.

Luzu warriors crouched in a defensive line. Rows of parked cars separated them from the approaching soldiers. When Remo ducked from sight, the gunfire stopped abruptly. His sensitive ears heard the hushed exchanges as the Citizen Force soldiers continued to press their cautious advance.

Chiun stood unconcerned in the shadow of a bush trimmed by palace groundskeepers into the shape of a leaping tiger.

When Remo appeared in their midst, the Luzus reacted with raised spears and machetes. At a harsh word from Bubu, however, they let him pass. They returned to their crouches as Remo stormed up to the Master of Sinanju.

"Have you gone nuts?" Remo snapped at the maddeningly serene old man. "This is the goddamn presidential palace of East Africa you just sliced and diced your way through." He jerked an angry thumb at the natives. "Who the hell are these clowns?"

"They are friends of the House of Sinanju," Chiun replied blandly.

"Oh, yeah? Since when do we make friends?" He was interrupted by two Citizen Force soldiers who picked that moment to leap out from behind the last row of cars. The Luzus moved so fast, the soldiers' rifles proved irrelevant. Hurled spears pierced chests. Flashing machetes removed arms and heads. As the soldiers fell, the Luzus screamed a triumphant battle cry.

"And another thing," Remo asked, turning from the mauled bodies. "What's with these moves of theirs? That's pre-Wang if I've ever seen it, and according to the history you drilled into me, Pharaoh Ikhnaton's the last guy we sold the old techniques to. So unless these jokers are some wandering lost tribe of ancient Egyptians, I smell another Masters' Scrolls cover-up."

The blossoming look of anger on his teacher's face was all the proof Remo needed to know he'd struck paydirt.

"I knew it!" he exclaimed.

Chiun scowled. "Take your fanciful deductions elsewhere," he spit.

"You're not dodging this one that easily," Remo warned. "I assume they paid on time?"

"Always," Chiun retorted. But though the word was spoken sharply, there was just a hint of hesitation in his voice.

"And paid well, too, I bet," Remo accused. Chiun refused to be drawn in.

"Can I assume that since you have found the time to bother me that you are over your silly self-absorption?" he asked.

"Don't change the subject," Remo said. "Chiun, Smith is gonna go berserk over this. He's already ticked at me just for talking to one measly stranger."

Chiun's face was bland. "Why?" he asked. "Did you purchase more magic beans?"

"Very funny," Remo said.

More soldiers swarmed the area. Only one managed to get off a shot before the Luzus cut them to ribbons.

"It was some high muckity-muck in what's left of the government," Remo said, waving a hand at the mounting stack of bodies. "Smith was going to bench me and send you in, but now you've flown off on some crazy Edgar Rice Burroughs safari."

By this point, the number of Citizen Force soldiers had been greatly reduced. The Luzu warriors swept around the parked government cars, finishing off the cowering remnants of the presidential guard with quick machete strokes. A few distant soldiers fled on foot. The Luzus didn't give chase.

When the victorious warriors raced back to the Master of Sinanju, Bubu led the pack.

"Not you again," Remo groused.

The native ignored him. "The battle is ours, Master of Sinanju," Bubu panted.

Chiun nodded. "Let us hasten back to Luzuland," he intoned seriously. "We must inform your chief not only that his enemy has fled in fear, but that he must prepare his people for government retribution for our actions."

The barefoot Luzus took off like a shot, jumping the curb and flying back across the lawn. Before Chiun could sprint off with them, Remo snagged him by one flapping kimono sleeve.

"Wait a damn minute," he snapped. "You can't run off after all this. We'll probably have to get out of the country. Smith's gonna be shitting bricks when news of this massacre gets out."

Chiun's eyes were shards of hazel ice. "I am honoring a contract far older than Smith," he said hotly. "Sinanju worked for the Luzu Empire long before there even was an America."

"I'm sure that'll be a real comfort to him," Remo replied angrily. He threw up his hands in disgust. "Fine," he snarled. "Go traipsing into the jungle and reenact more scenes from Luzu Dawn for all I care. But I am not covering for you on this one."

Chiun's wrinkled face grew dark. "That is because you are a good son, Remo," he said with bitter sarcasm. "And good sons always turn like hissing vipers on their fathers in times of need. Tell your precious Smith whatever you want. And when you are through punishing me for your unjust world, perhaps you will find one minute to consider who you owe more to, Smith or me."

With that final biting accusation, he was gone. The old Korean became a flouncing green blur as he raced around the side of the building in the wake of the fleeing Luzus.

This wasn't how he'd wanted to leave it. Remo hadn't even had a chance to ask his teacher about the little Korean boy who seemed to be haunting his every step. Scowling from the sting of Chiun's words, Remo turned to go, as well.

Something caught his attention.

Standing among the corpses, he heard the sound of a lone car engine. It was coming up the long stone driveway behind a high hedge. Remo was ready to bolt when through a break in the shrubs he saw the shadowy image of a familiar face behind a tinted windshield.

He hesitated.

There might yet be a way to salvage this. Of course, he'd have to do it without Smith's approval. And in that moment, Remo came to what he decided was the most well-thought-out decision of his life. "Ah, screw it," he snarled.

Folding his arms over his chest, he waited for the approaching government car to find him ankle deep in bodies.

Chapter 12

The nervous chauffeur of East African Defense Minister L. Vas Deferens wanted to turn the government car around as soon as he spotted the first decapitated body sprawled across the great gravel drive at the rear of the palace.

"Sir?" the man asked anxiously, looking over his shoulder at his cold-as-ice employer.

"Drive!" Deferens barked.

Nodding, the driver skirted the body and continued along past the row of high shrubs that ran parallel to the road. Worried eyes scanned for machete-wielding Luzus.

Reports of the attack on the palace had been issued over the car radio. According to the internal defense ministry broadcast, the Luzu nation had taken up arms against the ruling government for the first time in more than one hundred years.

Until Minister Deferens had ordered complete radio silence, the news had been horrifying. Decapitations, eviscerations-it was an East Africa that hadn't existed since before the time of their greatgrandparents.

At this time of evening and with the president out of the country, there hadn't been many people inside the palace. A few terrified government workers had fled into the street. Deferens's driver wanted more than anything to join them.

Up ahead, two more bodies lay on the road next to the thick hedge. The driver stopped before the headless corpses.

"What are you doing?" Deferens demanded.

"More bodies, sir," the driver said tightly, struggling to keep down his lunch.

Two white hands gripped the back of the driver's seat. Deferens leaned far over to the windshield, his handsome face pinched. The chauffeur hoped the sight of the bodies would force his employer to come to his senses. He was ready to put the car in reverse and back the hell out of there when the defense minister glanced at him, his eyes flat.

"Drive over them," Deferens ordered coldly. The chauffeur looked at the mangled corpses. "Um, but sir..."

Deferens leaned very close to the man, bringing his perfect pale face an inch from the driver's ear. The defense minister's breath was sweet.

"Or get out and I will drive," he said menacingly.

The tires smoked as the car lurched forward. Two body-flattening bumps and the road leveled off.

L. Vas Deferens settled, annoyed, back into the seat. He didn't appear at all concerned that he was driving toward a mob of rampaging Luzus.

In the rear of the car, Deferens drummed his pale fingers impatiently on the door's dark molded handle.

The limo crunched up the gravel road, finally breaking around the high hedge and into a circular lot lined with huge pots filled with topiary animals.

There were mutilated corpses scattered in a wide area around the parked cars of the adjacent lot. And standing amid the dead was a lone figure.

The chauffeur had been at the door of the restaurant when Remo eliminated Johnny Fungillo's lunch companions. Seeing the same man calmly standing amid these bodies, the driver felt a hard knot of fear tighten in his belly.

As the car headed for him, Remo neither flinched nor budged. In the back seat, Deferens leaned forward, his eyes narrowing in suspicion at the sight of Remo.

"What is he doing here?" he said to himself.

"Shall I drive over him?" the chauffeur asked hopefully.

Deferens didn't hear him. "Stop the car," he demanded.

"Um, right here, or on him?" the driver asked.

"Now!"

The chauffeur slammed on the brakes. Spitting stones, the long car screeched to a stop five feet from Remo. Deferens didn't wait for his driver to open his door. Popping it open, he jumped out into a pool of coagulating blood. He stormed around the front of the car to Remo.

"What is the meaning of this outrage?" the defense minister snapped at Remo.

"That's a relief," Remo exhaled. "So you're saying this isn't a typical day around here?" More cars raced up the drive. Soldiers spilled from them and from around the side of the building.

"Stay here," Deferens barked at Remo. He hurried to the guards, pointing them in various directions. A few stayed with him when he came back to Remo's side. "Why are you here?" he demanded, his face stern.

"You know, this looks like kind of a bad time," Remo said. "I can come back later."

"Why?" Deferens snarled. "Tell me now or, by God, I will have you shot where you stand."

Remo glanced to the guards. "Just stopped by to see you," he said, keeping his voice low. "But if this is hell week, I think I'll pledge another frat." Deferens seem only to be half listening. With the immaculate toe of an expensive hand-sewn shoe, he flipped over a corpse. Deep gashes slit face and throat.

"This is obscene," Deferens grumbled. He found a clean spot on the dead man's uniform and used it to wipe the blood from his soles. "These men were killed with weapons," he announced as he rubbed every last trace of sticky blood away.

"I noticed that, too." Remo nodded. "Unarmed," he offered, raising his hands helpfully. "Looks like some kind of knife."

Deferens's chiseled face was suspicious. "Machetes," he supplied tightly. He turned to his remaining men. "Search the grounds," he ordered. "Shoot to kill. And be more careful than these idiots." He kicked the man on whose uniform he had cleaned his shoes.

Wheeling to Remo, he barked, "You are with me."

Remo fell in beside Deferens as the minister stormed toward the palace.

"You picked a bad time to visit," Deferens growled as they walked.

"It was either this or the local Global Movieland, but my tour guide said that got blown up by terrorists."

Deferens whipped open the door. A quartet of Citizen Force guards nearly tripped over them on their way out.

"This wing is secure, sir!" one exclaimed. "Join the others searching the grounds," Deferens commanded. As he and Remo entered the palace, the running guards spilled outside.

The interior was cool.

"Have you registered yet?" Deferens demanded as they mounted the marble stairs.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," Remo said. "Like I said before, I really don't like to advertise."

"I'm not interested in your likes or dislikes. In East Africa you register with the government. The penalty issued by the finance ministry for failure to comply is far greater than any your IRS could imagine."

"You haven't been to America lately," Remo said. "And anyway, this isn't a tax dodge. I like to keep a low profile. If I register with you and my name gets out to the wrong people, it could prove hazardous to my health."

"Your health is already in jeopardy," Deferens warned.

Remo's smile was coolly confident. "I feel fine." On the second-floor landing, Deferens led Remo to a polished mahogany door. The defense minister noted as they walked that Remo's shoes made not a sound. Deferens's own footfalls echoed like rifle cracks off the fresco ceiling.

At the door, he paused. "You were good with those men at the restaurant," he said, crossing his arms. The movement did nothing to wrinkle his white suit. "Very good. Of course, you realize I could have you shot right now."

"If you shoot me, I won't be able to work for you."

The defense minister's lips tightened. Wordlessly, he slapped the door open and marched inside. The office suite was large and tidy. A few empty desks and a row of comfortable chairs filled the waiting area.

"Wait here," Deferens commanded.

He marched ahead, down a long hallway to a distant office.

"I'm bad at judging interviews," Remo called after him. "Does this mean I got the job?"

In response, he heard what sounded like an oldfashioned rotary phone. The dialing was cut off by the sound of L. Vas Deferens's office door slamming shut with a palace-rattling crack.

Chapter 13

The intrusion of the ringing phone into Mandobar's afternoon came at a time when no servants were present to answer it. It rang and rang and rang in the small house, the last in the isolated village of bungalows that had been constructed for the Great Day.

Looking absently out the window, Mandobar ignored the telephone.

Thoughts drifted to this week's work.

Mandobar was in China. Yet Mandobar was here. It was all so delightful. Gooseflesh appeared on the dark neck of the Great Day's architect just thinking about the timing of the week's events.

A broad smile stretched across the wide, famous face.

It was a face that had gone all around the world. Lauded by presidents and kings, kissed at Hollywood parties, beloved by those who didn't know or refused to see what was truly going on behind those smiling eyes.

Out the window, the East African sun beat harshly on the dusty strip of arid land where the drug cartel lawyer had been necklaced. What was his name? Russell something.

There had been a minor backlash from that. The Cali cartel had been upset that their man had been singled out. Of course, they didn't know he had been working under the table for Mandobar. In the end, they had been mollified by a few extra tax breaks. Plums granted only the best clients of East Africa, Mandobar had promised.

A black smear indicated the spot where Russell Copefeld had been burned alive. The day after the necklacing, someone had suggested raking the dirt over to cover it up. Mandobar had gone wild. It was to stay until the sun bleached it away-a sign to the rest. And when it finally faded ...well, there were always more lawyers.

Copefeld's mortal mark baked in the afternoon sunlight. A washed-out streak of black fading to gray was all that remained to mark the passing of a life. For Mandobar, not the first such marker. Definitely not the last.

The smile broadened, threatening to spill off the sides of the world-famous face.

Ring, ring! Ring, ring!

The phone finally became an annoyance that demanded attention. A weary fat hand dropped down to the telephone, lifting the offending lump of plastic to an ebony ear.

"What is it?"

The voice of L. Vas Deferens was tight.

"There has been an incident at the presidential palace. An attack on the grounds. Many are dead."

Mandobar sat up straight. The wicker chair in the sitting room of the bungalow creaked in gentle protest.

"Do I need to be concerned?"

"I am afraid containment will be difficult," Deferens continued. "I had kept the spillover from our enterprise away from this part of Bachsburg. The international press isn't interested in anything that happens beyond these gates."

"Yes, yes," Mandobar said, already impatient. "Who was it?"

"Luzu, according to initial reports," Deferens replied. "Or at the very least, men in native garb. Somehow they penetrated our security using only spears and machetes. We suffered heavy casualties, but the attackers managed to escape unharmed-at least that is what I was told."