A Pound of Prevention

Mandobar leaned back in the chair. The wicker groaned.

"This is not good, Vas."

"No," the minister agreed. "And beyond what I have told you, there is no more information. I have men scouring the grounds as we speak. However, I thought you should know as soon as possible."

"Yes." Mandobar hummed pensively. "Spears and machetes? You are certain of this, Vas?"

"I saw the bodies myself," he insisted. "Assuming it isn't an enemy unknown to us attempting to distract us at this crucial time, there is only one real suspect."

Mandobar sighed deeply. A big, wheezing exhalation of air. "I have too much at stake to risk having this plan ruined by a backward fool." The well-known cheerful voice grew cold. "Go to Luzuland, Deferens, and kill Chief Batubizee." White teeth bit gleefully at the order.

The receiver fell back in the cradle, severing the connection. Mandobar pushed the offending phone far to the back of the table beside the big wicker chair.

Struggling to find a comfortable position in the chair, Mandobar's eyes once more found the window. This time there was a wistful glint in their dark depths.

Beyond the dusty pane, far down the scorched road and its cluster of bungalows, yellow sunlight gleamed brightly on the high mirrored walls of Mandobar's great meeting hall. The dawning sun two days hence would wash its warming rays across the ruins of that same magnificent auditorium. The birthplace of the new East Africa.

A ridge of low mountains-pocked with the shafts of played-out diamond mines-rose above the hall. And out beyond was Luzuland. Where that perpetual thorn in the side of East Africa, Chief Batubizee, ruled like a pathetic throwback over his dead empire.

And alone in the air-conditioned bungalow, the famous Mandobar eyes sagged into gloomy lines, sad that they would not be present to witness the murder of the last Luzu warrior chief.

Chapter 14

The closed door to the heavily soundproofed room cut off all sound from the office of L. Vas Deferens to the rest of the suite. Even Remo's supersensitive ears could only detect a low murmur of one voice. The person to whom the defense minister spoke proved impossible to hear.

The call didn't take long. In less than five minutes, the door swung open and Deferens came down the hall.

Remo was sitting in one of the waiting-room chairs.

"My office, please," Deferens said. It was clearly an order, not a request. He spun without another word.

Remo followed him to the open door. Deferens's office was large and tastefully furnished. Wainscotting rimmed the white wails. A big desk commanded a broad section of floor. Behind it, a massive curving window bracketed by tidy bookshelves looked out across the front entrance to the presidential palace.

Remo noted as he entered the room that the remains of the slain Citizen Force soldiers had already been removed from around the main gate.

"You people work fast," he commented as he took a seat before the desk.

As he was sitting down behind his desk, Deferens glanced out the window. "You would be wise to not mention to anyone what happened here today," he suggested, settling into his chair. "Now, what is your name?"

There was no sense in lying.

"Remo. I'd have to check my wallet to see what last name I'm using this week," he answered truthfully.

Deferens leaned back, steepling his slender fingers to his chin. "You know, Remo, I could still have you executed at any time." He studied his visitor's face for a reaction.

Remo shrugged. "We've all gotta go sometime."

Deferens lowered his hands. "You are either very confident or very, very stupid."

"Confident, not stupid," Remo assured him. "But for the record, some of the most confident people I've ever met were also the dumbest. You ever hear of Kim Basinger?"

Deferens wasn't really listening. He was studying Remo's face. He seemed particularly interested in his eyes. All at once, he dropped a hand to his desk. "You're hired," the minister announced.

Remo was surprised. "Just like that?"

Deferens nodded sharply. "In spite of all evidence to the contrary, you have come here at a fortunate time. I am in need of good men. Now, either you are boastful, in which case you will wind up very dead very soon, or you are as good as you think you are. If this is the case, I will consider myself lucky to have found you. Are you working for anyone right now?"

"No," Remo lied. He tried to exude the confidence of a suave hired gun. "But I like to keep my options open. In my line of work, you sometimes have to go with the flow, what with all the killing and guns and stuff." He looped a confident arm around the back of his chair.

For his part, Deferens was hoping he wasn't making a big mistake. This man sitting before him struck the minister to his core as someone who was exceedingly dangerous. Yet he acted like a complete ignoramus.

"Good," the defense minister ventured slowly. Tugging open a drawer, he took out a ledger. He flipped it open and, after Remo had supplied him with his cover surname, began writing on a yellow check.

"We will waive the regular government fees for you. You will be paid directly from this office, tax free, in the form of East African government checks. They can be cashed at any bank in Bachsburg."

Remo instantly thought of Chiun. Although this wasn't a real job, the Master of Sinanju would go ballistic if he ever found out Remo accepted anything less than cold hard cash.

"I get paid in gold," Remo insisted.

Deferens gave him a baleful look. He tore a check loose, sliding it across the desk to Remo.

"This is a retainer of five hundred thousand dollars. You will get a similar check every year you work for me, with bonuses based on a formula of my design."

Remo looked at the check lying on the desk. He'd never been good at negotiating. Deferens hadn't even entertained the notion of paying in gold. Maybe Chiun wouldn't be as upset if he got the price up.

"One million," he pressed.

The defense minister continued talking as if Remo hadn't even spoken. "You may continue to work for other clients. But by accepting this retainer, you agree to drop whatever it is you are doing at any given time if I need you. I mean this, Remo. Any time."

"That part sounds okay," Remo said hesitantly. "But the money's not enough. How about 750 grand?"

"The money is not negotiable," Deferens said coldly.

Remo studied the check. Chiun would kill him if he found out he'd accepted someone's first offer. Across the desk, L. Vas Deferens studied Remo's deeply thoughtful face. He resisted the urge to frown.

"Of course, if it's not to your satisfaction, I can still have you shot," Deferens warned. "When word of what has happened here today gets out, I will say you were part of the assault team responsible for the massacre. If your reputation is as you claim, it will be easily believed. Either way, you will be working for me."

Remo considered not Deferens's words but the situation he found himself in. He could kill the minister right now and doubtless sever one of Mandobar's major links. But Smith didn't want him killing Deferens at the moment.

Weighing more heavily on his mind was Chiun. With all the weirdness of the past two days, he shouldn't give a damn what the Master of Sinanju might say about his accepting a check, but that was just like Chiun. Always piling on. Even when he wasn't around.

"Ah, the hell with it," Remo growled, snatching up the check. "I'll take the job."

When he stuffed the check into his pocket, his fingers brushed the hard edges of the small crucifix. Thoughts of baby Karen's wake and the apparition that had been following him ever since flooded Remo's mind.

Across the desk, Deferens didn't see the dark expression that settled on Remo's brow. "Excellent," the minister said efficiently. "You'll be happy to know I already have a job for you." He steepled his fingers. "It is far more important than removing a few common drunks in a restaurant."

Remo noted a flickering smile of satisfaction on the defense minister's bloodred lips. With his pasty skin and dark mouth, he gave the impression of a sated vampire.

"Remo," Deferens announced simply, "I want you to go to Luzuland and kill Chief Batubizee." And this time when the sad-faced Korean boy appeared before Remo, his cherub's face was filled with fear.

Chapter 15

Chief Batubizee saw the clouds of dust rising high into the clear African sky in the wake of the speeding trucks. They could be seen for miles around as the vehicles drove across KwaLuzu, the "land of the Luzu." The fire of the setting sun burned the sky above the spreading clouds.

After the old Master of Sinanju had left with his small band of warriors earlier that day, the chief had changed back into his everyday clothes, which consisted of faded blue polyester slacks and an old red shirt.

His flowing purple robe was for ceremony only, and since he had only the one, he did not wish for it to become as worn and tattered as all his other clothes.

With the appearance of the dust clouds, Batubizee ducked back inside his large hovel. He emerged in his traditional robe and Luzu crown. Symbols of a bygone age.

It took another twenty minutes for the trucks to reach the village. A handful of pitiful natives was sprinkled about the square.

Batubizee was standing before his home when the Suburban finally appeared at the far end of the main road, leading two more trucks. All three vehicles rolled to a stop before the chief. Luzu warriors sprang to the road.

As Bubu jumped out from behind the wheel of the lead vehicle, the Master of Sinanju appeared like a wisp of wrinkled smoke from the passenger's side.

Batubizee was again struck by the age of the wizened Asian. His impression had been the same when first he laid eyes-on the Sinanju Master. He was old. Frail. Weak.

The oral history of his people spoke of Master Nuk as a powerful figure, strong limbed and tall, with piercing eyes that could cut more sharply and precisely than any of the diamonds from the nearby barren mines. This was Batubizee's image of a Master of Sinanju-not the old man who had just emerged from his Suburban.

Batubizee again struggled with disappointment as the Korean hurried over to him.

"Welcome back, Master of Sinanju," the chief intoned. "You have brought me the head of the evil one?"

He was looking beyond the old Korean. From what he could see, none of his warriors carried the head of Willie Mandobar to present to their ruler.

As Bubu took up his silent post behind the chief, his young face was grim.

"All is not well," the Master of Sinanju said gravely.

At his tone, Batubizee felt the first stirrings of concern. "What has happened?" the chief demanded, turning from Bubu. "Where is the head of the fiend Mandobar?"

"Still attached to his shoulders," Chiun replied. "According to his lackeys, he has fled East Africa." Batubizee's big eyes grew wider.

"And you took them at their word?" he snapped. The truth of the feeling he'd been having since first he laid eyes on the little man began to creep into his booming voice.

"They spoke truth," the Master of Sinanju responded, silently noting the chief's change in tone. "He is not here."

"They lie!" Batubizee insisted. "He would not leave at such an important time! They have deceived you, old one."

Chiun could not keep the ice from his voice. "Sinanju has methods of detecting deceit in a man's words," he explained evenly. "I saw only truth."

"Can you even see at all?" Batubizee snapped, throwing up his hands in disgust. "Exactly how many of his minions did you have my men slay to find this truthful information?"

Chiun bore both insult and tone with a stoic face. "Many of the palace guard are dead," he responded, his eyes level. As he regarded the angry tribal chief, his hands locked with chilly calm onto opposite wrists within the sleeves of his kimono. "And my warriors were seen?"

"Since we did not slay everyone from here to Bachsburg, yes," Chiun said.

Batubizee shook his massive head. "You old fool!" he spit. "You have led them to me!"

Bubu stepped forward, casting a glance at Chiun. "The old Master could not-" he began, his voice pitched low.

"Old," Batubizee interrupted. "You are correct. This old fool is not the Master of Sinanju of our histories. Nuk was a vital and powerful man. The lions would not even eat this thing of bone and gristle." He stabbed a finger at Chiun.

"Mandobar has destroyed the nation to which Luzuland is an arm. You promised his head!"

"Even Sinanju cannot kill a man who isn't there," Chiun said simply.

The Luzus in the square were attracted to the raised voice of the chief. Even as they came forward, more appeared from dilapidated huts.

Batubizee towered over the tiny Asian, his anger growing. "Could you even see him if he was there?" the Luzu chief demanded hotly.

"Please," Bubu stressed. "Let Master Chiun-"

"Silence, " Batubizee snarled. He waved a disdainful hand at Chiun. "This feeble thing is not even to blame for this disaster. I am. It is my fault for trusting the legends. The Luzu Empire was already dying. Now, on its deathbed, I have strangled it."

A proud man, Batubizee knew he had already let the common villagers see too much. Shoulders sagging, he shook his head at Chiun.

"Go, old one," the chief said, defeated. The effort to speak seemed draining. "Return to your American emperor. I should not have summoned you in the first place."

Turning wearily, he began trudging morosely to his hut.

He had taken barely two steps before there came a commotion from behind. When Batubizee turned, he found the Master of Sinanju standing where he'd left him. The old man had removed his hands from the sleeves of his robes. Clutched in the bony fingers of one was a long, curving machete. Batubizee saw that the blade Bubu had carried from the truck was no longer in the young native's hands.

The machete was damaged halfway up the blade where it had come in contact with the Citizen Force rifle.

As both Bubu and Batubizee watched with growing concern, the Master of Sinanju pulled a spear from the grasping fingers of a nearby warrior.

Chiun's bright hazel eyes burned deep into those of the Luzu chieftain. Peering into their frigid depths, Batubizee suddenly felt naked.

Chiun turned abruptly from the gathered throng. All eyes tracked the wizened form of the Master of Sinanju as he strode away from the group, a weapon in each hand.

"What is he doing?" the chief asked Bubu, struggling to keep the hint of sudden fear from his voice. The young native's expectant eyes were trained on Chiun. "Watch," he whispered.

Noting the tingle of excitement in the younger man's tone, Batubizee fell silent.

Women who sat in the dirt of the square separated as Chiun passed. Their wasted children ceased playing in his wake. Flies buzzed around malnourished heads as all eyes turned to the strange old man. At the far end of the square, towering above a pair of tumbledown huts, a mighty baobab tree sprouted from the arid ground. Its dark and pitted trunk was nearly thirty feet in diameter. The highest of its long, gnarled branches clawed more than sixty feet into the hot East African sky.

Chiun stopped at a dried-up fountain at the center of the vast square. From where he stood, the tree was farther than any man could throw.

As natives watched in growing fascination, the tiny Korean raised the machete high in the air, curved tip of the supersharp blade just behind his shoulder. The spear he hefted in his other hand, close to his ear.

A hush fell over the crowd. Even the insects of dusk seemed to hold their breath in anticipation. When the tension became more than any of them could bear, one bony hand shot forward.

The spear launched from Chiun's fingers with an audible crack. Almost simultaneously, the other hand whipped down. Another crack and both spear and machete were rocketing across the square toward the huge tree.

Time drew a different pace around the weapons. All eyes could see them as they sliced hot air.

At the midpoint between Chiun and the baobab, the machete sprang forward. Blade struck spear, cleaving the blunt end. With a determined whir, it split the spear up its length, building speed as it went. The machete broke through the far end, skipping ahead of the still airborne spear halves. An instant later, the blade found its mark, thwacking loudly against the trunk of the baobab.

The Luzus felt the ground beneath their hare feet shake from the vibration of the impact.

And as Chief Batubizee and the others watched in amazement, the fat trunk of the huge black tree cracked up the middle. The baobab split into two flowering halves, revealing the pulpy interior of the ancient trunk.

Before the first leaves from the deciduous tree could begin raining on the square, the twin sections of the bisected spear sank deep into the newly cleaved trunk, one to each side. They quivered in the humid African air like awkward new branches. And, with thundering slowness, the two sections of tree crashed to the ground.

When Chiun turned back to Chief Batubizee, a light gurgle of water was trickling from the exposed interior of the giant tree. Emaciated children stumbled to the water.

His face stone, the Master of Sinanju padded silently to the Luzu ruler. He looked up into the stunned face of Chief Batubizee.

"It is wise to question history, chief of the Luzu," Chiun intoned somberly. "For historians are men, and men do often lie. However, history's graveyards are heaped with dead-king and peasant alike-who have questioned the abilities of the Masters of Sinanju."

He let the words hang between them for a moment before turning on his heel. Without looking back, he padded slowly away. When the wizened figure had disappeared behind a tight knot of miserable huts, Chief Batubizee finally exhaled. He hadn't been aware that he was holding his breath.

"I attempted to warn you," Bubu whispered. None of the others present would dare speak thusly to their chief. Not that they'd even thought to speak. All eyes were locked in awe on the last place they had seen the ancient Korean with the deadly flashing hands.

The display had been impressive. Batubizee hoped the old one's skills were as impressive with real men.

Bad luck had forewarned the government in Bachsburg of his intentions. In spite of the Master of Sinanju's powers, they would respond.

The Luzu leader said not another word. Bubu in tow, he ducked back inside his large hovel.

CHIEF BATUBIZEE'S SURMISE ultimately proved correct, although the swiftness of the incursion would surprise even him. Twenty minutes after he entered his hut, a new cloud of dust appeared on the distant darkening horizon. A small band of East African government killers led by Remo Williams had entered the homeland of the Luzu.

Chapter 16

In the front seat of the Chevy Blazer, Remo saw with faraway eyes the stone marker that noted their passing into Luzuland. Where they traveled, grass and other low scrub filled the vast plain that had once been plowed farmland. Here, a sickly tree sprouted from the earth-there, a massive hive swarmed with fat, black insects. In the near distance, mountains kissed the sky.

The hired killers he was with chatted endlessly as they drove. Remo heard not a word.

The air-conditioning in the truck was on high, though for the other occupants it remained hot. For Remo, heat had become something alien. The chill he'd felt the second time he'd seen the mysterious vanishing child had now become a penetrating cold that seeped into his bones. That he was dealing with something supernatural was no longer a question.

When the little Korean boy with the sad face had appeared this time, he was standing at the elbow of L. Vas Deferens in the presidential palace of East Africa. The defense minister obviously didn't see the boy, for he had no reaction whatsoever to the apparition. He continued to give Remo instructions as if there weren't a mournful ghost standing in their midst.

Finally given the opportunity to speak to the child, Remo had no choice but to sit by and watch. The entire time he stood there, the deeply fearful expression the boy wore had not fled his flat features. His eyes never strayed from Remo's. When the meeting at last ended and Remo had his instructions, the little boy had turned and walked into the wall and was gone, leaving a chilled Remo with a creeping sense of apprehension that had yet to fully dissipate.

The speeding truck bounced along the road. Locked to the seat, Remo didn't seem to move at all.

Remo had accepted the assignment from Deferens with no complaint. Of course he didn't plan to kill the Luzu chief, but he needed to speak with the Master of Sinanju. And the defense minister's men knew their way around East Africa.

The three men he was now with had several times attempted to draw him into their conversation, but Remo had remained mute the entire trip from Bachsburg. His absent eyes were directed out the side window, staring at everything they passed yet seeing nothing.

"I still don't like that he gets to do Batubizee," the driver whispered to the others. His East African accent was harsh and guttural.

He was referring to Remo. It wasn't the first time they'd spoken about him as if he weren't there. After being silent so long, the men had begun to act as if Remo were surrounded by a soundproofed bubble.

"I don't care about that," one of the big men in the back seat dismissed. "One mooka's the same as the next to me. Just as long as we get bloody on some Luzus."

Remo had determined that mooka was some sort of East African racial slur. As far as the rest, the men were exceedingly anxious to meet resistance once they reached the main Luzu village. They were certainly prepared for it. There were enough weapons piled in the back of the truck to arm a small revolution.

"They say that Luzu warriors are amazing with weapons," one of the men in the back cautioned.

"Mookas with pointy sticks," the driver said mockingly. "I'm really worried. Let's see 'em outrun a bullet."

"Don't be too sure," the cautious man replied. "From what I heard about their attack on the palace today, I'm gonna be watching my back."

"Don't worry," the driver said with cheerful sarcasm. "We got our new expert on all things Luzu here."

He slapped a broad hand to Remo's shoulder. Or at least he tried to. The hand swept through empty air.

Remo seemed not to have shifted in his seat. He continued staring out the window.

The driver grunted a frown and turned his full attention back to the rutted trail.

They drove another ten minutes in silence. The orange of the setting sun had melted into streaks of expanding reds when Remo first caught the scent. It was difficult to discern it in the closed cab of the truck. The air conditioner worked to recycle the already fetid air. On top of that, the men he was with smelled like cheese soaked in Brut. But it was there.

Sitting up, Remo powered down the side window. A burst of warm, clean air filled the stale truck interior:

"What are you doing?" the driver snapped. "You're letting all the cold out."

Remo didn't reply. Alert for the first time on their long drive through Luzuland, he expanded his nostrils, sampling the hot dusty breeze.

It was there, carried on the eddies that swirled around the speeding Blazer. The warm scent of rice and hyacinth.

The grass grew high on either side of the long road. As they flew toward it, Remo saw the mouth of a footpath leading through the savannah. It was angled off the main road.

"Stop the truck," Remo commanded abruptly. The driver twisted to him, a scowl creasing his ruddy face. "We're nowhere near the village," he snapped. "Now roil up the damn window." Remo didn't listen to him. He reached over with the toe of one loafer and tapped the brake. With a painful squeal of locked tires, the truck slammed to a dust-raking stop.

The men in the rear were flung against the back of the front seat. Only the pressure of Remo's hand against the driver's chest kept the man from crashing through the windshield. Even as the men were catching their breath, Remo was slipping the truck into park and pocketing the keys.

"Don't go anywhere," he said as he popped the door. It opened onto the foot trail.

On the seat beside him, the driver had already come through the shock of their jarring stop. "Gimme those keys, Yank," he threatened, rage sparking his dark eyes.

Remo shook his head. "Sorry." He shrugged. And to keep the men from following him, he fused the driver's fingers to the dashboard.

While the other two men pulled at their friend-whose hands had suddenly and inexplicably become indistinguishable from the surrounding plastic of the dash-Remo hopped from the front seat and took the path into the brush.

On either side, the swaying grass rose to his shoulders. The gray of dusk raked up from the ground like witch's claws.

He only needed to walk until the truck could no longer be seen when he came upon the little boy. It looked as if he'd been waiting there for some time. A circle of grass around where he sat on his rump had been crushed flat. The boy had picked much of the dry grass from the area. He had woven it into the shapes of huts, which he'd arranged into a model village. Roads had been carved into the scratched-up dirt. The tiny men he had chipped from small stones stood among the huts.

The boy didn't even note Remo's approach, so engrossed was he in play. But when Remo stopped above him, the boy looked up from the town he had built. His brown eyes caught the reflected red of the dying sun.

"I like to fish," he announced abruptly. "Do you like to fish?"

The non sequitur was certainly not what Remo had expected as the boy's first words. Remo didn't know what else to say. The kid was some kind of ghost, but he had the big inquisitive eyes of any normal fresh-faced youth. He found himself answering truthfully almost before he realized it.

"Not really," Remo admitted. "I like eating them, don't like catching them."

"I did." The boy nodded. "There was a big sea where I lived. I used to like to fish there when I was little. But the fishing was poor, and there was little fish to catch and so the men of the village hired themselves out to warlords and emperors." Sadness brushed his bright brown eyes. Looking down, he moved one of his little stone men.

The rice-and-hyacinth smell that had led him there was the scent that clung to Chiun's house back in Sinanju. But for Remo, the words he had just spoken clinched it. Just now the boy had started off talking like any normal child of six, but had taken a turn and lapsed into a rote recital of early Sinanju history.

Sitting on a cushion of grass, the boy moved another stone man next to the first. Remo noted that none of the figures he had made were smiling. All wore the same flat expression. Neither happy nor sad.

As the boy played, Remo crouched beside him. "Who are you?" Remo asked.

At this, the boy's eyes grew infinitely sad once more. Remo instantly felt guilty for asking the question.

"I am the Master Who Never Was," the boy replied. "I have been before and if fate so chooses, I will be again."

Remo shook his head. "I don't understand."

The boy scrunched up his button nose. "You don't? Most grown-ups do. Are you dumb?"

For a moment, Remo seemed at a loss. As he searched for the right words, the boy abruptly pushed away his homemade toys. He scampered to his feet.

"Want to see what I can do?" he asked, his eyes wide with the innocence of youth. Before Remo could answer, the boy held out his two balled fists. "You do it, too," he instructed seriously.

Remo was surprised at the way the boy stood. It was the light stance used for Lodestones, a training exercise meant only for two full Masters of Sinanju. If the boy wasn't wrapped in some ghostly disguise that hid his real age, someone of his years should not have advanced so far in Sinanju training.

To mollify the youth, Remo got to his knees before him and mirrored his posture.

"Now, the object is to not touch hands." His hooded eyes widened. "Do you understand?" He nodded slowly, in an open tone that wasn't meant to insult.

Before Remo could respond, the boy struck forward.

Remo matched the blow, hands drawn back with the child's knotted fists. He tracked the tiny hands out and allowed the boy to come at him again, once more mirroring the youth's darting movements.

"No, you have to come at me, too," the boy insisted with a frown.

Remo didn't feel comfortable striking out at a child, even if he was a ghost. But he didn't want to disappoint the kid. Keeping his movements slow and wide, he threw two broad strokes the boy's way.

He was surprised to find his actions matched perfectly. It was as if the boy's hands were locked in orbit around his own. Always near, never touching.

They played Lodestones for a few minutes, their movements growing progressively more complex. The boy seemed lost in the game. While certainly not up to the level of a full Master, Remo was amazed at his abilities. He was far more advanced than he should have been. A child of his age would have been a prodigy in Sinanju.

After a time, the boy finally grew bored.

"I learned that when I was very little," he announced, dropping his hands. "A long, long time ago."

"Who taught you?" Remo pressed.

The boy looked him deep in the eyes, tipping his head to one side. "Do you like toys?" he asked. "I wasn't allowed to have them. But sometimes I snuck away and made some with the other children. Like this." He picked from his small village one of the stone men he'd made.

When he held it out, Remo was impressed by the detail. The features on the toy man were Asian. "You can have it if you want," the boy said. When he pressed the figure into Remo's hand, Remo felt the same unnatural cold he'd experienced at the airport in New York and again on the sidewalk in Bachsburg. There was a total lack of warmth to the boy's body.

Once he'd closed Remo's fingers around the figure, he looked up. His eyes were bright. For the first time, Remo noticed flecks of hazel at the brown edges of his irises.

"Sometimes when you look at things, you don't see them, Remo," he said, with a wisdom older than his physical age. "Sometimes you have to look from the side to know what it is you've seen. It's almost your time. Be sure when you go to look that you see what you should, not what you want to see."

He seemed to want to smile. But the ability to do so had been trained out of him long before he'd shucked his corporeal form. Once he was through speaking, the little boy merely put his hands to the sides of his black tunic and allowed the growing night to claim him.

Remo was left alone in the endless soughing plain, a look of confusion seeping across his face. At his feet, the rocks and grass the boy had been playing with still sat. But the woven huts of a moment before were now simple piles of grass. The stone men, once more chunks of smooth gray rock. Remo opened his hand.

A carved Korean face looked up at him.

He slipped the figure into his pocket. Turning from the mashed-down field, he headed back down the path to the waiting Blazer, his face tight with silent reflection.

ON A HIGH BLUFF that looked out over the great, sweeping plains of the Luzu empire, a lone sentry stood.

Behind him, the dead rock mouth of a played-out diamond mine swallowed night shadows. Before him, the gods bled into the vast twilight sky.

Eyes trained keen watched the solitary truck as it traveled the off-road path from Bachsburg. When the vehicle stopped suddenly, the native grew more alert.

A dark figure emerged, vanishing into the tall grass. Dusk was nearly gone by the time he reappeared. After another minute, the truck resumed its stubborn path into the heart of Luzuland.

The sentry watched it come.

One truck. Only a handful of men.

The bright light of the rising moon found no expression on the native's features.

Spear in hand, the sentry slipped down the round rock face. On bare feet he ran back toward the main Luzu village.

NIGHT DESCENDED on Africa like a settling shroud. As the moon yawned full in the star-choked sky, bathing the rolling plains in spectral white, the Blazer headed deeper into Luzuland.

In the truck's dashboard were ten deep indentations, the shape of the driver's fingers. Behind the wheel, between hateful glances at Remo, the man flexed each hand in turn, trying to force away the residual numbness.

Unlike the first leg of their journey, Remo's thoughts had found focus. As they drove, he stared out the windshield, alert to all that was around them.

The old rutted path grew worse. Around him, Deferens's men bounced and jostled on squeaking springs.

When they had at last traversed the plain and the truck broke through the claustrophobic stretch of dry grass, a rocky expanse funneled them into a string of low hills.

The instant they entered the ravine, Remo was alert to the men crouching high up on the canyon walls. When he looked, he saw dark figures silhouetted against the white glow of the night sky.

One of the men in the back had seen the natives, as well. Eyes growing wide, he scanned the jagged rock line far above. There were dozens of silent Luzus, washed in the black of night. They traced the path of the speeding truck.

"We got company," the man in back growled, already fumbling over the seat for one of the weapons crates.

It was all he managed to say before the window at his right shoulder shattered in around him and the business end of a hurled spear split his skull just above the ear.

The other man in back screamed.

In the front, the panicked driver spun left and right. "What happened?" he yelled, loosening his grip on the wheel.

The truck immediately pulled wildly to one side, scraping the wall of black stone in a shriek of sparks.

Remo grabbed the wheel, steering them back to the path. "Eyes on the road," he warned, annoyance in his voice as he watched the natives. "I want to get there in one piece."

As soon as he spoke, he detected multiple objects rocketing their way. Too many to avoid.

"Oh, great," Remo managed to grouse just as the windshield shattered at the impact of five hurled spears.

Remo caught the spear that was meant for him by its sharpened nose. A fingernail flick and it clattered harmlessly over into the back. Three more he harvested from the air. Unfortunately for the driver, Remo was too far away to stop the fifth.

The spear pounded the man square in the chest, prying ribs and puncturing lung. Releasing a shocked gasp of air, the driver promptly slumped over the wheel.

The truck was already losing control before yet another spear pierced a front tire. It exploded in a spray of tearing rubber and choking dust. Frayed black sheets flew away in anger as the racing truck dropped and spun.

As the truck whipped sideways, the naked wheel snagged a jagged rock. They went up and over.

In the passenger's side, Remo folded his arms in quiet irritation as the world spun upside down. Bodies and shattered glass whipped about the cab. The big truck rolled wildly, end over end, along the ravine road, roof and doors buckling as momentum propelled it forward.

Only when they finally crashed and rolled to a creaking, grinding stop, did Remo uncross his arms. "Chiun had better not hear about this," he muttered to himself. In response, the last survivor in the rear groaned.

Remo ignored the man.

The truck had landed at an angle on its crushed roof. Through the window slits, Remo saw dozens of bare ankles. His ears detected a chorus of thudding heartbeats. Brushing glass from his chinos, he climbed out into the cloud of softly rising dust.

About two hundred warriors encircled the wreck. At Remo's appearance, spears were raised menacingly. Remo didn't seem concerned with them in the least.

"You're all my witnesses," he said, addressing the multitude. "If anyone asks, I was not driving." He slapped more dust from the knees of his pants.

Behind Remo, the last of the men who had accompanied him from Bachsburg crawled out into the dirt, a British assault rifle clutched in his shaking hands.

"Mooka bastards!" he screamed.

His finger didn't have time to brush the trigger before a single spear struck him in the shoulder. It tore straight through flesh and bone, throwing him backward and pinning him to the crumpled hulk of the truck.

When the man opened his mouth to cry out in pain, another hurled spear flew inside it, snapping his head into the Blazer. His body slumped, held in place by the two spears. The gun slipped from his fingers.

Remo turned from the dead man. "Okay, I'm serious," he said to the Luzu army. "I don't want you telling anyone I did this, 'cause I didn't."

Chiun had been a real pain in the ass about his driving skills lately. On top of everything else, he didn't want to take the blame for this latest wreck. In response to his words, a spear flew his way.

When it was a hair from his eyeball, Remo batted it by the shaft. It clattered harmlessly to the rocky ground.

"Cut it out," he said, peeved. "And since you just killed my guides, I'd appreciate it if you'd take me to wherever Batubizee is."

At the mention of their chief, another dozen angry spears sailed at him. With unseen swatting hands, Remo lrnocked them all away.

"Listen, I hate to play on my celebrity status," Remo said as the last spear fell and the first murmurs of concern began to rise from the ranks of the Luzu, "but I am a Master of Sinanju."

Doubtful expressions blossomed on the faces of the Luzu warriors.

"You lie," one menaced.

Remo bit the inside of his cheek, wondering how to prove his identity to them. "It'd help if I'd brought my Sinanju decoder ring." He frowned, glancing around.

When he saw the machete in the hands of a nearby native, a thought suddenly occurred to him. Reaching over, Remo snagged the weapon. To the crowd, it was as if the blade had appeared in his hand by magic. Spears rose menacingly.

"Don't get your loincloths in a bunch," Remo grumbled.

He didn't raise the weapon against any of the Luzus. Instead, he marched around the side of the overturned truck.

Suspicious eyes tracked him as he went.

A door had been ripped off the Blazer in the crash. The bent shape nestled amid a pile of rocks near the wall of the ravine. Raising the machete, Remo slashed it down against the painted panel of the door. With a few rapid strokes, he etched a trapezoid in the steel. A final, single blow brought a bisecting slash mark through the geometric shape.

"There," Remo announced, turning from the door. "Satisfied?" He tossed the machete back to its owner.

The symbol of the House of Sinanju had the desired effect. Shocked gasps rose from the ranks of the Luzu army.

"Sinanju," a few men hissed, awed. With growing wonder, they looked on the stranger with the milk-white face.

"Told you," Remo said. "Now can we shake a leg?"

The Luzus weren't sure what to do. Although their first impulse was to kill Remo, the symbol of Sinanju was too great a thing to ignore. It was finally decided that they would do as he requested and bring him back to their chief. But given the abilities he displayed, they would treat the intruder with extreme caution.

Shrill whistles called the natives on the hills down into the gorge. They fell in with the rest of the crowd. The entire army began marching through the ravine on foot.

And at the front of the armed horde, prodded with the points of three hundred spears, Remo Williams trudged deeper into Luzuland, a growing scowl on his skull-like face.

Chapter 17

Once fertile land had long since grown arid. In the moonlight were visible the ancient scars of collapsing canals and earthen dams. If water pooled in them at all, it was at another time of year and then purely by accident. Artificial reservoirs that had collected rainwater during the height of the Luzu Empire were now filled with dusty silt and brush.

As the Luzu army led him along a bone-dry canal, Remo took note of the scraggly brown brush growing wild all along its crumbling banks. Beyond the ancient irrigation system, a huge expanse of savannah was charred black-victim of a recent uncontrolled fire sparked by lightning.

Everywhere he looked were remnants of the civilization that had once thrived here.

Arid wells sat in the middle of nowhere. Too perfect tiers on a hillside was proof of steppe farming from another century. As they entered the shantytown that now served as the main Luzu village, Remo saw a huge pile of rocks that had been part of a large stone building. The rock had been cut from an abandoned quarry in the nearby mountains. A sentry had spotted the war party when it was still far off. By the time Remo and his army arrived in the village, the main square was filled with frightened Luzus.

If he hadn't been depressed already before coming to East Africa, the pathetic Kwa-Luzu capital would have sent him into an emotional tailspin.

The sight of so many distended bellies and malnourished faces filled Remo's heart with pity. Skeletal faces watched, eyes too big for shrinking sockets, as he was led through the crowd, past rows of crumbling huts and pathetic tin houses. They steered him to a large home near the stone remains of a dried-up well.

At the sound of his approach, a man who could only have been Chief Batubizee stepped out of the tumbledown house. A robe hung limp from his broad shoulders, and a tarnished crown of gold encircled his balding head. Remo was quick to note that the chief didn't seem to lack for food.

At Batubizee's elbow was the native who had collected Chiun at the airport. When he saw Remo, Bubu's eyes registered surprise.

"Who is this?" Batubizee boomed to the Luzu army, disapproval evident in his loud voice.

"He claims to be of Sinanju," a Luzu warrior offered.

Bubu leaned close to the chief's ear.

"He did arrive in the company of the Master," the young Luzu whispered.

It was Batubizee's turn to look surprised. "You serve the Master of Sinanju?" he demanded of Remo.

It was all Remo could do to hide his contempt. In an entire civilization of hunger and despair, it was apparent that Batubizee alone sat down at a full table every night.

"Feels like that a lot of the time," Remo replied, his eyes flat. "Right now I'm just looking for him." A chilly voice broke in from behind.

"You have found him, ungrateful one."

When Remo turned, he saw Chiun at the edge of the crowd, his wrinkled face cold. The wasted natives shrank from him in fear. Even Batubizee seemed anxious at the sight of the wizened Asian.

"Your servant has arrived, Master of Sinanju," the Luzu chief called.

From a distance, Chiun's narrowed eyes regarded Remo. "He is no servant of mine," the old man replied in loud and ominous tones.

Remo had hoped the tiny Korean hadn't carried back to Luzuland the baggage of their confrontation at the palace. But by the sounds of it, the old man was ready to sic the entire Luzu nation on Remo just to teach his pupil a lesson.

As Chiun stepped forward, the multitude parted. Not a ruffle appeared in the multicolored peacocks that were embroidered on his saffron robe. When he stopped before Remo, his hazel eyes were chips of flinty accusation.

"Could you cut me a break, Little Father?" Remo asked in a hushed tone. "I really need to talk to you."

An eyebrow rose almost imperceptibly. Noting the troubled undertone in his pupil's voice, the Master of Sinanju's mouth thinned. He turned to Batubizee.

"He is much more than a mere servant," Chiun proclaimed. "I introduce to you my son, the current Apprentice and future Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju."

Batubizee shot a glance at Bubu. "He is white," he told Chiun, as if the old man could have somehow missed the fact.

"Only on the outside," Chiun assured him. "His blood is the blood of my ancestors."

"More or less," Remo cut in, irked at the racebaiting.

"Quiet," Chiun snapped in Korean. "Do not embarrass me in front of the Luzu." Whirling to the crowd, he threw his arms up high. Kimono sleeves slipped down, revealing bony arms. "Hear you now, children of Kwaanga! My son in spirit has come to your land to aid us in our fight against the wicked Mandobar!"

If he expected a cheer from the crowd, he never got one. The gathered Luzus regarded him with sickly silence tinged with latent fear.

"That's not exactly why I'm here," Remo suggested.

Before Chiun could caution him once more to still his tongue, Chief Batubizee raised his voice. "Why then have you come here, son of Chiun?" the Luzu chief asked, puzzled.

Remo regarded the bloated ruler with level eyes. "Assuming you're Batubizee, I was sent here to kill you," he said.

Beside him, Chiun's eyes saucered in shock. Bubu jumped protectively in front of the surprised chief. And all around the square, Luzu warriors raised their weapons menacingly.

His face bland, Remo scanned the angry crowd. "Of course, if this is a bad time, I could come back after supper."

TEN MINUTES LATER, Chiun had somehow convinced the entire Luzu nation that Remo was joking and didn't need to be killed. The two Masters of Sinanju had joined Batubizee and Bubu inside the chief's squalid home.

Chiun was thankful that Remo didn't comment on the tattered rug or the ragged silk pillows as the three oldest men sat on the floor. Bubu continued to stand, his gaze glued on Remo. He watched with neither malice nor mistrust. The young native was merely silently alert.

Remo noted an innate stillness to the guard even as Chiun continued to apologize for Remo's words of a few moments before.

"I promise you he meant nothing by it," the Master of Sinanju insisted. "Sometimes he speaks before his thoughts are fully formed."

"I do not understand." Chief Batubizee frowned. "Why would he say such a thing? Is your son an imbecile?"

"Hello? Sitting in the same room." Remo waved, irked.

Chiun ignored him. "No, he is not an imbecile," he said to the chief.

"Yes, you are an imbecile," he said more harshly to Remo in Korean.

"Little Father, I need to-"

Chiun cut him off with a sharply raised hand. "He is too busy attempting to solve the woes of a cruel and savage world to think clearly," he promised the chief. "But he apologizes if he has insulted you in any way. Is that not right, Remo?"

Remo's face was sour. "Yeah, that's right," he said. "Now can we get outta here?"

A nasty string of rapid-fire Korean and the Master of Sinanju turned once more to Batubizee. "Forgive him his rudeness, sire, for he is afflicted with a curse that forces him to see all of the injustices of the world as his personal responsibility. It has left him callous and rude."

"I'll give you rude, Chiun," Remo snarled in Korean. "You've got a whole tribe of women and children out there with xylophone rib cages and this gaspot's in here squatting on the cooler hogging all the sandwiches and Skittles."

In the center of the room, Batubizee's eyes narrowed at Remo's rough tone. "What did he say?" he asked Chiun.

"He is merely expressing anger at himself for being inadequate to the task of offering a proper apology," the Master of Sinanju insisted. "Isn't that true, Remo?" he said through clenched teeth.

Remo rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he said.

The chief let their words hang in the musty air of his hut for a pregnant moment.

"The men with whom you came here work for Minister Deferens," Batubizee finally said in a cautious tone.

"I know." Remo sighed. "I do, too. Or Deferens thinks I do. Anyway, I only came here with them to find Chiun."

"But they intended to kill me."

Remo nodded. "That was his plan. Don't worry. I wouldn't have let them follow through."

"The chief does not need you to safeguard his life as long as I am here," Chiun sniffed. He was studying Remo's face. "You contracted with someone other than Smith?"

Remo avoided Chiun's penetrating gaze. "Not really," he hedged. "It was just a cover." He was relieved when Batubizee interrupted.

"I am not surprised that Deferens would try to have me killed," the chief intoned, his moon face pulled into a thoughtful frown. "He is an evil man."

"You got that vibe, too?" Remo said, deadpan. "By the sounds of it, he's up to his dimpled chin in this Mandobar thing."

Batubizee nodded. "It is as I feared, Master of Sinanju," he said somberly. "Our attack has brought a swift response from my enemies. When Mandobar learns these men have failed, he will have Deferens send others."

At the door, Bubu suddenly chimed in. "They will need to get past the old Master and me," he insisted, his eyes burning with the fire of passion.

Remo was surprised when the guard wasn't scolded for speaking out of turn.

Batubizee simply held up a silencing hand, and the young man took an obedient step back. The flames of fierce loyalty that burned within Bubu did not ebb.

"After his presidency ended, when news of what Mandobar had in store for East Africa reached my ears, I sent men to investigate," Chief Batubizee said. "This was before I summoned you, Master of Sinanju."

Chiun nodded silent understanding.

"Now it is sad yet true that many Luzu have left their ancestral land," the chief continued. "Some found their way to Bachsburg, so when my warriors reached the city, their Luzu brothers there aided them in their quest to learn the truth of what was happening in the city built by oppressive whites that was now being corrupted by a wicked black. In their search for the source of evil, they found Deferens."

Remo hadn't been interested in Batubizee or Mandobar or what either man wanted for East Africa. He wanted only to get Chiun alone in order to discuss the strange happenings of the past two days. But Chiun clearly had no intention of moving any time soon. And, in spite of himself, he found that he was being drawn into the chief's account of what was happening in Bachsburg.

"I don't get it," he said. "Why'd they stop at Deferens? Why didn't you just send them after Mandobar?"

"By this time, Mandobar had retired from public life and was living in Kequ in the province of Pretraal," Batubizee explained. "Well guarded and far away from the minions working on his terrible plan."

"Okay," Remo said reasonably. "Then bump off Deferens."

Batubizee shook his head. "A man can live with one hand or foot. To kill Deferens would have been meaningless. Mandobar simply would have promoted another in his place."

"But not necessarily the new defense minister," Remo argued. "I can't believe everyone in the government is in on this."

"No," Batubizee said. "But we do not know who is and who is not. The Kmpali government is as corrupt as Mandobar's was. This much is admitted to by all. There is no telling who in Bachsburg is an honest man any longer."

Remo couldn't argue there. The Luzu chief had just expressed the sentiments Remo had been feeling about the entire world before coming to East Africa.

"When I realized the extent of this poison and the threat it represented to the Luzu people, I at last summoned Master Chiun," Batubizee said. "No other chief had invoked the Sinanju contract since the time of Kwaanga, and I did not wish to be the first. But in the end, I was helpless to do anything else. When I learned that Mandobar had been given an office at the palace, I saw it as my opportunity. Perhaps the last for my people." He shook his head sadly.

To Remo, the chief's sorrow for his subjects seemed genuine, yet he could not banish the image of the starving tribesmen he had seen outside, nor of the bloated man who sat before him now. "Well, Mandobar's out of the country for now," Remo said. "So if you want to make a dent in his plan by capping his loyal defense minister foot soldier, I won't stop you."

The chief gave a mocking laugh. "Deferens is loyal only to himself," he said. "My warriors tracked him for days. That fiend has secrets, even from his master. He and a criminal called Spumoni are even now plotting an evil unknown to Mandobar. They meet in areas of Bachsburg Deferens would ordinarily not travel to. He has been seen climbing in and out of sewers several times."

"Sewers?" Remo said, surprised. He pictured the fastidious L. Vas Deferens. "We're talking about the same guy here, right? Dresses like Mr. Roarke? Looks like he's had his hair Scotchgarded?"

"A sewer sounds an appropriate lair for one such as he," the Master of Sinanju offered.

"I'm serious, Chiun," Remo said. "The guy I met would have his neighbor's dog shot at sunrise far making on his lawn. What was he doing climbing in a sewer?"

"My men attempted to find out," Batubizee said seriously. "Two groups of Luzu warriors followed Deferens and the rest down into the Bachsburg sewer system. Only one group returned alive. The bodies of the rest were pulled from the waste at a sewage-treatment plant the next day."

Remo frowned as he considered this information.

"What do you suppose he's doing down there?" he mused aloud.

Unscissoring his folded legs, Chiun rose to his feet like a puff of fussy steam. "A mystery we must leave to another time," the old man announced. He turned to the Luzu chief. "Though this attempt on your life has failed, I fear it will not be the last," he said seriously. "While your highness prepares your warriors, I will confer with my son. Perhaps he has learned something from your enemies that could be of value to us."

Batubizee nodded grimly. With Bubu's aid, he struggled up from his mound of pillows. Gathering his robes up from around his ankles, he ducked out the hut door, guard in tow.

"It's about time," Remo said, standing to face his teacher. "It looked like you were gonna sit there all night."

"It would have served you right," Chiun replied thinly. He shook his head. "There is no reason, Remo, to behave as rudely as you did to the chief. Master's disease or not, a client should always be treated with respect."

"Some client," Remo scoffed. "This whole tribe looks like it doesn't have a pot to piss in. He probably paid you with a sockful of his own subjects' gold teeth. Which, by the way, it looks like they don't need anyway."

At the mention of payment, Remo completely missed the downward-darting eyes of the Master of Sinanju.

"And I didn't come all the way out here to kiss up to Batubizee." Remo's tone grew worried. "Something weird's going on, Little Father. Weirder than I can get a handle on. I need you with me right now, not traipsing around the outback with King Hungry-Hungry Hippo."

The pleading in his pupil's eyes gave Chiun cause for concern. Pursing his lips, he shook his eggshell head.

"I cannot leave, my son," he said softly. "Until Batubizee says otherwise, my place right now is at his side. There are obligations we of Sinanju have to these people." He took a deep breath, exhaling thoughtfully. "I have not yet told you the full story of Master Nuk, he who discovered the Luzu." And the way he stood made it seem as if the burden of his responsibilities was almost too great for his frail form to bear.

Remo's shoulders sank. When he spoke, it was with no animosity. Merely somber acceptance. "All right. Stay here," he said quietly. "But if I have to sit through the entire story of Master Nuk and how Sinanju became tangled up with the Luzus, I vote you tell me the tale of the Master Who Never Was first."

He watched for Chiun's reaction, assuming he'd elicit some surprise for even knowing anything at all about the young ghost boy who had been dogging him the past few days. But it was Remo who was surprised.

Chiun's papery skin failed to flinch. Only one quizzical eyebrow rose slightly.

"There is no such Master's tale, Remo," the old Korean said, shaking his head in confusion. And there was not a hint of deception in his puzzled voice.

Chapter 18

Oily water dripped from mossy, slime-covered walls. Even the corroded metal rungs embedded in the ancient brick felt greasy to Nunzio Spumoni. Revulsion touched his sweaty face as he climbed the ladder to the lower platform.

Although it was cooler in the sewer tunnels that crisscrossed beneath the busy streets of Bachsburg, the Camorra representative still perspired. But with hands slick from the ladder, he dared not dig in his breast pocket for his handkerchief.

Nunzio delicately tugged the collar of his damp cotton shirt with one finger as the defense ministry men led him down the arched tunnel.

The stench was powerful, even through his surplus gas mask. The stink of tons of human waste battled past rubber and filter. He had always had a delicate stomach. Nunzio had no idea how his companions could stand coming down here with faces uncovered.

A dark river of frothy filth rolled relentlessly by the raised platform on which he walked.

The sewage was wide and deep. The last thing in the world Nunzio wanted was to fall in. He kept his eyes on the floor as he stepped with slow caution on the wet stone.

Feet clattered with the urgency of their purpose. "This way," directed the man in the lead.

He ushered Nunzio and the rest into another subterranean corridor. This one was older than the last. Sheets of salt-white slime stained the century-old walls. Clumps of rust-colored mold chewed away at the crumbling mortar.

Nunzio stepped gingerly along the slippery walkway.

The men who led him through these catacombs were all whites. It still amazed Nunzio that somehow in the modern East Africa, a government official as highly placed as L. Vas Deferens managed to associate with no blacks whatsoever.

In the 1980s, Hollywood stars and music industry giants in search of a cause had focused on the racial injustices of East Africa. Russia and China had racism, oppression, state-mandated feticide, imperialism, gulags, religious intolerance, expanding nuclear stockpiles and enough murdered dissidents and purged peasants to make the Altamont Rock Festival look like a half-filled phone booth. But they also had communism, which made every despicable thing done by their governments an exercise in equality. Since the East African system wasn't Communist, it was fair game to every empty-headed millionaire entertainer with a soapbox and a mouth. It was almost twenty years since the start of their crusade and, thanks to their great work, integration in East Africa had progressed to the point that criminals of all races could work together in peace and harmony. Except, it would seem, for those employed by Minister L. Vas Deferens.

As Nunzio Spumoni picked his careful way along the catwalk, his thoughts were far from the political upheaval that had transformed East Africa. His only concern right now was not falling into a river of shit.

His toe touched a slick, fat brick. When he brought his heel down, the stone popped loose. Before he knew what was happening, both feet flew out from under him. Nunzio was about to topple off the platform when strong arms grabbed hold of him, pulling him upright.

His companions seemed more disgusted by the skinny man's sweaty jacket than by the sewer. Worried that they wouldn't bother to catch him a second time, Nunzio exercised even greater caution than before as they turned into an adjacent tunnel. Minister Deferens was walking toward them, a gas mask obscuring his soft features. In spite of their surroundings, there was not a single smudge on his snow-white suit.

"Ah, Nunzio," Deferens said, stopping as the Camorra agent approached. The minister's voice was muffled. "I see you've survived the perils of the Bachsburg sewer system."

Nunzio's breath was hot inside his mask. He could feel the first itching of a prickly red rash beneath the rubber.

"Barely," he replied. "I don't know why we have to meet down here."

"Business, my friend," Deferens insisted. "And speaking of business, how is our last holdout?"

"I spoke to Don Vincenzo this afternoon," Nunzio replied. "He has been in contact with Don Giovani, who will personally represent the Sicilian Mafia. He'll be here tomorrow."

Although the defense minister's mouth was obscured, his eyes crinkled happily beyond the wide plastic goggles of his mask. "That is wonderful news," he enthused. "And Don Vincenzo will be coming, too?"

Nunzio shook his head. "No certain answer," he said. "Given what we have planned, he is still hesitant to come."

Deferens's eyes steeled. "No, no, no," he said. "If Don Vincenzo doesn't make an appearance, Don Giovani will not stay. And if Giovani leaves, others might, as well. Forgive me, Nunzio, but your people are deeply suspicious. I must insist that Don Vincenzo come to the city for an hour or two. Don Giovani need only see him here. He may leave then."

Nunzio Spumoni shrugged his sweaty shoulders. "I'll call him when I get back to the hotel," he said, exhaling.

Deferens nodded. "Stress that all the major syndicates around the world will have representatives here within the next twenty-four hours. Given the size of their entourages, we should be able to wipe out the upper echelon of nearly every organization in the world, save Camorra." He stepped aside, extending a pale hand. "Speaking of which, we're about finished here. If you are interested."

He ushered Nunzio farther up the tunnel.

A few dozen yards more and they came to a confluence of sewer lines. Their own tunnel split off in three directions. Near the mouth of the nearest aqueduct, a recessed well was built into the slippery wall. In the opening sat an ominous stainless-steel device.

Nunzio Spumoni gulped. Fresh trickles of sweat formed beneath his reed-thin arms, running down his torso.

"Are the others in place, as well?" he asked. He kept his muffled voice low.

Deferens nodded. "We would be ready to go now, if Don Vincenzo desired us to." The minister's eyes grew sadly pleading. "Please, Nunzio, convince him to come." Delicate hands pressed against the breast of his perfect white suit. "Promise him from me that no harm will come to him."

"I will do my best," Nunzio promised. His wide eyes behind his plastic goggles studied the casing. "Although you should know he was not pleased to learn that Mandobar has fled to China. If he is not willing to take the risk for his own plan, why should Don Vincenzo?"

"Why didn't you say, Nunzio?" Deferens said, frowning. "If this is the problem, tell Don Vincenzo there is more than one Mandobar. Ours never left East Africa."

Nunzio Spumoni raised a surprised brow. He'd heard before that some heads of state employed doubles for certain situations. The world had come to know that Saddam Hussein used many. But as far as Nunzio knew, the doubles didn't function as full replacements for high-profile events. Was it possible that the Chinese were so blind they couldn't tell a phony Willie Mandobar from a real one?

"So I may tell Don Vincenzo that Mandobar is here?"

"Absolutely," Deferens insisted. "And please tell your employer that he may leave in complete safety as soon as he is seen here. You will be joining him on the flight back to Naples, presumably?"

Nunzio glanced at the device planted in the mosscovered wall. "I have no desire to be here when it happens."

Deferens caught his troubled look.

"There is nothing to worry about," he promised. "I am staying here until not long before, Nunzio. It will be perfectly safe ...provided, of course, the wind is blowing in the right direction afterward." His eyes smiled once more.

Another gesture from his delicate arm and the defense minister led Nunzio from the tunnel to his waiting entourage.

"I suppose I really cannot blame you for wanting to leave, Nunzio," Deferens mused as they threaded their way along the slippery path. "It will be safer for you back home. After all, as far as I know, in Italy the terrorists have not yet started using nuclear technology."

Nunzio had to be careful not to lose his footing when Deferens gave him a cheerful slap on his sweaty back.

Chapter 19

Both Masters of Sinanju had decided that Chief Batubizee's hut was too depressing. Remo and Chiun were strolling amid the pitiful huts of the main Luzu village.

The night was warm. Despite the surrounding rules of drought-ravaged land, a sweet scent carried on the breeze. White moonlight bathed the shabby village.

Once Remo had told the Master of Sinanju all that had occurred to him over the past two days, a thoughtful expression found root on the old man's age-speckled brow.

"Most strange," the wizened Asian nodded. As he padded along the dusty path, slender fingers stroked his thin beard.

"You're telling me," Remo said. "So who is this kid, Little Father? And why is he following me around?"

"I do not know who he is," Chiun admitted. "The scrolls do not speak of a Master Who Never Was. But you first saw him in the company of your wisewoman. Both spoke of your destiny, so we can assume they are both merely acting as vessels of the gods, speaking to you on their behalf."

On this subject, Remo remained mute. He had once had a healthy skepticism for Chiun's tales of gods interacting with mortal beings, but that was long ago. He had seen too much by now to continue in the role of doubter.

"If they know what the grand plan is for me, I wish they'd just spit it out," Remo muttered. "Everything doesn't have to be so damned cryptic all the time."

"It sounds clear enough to me," Chiun replied. His voice grew soft. "The boy was speaking of your pupil, Remo. The one you will take to train as Master to succeed you."

Remo stopped dead. "He didn't say that." He frowned.

Chiun's smile was sad. "Did he not say it was nearly your time? And the crone told you that the coming years will be difficult for you. Such is the case when a Master takes a pupil. Believe me, I know." He resumed walking.

Remo followed beside him in thoughtful silence. Luzu men and women watched them as they passed.

"I never gave any of that much thought," Remo said after a long pause.

"Perhaps that is why the gods found it necessary to dispatch an emissary," Chiun replied.

"I wouldn't even know how to find a pupil." He was speaking to himself now, trying to absorb the ramifications of all that was being said.

"It is traditional for a Master to train his own offspring," Chiun offered.

Remo's eyes widened. "No way," he insisted. "Freya's not having anything to do with any of this."

Chiun's face puckered in displeasure. "Of course not," he said, scowling. "Why would your thoughts fly immediately to your daughter? You have a son, as well."

"Oh." Remo nodded. "Winston."

Winston had been a grown man when Remo met him. Remo's daughter was still a teenager. Both were living with Remo's biological father on an Indian reservation in Arizona.

In truth he did not know why he thought of his daughter and not his son first.

"I don't know about Winston, Little Father," Remo cautioned. "He's not exactly Sinanju material."

"They are not necessarily alone," Chiun replied mysteriously. "Your bull-like rutting habits of years ago has likely given us many more male offspring to choose from. But rather than squander years scouring orphanages around the world for children who have your beady eyes and unpleasant temperament, you could sire another now. We need only return to Sinanju and find a suitable maiden to accept your seed."

Remo shook his head. "I don't like that idea, Little Father," he said. "And not just because most Sinanju maidens look like they've taken one hit too many from the shit end of the ugly stick. I just don't think it's right to breed a baby just to raise for this crazy life. A baby's supposed to be the product of two people's love for each other, not some experiment in assassin's eugenics."

Chiun raised his bony shoulders in a tiny shrug. "Then you are left with the same choice of finding an heir I was. Go out in the world and trust that fate will supply you with what you need. With any luck, you will do better than I."

Remo hardly heard the gentle gibe. "It's always been you and me," he said. "Can we handle bringing someone else on board this mess?"

"You will be doing all the handling," Chiun replied, in a low and even tone. "When the time comes for you to train your successor, I will return to Sinanju."

Remo froze. "What?"

"Do not pretend you did not know this was the case, Remo," Chiun warned. "In all the stories of Sinanju, have you ever heard one in which two generations of Masters were still actively plying their art while one trained a successor?"

"Well, no, but-I never gave it much thought."

Chiun resumed his slow, reflective pace. "That is because it has never happened," he said somberly. "It is not proper for a teacher to remain active when his student takes a pupil of his own. When you find your successor, I will retire to Sinanju, there to sit in the warming sun of the bay and mend the nets while I watch the men go out to fish. In a few years, when your pupil passes the first phase on his path to Masterhood, I will leave the shore and enter the caves near the village for the traditional period of seclusion."

Remo couldn't believe what he was hearing. Chiun was talking about a ritualistic cleansing of the spirit taken on by all retired Masters of Sinanju. The rite could take several decades, and once he entered into this last phase of his life, Chiun would only emerge from his solitude to die.

With Chiun's words, Remo's heart hollowed.

"I don't want you to just lock yourself off from the world like that," he said, quiet emotion straining his voice.

"The world will get along without me," Chiun replied. "Besides, it is tradition."

"Screw that." Remo scowled. "Can't you just this once break with tradition and do what you want? I mean, God, there can't be another Master in the history of Sinanju who's been more slavish to those stupid scrolls. I think your ancestors would forgive you one lapse."

Chiun's face grew serious. "While I have done my best to uphold our traditions, it would not be my first and only sin were I to avoid the period of seclusion," he intoned. "When the time comes, I will do as I must." He shook his head, dismissing all they had said. "This is not the time for this conversation. The gods have merely endeavored to plant this thought in your mind. We could have many more years before it becomes time for you to act on what you have learned." Though his words were meant to bolster Remo's spirits, his eyes told a different story.

Chiun found a nice flat rock beyond the last straggling huts of the village. Scampering up it, he settled cross-legged to the boulder, encouraging his pupil to do so, as well. They sat across from each other, father and son.

For Remo, the whole world suddenly seemed very small and very precious. Like the wizened figure that now faced him-the one person on the entire face of the benighted planet who had ever given him anything of any real meaning.

Chiun's laugh lines were deep creases in aged leather. His once white hair had, in the autumn of his life, given way to yellow. To Remo, in that moment, his teacher had never seemed quite so old or frail.

Nearby, the clawing branches of the baobab raked the dirt. The machete still protruded from its cracked trunk.

"Getting a point across?" Remo asked gently.

"Sometimes it is the only way to get fools to listen," the Master of Sinanju replied simply.

A few women scraped the shattered tree's pulp for water. Moon shadows played across the children at their ankles. As they went about their work in the dark, they didn't seem as malnourished as they had when first he arrived. A sudden peal of laughter carried back to them on the warm breeze.

Given all they had just discussed, there seemed an air of finality to the world. Remo resolved to enjoy the moment.

"This reminds me of the Loni," he commented as he watched the Luzu children.

"Why?" Chiun asked. "Because that was an African tribe and this is another? This continent is littered with the bones of former empires, Remo."

"Maybe." Remo nodded. "But I remember that time. You practically had to set yourself on fire to fulfill some crazy prophecy." He looked at his teacher, his eyes level. "I won't let you do that again."

Chiun soaked in the warmth of his pupil's tone. "Your concern is touching but unnecessary. There will be no purification by fire. In that other time you mention, there was a Sinanju contract that had not been satisfied. Our ties to the Luzu are different."

"How so?" Remo asked. "A contract's a contract."

"Ordinarily, that is true," the Master of Sinanju said. "Do you remember, Remo, the story of Master Nuk?"

"Nuk," Remo said, considering. "He succeed Koo?"

Chiun's heart swelled with pride. He had remembered. There were times when Remo's devotion to the history of the House of Sinanju nearly matched his own.

"Yes," the old man said. "Do you remember his tale?"

"Wasn't much to remember." He began repeating the story by rote. "'And, lo, Nuk the Unwise did travel to the belly of the dark beast. There he found a people in despair and did nurture them to greatness. Eventually, they paid.'" He shrugged. "That's all you ever taught me."

"That was all that was written in the official records of our House," Chiun replied. "However, the Master has access to other histories."

"You're always saying that," Remo chided. "When do I get a chance to look at the top-secret stuff?"

"Are you Master yet?" Chiun asked aridly.

His words brought back their earlier conversation. "No," Remo said softly.

"Then be quiet." Resettling his robes, Chiun took on the pose of teacher. "Now, the people from whom Nuk sought employment were the ancestors of the Luzu. It was a dark time for our House. During Nuk's tenure as Master, there were few emperors in need of his services. The great treasure house in the village, while full from the efforts of previous Masters, was in danger. There was talk that the babies might one day have to be sent home to the sea."

"But there's tons of dough there," Remo suggested. "It'd hold the whole village for about a billion years."

"And at the end of that time?" Chiun said, his brow arched.

Remo sighed. "I know. Always plan ahead."

"That is correct," Chiun said with a crisp nod. "And so when the normal avenues failed to yield work for him, Nuk did travel to the land of the Luzu, and made he of these impoverished nomads a powerful nation."

"How's that?" Remo asked. "If they didn't have any money, why would Nuk come within a country mile of them? I thought we only ever went where the cash was."

The old Korean was growing uncomfortable. "Nuk took the promise of future earnings from the Luzu. For in the hills near these simple tribesmen were diamonds more flawless than the finest in the Sinanju treasure house. These early Luzu were not advanced far enough to mine the gems, and a Master of Sinanju does not dig. Therefore, Nuk did shepherd the Luzu to greatness. Over time they did grow and prosper to the point where they were able to mine the diamonds from the rocky hills. Nuk was paid and went on his way."

Remo had been listening to the account with interest.

"Sounds like a pretty savvy move to me," he commented with an appreciative nod. "Small investment, big payoff."

Chiun gave an annoyed cluck. "We are not a house of financial brokers," he complained. "Payment for a contract year is due in full, up front. Preferably gold. We invest not in stock markets, but in the future of Sinanju. Anything could have happened to the Luzu during the years Nuk nurtured them. Famine, war. A single plague could have wiped out all that he worked for."

"I suppose. But it didn't. Nuk got his payday."

"That is not the point. Nuk should have found an employer who paid immediately. His years with the Luzu created a dependency of them on us. He even resurrected the long-abandoned practice of offering weapons training to his charges due to the guilt he felt. Because of Nuk the Unwise, we are responsible for these people as we are for no other."

"Nuk the Unwise," Remo mused. "Back when you made me learn the names of all the masters, I always thought that one sounded a little harsh."

"Harsh, perhaps. But well earned," Chiun said.

"Probably, from our mercenary standpoint. But the guy worked hard to be a Master of Sinanju. We went through it, we know what it's like. So what if he screwed up a little along the way? He got paid in the end. But that doesn't matter. The final kick in the teeth to poor Nuk is someone scribbling 'unwise' in front of his name in the scrolls."

"Pray that your pupil does not give you a worse honorific," Chiun said somberly.

While Remo didn't want to think of his future pupil right now, Chiun's last words caused his ears to prick up.

"You mean the pupil gets to pick the honorific of his Master?" he pressed.

A look of flickering horror passed swiftly across the parchment face of the Master of Sinanju. He quickly banished it far beneath a bland veneer of tan wrinkles.

"I am not certain," he said vaguely. "I have been forced to nursemaid you so far beyond the point of my own retirement that I forget that particular rule."

The prospect of Chiun's retiring forced all lightness from Remo's tone. "So what's our story here?" he asked. "Because of Nuk's empire-building, we've got to come back here at the drop of a hat whenever they ask?"

"No. The situation must be grave enough to threaten the Luzu Empire. Only then is Sinanju bound to act."

"Some empire," Remo said mockingly. "Ten thousand stick figures and one big fat chief. He's got a hell of a nerve, by the way. Looking like that when the rest of his people look like they're one empty plate away from the cemetery."

"You worry still about the injustices of the world." Chiun sighed. "I will be pleased when this sickness finally runs its course."

"If getting over Master's disease means I'll start subscribing to Batubizee's 'let 'em eat cake' philosophy, then I pray to every god you've got that I never get better."

A shocked intake of air. When he glanced over, Remo found a look of pure horror on his teacher's face.

"Remo, still your tongue," Chiun whispered. Troubled eyes scanned the night sky. He tracked the course of a shooting star with a deeply worried look. "You must beg forgiveness for your ill-chosen words," he warned.

"What?" Remo frowned. "Chiun, I-"

"Remo, please," Chiun begged. His eyes were desperate.

Rare were such entreaties from the Master of Sinanju.

Remo regarded the clear African sky. "Sorry," he said to the stars.

Chiun waited a long time, as if he expected the wrath of the gods to rain fire on both their heads.

When the heavens remained silent, he turned his attention back to his pupil.

"It is not wise to tempt the gods in such a way," the old man offered, his voice a respectful whisper. His tone implored understanding.

"I'm sorry, Little Father," Remo said. And this apology he meant.

The tiny Asian nodded. "As for Batubizee, he looks as he does because he is chief. He was not chosen because he did not perspire on television and another would-be chief did, or because females wished to lay with him more than some other or because he was an inch taller or lied about experiencing the pain of his subjects. He is chief because he was born to be chief. I do not expect you to understand, but as the future standard bearer of our House, it is important that you at least feign understanding."

It was as if he were trying to will Remo to understand.

Remo nodded tightly. "I know my obligations." Chiun could sense his pupil's heavy heart.

The old Korean suddenly held out a bony hand to all that was visible of the once mighty Luzu nation. Moonlight dappled the savannah. Nearby, the toppled foundation of an ancient building jutted from the wind-worn dirt.

"Remember that the worries of those who made this empire have long since turned to dust. The woes that burden you will one day be the same. You flutter here and there, hoping that each moment will bring you happiness. But a mere moment cannot be so powerful. It is but the lost blink of an eye, forever locked in time. True joy comes from within. Do not struggle so hard to find it, and perhaps it will find you."

"Sometimes I've thought I had," Remo admitted gently. "But every time things seem to get okay for me, the world comes along and kicks me in the nuts."

Chiun offered a flickering smile. "At those points, my son, it is always important to kick back harder." His eyes darted over his pupil's shoulder. "Your ride is here."

When Remo turned, curious, he saw that Bubu was picking his way around the broken baobab. The young man had changed back into the suit he'd worn at the airport.

Remo noted that Bubu was lean, but not emaciated. His stride was that of a confident feline. There seemed a quiet grace to him as the young man stopped beside the rock on which sat the two, Sinanju Masters.

"If you wish to return to Bachsburg tonight, Master Remo, the chief has said I may take you," Bubu said with a polite bow. "Provided you are staying, Master Chiun."

Remo turned to his mentor. "Chiun?"

The old man shook his head. "I cannot go," he said.

"Okay," Remo said, scampering down the rock. "You're on. Name's Remo, by the way. You can cut out that Master stuff."

The Luzu offered another short bow. "I am Bubu."

Remo's eyes took on an amused glint. "You're kidding."

The native seemed puzzled. "No, that is my name."

"Well, make sure you stay away from my picka-nick basket," Remo warned.

"Do not embarrass me," Chiun hissed, scurrying off the rock.

To Bubu, he said, "Pay no attention to my son. Although he considers himself a wit, he is only half-right."

Remo wondered why Chiun would worry so much about the feelings of a common Luzu native. As the three men started back through the village, Remo leaned close to the Master of Sinanju.

"I don't know the customs around here," he ventured out of the corner of his mouth. "Should I pay my respects to the chief before I go?"

"I will do so for you," Chiun droned. "With the tact you have displayed since arriving, one goodbye from you and the House of Sinanju will be at war with the Luzu Empire."

Chapter 20

The big bulletproof limousine with its black-tinted windows stole like a sleek, silent panther through the streets of Bachsburg. In the rear seat, a lone figure sat.

Bachsburg was alive, vibrant.

A million lights washed over the modern miracle of a city that man had carved out of the inhospitable African wilderness. To Mandobar, it seemed almost possible to reach out and feel the night pulse of that great metropolis. The world's new crime mecca.

At a streetlight, Mandobar lazily scanned the activity taking place beyond the limo's smoky windows. There were whores down the block. Nearer, a man had been stabbed in the belly by a mugger. The sound of an ambulance swelled in the distance.

All of this would end soon. Soon, this city would be ruled with an iron fist. Petty crimes would cease as the energy of a nation was directed outward. With a vengeance, East Africa would foster real criminal activity. All around the world.

The next day, the remainder of the crime lords would descend on the city. In the late afternoon-under twenty hours away-they would be whisked off to the village of bungalows that had been constructed at the periphery of Luzuland. For safety's sake, they would be told. Little did any of them know that they would never return.

Mandobar smiled at the thought.

So many dead. Massive piles of charred corpses. No. Less than that.

Mere stains in the sand. Like the ash left in Russell Copefeld's wake.

The leading criminals of the world. All dead. Crime syndicates everywhere with no one to command them. A power structure already in place in Bachsburg, with Mandobar at its helm. Of course, not without help.

On the phone earlier this afternoon, Don Giovani of the Sicilian Mafia had been quite anxious. Don Vincenzo of Camorra had insisted that Don Giovani be in Bachsburg for the inaugural festivities. Giovani knew what was going to happen in that little village on the outskirts of the dead Luzu Empire, and so did not wish to be anywhere near East Africa. But Vincenzo had said that Camorra would not attend if the Sicilian Mafia did not. Giovani had relented.

Mandobar had done a good job soothing the Mafia leader's concerns.

Camorra would come, Mandobar had said. It couldn't afford not to. And well before the appointed time, Mandobar would personally see to it that the Mafia was safely out of the area. After all, they were going to be future business partners in the new East Africa.

The car phone buzzed to life. Outside the limousine, insects danced around streetlights. Eyes on the flitting bugs, Mandobar answered the phone.

The coolly efficient voice of L. Vas Deferens spoke without preamble. "I have received word from Nunzio Spumoni that Don Giovani will be attending after all," East Africa's defense minister announced.

In the dark of the back seat, Mandobar smiled. "I know."

Deferens did not attempt to hide his surprise. "You do? May I ask how?"

"I have spoken to Don Giovani today."

"Ah..." A hint of confusion. Concern?

It was nice for Deferens to be confounded on occasion. Until that moment, the defense minister had known nothing of Mandobar's private conversations with the Mafia leader.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 21

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remo raised a surprised eyebrow. "No kidding?"

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

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

Remo nodded. "What's on your mind?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remo glanced down the narrow lane.

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

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

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

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

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

"We?" Remo asked. "You were there?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE REAL East Africa was dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nonlethal levels," the scientist assured him.

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

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

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

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

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

The remaining two men laughed and shook their heads.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Between Remo and the gunman stood the young Luzu native.

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

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

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

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

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

He was stunned when the bullet missed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remo spun back to the river.

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

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

Chapter 22

Night shadows had long since engulfed the East Coast, yet Harold W. Smith was still at his post. A half-empty foam cup of chicken broth, scavenged from the Folcroft cafeteria, had been pushed to one side of his desk. The soup was cool now, as was the mournful breeze that carried in off Long Island Sound. World-weary eyes studied the latest information from East Africa.

They were coming from all over the world. Japan, China, Russia. North and South America. Representatives of criminal groups from around the globe were either en route or were already on the ground in Bachsburg.

In its nearly four-decade history, CURE had encountered at various times different attempts to consolidate crime in a particular location. Bay City, New Jersey and the small nation of Scambia, most notably. But this latest enterprise in East Africa put all others Smith had seen to shame.

His computer automatically pulled the names of those with criminal affiliations currently in Bachsburg, dumping them into a single file. Setting the automatic-scroll function, Smith watched the three columns of names slip through the electronic ether that was his monitor. Like a stone thrown in a pond, the ripples of their evil reached out to encompass the entire planet.

He didn't know how long he watched the list go by. Eventually, he pulled his exhausted eyes away from the screen. As the names continued to roll beneath the surface of his desk, Smith removed his rimless glasses. He let his tired hand drop beside his worn leather chair.

So many names. An ocean of crime.

Smith felt like the captain of a sinking ship, trying desperately to spoon out water even while saboteurs punched more holes in his riddled, rusted hull.

During their time together at CURE, it was Remo who battled cyclical bouts of depression. Smith had come to his job with a level of professional detachment that had served him well in his battle against the evils of the world. Yet at that moment, alone in his shadowy Folcroft office, Smith allowed a creeping sense of doubt to invade his thoughts.

Maybe Remo was right.

Smith was not a young man any longer. From the OSS to the CIA to CURE, he had given his life for ideals that seemed to no longer matter to the current generation. In his three-piece gray suit, locked away in his austere office with his unwavering patriotism and selflessness, Smith was an anachronism. And if he could no longer understand the world he was in, perhaps it was time to turn the reins over to those who did. Let the younger men of this generation take up the cause.

There was no doubt that CURE had enjoyed many successes during its history. But could he say that America was a better place than when he'd started?

When he first came to Folcroft, most of the cars in the employee lot were left unlocked. By the 1970s, if a car wasn't locked it was generally by accident. Today, the annoying electronic whoop of car alarms issuing occasionally from the sanitarium parking lot was demonstration enough of how far downhill America had gone. A minor symptom of a much larger disease. And the infection spread to the world.

Lost in dark thoughts, Smith hardly heard the muffled jangle of the telephone. Feeling his fatigue deepen, he reached into his bottom desk drawer to answer the special White House line.

"Yes, Mr. President," the CURE director exhaled.

"Smith, what do you know about the situation in East Africa?"

The familiar hoarse voice of America's chief executive held an irritated edge. Smith knew why. Over the past two years, this president had on multiple occasions attempted to use CURE in his political self-interest. The incorruptible Smith had steadfastly refused. As a result of his unwavering ethics, Smith had lately been treated to a steady diet of hostility from the chief executive. His relationship with the current president had deteriorated greatly over the past few months.

"There is an attempt to consolidate criminal interests there, Mr. President," Smith replied, puzzled. "Frankly, I'm a little surprised that you even know of it."

"I have my sources," the President answered vaguely. "What about those guys who work for you?"

Smith frowned. "I have dispatched my people to look into the situation," he admitted.

"Whoa," the President rasped angrily. "They're already there? Dammit, why didn't you tell me you were on this?"

Smith carefully replaced his glasses on his patrician nose. "I did not see the need, sir," he replied cautiously. "I remind you that assignments are decided on at my discretion. You have no oversight of CURE beyond suggesting assignments and disbanding this organization, should you deem it appropriate to do so."

"Stop doing that all the time," the President snapped. "I'm sick of you telling me what I can and can't do with your group. What have they done there so far?"

"Not much," Smith answered truthfully. "It is a complicated situation made all the more so by the involvement of certain key government figures."

The President exhaled relief. "Then I caught you in time. Thank God. Smith, I don't know what you have planned for the folks in charge there, but there are a few little people who should remain off the list when it comes time to ...you know." He rattled off a short list. "Indonesians, South Americans ...hell, a whole shitioad of Chinese. They're, well, FOBs that need to be taken care of. I'd appreciate it if your people were hands-off on them. I'll fax you the names. What's your number there?"

Smith closed his eyes, calling up reserves of patience that were nearly tapped out. "Mr. President-" he began.

"Now don't take that tone with me, Smith," the President snapped, already knowing where the CURE director was heading. "I'm looking at legal bills up the yin-yang when I leave office, plus the banks won't trust me with a loan and I want a West Coast house. A nice one. With separate bedrooms, wall-to-wall shag and maybe a mirror or two on the ceiling. You know, tasteful. Those folks are just friends-generous friends-who somehow took an unlucky turn and wound up in East Africa at an unfortunate time. So before you unleash those two corpse-making machines of yours, I'm ordering you to shepherd my poor, wayward friends and their house-buying wallets out of harm's way."

Alone in his office, Smith shook his head. "I can only reiterate that which I have told you before," he said flatly. "CURE does not exist for your personal use. And I might add, Mr. President, that I am tired of having to tell you so."

He could almost feel the hot breath of the President hissing through the receiver. When he spoke, his voice was a low threat. "You won't have to tell me much longer."

That was it. No further arguments. The line went dead in Smith's hand.

With a deep breath, Smith replaced the cherry-red receiver in its cradle, sliding the drawer slowly back into place. His cracked leather chair creaked protest as he straightened. At least the call had been short.

Thinking of America's current chief executive, Smith could not help but realize how out of touch he actually was. Smith was a relic from another age, locked behind the protective glass of his Folcroft display case. In this new age, it was easy to lose one's idealism.

Tired eyes found his cursor, winking like a subterranean orb beneath the surface of his desk.

The list of names had stopped scrolling. Visible on the screen were dozens of names beginning with Z. Nearly all the men were connected with some Russian Mob group or another. All brought together by one man.

Smith had been one of the millions around the world who had greeted with optimism Willie Mandobar's release from prison and election to the East African presidency. Although he hadn't governed well, he had done so to the best of his abilities. He was by all accounts a decent man. Now this.

Of course, Mandobar wasn't the sole author of this plot. With the former East African president away, Defense Minister Deferens seemed to be running the show. Mandobar's trust in his subordinate had to have been absolute, for the two men hadn't been in contact the entire time Mandobar had been in China. Indeed, the bulk of the calls coming back from the presidential mission were from President Kmpali's staff to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and other official government arms. On the surface, there was nothing untoward that could be connected to official East Africa.

It was all just a weak cover. And with his supporters in the international press, Willie Mandobar might just make it stick. After all, he was no longer president. He could not be blamed for the extracurricular activities of current renegade government officials.

Although Smith had initially rejected the idea of sending Remo after Mandobar, he was beginning to question his decision. But Mandobar wasn't there. And for now, there seemed to be one man in charge.

Remo had been seen in public with L. Vas Deferens, but as yet Smith hadn't heard a single account of the incident. Remo was probably right. There would be no risk to security were he to take out the defense minister.

And in a moment of tired decision, in the dark of his Folcroft office, the amber light of his monitor casting skeletal shadows across his gaunt, gray face, Harold Smith decided to send Remo against Deferens after all. With him neutralized, perhaps this insane scheme would collapse.

Decision made, Smith backed out of his computer, shutting off the system. He blinked as the light winked out.

With a gnarled hand, he found his leather briefcase in his desk's footwell. Tired bones creaked as he rose to his feet and crossed to the light switch. His back ached.

Feeling every bit his age, Harold W. Smith quietly left his office.

Chapter 23

The instant he arced below the surface of the filthy water, Remo extended his senses to their maximum. Momentum had already carried him partway downstream. He found Bubu farther ahead. The native's heartbeat was strong. He seemed to be clinging to something jutting from the smooth bottom of the aqueduct.

The water was slick against Remo's skin. Trying not to think about what he was swimming through, he frog-kicked, hard. Eyes screwed tightly shut, he shot through the water with the focus of a laser-guided torpedo.

When his hand grabbed the Luzu native's collar, Bubu began to struggle viciously. The sharpened steel of his machete sliced through the water.

Impatiently, Remo caught the blade, knocking it out of Bubu's hand. It shot to the surface. Remo pulled Bubu away from the twisted metal bar he'd been holding on to. With a kick, he tugged the native up through the weak current.

The Luzu thrashed in his arms only until they broke the surface and he was able to see who it was who had dragged him from the river bottom.

"Master Remo!" Bubu spluttered, blinking greasy water from his eyes.

"Who the hell'd you think it was?" Remo griped as they pulled themselves up the slippery stone wall. He had to help Bubu along. "And you've got a lot of nerve not being dead. Why'd you yell to me like that?"

Kneeling on the platform, Bubu's face beamed innocence. "I was warning you of the man with the gun," he replied. "And I did not know if the men would come in after me. They have killed Luzus before."

"Don't tempt me," Remo grumbled. His body had automatically shut down his pores before he hit the water, but his clothes were a dripping mess.

Bubu climbed to his feet beside Remo. A tear of the fabric at his shoulder showed where the bullet had grazed him. He was looking around the platform.

"Oh, my," Bubu announced all at once.

Remo tracked his gaze to the spot where F. U. Gudgel hung slack from the wall.

Bubu hurried over to the dead East African. When he tried yanking his spear free, it failed to budge. Awed eyes searched for his missing machete. He found it half-buried in the ceiling of the cavern.

"Do you possess skills greater than the Master of Sinanju?" he asked in wonder as Remo came over to him.

"Lesson number one," Remo snarled as he pulled Bubu's spear from the wall. "No one possesses skills greater than the Master of Sinanju." F. U. Gudgel dropped to the mossy floor. "What does this mean, 'lesson number one'?" Bubu asked.

"Nothing." Remo sighed. "Lemme get your steak knife."

Still on bare feet, Remo padded to the edge of the platform. The instant his toes curled over the edge, he launched himself forward.

Spinning in air as he sailed across the river, he hit the far wall with the soles of both feet. Before gravity could take hold, he used his momentum to propel himself up the wall and around the broad arch of the ceiling. He plucked the machete from where it jutted at the apex and continued his sprint down the far side to where Bubu waited on the platform.

When Remo presented him his blade, an amazed smile cracked the young native's dark face. "How is it possible for a man to do such things?" he asked.

"Gimme twenty years and maybe I'll show you one day," Remo replied. "For now, we should see what these guys were doing down here." He nodded to Gudgel's body.

At this, Bubu's expression became abruptly urgent. His amazement at Remo's abilities had made him forget why they were there.

"There were two more," Bubu announced. "We must give chase."

"You give chase if you want to," Remo said, picking up his shoes. "Thanks to your shit swan dive, they're long gone."

Spinning, Remo headed down the tunnel. Bubu trailed behind. The native held his weapons in one hand, rubbing his injured shoulder with the other.

"Don't fool around with that," Remo called without turning. "As it is, you've probably got typhoid fever and about fifty different kinds of V.D."

Remo followed the clumsy footprints Gudgel and the others had made in the moss to the end of the tunnel. Down another short corridor, the prints stopped abruptly.

Remo didn't need to see the nuclear device to know it was there. His body had detected the radiation leaking into the cavern before he and Bubu had even turned into the tunnel. Luckily, it wasn't bad enough yet to damage a body trained in Sinanju. The shiny silver bomb was tucked neatly away in a dank alcove at the tunnel's far end.

As Remo stood in silent contemplation of the hydrogen bomb Deferens's men had planted directly below the heart of Bachsburg, Bubu stole up behind him. The Luzu native stared in wonder at the bomb casing,

"What is it?" he whispered.

To the native, Remo's answer was chillingly calm. "A nuclear bomb," he said, biting the inside of his cheek in concentration.

It was all suddenly clear. Deferens ran the department that controlled East Africa's nuclear arsenal, and had kept the bombs after they were supposedly destroyed. Either on his own or at Mandobar's insistence, the defense minister had planted this bomb at the time when the most criminals would be in East Africa. Mandobar and Deferens intended to kill the very men they'd invited here-the criminals who were even now stirring from their restful night's slumber in fancy hotel suites far above Remo's head.

"Should we not do something?" Bubu whispered fearfully. His Luzu weapons were out before him, as if they would be enough to ward off the most awesomely destructive force human technology had ever harnessed.

Remo nodded slowly. A glimmer sparkled in the depths of his dark eyes. "You're right," he said. "We should do something."

And throwing back his head, Remo laughed out loud.

"Master Remo?" Bubu asked worriedly.

But Remo didn't hear. He had already turned from both bomb and native. Rubbing tears of mirth from his eyes, he marched back down the tunnel. His sinister laughter faded in the distance.

Chapter 24

When L. Vas Deferens stepped through the main door to his government suite, the offices of the Ministry of Defense were abuzz with activity. Much of the excitement spilled into the rest of the presidential palace, as harried workers labored to coordinate the events scheduled for the day.

Pagers buzzed and rang. Directions were barked into cell phones. Keyboards clattered relentlessly as computers connected to those at the airport recorded arrivals, adding them to the growing list of foreign dignitaries.

Everywhere, people were talking, running. Conducting the business of the new East Africa. It was a thrilling chaos, barely controlled.

Through it all, L. Vas Deferens strode, cooler than the air-conditioned marble beneath his feet. The defense minister had been inspecting his troops. As he walked from office to office, from floor to floor, the thing he was most proud of was the fact that the faces of all who worked for him were like his own: white.

It was an amazing thing to be able to get away with in this current mooka-loving East Africa, especially in the presidential palace of all places. After all, this wasn't like the old days.

Deferens had been born and raised in the whitest of white Bachsburg suburbs. His father had been a judge under the old system. In an irony that resonated with his son to this day, the older Deferens had been on a panel that had twice denied parole to political prisoner Willie Mandobar.

His mother had been the grande dame of the lilywhite East African society set. Before he could even walk, Deferens had long grown used to her daily abuse of the black help.

From his father's knee, straight through Bachsburg University, Vas had been conditioned to accept his superiority. So ingrained was it, it wasn't even an issue. He fervently believed in the Kipling theory that care of the dusky-skinned races was the burden of the white man.

But unfortunately for Deferens, the caste-system world of his parents would not last for his lifetime. Unlike most racists, Deferens had seen the way the wind was blowing. Back in the 1970s he had guessed correctly that the old regime was unsustainable. Already a low-level government functionary by this time, Deferens was risking all when he threw in with Mandobar's African Citizen Caucus.

At the time, his parents had disowned him, his wife had divorced him and his friends had abandoned him. But in the end, all the personal costs were outweighed by the benefits.

After the white government structure was dismantled, Deferens was one of the few nonblacks kept aboard. After all, he had a public track record of racial tolerance going back almost twenty years. Deferens was the reed that bent in the wind. And because of his pragmatic flexibility, he had prospered.

The public face of the ice cold defense minister was one of great liberal open-mindedness. But in that private part of himself that he dared not share with anyone, his racism blazed.

L. Vas Deferens was white.

L. Vas Deferens was proud to be white.

L. Vas Deferens hated anyone who was not white. And yet the world mocked him by forcing him to throw in with one of the most famous black faces on the planet.

No matter. Deferens had just made a deal that would guarantee insulation from nonwhites for the rest of his natural days. And Bachsburg would be a smoking crater. A final stab at the mookas who had led his nation to ruin.

A soft smile brushed Deferens's perfect white face as he headed down the hallway to his private office.

In the small lobby, his white secretary informed him that there had been an urgent call while he was away. When Deferens picked up the note, he found that it was from one of the scientists working on his special project.

Frowning, he carried the scrap of paper into his office. The soundproofed door clicked shut on all the noisy activity outside. Deferens bolted it securely.

He crossed to his desk. The minister was just sinking into his seat when the door popped open again. When he looked up, the door was closing gently once more.

Remo Williams stood before the East African defense minister, a thin smile on his cruel features. He wore a clean set of clothes.

"Remo?" Deferens said, masking his surprise. "I was not informed you were on your way up." He looked beyond his guest, to the door he was certain he'd locked.

Remo seemed to enjoy the minister's thin discomfort. "Didn't check in at the front desk," he explained. As he crossed the room, his feet made not a sound.

"I see." Deferens sat up more straightly. He placed his secretary's note carefully on his desk. He was getting a strange sensation from this man-something Deferens himself had been accused of giving everyone all his life. An icy chill ran up his rigid spine.

"I trust Batubizee is dead," he ventured.

Remo shook his head as he sat on the edge of the desk. "You're too trusting," he said. "Now me, on the other hand? The only thing I trust in is man's limitless capacity to be a two-timing asshole to his fellow man. So far, Elvis, I haven't been disappointed."

A cloud crossed the defense minister's face. "What is the meaning of this disrespect, Remo?" he asked, feeling the first stirrings of fear in his chest. "I hired you because you led me to believe you were competent. Now you break into my office-yes, break-and tell me that Batubizee is still alive. On top of that, your rudeness is inexcusable. Get off my desk," he ordered.

Remo didn't move.

"Gee, I hope I don't have to give up my job as East Africa's official assassin," Remo mused. "I already ordered the stationery. Course, I could always get a job as a sewer worker. You gotta watch your step down there, though, what with all the alligators and thermonuclear warheads people flush these days. But I hear the benefits are good."

When the grin broke full on Remo's face, Deferens was already diving in his desk drawer. A delicate hand wrapped around the butt of an automatic.

The gun turned to brittle ice, shattering into a hundred metal shards. When he looked up, Remo stood above him. Panic spread wide across Deferens's face.

He grabbed for the phone. It seemed to explode on contact with his flesh. Shards of black plastic scattered across his spotless desk surface. When he tried to bolt from the room, a strong hand pressed against his chest.

Coaxing the East African official back into his well-oiled chair, Remo leaned against the edge of the desk.

"Okay, all the nukes weren't dismantled when they were supposed to be," Remo ventured. "That's pretty clear. So I'm guessing you and Mandobar planted one of them beneath the city for what, blackmail? Because if it's just to unclog some backed-up pipes, you're really overcompensating." Deferens stiffened in his chair. Screwing his mouth tightly shut, he stared defiantly at the wall.

His defiance lasted only until the pain began. Remo pressed but two fingers into his shoulder. To Deferens, it was as if someone were pouring molten metal into the joint. He gasped in pain. "No," he breathed. The pain was too great for him to shout. "I brokered a deal with Camorra to destroy Bachsburg. Mandobar doesn't know." Remo eased back the pressure, a puzzled look on his face. "Isn't Camorra that big turtle that's always trashing Tokyo? Shoots fire from his ass?" Deferens shook his head. His green eyes watered. "It is a rival of the Mafia. Based in Naples, not Sicily."

"Never heard of them," Remo said.

"Few have in this century," Deferens said. "That is why they wished to destroy Bachsburg. World crime will be crippled at midnight tonight when the bombs go off. Afterward, Camorra will dominate the global scene."

"And you swear Mandobar doesn't know?"

"No," Deferens insisted. "The plan is the result of lengthy negotiations between myself and Don Vincenzo."

Remo's fingers dug into his shoulder. "Elvis wouldn't lie to me?" he cautioned.

The pain was excruciating. "No!" Deferens gasped.

He was telling the truth. When Remo's hand retreated to his side, there was a thoughtful look on his face.

In his seat, Deferens rubbed at his aching shoulder.

"I suppose you're some sort of American agent," he snarled.

Remo shook his head. "Actually, I consider myself more of a conscientious world citizen," he replied. "Aside from me and Ted Turner, we're a dying breed."

The pain was rapidly becoming a distant memory. Already the gears were turning as Deferens tried to figure a way out of this. If he could just get Remo outside, he could signal the guards. Yet, he realized, Remo had apparently gotten in here without anyone seeing him.

"I suppose you wish to deactivate the bombs," Deferens suggested.

"Bombs?" Remo asked. "There's more than one?"

Deferens nodded. "And since I am the only person who knows the precise location of all of them, I will have to lead you to them. If you will allow me to summon my driver, we may begin deactivating them."

When he called his bodyguard driver, a prearranged signal would flood the office with palace guards.

Deferens stood. Remo shoved him back in his chair.

"Gimme a minute," Remo said. "I'm thinking." In his entire life, the defense minister of East Africa had not once perspired. But as Remo stared off into space above him, the first prickly hint of a rash began to form beneath Deferens's white shirt collar.

The East African dropped his voice low. "Remo, I can see you are having difficulty with this," he said. "Perhaps I can make things easier. I will double your retainer if you come to work exclusively for me. One million dollars per year." His eyes were crafty.

That got Remo's attention. He glanced down at the defense minister. "Three million," he countered.

A hopeful smile twitched the corners of Deferens's lips. "Done," he nodded.

"Too quick," Remo said. "I want six million. In gold. Up front."

The smile tightened to a flat line. "That would be more difficult," Deferens said.

"Nonnegotiable," Remo insisted. "I know you've got it, and I'm sick of being yanked by everyone all the time. Six million in gold or no dice."

Deferens considered deeply. His Camorra position in East African after the destruction of Bachsburg would net him much, much more than that. And given the abilities he had displayed, Remo would make a powerful ally when Deferens made his inevitable move against Don Vincenzo.

At last, the minister nodded. "Agreed," he said crisply.

Remo snuled tightly. "Sorry," he said, shaking his head. "Just wanted to prove I wasn't as big a schlemiel at negotiating as some people think. Besides, you look like an even bigger fusspot than the guy I work for now." He hopped down from the desk.

Deferens recoiled. The back of his chair struck the wall. When Remo reached out a thick-wristed hand, Deferens shrank fearfully.

"Think this through, Remo," he warned, sweat trickling down his back. "There is no way to deactivate all the bombs without my help."

And Remo's smile was as icy cold as Deferens's own black heart. "Who said I wanted to deactivate them?" he asked.

Deferens didn't have time to consider Remo's surprising words. Before he even knew what was happening, Remo had reached out and tapped a spot in the perfect center of L. Vas Deferens's pale white forehead.

For the shocked East African defense minister, all thoughts of his bombs or this madman in his midst dissolved in an instant. The entire world of L. Vas Deferens collapsed into a single bright white dot that vanished into a sea of inky blackness.

Chapter 25

Chiun sat in a lotus position on the floor of Chief Batubizee's hut, the hems of his pale orchid kimono tucked neatly around his bony knees. The steamer trunks he had brought from Castle Sinanju were stacked against one wall, a colorful contrast to the washed-out surroundings.

On the hills around the village, sentries scanned both plain and sky. So far, the anticipated attack from Bachsburg had not yet materialized. Chiun assumed that this would change once the failure of Remo's expedition was learned. Until that time, all the Master of Sinanju could do was wait.

Although he had not let it show, the news of Remo's visions had disturbed the old Korean. They betokened a future that, in truth, Chiun had hoped was far away.

Deep in meditation, he was attempting to seek the guidance of his ancestors when he became aware of an urgent conversation beyond the thin walls of the hut.

He had not detected the engines that would bring more men from Bachsburg. Only the sound of Batubizee's own truck returning a few moments before.

Since no one called to him, Chiun remained seated. Eyes closed, he continued meditating.

His concentration was shattered a minute later by the anxious appearance of Chief Batubizee and Bubu.

Eyes flitting open, Chiun crinkled his nose in displeasure at the odor that clung to the young native's soiled clothes.

"Master Chiun, I bring grave news," Bubu said excitedly.

Chiun resisted the urge to pinch his nose between his fingers. "Have the invaders arrived?" he asked. Batubizee shook his head.

"It is far more serious than an attempt on my life," he intoned. "Bubu and your son found one of the men who slew my warriors in the Bachsburg sewers. The young Master of Sinanju dispatched the villain."

A puff of pride swelled Chiun's silken kimono. "He is a good and faithful son." The old man nodded. "True to his House and our traditions." He suddenly noted the bandage tied over Bubu's sleeve. "You are injured." He frowned.

"Master Remo saved my life," Bubu offered. The chest of his kimono expanded further. "He is an ally of both the present and future Luzu Empire." Chiun smiled.

"I am not so certain," Batubizee intoned seriously.

Chiun allowed the air to slip slowly from his lungs. "What do you mean?" the Master of Sinanju asked, praying Remo hadn't done anything more stupid than usual. He was stunned when the truth was far worse than he could have imagined.

Bubu quickly related all that had occurred in Bachsburg. The story ended with the discovery of the nuclear device.

"You are certain this is what it was?" Chiun asked thinly once the breathless native was finished.

"I cannot say," Bubu replied, shaking his head. "I can only tell you that which Master Remo claims to be true."

"And what did my son do about this device?" Bubu glanced anxiously at Batubizee.

"Nothing, Master," he admitted to Chiun with some reluctance. "He merely laughed and left it where it sat." Frowning deeply, Chiun said nothing.

"This is terrible if true," Batubizee interjected. "I know well of these devices. When one explodes, death rains down many miles away. Luzuland would not be spared."

"I cannot believe that Master Remo would allow that to happen," Bubu insisted.

But on the floor, Chiun slowly shook his head. "You do not know him as I do," he said quietly.

"Then he would do this?" Batubizee demanded.

"I cannot say," the old Korean replied. "Remo's emotions are not his own. There is no telling what he might allow at this fragile state." He rose to his feet. "I must leave your side and hie to Bachsburg," he told Batubizee. "For to protect your land, I must see to it that this device of wicked consequence is destroyed." He marched to the door.

Bubu hurried after him. "I will take you," he insisted.

As the three men left the hut, Batubizee and Bubu hoped there was time enough for the ancient Master of Sinanju to stop the bomb.

For his part, Chiun hoped there was time enough before they left for the eager young native to bathe.

Chapter 26

Plastic fruit adorned the brim of the big straw hat. Strawberries, grapes, an orange and two bananas nestled neatly on the crown. As a dark-faced assistant opened the door, Mandobar stopped beside the overly muscled young man, first checking the hat's reflection in the shiny glass panes at the front of the huge auditorium.

Perfect. Almost.

Mandobar tipped the brim of the plastic-fruitcovered hat ever so slightly.

Now it was perfect.

"All right, all right!" Mandobar snapped. A fat hand waved angrily.

The man dutifully drew the door open fully. Mandobar breezed inside.

The great foyer with its crystal chandeliers and rich imported tapestries was chilled to an icy sixtyfive degrees. A great change from the hundred-degree weather outside.

Feeling gooseflesh rise across exposed arms, Mandobar hurried to a rear office.

As Mandobar settled into a wide chair, a fat finger stabbed in the speed-dial number for the office of the defense minister. It rang several times before the voice of a male secretary finally answered. "Minister Deferens's office. How may I direct your call?"

Mandobar leaned forward. The farthest rounded end of a well-fed belly brushed the edge of the desk. "Get me Deferens."

"I am sorry," the secretary replied. "Minister Deferens is unavailable at the moment."

It was already a risk to be speaking to someone other than Deferens directly. Mandobar's voice was recognizable.

Hoping that the five syllables already spoken would not be enough to alert the secretary to the caller's identity, Mandobar broke the connection. A chubby hand continued to rest on the phone long after it was back in its cradle.

Where was Deferens? This was the most crucial phase of the operation. Nearly all of the dignitaries would be in Bachsburg now. Deferens should have been coordinating with them from his palace office. Those had been Mandobar's instructions.

After a long time, the hand finally left the phone. Mandobar would have an underling at the village make the necessary calls to Bachsburg. The criminal leaders still needed to be told when and where to come. The men who had been brought here so far were always blindfolded. Even Deferens didn't know about the village. He had always been too busy with his work to ask or care where Mandobar's secret meetings were being held.

Of course, there would be no risk of exposure by having someone else call. After all, everyone here in the bungalow village already knew who their employer was. Not that this knowledge would do them any good. Unlike the coordinators in Bachsburg, all of the people in the village would be dead by tomorrow.

Mandobar stood. The fruit hat reflected smartly in a glass picture frame on the opposite wall. Beneath the mound of fruit, a plump face scowled back at Mandobar.

One thing was certain. If an AWOL Deferens ended up torpedoing this deal so late in the game, Mandobar would make certain his death would not come as painlessly as those in the bungalow village. After all, there were still plenty of tires lying unused around East Africa.

Gaily colored burnoose trails swirling wildly behind an ample derriere, Mandobar stormed from the office.

Chapter 27

When he pulled open his hotel-room door, Remo found the Master of Sinanju waiting inside. The old man was fuming.

"Is this where it ends for us?" Chiun accused hotly. "You fleeing with your wretched life while you leave your father in spirit to the mercy of radioactive booms and toadstool clouds?"

"Do I look like I'm fleeing?" Remo asked, perturbed, as he closed the door.

"Worse," Chiun snapped. "You would make yourself a martyr to a cause no one but you understands."

"Nope," Remo said. "Not in the martyr biz. Actually, I was just gonna go get you. I'm glad you're here. You saved me another trip out to that dump."

Chiun's face hardened. "Do not dare speak ill of Luzuland, American. Yes, American," he stressed, as if employing the most vile of curses. "Those simple people have something you will never have."

"Cholera?" Remo suggested.

The tiny Korean stomped his feet in anger. "Respect for their elders," he hissed. "Bubu would never abandon his chief to an idiotic boom device."

"There's more than one bomb, Little Father."

"Worse still," Chiun accused. The anger seemed to drain from him all at once. "Oh, Remo," he lamented. "Have these visitations so hardened your heart? Do you now covet the title of Reigning Master so greatly that you would not even give me time to at least make peace with my ancestors?"

It was an accusation Remo had endured before. This time, however, it took on special meaning. "Don't say that, Chiun," he said quietly. "And I was coming to get you. The bombs aren't due to go off until midnight. We'll get out of here in plenty of time."

He headed for the bathroom. Chiun trailed him inside.

"We are not going anywhere," Chiun insisted. "Well, we're sure as hell not staying at ground zero," Remo replied. Running water in the basin, he splashed some on his face.

As he stood in the door, Chiun saw Remo's sewer clothes stuffed in the toilet. Some water had spilled over onto the tile floor. His nose rebelled at the stench.

"What is this?" he demanded.

"Didn't Bubu tell you?" Remo asked, drying his hands.

"He mentioned some misadventure the two of you shared in a cesspool. I assumed you were on yet another quest to root out other ancestors of yours who are not of Sinanju."

"Lay off," Remo griped.

Flinging down the towel, he left the room. Chiun followed him into the living area of the suite. "Very well," the Master of Sinanju replied. "I will not speak ill of your mongrel heritage or your quixotic search for the ragpickers who hatched you, but if I am going to be that nice to you, you must give something to me in return. The location of the boom devices."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not much, I guess," he answered quietly

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

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

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

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

"YOU WHAT!?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Accept it," Remo said flatly.

"How many bombs are there?" Smith begged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Remo, hang up," Smith ordered.

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

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

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

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

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

"He'll get over it."

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

"What are you doing?" Remo asked.

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

"You're just gonna sit there?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But consider," Chiun called after him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 28

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

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

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

Almost time...

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

The chopper was flying over the last of the bungalows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Servants rushed over to open the doors.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I must get back!" Spumoni called.

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

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

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

The landing pad grew blessedly quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her joyful laugh echoed hollowly up from below.

Chapter 29

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

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

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

He wandered aimlessly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it wasn't as if it would be painful. The bombs would incinerate them in an instant. Boom, flash, gone. And as the radioactive dust settled on the twisted ruins of Bachsburg, the world of their families would have become a better place. If anything, the whole planet should be thanking him after tonight. He had seen an opportunity to do good and had seized it. He alone had it in his power to cleanse the earth of an infectious disease. How many criminal generations were represented in Bachsburg right now? Men from twenty to eighty. Three generations, gone.

Behind him, several tourists started laughing at some private joke. The sound was a dagger in Remo's back.

He skulked quickly around a corner.

Sure, the innocent people in Bachsburg probably wouldn't thank him if they knew. But if they could just step back and see the big picture like he did-if they only knew the sheer number of people he'd killed in order to make their lives a little better then they'd understand. He was making a better world for their kids.

It popped into his head before he could stop it. Children. He instantly regretted thinking it.

How many children would be without parents after tonight? How many parents would lose sons and daughters?

According to Smith, there were a hundred and fifty thousand people in and around Bachsburg. The blast would claim them in an instant. Beyond that, no one but L. Vas Deferens could say for sure. He was the only one who knew how many bombs there were, and the yield of each.

As he walked, Remo gauged the direction of the wind. At the moment, it was blowing from west to east. If it shifted direction after midnight, Luzuland would be swept by the radiation cloud. All of the people Remo had seen there would die-from Chief Batubizee to Bubu to the women and children who sat in the bone-dry dust. All dead.

And the deaths of the Luzus wouldn't be painless. For the people of Luzuland, there would be sores and radiation poisoning and cancers of every kind. A slow, painful process that would take years to finish.

But it was worth it, wasn't it?

Wandering from one street to the next, Remo hadn't been paying attention to the sounds around him. Vaguely, he became aware of a noise coming from somewhere up ahead. It had filtered up from his unconscious into his conscious mind as he crossed from yet another strip of black asphalt over to an area of well-tended lawn.

Still walking, he looked up. And blinked.

His aimless meandering had brought him to the edge of a city park. All around the lawn, dozens of small children were running and laughing. The oldest couldn't have been much more than eight.

Skirting the edge of the park, he tried to force his eyes down. But as he walked, his troubled gaze was drawn to the activity.

He had decided that the bombs of Minister Deferens should be harnessed as a cleansing tool. But as he watched the children at play, the seeds of guilt sprouted full bloom.

As he circled the park, he tried imposing on the people nearby the same negative emotions he felt for Mandobar's criminal guests.

In the park, black and white were still largely separated.

Racial hatred. From both sides. Would that be enough to doom an entire city?

Fighting his own doubts now, Remo wanted more than anything to believe that everyone in Bachsburg was evil. But as he crossed the narrow footpath that sliced through the wide lawn, he found not evil, but hope.

On a wrought-iron bench, two women talked, one black, one white. Other racially mixed groups pushed strollers through the park or sat on blankets spread out on the grass.

The children seemed to care less about skin color than the adults. They disregarded race entirely, playing loudly and happily together. Sometimes a parent-mostly whites-would pull a child away from a group of mixed-race children, but by and large this was the exception.

The thing that had thrust East Africa into the international spotlight was hardly visible in this place. All around him was the joy and contentment of youth. Tomorrow it would all be ashes.

Stopping near a chain-link fence, Remo stuffed his hands into his pockets. His fingertips brushed a pair of familiar objects.

He had switched them from the pants he'd ruined in the sewer. At the time, he didn't know why he'd bothered.

In one hand, Remo held the cross given him by baby Karen's great-grandmother. In the other, the tiny stone figure that had been a gift from the child apparition.

He had been furious at the news accounts of the infant's death. He had wanted more than anything to bring her back to life, to be there to stop Brad Miller from murdering her in the first place.

The Master Who Never Was had spoken of Remo's destiny. Of the day he would bear the terrible, wonderful burden of the proud history of Sinanju on his shoulders.

And in that moment, Remo knew that no matter how he tried to rationalize it, this could not be his future.

In one palm, sunlight glinted off the shiny silver crucifix. In the other, the carved stone face no longer seemed flat. In the details of the mouth and eyes there seemed a quiet hope.

He stared at both objects for a long time. Thank you, Remo.

No one ever said that to him. No one would ever say it.

Thank you. It was something he longed to hear. But never would.

So many years. No difference ...no change...

By the time he looked back up, many of the parents were packing up their families and getting ready to leave.

How many hours had passed?

Slowly, with infinite care, he folded his hands shut. He replaced crucifix and carving delicately in his pocket.

When Remo turned his back on the park, his eyes were rimmed in red. He struck off across the street, heading slowly toward the hotel district. Not once did he look back.

Chapter 30

"Sometimes I really hate you."

The Master of Sinanju was sitting in the same spot where Remo had left him. His hazel eyes were knowing as Remo slammed the hotel-room door shut.

"Did you get our plane tickets?" Chiun queried.

"Cut the crap and get up," Remo snarled. "We've got work to do."

From the hall, he'd sensed someone else inside. Bubu stood from the couch as Remo crossed into the living area.

"Do you get a nickel every time you drive in and out of Luzuland?" Remo asked the native.

Bubu hesitated. "I do not mean to interrupt," he said, confused. "Master Chiun has told me that you were about to begin destroying the devices beneath the city."

Remo shot a glance at Chiun. "Did he," he said blandly. "Well, it was iffy for a while, but I guess it's made it onto the 'to do' list."

The Luzu smiled. "I am glad you have changed your mind, Master Remo," he said. "I was worried that you had taken my wish for the destruction of Bachsburg to heart."

"No fear of that," Remo replied, his face sour. "This town will stand as a testament to vice for years to come. Get a move on, will you, Chiun?"

The Master of Sinanju rose to his feet. "Bubu has something to tell you," he intoned.

"If it has something to do with the ranger shipping me off to a zoo, I'm not interested," Remo said.

"Listen," Chiun insisted. There was an urgency to his tone that Remo could not ignore.

"Okay, what? And make it snappy."

"After I left Master Chiun here in the city, I returned to my village. On the way, I encountered many aircraft. They flew above me across Luzuland."

Remo instantly thought of Deferens and his murder plot. "Were they going after Batubizee?" he asked.

Bubu shook his head. "At first I thought this, as well. I assumed the villains here had learned of the departure of Master Chiun and were hoping to attack before his return. I made haste back to my village only to find things as I left them. The helicopters from Bachsburg were not flying there, but to the evil city at the edge of Luzuland." The native nodded to the Master of Sinanju. "Master Chiun saw it on our way to the Luzu treasury."

"It is a small settlement," Chiun interjected.

"There are a few dozen homes, as well as one very large building."

Bubu nodded eagerly. "I led an expedition to the hills above this place. Many of the helicopters were there, as was the fiend Mandobar."

This got Remo's attention. "Mandobar?" he asked sharply. "Isn't he still in China?"

"The husband," Bubu stressed. "Not his wife, Nellie. She is bringing many of the evil chiefs to her right now."

Remo scrunched up his face. "Nellie Mandobar? I thought she faded away once Willie ditched her."

"No. She is here. Many are loyal to her still. The men from the helicopters embraced her."

In an instant, it all made sense.

"Nellie Mandobar," Remo said, nodding. "That's why he could be away now. He doesn't have anything to do with it."

And in a very quiet part of himself, Remo felt relief. He was glad that a man who was a hero to so many people wasn't involved in something so sinister.

"This does not make sense," the Master of Sinanju said. "Why would this female plot the destruction of this city only to remove her victims from it beforehand?"

"She doesn't know about it," Remo explained. "Caving in Bachsburg was a side scheme Deferens cooked up. And speaking of Casper the GQ Ghost..."

Spinning, he hurried into the hallway. Chiun and Bubu followed, the Luzu jogging to keep up. Marching down four doors, Remo entered the suite. When they crossed to the bedroom, they found the sleeping form of Minister L. Vas Deferens stretched out on the sheets.

"This is where you hid him?" Chiun scowled.

"I'm getting slicker in my old age." Remo grinned.

Reaching down, he tapped one knuckle against the minister's forehead. The pale man's eyes sprang open wide.

"Wakey-wakey," Remo said.

It took Deferens a moment to get oriented. When he did, panic set in. "Where am I?" he demanded, jumping to a sitting position, "What time is it?"

"Bachsburg, premidnight," Remo said. "And unless your shorts are lead-lined, you've got some bombs to deactivate."

"We were in ...my office," Deferens said as he looked around the hotel room in amazement. Remo's words brought his wandering mind back into focus. "The bombs," he gasped. "What time is it right now?"

"Almost seven."

"Seven? But they are going to go off at midnight!"

"So you'll have to work extra fast," Remo said sweetly.

"No, no, no," Deferens insisted. "We have to get out of here."

When he tried to push his way past the trio, Bubu stepped forward to stop him. A bony hand got there first.

Chiun flung Deferens back to the bed.

"How long will it take to pull the plug on all of them?" Remo pressed.

"What? No! We have to-"

He gasped in pain as a pair of talonlike fingernails squeezed the fleshy part of his earlobe.

"Four hours," Deferens yelped. "Five if traffic is bad."

"Let's hope the lights are with us, Little Father," Remo said as Chiun released his grip on the minister's ear.

He spun to face Deferens. "This is just for my benefit, but Willie Mandobar doesn't know anything about all this, right?"

"That senile old mooka?" Deferens scoffed "He and Kmpali are fools. I engineered it all beneath their very noses."

"So it was all Nellie's idea?"

His hesitation was precursor to a lie. But when a long-nailed hand appeared before him, the truth spilled forth.

"I told you before, she knows nothing of the bombs," he insisted.

"You knew it was her before?" Chiun demanded of Remo.

"Hey, he said Mandobar. So sue me for not pinning him down on a gender."

"She came to me with the crime-capital idea when her husband was still in office," Deferens continued. "I crafted it. She considers herself a leader, but she is nothing more than a homicidal maniac."

"Not like you," Remo said, his tone flat.

"I was killing for a purpose," he spit. "That fat mooka sets fire to people for sport."

"Dead's dead," Remo said thinly. "How many bombs we looking at?"

Deferens didn't even try to bluff. "Six," he admitted glumly.

"I'm no nuke expert, but that sounds like overkill to me," Remo said. "Not that any of the guys you wanted to off are even in town anymore."

"What do you mean?" Deferens asked.

"Your mistress has taken them to her city outside Luzuland," the Master of Sinanju intoned.

"City?" Deferens frowned. "What city?" Sensing truth from him, both Masters of Sinanju exchanged a quick glance.

"Guess she doesn't tell you everything, white man," Remo said. "Shake a leg." He dragged Deferens up by the arm.

"Wait!" the defense minister insisted. His eyes were calculating. "If this is true..." He looked to Remo. "May I make a phone call?"

"Um, let me think. No," Remo said. He began hauling the minister to the door.

"It could help you!" Deferens cried. "If you wish to know what she is doing, I can find out!"

Remo stopped. When he looked to the Master of Sinanju, the old man nodded.

"Chief Batubizee would no doubt be curious to know why she is there," Chiun said.

Sighing, Remo scooped up the phone and tossed it to Deferens. "Knock yourself out," he said. "But make it quick. 'Cause if we're late, anyone sitting on the john at midnight's gonna get a nuclear-powered prostate exam."

Chapter 31

"Where have you been?" Nellie Mandobar demanded.

She was in her office at the great meeting hall in her bungalow village. The noise of a raucous party pounded in through the vibrating walls. Her dark, blubbery face was bunched into an angry knot.

"I was unavoidably detained," the precise voice of L. Vas Deferens said, his words faint over the phone. They were nearly drowned out by the nearby revelry. The Seasonings were screeching absurd lyrics at their captive audience.

"This is a very important day," Nellie Mandobar warned. "You have disappointed me greatly, Deferens." Her words were slurred. She raised a big glass of frothy pink liquid to her lips.

"Why did you not tell me of this village near Luzuland?" Deferens asked, agitated.

When she lowered her fruit-filled drink, the smile behind it was pleased. Deferens always considered himself so superior. Even to her. Nellie was delighted that she had been able to keep a secret from him.

"I must have some secrets, Vas," She giggled, then hiccuped as she again raised her drink. Some of the pink liquid sloshed over the edge of her glass, landing with fat splats on her desk.

"You are bringing the dignitaries there?"

She nodded to her empty office. When her fruit hat dropped in front of her eyes, she shoved it back in place.

"Most are here. Only a few have yet to arrive. It is a party, Vas. To celebrate our great enterprise." She raised her glass in a toast. Beyond the wall, the Seasonings ended their song. The walls resumed their rattling protest when an even more discordant bashing of instruments began. The women sounded as if they'd each swallowed whole a pair of squabbling cats.

"I should have been informed," Deferens insisted.

"You would have been if you were in your office today. But I will not be angry at you, Vas. You have been very helpful to me. You stood by me even when that husband of mine deserted me. And for what did he leave? A few burned nobodies." She pondered the popping pink bubbles in her drink. "As East Africa's first lady, I told him I should be allowed to set fire to whomever I wish, but he would not hear it." A dark finger stabbed a mound of foam, bringing it to her broad lips. "Willie is a coward. But I've shown him, haven't I?" She licked the foam viciously away.

"I cannot believe you kept this from me," Deferens said.

"Do not pout," Nellie Mandobar admonished. "You are still invited. Your office knows the location now. You may take one of the helicopters. They are leaving from the Bachsburg airport at regular intervals."

In the ensuing pause, Nellie thought she could hear the sound of another voice beyond Deferens. "Who have you invited there?" Deferens asked abruptly.

"Just the dignitaries themselves. No bodyguards or staff. It is a demonstration of trust. Now, I must get back to my parry. I hope to see you soon." Her voice suddenly steeled. "And, Vas ...do not disappoint me again."

It took Nellie Mandobar three tries before she managed to hang up the phone. As she slurped pensively at her drink, she considered the fate of L. Vas Deferens.

The defense minister had been extremely helpful to her, but the organizational phase was now over. He and those under him would soon meet their fates. When the time came, Nellie Mandobar wondered how large would be the smear in the sand that would mark the passing of Minister L. Vas Deferens.

When she pulled herself to her big feet, she lost her footing and bounced off the vibrating wall. Giggling at her clumsiness, she staggered back out to join her party.

Chapter 32

"I can't believe it," L. Vas Deferens said, shaking his head incredulously. He was sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, phone in his lap.

"Yeah," Remo said without sympathy. "The best laid plans, huh? C'mon, peaches." The phone banged to the floor as he pulled Deferens to his feet.

"How may I help?" Bubu said as they hurried to the door.

"Return to your village," Chiun commanded. "Tell Chief Batubizee to gather all of his Luzu warriors. When we are finished here, we will strike the demon harpy in her lair."

"Give us time to finish here first," Remo said as he shoved Deferens into the hall. "We've got five hours to disarm the bombs, max. Plus an hour out to Luzuland. We'll meet you at about 1:00 a.m. Where's a good spot, Chiun?"

"The road to the Luzu treasury. It is near her village, yet far enough away that we will not be seen."

Remo nodded as he pushed the elevator button. "Sounds like a plan. You got all that, Bubu?"

"Yes, Master Remo," Bubu said, worried. "But perhaps you do not realize that it takes longer than one hour to drive out to the place you have chosen." The elevator doors slid open, and all four men hurried onto the car.

"Let me worry about that, Bubu," Remo said as the doors rolled shut. "Remember, I'm smarter than the average bear."

Chapter 33

The temperature in the sewer had risen as the day's hot sun baked the asphalt above. The goggles of Nunzio Spumoni's gas mask were fogged from humidity and anxiety. He had to pull the mask up to the top of his head to speak. His cell phone was slick in his palm.

"I don't know, Don Vincenzo," Nunzio said worriedly. "I have tried him, but he has not returned my calls."

The Camorra agent had explained all of this already.

Minister Deferens had disappeared. Not even his office knew his whereabouts.

The bombs were still set to go off at midnight. After Deferens vanished, Nunzio had come down here to check. Except now none of the men who were supposed to be caught in the blast were in Bachsburg. They were all at that damn parry of Nellie Mandobar's.

Over the phone, Nunzio could hear the muffled roar of the raucous gathering. When he spoke, Don Vincenzo's voice was a rasping echo. The head of Camorra had been forced to place his call from the men's room.

"I am not pleased, Nunzio," Don Vincenzo said menacingly. It was the tenth time he'd said so that evening.

His tone gave Nunzio a rare shiver.

"Don't worry, Don Vincenzo," he promised. "I'm certain he will call."

"Whether he does or does not, I am leaving this party by eight o'clock," the old don snarled. "My head is already pounding from this noise."

"You are not returning to Bachsburg?" Nunzio asked, trying to ingratiate himself by showing his great concern.

"Do you want me to die?" Vincenzo snapped. "Has that been your wish all along? Of course I am not, fool. I am flying to Victoria to rendezvous with my jet. Dammit, I should not even be here. That anitra cervello Giovani was dancing with a whore a moment ago." Low menace flooded his tone. "For your sake, he had better not be alive tomorrow."

Nunzio gulped. "We will make alternative plans," he vowed, his voice a croak. "We will reset the bombs for tomorrow, when Giovani and the rest have come back to the city."

"If your Minister Deferens ever contacts you," Don Vincenzo said, sneering. "I am very, very disappointed in you, Nunzio." With that, he broke the connection.

Shivering visibly, Nunzio snapped the phone shut.

Where was Deferens?

Don Vincenzo was already planning to leave the country. If L. Vas Deferens didn't call soon, Nunzio Spumoni wouldn't be far behind.

In the underground tunnel, the Camorra man pulled his protective mask back on. So nervous was he, Nunzio had hardly noticed the stench.

Like Don Vincenzo, Nunzio had his own doomsday plan. If Deferens didn't arrive by 8:30 p.m. sharp, he would drive like hell to the airport and take a nine-o'clock flight out of East Africa. It didn't matter where he flew to. Just as long as he wasn't in Bachsburg for the explosions.

He would worry about the personal fallout later. Nunzio paced back and forth on the slimy catwalk, his arms crossed, phone in hand. His suit was drenched with sweat.

He had left more than two dozen urgent messages with Deferens's office. There were Camorra men with cell phones stationed at every bomb site. If the defense minister showed up at any one of them, his men would call.

Nunzio and a handful of men were waiting at the primary site, beneath the Bachsburg hotel district. Most of the crime lords, as well as much of the city, would be taken out with this one bomb.

Six bombs. Six timers counting down to zero. Nunzio checked his watch. Barely five-thirty. Still, midnight was looming large for Nunzio Spumoni. As he dropped his hand to his side, he froze. A sound. Coming up the distant tunnel.

"What was that?" Nunzio hissed hopefully.

He waved frantically at the four men he had brought down into the sewers with him to come forward. They came to him, guns drawn. All five men peered down the dimly lit tunnel.

And as Nunzio Spumoni strained to hear, the first sounds of argument carried to his ears.

"Don't bellyache to me. I told you to watch where you were going."

"He pushed me," insisted the voice that Nunzio knew could belong to none other than L. Vas Deferens. The East African sounded strangely cowed.

"Oh, I am to be blamed for your clumsy clubbed feet?" sniffed a third, singsongy voice.

"You did push him, Little Father."

"Surprise me one day, Remo, and take my side for once."

When the men broke into view at the end of the tunnel, Nunzio didn't know whether to be relieved or even more concerned. Defense Minister Deferens was flanked by an old Asian and a young white man. The East African's trademark white suit was dripping wet and stained gray.

Nunzio remembered the white as the man who had caught Deferens's attention at the Bachsburg restaurant.

"This isn't about choosing sides," Remo griped. "It's about me having to fish Himmler here out of Shit Creek."

"I think I am going to be ill," Deferens offered.

"Shut up," said Remo and Chiun.

Nunzio was stunned when Deferens actually fell silent. He merely trudged along, his hands clutching his belly, a queasy expression on his sagging model's face.

"Is everything all right, Vas?" Nunzio ventured as the men closed in. "I tried to call...."

When Deferens and his companions stopped before Nunzio and his Camorra entourage, Remo's face was a scowl. He appraised Nunzio's reed-thin frame.

"Who's the praying mantis?" he asked Deferens. "An agent of Camorra," Deferens said, defeated. Nunzio's eyes grew wide beyond his steamed-up goggles.

"Deferens, what is the meaning of this?" Nunzio demanded, taking a cautious step back. He was comforted by the appearance on both sides of his armed men.

"Do we need him?" Remo asked, ignoring Nunzio.

"What? Deferens-"

"No," the minister said glumly, interrupting the Camorra agent.

Remo turned to Nunzio. "Wanna see something I saw in a really bad movie once?" he asked. Nunzio's eyes didn't have time to register confusion before Remo's hand shot forward, index and middle fingers extended.

The plastic of his right goggles lens surrendered to the stiffened fingers. Cracked plastic shards shot back through Nunzio's shocked eye, burying themselves deep in his brain.

Nunzio Spumoni's legs buckled, and he fell, slipping over the side of the platform. The body struck water with a mighty splash.

Before the first ripples from Nunzio's bobbing corpse reached the stone walls, the four remaining men opened fire.

Deferens dropped to his knees, frantically cradling his head in both hands.

Near the gunmen, Remo launched a toe into the groin of the closest. His pelvis cracked in a sideways smile straight up to his navel. As entrails splattered to stone, Remo shouted to Chiun.

"Get him out of the way!" he called over his shoulder.

Deferens only knew that he was the "him" being referred to when he felt a bony hand latch on to the back of his neck. In the next instant, he was airborne. He landed in a spray of filthy water next to Nunzio Spumoni's lifeless body.

"I hope you are happy," Chiun complained, whirling up beside Remo. He had to avoid a dozen fat automatic slugs. "I had to touch that disgusting creature."

The flat sole of one sandal lashed out, catching one of the gunmen square in the chest.

It was as if the thug were struck by a speeding car.

The man's feet left his shoes, and he rocketed back into the mossy wall of the tunnel, pounding stone with bone-crushing ferocity. When he slid to the floor, a perfect outline of his body was visible in the stone.

"Don't complain to me," Remo warned.

"You're the one who pushed him in in the first place."

Remo brought his hand across the face of one of the two remaining men in a sharp sideways slap. With a tearing pop, the man's jaw sprang free. It skipped across sewer water a half-dozen times before sinking from sight.

The Camorra agent was all panicked eyes and flapping tongue. Remo finished him with a knuckle to the nose. Bone splinters found brain, and the man fell to the catwalk.

Realizing that the battle was lost, the fourth and final man tried to run past the Master of Sinanju. His body managed to run a few yards along the platform. His head, however, hit the water just below Chiun with a brain-dead splash.

When Remo turned, the old Korean was flicking a single dollop of blood from one long fingernail. He kept his hands away from his silken robes.

"We must find a place where I can wash my hands as soon as possible," the old man insisted.

"First things first," Remo said tightly. "Let's go see if our brown fish floats."

He hurried past Chiun to the edge of the platform. The current was stronger than it had been that morning, the water deeper. Nunzio Spumoni's body had become wedged on a rusted run-off pipe. Deferens was clinging to the body like a flotation device as filthy water splashed all around him.

Squatting at the river's edge, Remo frowned. "You gonna fish him out?" he asked the Master of Sinanju.

"I fished him out last time," Chiun sniffed.

"I fished him out last time. And besides, you pushed him in last time."

"Do not bother me with technicalities," Chiun said.

Deferens heard them bickering. He looked up helplessly, his pale face now ashen. "Save me!" he cried. He retched as a crashing wave filled his open mouth.

"I'm sick of always having to do all the heavy lifting around here," Remo griped under his breath. He was about to climb down and grab Deferens when he was struck by a flash of inspiration. Jogging to one of the dead gunmen, he stripped off the man's suit jacket. Trotting back down to where Chiun waited above Deferens, Remo dangled one sleeve in front of the defense minister.

"Grab on tight," Remo called down. "Because I am not coming in after you."

Blinking greasy water from his eyes, Deferens latched onto the jacket with both hands. Remo hauled him up, depositing him to the catwalk. He was careful to stay out of dripping range.

As soon as he was safe, Deferens fell to the platform and started vomiting.

"Bombs or no bombs," Remo said to the Master of Sinanju, ignoring the retching minister. "Next time he goes in the drink, you're pulling him out." He dropped the jacket into the dirty water.

"I make no promises," Chiun said blandly.

On the floor, Deferens made a violent puking sound.

"Oh, knock it off," Remo complained, kicking the defense minister in the side of the head with the heel of one loafer. "You're an East African government official. You should be used to swimming in shit."

Still retching, Deferens pulled himself to his feet. Clutching his belly with sick fingers, Deferens led the two Sinanju Masters down the tunnel.

For Remo, the area was becoming more familiar. Both he and the Master of Sinanju detected the radiation in the air even before they came to the entrance of the tunnel down which Remo and Bubu had discovered the first nuclear device.

The bomb casing had been leaking throughout the day. There was not enough for a lethal dose, yet neither man wished to risk it. Remo and Chiun paused at the mouth of the tunnel as Deferens ducked down it.

Alone, Deferens hurried to the bomb. The first reckless signs of hope were thudding in his chest. These two men had displayed remarkable abilities, yet something about this bomb was keeping them back.

His queasiness was fading, rapidly being replaced by calculation. With shaking hands, he popped open the plastic panel on the side of the casing. The LED counter was still ticking remorselessly down to 12:00 midnight.

They wanted him to shut it down, but they were far enough away that they couldn't see exactly what he was doing.

Without even touching the panel, Deferens moved his fingers, making a show of disarming the bomb. While he pantomimed, the display continued to race to zero.

He blinked excitedly, swallowing a rank clump of bile-fueled saliva.

He would leave this one armed. If he could somehow get away from these two, he might yet be able to flee the city. Thank God that Don Vincenzo had insisted on more than one bomb. At the time, Deferens had thought it foolish, but now...

Any thought of salvaging his original plan was gone. Nellie Mandobar had inadvertently taken all of his targets to safety. But this was no longer about mere money or power or racial insulation. It was about revenge.

Maybe he could escape-maybe not. But in the end, it would be L. Vas Deferens who would have the last laugh. For though these two had displayed amazing abilities, Deferens doubted either of them could withstand a nuclear explosion.