Chapter 8

When they were on the Africa-bound airplane, Remo received a brief lecture on Ayounde. He wasn’t listening. He was still sore at the old Master.

“Master Chan-Su Horn worked for the sultans of Ayounde on three occasions,” Chiun said. “This is something you should know.”

“I know about Master Chan-Su Horn. I’ve read everything in the scrolls about him,” Remo said. “I don’t remember any mention of him working for Ayounde. I remember him working for the Sultanate of Bueni in the armpit of Africa.”

“Bueni was its name once.”

Remo thought he’d made a pretty incisive connection, but Chiun dismissed it without further comment. That made Remo more sore.

“The sultans in those days used gold with extravagance in their own homes but not for purchasing their own security,” Chiun said. “Chan-Su Horn describes a palace with gold-gilt chairs, gold eating utensils and gold oil lanterns. But when the sultan hired Master Horn, he wanted to bargain in the basement. He paid Master Horn for the assassination of just one man, when he knew that three men plotted against him.”

Chiun looked purposefully at Remo. Remo was listening. They were in an aircraft for the next eight hours and it wasn’t as if he had anywhere else to go. He might as well show interest, although he knew the history of Master Chan-Su Horn.

Chiun continued. “The man that Master Horn assassinated for the sultan was the sultan’s own brother, who plotted fiercely to overthrow him and take his riches and wives. His companions in the plot were two of the sultan’s uncles. Of course, the two uncles continued their plot once the brother was dead. So Master Horn was again hired by the sultan, but for the assassination of just one of the uncles. The sultan’s desire to hold on to his gold was so strong that he could not bear to spend more than was necessary—and not even that.”

“But he had to eventually,” Remo said. “Didn’t Master Horn go back again?”

Chiun’s nodded. “The sultan perceived his folly early enough. He again summoned Master Horn. Horn had been expecting more employment in the sultanate, by the sultan or his usurper, and was quick to respond. The sultan was not pleased when Chan-Su Horn announced his fee was increased.”

“A little told-you-so toll?” Remo asked.

“An inconvenience premium. So Chan-Su Horn came and left three times when he could have easily performed all three assassinations on his first visit.”

“But it wasn’t inconvenient. You just told me Master Su Horn was in the vicinity.”

“But the sultan was not told that.”

Remo considered it. “The way we get shuttled all over the planet doing Smith’s tricks, we should get all kinds of inconvenience fees.”

“It was the beginning of the end for the sultanate. Its power decreased. The sultans of Ayounde never learned the lesson of gold. Gold is not for gilding chairs. It is for increasing one’s power.”

“We have gilt chairs,” Remo said, picturing at least one ornate golden throne in the house in the Village of Sinanju, which was the ancestral home of the Masters in what was now North Korea. It was Remo’s house now, according to tradition. “I mean, I have a gilt chair.”

“How is your elbow?” Chiun asked.

Remo scowled. “Still hurts. What did you do that for, Chiun?”

But Chiun said nothing, his eyes fixed out the window of the aircraft, where the wing flexed in the rush of air. Chiun didn’t trust aircraft wings. Aircraft wings, he knew, could come off at any moment.

Ayounde’s royal family lost control of the nation and the palace was sacked, although the dynasty continued as just one of many warlord territories. The former ruling family fought the slave traders and the pirates of the eighteenth century. They also fought the Europeans who wanted to help protect them from the pirates and slave traders—and from their own paganism. The warlords were demolished and scattered, and Ayounde was colonized. Half the country became a British protectorate in 1888, and the family that ruled the nation was related distantly to the sultan’s lineage of previous centuries. The other half of the nation became a French territory. The French claimed they had purchased their joint of land legally from a former warlord who was its rightful proprietor. The British weren’t willing to fight the French over the claim. Ayounde wasn’t worth much to either of them.

It wasn’t until 1964 that the British finally granted British Ayounde her independence. The French followed suit, and the nation of Ayounde became reunited and independent. New oil reserves were discovered in Ayounde in the late 1960s, and the government was stable enough to make use of the resource. The country prospered, instituted a gradual process of democratization and became one of the most livable nations in Africa— which wasn’t known for having livable nations. This annoyed the British, who remembered that Ayounde had been theirs. The oil profits should be going to Britain. By rights. But there was nothing to be done about it now.

Until Sir Michele Rilli got a call to perform his duty as a member of an Order of the Green Garter of England.

The cargo ship Giancarlo eased up to the cargo dock without fanfare. The Ayounde customs agent was the only individual in the entire nation who knew about the surprise visit by the one and only Sir Michele Rilli. The agent was sworn to secrecy.

“So wonderful to meet with you, Sir Rilli!” He pumped Rilli’s hand energetically. “I have watched your performances time and again on the television.”

“Yes, I’m sure you have.”

“The Monaco GP last year was a real nail-biter, sir! But we knew you would be victorious in the end. My good woman and I, we knew you would win even if all our friends and neighbors hooted and rooted for the Cobbler driver.”

Sir Michele Rilli bristled at the mention of Kenneth Cobbler. Cobbler had been nipping at Rilli’s heels throughout the entire racing season last year. The Australian Grand Prix. The Malaysian Grand Prix. Race after race, Rilli won by the skin of his teeth, Cobbler sticking like glue to his derriere.

Then, a disaster in Spain. A bent rim. A two-minute setback to change the tire. Cobbler used it to his advantage to pass Michele Rilli on the final lap and take the checkered flag.

More races followed. Monaco. Canada. The United States. The famous French Grand Prix race. Rilli won them all, but the season was not a sweep. He did not own it. Throughout the history of great car racing, they would not talk of “The year that Michele Rilli won them all.” They would call it “The year that Michele Rilli lost in Spain.”

“The purpose of this visit?” the customs man asked.

Rilli looked at him, startled, but the customs agent was speaking with the captain of the Giancarlo. Just regular customs-agent questions. Nothing to worry about. The captain described his cargo of foodstuffs and small retail goods, and the cars.

“Automobiles?” the customs man asked. “They are not on the manifest. Am I not seeing them on the manifest?” He was quite worried.

“They are Sir Rilli’s automobiles,” the captain added.

“Captain, you do not have them on the manifest. This means you have not secured the permits for the importation of automobiles, and this is a serious problem. I cannot allow you to off-load these vehicles. Why are you bringing in vehicles that are not properly permitted?”

The customs man was suspicious. Rilli knew it was time to turn on his French charm.

“I shall explain this to you,” Rilli said, turning on his Parisian accent. “The secret is bigger than you were led to believe.”

That only made the customs man more suspicious, but that was fine because his relief would be increased when Rilli told him the secret, and this would propel him into greater carelessness.

“You see, we are planning to stage the first Ayounde Grand Prix.”

The customs man gasped.

“This is our secret,” Rilli snapped. “You can be trusted with my secret?”

“Oh, of course, Sir Rilli!” the customs man gushed. He was a brown-skinned African with cheeks that bulked like shiny dark apples when he smiled.

“It shall be a demonstration only, this time,” Rilli snarled, “but we shall make such a spectacle of it that next year, it will be an official grand prix race.”

The customs man was tearing up in his excitement and joy. Rilli was not surprised. He was London-born and raised, but he was a Frenchman by blood, and he knew how to turn on the famous French charisma. It made men into agreeable puppy dogs who did what he required, and the women—it positively melted the women.

“These cars, they will not stay here in Ayounde, for this is my personal collection of race cars,” Rilli pointed out. “These are the cars that won so many races for me last year.”

“Yes, all but Spain!”

“Yes. Spain.”

“I watched every single one of them on the satellite!”

“I am happy for you. Getting a manifest for these cars and the required licenses—this was impossible and unnecessary. Firstly, the cars are not for staying in Ayounde. Next, getting such permits would have upset the beans, and the news of this race would have been all over the world. The beauty of this demonstration is in its surprise. This is obvious to you. Oui?”

“Oui!” the customs man replied, his pronunciation more natural than Rilli’s. French was commonly spoken in Ayounde.

Still, the customs man was under his spell and would do whatever Rilli asked. And it wasn’t such a big deal, allowing entry to a few race cars for a short time. The promotional stunt would help the country and certainly couldn’t do any harm. Right?

“So, my friend, what say you?” Sir Michele Rilli asked. “Will you be a part of the new Ayounde Grand Prix spectacle?”

“Of course, Sir Rilli!” The customs man was about to faint from excitement.

Such a bunch of goody-goody types in Ayounde, Rilli thought. He wished he was getting one of the tougher African nations. Truth be told, any African nation other than Ayounde would be rougher and tougher.

Everybody here was just so repulsively pleasant.

It would feel good to subjugate them, give them a little something to suffer over. Wipe some of those ugly smiles right off their faces.