"EXCUSE ME, SIR!"
Remo heard the smooth, efficient voice a minute after he'd slipped out of the sidewalk cafe.
He scowled as he looked over his shoulder.
The coldly handsome man had trailed him from the restaurant. Jogging, he caught up to Remo, a perfect smile on his chiseled model's face.
"We should talk," the man said, puffing to keep up. Though he had run half a city block in the sun and heat, he'd failed completely to break a sweat.
"I'm kind of busy," Remo said, still walking.
"Not for me," the man insisted. For an instant, the too genial smile vanished. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am L. Vas Deferens, defense minister and head of internal security for East Africa."
"Whoop-de-do for you," Remo replied.
The sidewalk was alive with foot traffic. A steady hum of street-clogging cars rolled by to their left. Remo noted a single limousine had pulled to the shoulder of the road and was now trailing him. He felt the mistrustful glare of Deferens's bodyguard driver through the tinted windshield.
"Yes," Deferens said flatly. The smile returned, though it seemed more forced than ever. "And your name is ... ? I make it a point to learn the identities of the men who impress me. It happens so rarely."
"Try a different bathhouse," Remo suggested.
Deferens's rosebud lips pulled to a faint frown. "I cannot legally compel you to tell me your name now. But it will be necessary eventually. Are you registered?"
"Not even engaged," Remo said.
A hint of confusion. "This would be what? American banter? I'm afraid it impresses me far less than your work back there." Deferens nodded back beyond his trailing limo, toward the restaurant. "I was the one who started the applause, by the way."
Still walking, Remo glanced at the pale blond man in the spotless white suit.
The East African was somewhere in his early to late forties. His cool outer demeanor wrapped a cold angry core. His grin was flash-frozen conceit.
Remo had a sudden desire to plant his hand, wrist deep, into that pale, smug face.
Instead, he screwed his mouth shut and kept walking.
"You must register properly if you are going to advertise your services in East Africa," Deferens insisted.
"Advertising's for amateurs without reputations," Remo muttered, paraphrasing an old Sinanju tenet. "The truly great don't have to hawk themselves in the classifieds."
At this, Deferens shook his head. "You don't strike me as a fool. If you are here now, you are serious about your business. Given your performance in the restaurant, I don't think there's any question what that business is. Of course, we take a relaxed attitude toward that sort of thing here. But not commerce. You must register within the twenty-four-hour required period or face the consequences."
"I won't be here that long," Remo promised.
Deferens tipped his head thoughtfully. "Pity," he said.
A business card appeared in one soft hand. If he'd been carrying it since he'd left the restaurant, it didn't show. Despite the intense heat, there wasn't a sign of perspiration on the cardboard. He slipped the card into Remo's hand.
"If you decide to stay and need work, contact me," Deferens said seriously. "If we do not see each other again, it has been a distinct pleasure to meet you."
Braking behind Remo, Deferens stepped briskly to the curb. His car stopped obediently. The door sprang open as if from its own volition and Deferens climbed inside. With a thrum of its powerful engine, the car was absorbed into traffic and slipped off down the busy street.
Alone on the sidewalk, Remo looked down at the card in his hand. Deferens's name, title and Bachsburg number were printed in black, raised letters.
A manipulation of fingers brought the card from thumb to pinkie. By the time it had gone from one side of his hand to the other, the card had been slit into five neat strips.
He let the sections flutter to the concrete. "Dipshit country," Remo muttered to himself. For a brief instant, he was angry at Chiun once more for abandoning him. But almost as soon he realized that the East Africa the Master of Sinanju knew would almost certainly not have anything in common with this one. Chiun would have as difficult a time interpreting the customs of this modern Sodom as he was having.
The revelation brought little comfort.
Stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, Remo wandered off down the busy Bachsburg street.
Chapter 7
And thus it was that a Master of Sinanju did return to the land of Kwaanga Luzu, discovered by Master Nuk in the year of the Dead Milk Sky. But, lo, the nation to which this current Master did come was not the rich and prosperous land described by Nuk in the Master's Scrolls...
AS THE TRUCK bounced along the rutted path, a cloud of thick dust rose in its wake. The Luzu tribesmen accompanying Chiun jounced on their threadbare seats. Beside his Luzu driver in the front seat, the Master of Sinanju could have been frozen in amber. Though the rest were thrown from side to side, the old Korean remained suspended in space, as if beyond the vicissitudes of tire ruts and bad driving.
Although his face was an inscrutable mask, his thoughts were deeply troubled.
Nuk had painted an image in the Sinanju histories of a Luzuland blessed with rich soil and full crops, with a people strong and proud. But where Chiun expected to see fields of gently waving grain, he saw mile after mile of barren wasteland. Where he thought he would see powerful men and robust maidens, he found emaciated husks of human beings.
They had left the rented limousine in Bachsburg. Chiun had been transferred to a battered GMC Suburban at the edge of the East African capital. He was glad Remo hadn't been around for that disgrace. The big truck bounced and creaked its way along the winding, rutted road in the desert wilds north of the country's urban center.
"Who are these pitiful creatures?" the Master of Sinanju queried as they passed a miserable collection of people squatting forlornly in the dust at the side of the road. He assumed they were vagabonds from some other tribe who had found their way to Luzuland.
His driver had stripped off his jacket and tie. Most of his dress shirt buttons were open.
"They are Luzu," his young driver said, shame in his voice. His name was Bubu.
"How is this possible?" Chiun said, a hint of bewilderment in his squeaky tone. He shook his aged head. "These dirt eaters cannot be the children of Kwaanga."
"They are, Master Chiun," Bubu insisted. His jaw quivered in impotent fury at the admission. There was much strength in the young man, although his well of disgrace ran deep. They passed many more pitiful Luzus on their way to the main village, yet Chiun said not another word. But when they reached the main settlement, it was all the old man could do not to cry out in shock.
Houses of peeling clapboard and pitifully thatched roofs lined the dirt streets of the poverty-stricken shantytown that was the heart of the Luzu civilization. The Suburban and the other truck containing Chiun's steamer trunks slowed to a stop in the broad cul-de-sac that was the town's dead center.
Chiun was stunned at the appearance of his welcoming committee. He had hoped that the people they had passed along the long road to the Luzu city had somehow found themselves in disfavor with the current chief. To his horror, he found that he couldn't have been more wrong.
The people who waited to greet him looked as if mere existence were an effort. Their secondhand clothing was threadbare and drained of color. Their eyes were sunken and bereft of hope. Skin was pulled taut and dry around fat, protruding bones. Teeth jutted forward in large and yellowed overbites of malnutrition.
Chiun hid his stunned disgust behind a look of imperious indifference as the Suburban rolled to a stop in front of the largest of the ramshackle buildings. Behind the first truck, the other vehicle squeaked to a groaning, dusty standstill.
A faded purple carpet, gilded along the edge with gold embroidery, extended from the open black mouth of the huge shack in front of which Chiun's truck had stopped. The moment his sandals touc
hed the threadbare rug, a large figure emerged from the shadowy doorway.
The man's fat face glistened brightly. As he strode forward, his voice boomed out over the sullen crowd in the square. "Greetings, O great son of Nuk!"
"Greetings, Batubizee, son of Kwaanga, king of the Luzu," the Master of Sinanju replied when the two men met in the center of the rotted carpet.
Each bowed deeply and formally.
Batubizee wore a purple ankle-length burnoose. Although the carpet and robe had once been the same color, the chief's raiments had better withstood the assault of time. The ceremonial purple was rich and vibrant. On Batubizee's head sat a squat golden crown, the front of which held three fused circles. Tiny diamonds were embedded in the front of the headpiece.
Bubu had followed Chiun up the carpet.
"He was possessed of the sign," the young native announced quietly, passing the chief the ceremonial dagger.
Batubizee took the knife, nodding as he did so. "I do not need some trinket to tell me who this is," Chief Batubizee proclaimed. "His bearing alone tells me that this is the true son of Nuk." But though his words were strong, there was an undertone of uncertainty.
Chiun noted the hesitation in the Luzu leader's voice.
"Many generations have passed since the time of Nuk, ruler of the Luzu," the Master of Sinanju intoned. "Nuk has long since sought the repose of the Void. I am son of Chiun, pupil of H'si T'ang."
"Of course." The Luzu chief nodded. "Great warriors, all, I am sure."
Standing in the squalor of his village, dressed in the finery of days long past, Batubizee couldn't help but give the impression of someone embarrassed by the pitiful state he found himself in. He was like a once rich man, now destitute, in a losing battle to maintain as much of his former air as possible.
"We must confer," the chief said softly. Chiun nodded silent agreement.
Batubizee turned to his people, raising his flabby arms high in the air. "My people, this is truly a glorious day! One that will be spoken of for generations to come! Today is the beginning of the new Luzu Empire!"
The cheers that had trailed Master Nuk as he sailed away centuries before had long before faded to morose silence. The men and women gathered in the dust of this day remained sullen and quiet as the Master of Sinanju and Chief Batubizee ducked inside the big house.
Afterward the crowd silently dispersed.
THE ENGINE Hum of Defense Minister Deferens's limousine had faded in with the other background traffic. Remo drifted down the sidewalk, lost in private thoughts.
The businesses in this part of town seemed devoted to all things pornographic. He therefore wasn't surprised when Trollop Seasoning bounded out onto the sidewalk from one of the small shops, her arms loaded with packages. Her thick purple heels clattered loudly as she hustled to a waiting car. "Girl domination!" she shrieked over her shoulder at the store's closing door.
The other Seasonings screeched the same words from somewhere in the dark recesses of the sex shop.
Trollop dumped her booty in the car. As he passed by, Remo noted that the vehicle had government plates.
He had gone only a few feet more when a grating voice chimed in from behind him.
"Well, hello, sailor!" cried Trollop. Balancing on five-inch heels, she hurried up beside him. "You look like a guy who likes a good time!"
"I like my eardrums more," Remo replied.
"Huh?" Trollop asked. She didn't wait for a response. "What say we find someplace quiet and make it loud!"
Remo stopped so abruptly, Trollop plowed into him.
There was something distinctly odd about her exposed belly. It felt too soft and cold.
"Are you talking sex, Austin Powers?" he asked.
Her crow's-feet wrinkled appreciatively. "The best you ever had, baby," Trollop vowed.
"Will you talk while we're doing it?"
"Talk?" Trollop scoffed. "Baby, I'll scream."
Remo mused for but a second. "Pass."
He continued on.
Trollop obviously was not used to rejection.
"I can rock ya till your fillings pop out," she promised, hurrying after him.
"Don't have fillings," Remo said. "I lost a couple of teeth playing high-school football, but they grew back."
"You still had baby teeth in high school?" she asked.
"Nope," Remo replied simply.
She didn't even hear. As she clip-clopped beside him, Trollop rubbed the sides of her strangely elastic protruding belly in what was supposed to be a seductive manner.
As her tongue lapped her glossy lips and her eyelids batted ropy lashes, Remo briefly wondered what kind of parent in their right mind would have allowed their teenaged daughter to buy into the whole "Seasonings" concept.
"Next alley we pass, I'm yours," she breathed. "I know what you need, what you really, really need."
That did it. It was the quoting of her band's most famous song that finished Remo. He stopped dead. "Condoms," he announced.
Her smile broke full on bleached teeth. "Got 'em," she replied excitedly. She began fishing in her purple purse.
Remo shook his head. "Not enough. I know where you've been. I'll need seventy or eighty. Enough that I won't even have to be in the same room while we're doing it. And you're going to need some kind of gag. Preferably one with some kind of locking mechanism and a key that can be easily lost."
"I'm on it!" Trollop promised. "Wait right here!"
Turning on one huge heel, she thundered down the street.
The rest of the Seasonings were just walking out of the sex shop, their arms loaded with overstuffed bags when Trollop plowed into them. The big boxes that were balanced on their massively pregnant stomachs went flying in every direction.
Remo wasn't around to witness the fallout. When the screaming started, he was already ducking around the corner of the busy four-lane street.
He didn't have time to revel in the little bit of unhappiness he'd delivered into the lives of the four women who had irritated him so much. The instant he turned the corner, he became aware of someone watching him.
It wasn't one of the Seasonings, or even one of the many prostitutes who trolled the streets of Bachsburg. With a shudder, he realized that it was the same strange sensation he'd felt at the Carlson wake.
Without breaking stride, he casually sought out the source.
Years of exacting training designed for the express purpose of not telegraphing moves to an opponent couldn't prepare him for the shock of what he found. Any pleasure he'd gotten from tormenting Trollop Seasoning bled away.
Standing on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the busy street was the child from baby Karen's wake. The same Korean boy he'd seen at the airport in New York.
Remo stopped dead. Someone bumped into him from behind, cursing him for stopping so abruptly. Remo didn't even hear.
It was impossible. First in Peoria, then the disappearing act at JFK and now here.
There was something very odd going on.
As the cars continued to rush past, Remo caught only glimpses of the boy between them. At one moment he was staring at Remo, his big brown eyes filled with a world of sadness; the next he had turned away. With small, mournful steps, he began walking slowly down the adjacent street.
On the other side of the road, Remo shook his head. "Not this time," he muttered firmly.
There wasn't time to wait for a break in traffic. From a standing position, Remo vaulted into the street.
His toe caught the hood of a speeding Jaguar. It made neither dent nor scratch as he pushed off. Brushing the roof of a Volvo, he skipped over the two racing Saabs that were heading in the two opposite lanes before landing at a full sprint on the far sidewalk.
But when he reached the spot where he'd last seen the boy, he was no longer there.
Remo scanned the sidewalk, spinning a complete circle.
The foot traffic was not so great that the boy could be swallowed up by it. Yet he was nowhere to be seen. As h
e had at the airport, the young Korean child had vanished.
Remo didn't know what to make of it. But one thing was certain. The depression he had been feeling was beginning to be eclipsed by a growing sense of apprehension.
Keeping his eyes peeled for the strange apparition, he began walking down the suddenly eerie East African sidewalk.
Chapter 8
Tea and fruit had been laid out on a long low table in the center of the small dining area. There were also strips of fish that had been cured in salt, making them inedible to the Master of Sinanju.
Choosing a small sliver of citrus fruit, Chiun settled amid the rugs and pillows arranged on the dirt floor of the oversize hut. On one knee, the Master of Sinanju balanced a china teacup and saucer; on the other knee was a matching plate with his meager slice of fruit.
"Your journey was a pleasant one, I hope," Chief Batubizee said. The big man had settled into a comfortable pile of cushions across from the old Asian. Bubu stood behind him, off to one side.
"As pleasant as travel through the air can be," Chiun replied, lifting his china cup.
Batubizee nodded. "I have never been in an airplane. They are frightful contrivances. I fear the wings will drop off and they will plummet to the ground."
"A wise concern." Chiun nodded. "Yet to avoid all progress is to be mired hopelessly in the past." Letting his words hang in the air between them, the old man bit into the wedge of fruit. It was sweet and pulpy. Frowning, he ate only one-quarter, leaving the rest on the expensive china plate.
Batubizee fidgeted on his pillows. He shot a quick glance at Bubu before looking back at the Master of Sinanju.
"Do you not wish to know why I summoned you?" the chief asked.
"I assumed you had not brought me all this way to eat what little food is left in this barren land," Chiun replied.
As the old man sipped carefully at his green tea, a dark cloud passed over the Luzu chief's brow. Batubizee took a deep breath, drawing the musty smell of the big room deep into his lungs.
"Mine is not the tribe your histories describe," he admitted. A proud man, he fought hard to hide his shame. "We are not as the Great Nuk left us, all those years ago."
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