"Nuk the Unwise," Chiun corrected.
The chief's brow furrowed once more. "I beg your pardon?" he said, confused.
Chiun set his teacup to the floor. "In the annals of my House, the honorific 'great' is not bestowed lightly. All Masters aspire to it, but only one has yet achieved it. And Nuk is not that man."
Batubizee shook his head. "Forgive me, Master of Sinanju, but this cannot be. Nuk was a man like no other. So it has been told from the time of Kwaanga, passed down from one generation to the next. Your ancestor was a warrior of great strength and skill."
"As are all Masters of Sinanju," Chiun said simply. "And if a man gives all of his sons the same name, how will any of them know when he is being called? Imagine the confusion in our histories if everyone was described as the 'great this' and the 'great that.' Hence Nuk the Unwise."
"But he was wise," Batubizee insisted. "He shepherded the Luzu Empire to greatness. If not for him, we would be but poor vagabonds, dwelling forgotten in the wilderness."
At this, Chiun fell silent.
The stinging silence wasn't necessary. Batubizee realized the irony of his own words the instant he had uttered them. Still seated, he pushed his shoulders high in a sorry attempt to recapture his dignity.
"It was not always so," the Luzu chief said bitterly.
"No," Chiun agreed. "Nuk the Unwise set sail from a thriving civilization. For centuries after his departure, when word of the Luzu reached the shores of my village, it told of the strong and prosperous empire Nuk had established in the wilds of Africa."
"For many years it was true," Batubizee admitted. "Until the Europeans." The last word was spoken like a curse. "Our wars with the English went poorly. The whites established settlements that grew into cities. They took our land and called it East Africa. Because of them, we die." His strong voice quavered with passion.
Chiun considered the chief's words for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft.
"What the whites have done to you with their socalled civilization is not unique. My own land has been visited many times by the armies of emperors, khans and presidents. The Luzu I have seen seem infected in their souls. You cannot blame the government in Bachsburg for what I have witnessed here."
Batubizee's nostrils flared with thin impatience. "The whites showed my people a new way of life. They had power and wealth that dwarfed our own. Over the past century, many of our young fled to the cities. Poverty flooded the void they left. Now even the slums of Bachsburg are richer than the land of my fathers."
"I have traveled much in my long life, O Luzu chief." Chiun nodded wisely. "The West's influence is inescapable, though one flee to the most distant corner of the world."
Nodding at Chiun's words, Batubizee willed himself calm. "There was a time that I thought I could affect the white system from within. When free elections were established, I campaigned for president of East Africa."
Chiun raised a thin eyebrow. "A Luzu chief run for president?" he clucked in disapproval. "Surely things are not so bad. If you want for anything, rally your people and take by force from the whites in Bachsburg."
Batubizee shook his head. "The whites are no longer the problem-though the system they created has outlived them. As for my taking anything by force, the government in Bachsburg with its tanks and guns does not fear the spears of a few starving tribesmen."
Chiun had been growing quietly annoyed by the Luzu chief's defeated air. But at this he shook his head firmly, gossamer tufts of hair quivering with the first blush of real anger. "That cannot be," he insisted. "Or has the gift of Nuk been lost with your ability to plant and hunt?"
Batubizee stiffened. "No," he said thinly, "it has not. But though it has been passed from one generation to the next-- even to this day-we are not Masters of Sinanju. While we faced men who were our equal, we were strong, but those days were gone long before my time. East Africa is proud that it is the only nation on Earth to have dismantled its nuclear stockpile, but it still has many guns. And while Sinanju might not fear these weapons, my people do. I need your help, descendant of Nuk, to help them overcome their fear." He leaned forward. "I would remind you that this was part of Kwaanga's original agreement with Master Nuk."
The chief's defeated tone had only fed the Korean's frown. But now it was clear the Luzu leader also felt that Chiun was a doddering old man who needed to be refreshed on the details of Nuk's contract. Chiun hid his offense behind a veneer of irritation.
"This is why you summoned me from the side of the emperor I now serve?" he asked, his irritation clear.
Batubizee shook his head. "It is but part of the reason. Do you know of Willie Mandobar?"
Chiun exhaled impatience. "Of course. He is the convict president who is a hero to the idiots of the West."
"He is president no more," Chief Batubizee said ominously. "His lackey, Kmpali, rules from the white palace. But the evil Mandobar yet lingers like a disease. He is using his influence to turn the nation he ruled into a haven for wickedness."
At this Chiun's brow furrowed. "Is not his wife the evil one?"
The chief shook his head. "It was thought by many that she was the evil behind the good. But they were divorced many years ago, and she was driven from power. While he ruled, she was even punished in the courts. It is Mandobar himself who is the wicked one. If he is successful in his scheme, East Africa will become the focus of corruption for all the world. And that poison will flood into Luzuland."
Try as he might, Chiun couldn't imagine a Luzuland any worse than the one he had already seen. "What is it you wish from Sinanju?" the old Asian asked.
Shifting his broad bottom on his mound of pillows, Batubizee clapped his hands.
Bubu stepped quickly forward, a sheet of wrinkled yellow parchment in his dark hand.
"I invoke Kwaanga's contract with Nuk," Batubizee announced imperiously. Pulling the paper from Bubu, he presented it to Chiun. "This wicked shadow from the south threatens to destroy the whole of the Luzu Empire. To ensure the safety of my people and honor the bond of your House, Sinanju must slay the evil Willie Mandobar."
Chiun took the paper in his long, tapered fingers, giving it hardly a glance. He already knew it was a standard agreement for the era. Nuk's mark appeared at the bottom alongside the symbol of Sinanju.
"You have read your contract well," Chiun said, even of voice. The parchment quivered at the end of his long talons.
Batubizee nodded gravely. "You are bound to obey."
Chiun nodded agreement. "That is true," he said. "My House is obligated by the terms of this agreement to assist you at any future time if ever there is a threat great enough to topple the Luzu Empire. If what you say is true, clearly that threat now exists."
A smile of cunning split the Luzu chief's face. "Excellent," he enthused. "I will have you taken-"
Chiun raised a wickedly sharp nail. "Except," he interrupted.
The contract still remained in his other hand. But it no longer quivered. In fact, Batubizee noted, not even the normal currents of air passing through the squalid hut seemed to disturb the delicate sheet.
The chief's smile settled into sagging jowls of suspicion. "Except what?" Batubizee asked.
An index fingernail sought a spot on the parchment. "You have forgotten this mark." When the old man saw the look of confusion on the Luzu chief's face, he tipped his aged head. "Surely Kwaanga passed down its significance?" Batubizee squinted at the proffered contract. Chiun's long nail tapped at a single squiggle, faded from age but still visible, above the Sinanju symbol. Batubizee glanced up, his puzzlement only deeper. "Is that not an error?" he asked of the small mark.
Chiun sat back to the floor, finally examining the contract for himself.
"Sinanju does not make errors," he sniffed as he studied the ancient paper. "That is the symbol for payment. Yes, my House is obliged to take on any task that meets the terms of this agreement, provided the Luzu compensate us for the service." When he looked back up, his e
yes were steady.
Batubizee was clearly stunned. He looked helplessly at Bubu. An angry frown had sprouted on the young man's face. When the chief looked once more at Chiun, all vestiges of his regal attitude had fled. An expression bordering on frightened despair clutched his broad features.
Chiun was nodding gently, his tufts of trailing hair a thoughtful echo to the slow movement. "Nuk might have been unwise. But he was not a fool."
And the Master of Sinanju offered a faint smile.
Chapter 9
Remo wandered morosely through the streets of Bachsburg for nearly three hours. In all that time, he didn't see his little Korean shadow again. He was assaulted twice by muggers and was propositioned countless times by prostitutes who seemed to sprout like weeds from the cracks in the sidewalk. Upon eyeing his lean frame and pensive, cruel eyes, most of the ladies of the evening broke with tradition, offering to pay him. Each time, he declined.
Smith had wanted him to knock out the underpinnings of Willie Mandobar's corrupt scheme, but Remo found that since the latest disappearance of the mysterious Korean boy, his depression had worsened. Whether it was caused by Chiun's Master's disease or the boy didn't really matter. Whatever the reason, at the moment he didn't feel much like killing his way up the chain of command in the African nation.
At a busy intersection, Remo found a bank of gaily colored public telephones. He stopped near them for a while to watch the traffic. After counting 106 blue cars and 61 red ones, he finally grew bored enough to make the call he didn't really feel like making.
Reluctantly, he snagged up a phone. Dropping in a fistful of change, he began depressing the 1 button repeatedly, activating the special rerouters that would transfer the call to Upstairs.
As he waited for the static clicks to finish, Remo tried to spark some enthusiasm in something. To this end, he made a private bet with himself that it would take the CURE director two rings instead of the usual one to answer.
DR. HAROLD W. SMITH was amazed.
These days, it was not often the taciturn New Englander with the perpetually dyspeptic expression and enveloping gray demeanor experienced any kind of emotion at all, let alone something as strong as utter amazement. Yet there was no other way to describe what he was feeling.
The scant reports from East Africa had come to his attention barely a handful of days ago. But ever since he had dispatched Remo and Chiun to that nation, information had been increasing every hour-almost exponentially. What began as a trickle rapidly became a flood.
Weary eyes of flinty gray scanned the raw data as it was collected by the CURE mainframes, which were hidden behind a secret basement wall far below.
The wall that hid the Folcroft Four from prying eyes was representative of everything around Smith. Nothing was as it appeared. The building in which he worked was an elaborate disguise. To the world, Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, was an exclusive institution for the chronically ill and mentally deranged. Its public face masked the work of CURE, the most damning secret in the history of America.
Even Smith himself was a lie. His post as director of Folcroft occupied almost none of the, time he spent locked away in his Spartan administrator's office. As the efficient head of CURE, Smith had spent nearly forty years safeguarding America from threats both domestic and foreign. East Africa certainly fell into the latter category.
Over his shoulder, a pane of one-way glass overlooked the sanitarium's private back lawn, which stretched down to the gently lapping waters of Long Island Sound.
Smith didn't have time to even glance at the serene beauty of the yellow sunlight as it sparkled off the rolling black waves. His spotless glasses were trained with laserlike focus on the computer screen buried beneath the surface of his gleaming onyx desk.
When the blue contact phone jangled to life at his elbow, Smith barely reacted to the sound. The rest of his body continued to study the information on his monitor as a single arthritis-gnarled hand snaked out to pick up the old-fashioned receiver.
"Smith," he said crisply.
"Dammit, why do you always have to pick up on the first ring?" Remo said in an irritated voice.
"Remo," Smith said. He blinked away fatigue, turning his attention away from his computer. "Yeah, it's me," Remo said. "And just so you know, I'm in East Africa, I'm alone and I'm irritable. So don't piss me off."
"Alone?" Smith asked, surprised. "Didn't Chiun accompany you?"
"He sure did," Remo said aridly. "And then bagged out on me the minute we got here. Don't start on that, Smitty. I've already explored that particular canker sore one time too many."
Remo's tone was such that Smith decided not to press further. Changing topics, he forged on. "What do you have to report?"
"Well, Chiun ditched me at the airport, they put garlic on your fish here even when you ask them not to, I kacked two guys at lunch and the country's defense minister is heavy into plantation suits and hiring hit men."
Smith sat back in his chair. "Are you saying East Africa's defense minister is in on Mandobar's scheme?"
"It sure looked that way," Remo said. "He isn't fazed by dead bodies, anyway. Guy's name is Elvis something."
"His name is L. Vas Deferens," Smith corrected. "That is Vas, as in pause."
"However it's pronounced, he's one cool customer," Remo said. "I've gotta admit, I'm thinking of taking him up on his offer. He's way better looking than you. I could clean up on his sloppy seconds."
Smith refused to become distracted. "And you are saying Deferens saw you-" he searched for the right euphemism "-at work?"
"Him and a restaurant full of people," Remo said. "And before you start on me, it was not my fault."
Pushing up his rimless glasses, Smith pinched the bridge of his nose. "Were you seen with him?" he asked wearily.
"Beats me," Remo said. "I skedaddled from the restaurant, but he caught up with me outside. His driver saw us for sure. Plus there were about a billion cars going by."
"Remo, given the delicate nature of this assignment, it should have been a priority with you to avoid public exposure-more so than usual." Smith's hours at his computer had made him bone tired. Exhaling the acid stench of bile, he readjusted his glasses. "As defense minister of East Africa, Deferens is known. By allowing yourself to be linked publicly to him, you automatically remove him from the list of those you can eliminate."
"What kind of dopey reasoning is that?" Remo said sourly. "No one's gonna make any connection."
"Perhaps. However, we cannot take that chance," Smith said. "Given the circumstances, it might be wise if you kept a low profile for now. Where is Chiun?"
Smith could almost see Remo's foul expression. "I told you, I don't want to talk about it."
"Remo, be reasonable," Smith said. "It's possible you cannot follow through on the mission as outlined. Perhaps Chiun can. I need to speak with him."
"Good luck," Remo snorted. "The last I saw him, he and the rest of the Royal Explorers Club were schlepping off into the wilds of Luzuland."
A knot of concern. "Luzuland?" Smith asked, puzzled. "Why was he going there?"
The answer was the one he hoped he wouldn't get.
"Who knows?" Remo groused. "Another million-year-old Sinanju contract, by the sounds of it. But if he expects me to get tangled up in some ancient House obligation where I've got to wrestle a hippo or marry the chief's spinster sister, no way. Remo don't play that anymore."
Smith's thin lips had tightened. As Remo spoke, he tapped an angry finger on the smooth surface of his desk.
"You have succeeded, Remo, in making this situation more problematic for us than it already was," he said, his voice tart with accusation.
"Don't blame me for Chiun going AWOL," Remo warned.
"I am referring to both of you," Smith retorted.
"You're the one making this harder than it has to be," Remo accused. "Why don't we just do what we should have done in the first place? Let me go zap Mandobar. He's the chief crook and bottle washer
here. With him gone, the rest of them will just fade into the woodwork."
"Mandobar is already gone," Smith said tersely.
Remo paused. "What do you mean?"
"He left the country during the night. It was only announced an hour ago. President Kmpali was on a goodwill tour of the Far East that was not going well. According to reports, Mandobar was recruited because of his stature to aid the current president in his mission to bring investment to East Africa."
"Then let me go after him."
"No," Smith insisted. "That is not an option." The CURE director sighed. "We can assume Mandobar has left the country to maintain some of his integrity should word of what is happening in East Africa leak out. Perhaps we can still follow through on our original plan. Give me a little time to see if another option presents itself." Smith checked his Timex. "Call me-"
He was interrupted by a new voice on the line. "Hands up!" the muffled voice barked.
Seated in his cracked leather chair, Smith's spine stiffened. "What was that?" he demanded worriedly.
He held his breath, awaiting Remo's response. When Remo spoke, he was more irritated than concerned.
"Just a sec, Smitty," he said, aggravated.
STANDING AT THE East African phone booth, Remo had sensed his assailant's furtive approach. When the stiletto jabbed into the small of his back, his body had already willed blood to flow into the dense muscles.
Given the surprisingly unyielding nature of its target, the knife skipped out of his attacker's hand, clattering to the sidewalk.
"Don't move," warned his as-yet unseen assailant as he pounced on his lost weapon.
The East African voice had the usual harsh consonants of the former British colony.
Remo turned, already knowing what he'd find. The kid was no more than nine years old, with features a mix of white and black. He had retrieved his small knife and was brandishing it menacingly. "Gimme your wallet," the kid scowled.
"Isn't this a school night?" Remo replied tersely. The youth didn't appreciate the unexpected response. To prove he meant business, he jabbed his knife at Remo's belly.
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