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. A
s 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.
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