"Who you?"
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"Me me," answered Remo, covering the forehead mess of the British agent with the straw skimmer.
"Who me?" came the voice from behind the partially opened door.
"You you," said Remo.
"No, you," said the voice.
"Me?" asked Remo.
"Yes. Why you?"
"Me me. You you," said Remo=
"What you do out there?"
"I'm putting a body away because the air conditioning doesn't work and they tend to stink after a while.
"Why at our door?"
"Why not at your door?"
Remo thought that was a good answer. Obviously whoever was behind the door did not because he fired off a burst from the Kalishnikov.
Back in the room, Chiun noted gunfire down the hall, which did not help the drama.
"Sorry," said Remo.
Chiun gave a nod, but not one that accepted Remo's excuse. It was a nod that acknowledged that Remo, one way or another, had found and always would find a way to trifle with an old man's pleasure. And sure enough, Remo did again with another Englishman and, this time, two shots into the room and a hand grenade down the hall.
This disturbance not entirely ruining Chiun's afternoon, Remo then announced that he saw a whole team coming around the building. They all wore blazers and straw skimmers. Their leader was a man with a pipe.
"Isn't it interesting that we are attacked always
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while Rebecca is making her most beautiful speeches ?" Chiun said.
"They attack when they attack, Little Father," Remo said.
"No doubt," said Chiun.
"They really are," said Remo.
The groups had come in what was known as a reserve triangle. Up the front of the street, up an alley on the side, and with two triangle tops, which was two men on each side, two men frontal and two behind them.
It was a really good team, Remo estimated. They moved together. They obviously had worked together before. You could tell that by the coordination without many commands. New people were always shouting or signaling to each other or running off in different directions. Remo took a position on the roof so he could see how each group came on. A dark man wielding two heavy .44s stared nervously around. He didn't know who to defend against first. He cursed in Russian and backed off into a corner.
Remo saw two skimmered heads go into the front of the building while another pair threw a grappling ladder to the window sill of Chiun's room and two in the alley started up a fire escape.
"Just working," Remo said to the man with the two 44s. "You stay there."
Chiun had taught him that when working multiples it was always best to concentrate on something that had no direct relationship to the action of the multiples. Like breathing. Remo concentrated on the breathing and let his body take care of the other work. He was out over the ledge of the building and down along the side, slapping at each sill and keeping the rhythm of his inner lungs aligned with the breath
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itself, when lie met the two coming up the grappling hook line to Churn's window.
"Oh," said one, going back down to the dusty alley alongside the hotel. The other's Walther was rendered useless by going buttfirst through his own sternum, creating great problems for the heart, which found gun handles even more hazardous than cholesterol.
Across the street, peering out a slight crack in the Venetian bunds in one of the upper rooms, Generalissimo Sacristo Corazon saw the thin white man come down off the roof and knew, without anyone telling him, that his cousin Juanita had been telling the truth about a stronger power than his.
He had never seen a man drop like that. He had seen bodies fall from buildings. He had even seen divers jump off cliffs in Mexico. And once he had seen a plane blow up in the air.
But this white man. He dropped faster than someone falling. He dropped faster than someone in a dive. It looked as if he had harnessed gravity to enable himself to go down a wall faster than was normal.
The white man's body cleaned the rope of the two men like two exposed peas being nicked from an open pod.
"Who? Who that man?" demanded Corazon, pointing through the Venetian blind toward Remo.
"A white man," offered a major. He had a .44-cali-ber pistol in his holster, identical to Corazon's. His father had been in the hills with Corazon's father. When the senior Corazon had become President, the major's father had refused to be promoted to general. He died an old man. The lesson was not lost on his son, whose name was Manuel Estrada. When the young Corazon became El Presidente for life, Manuel
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Estrada also refused to be promoted to general. He also hoped to have a long life. But unlike his father, he planned one day to have everything.
The senior Estrada had had a family motto. It was "Nobody ever got shot for being a little thief." Manuel Estrada had a motto, too. It was "Wait your turn."
Major Estrada was just about the only man in the entourage whose hands did not sweat when Corazon was near. He had high cheekbones that showed his Indian blood and wine dark skin that showed his African. His nose was proud, a reminder of the night a. Castilian bedded a slave brought to work the sugar.
He heard Corazon scream at him that anyone could see it was a white man, but from what country was this white man?
"A white country," said Estrada.
"What white country? Find out. Find out now, Estrada, now."
Corazon watched Remo move along the front of the Astarse Hotel. His movements looked like a shuffle and appeared slow, until you realized the movement of the limbs might be slow but not of the body itself. It was moving almost in a blur. It went into the two Britishers like water through a ball of sand.
Remo's feet raised no dust. Corazon muttered. It was the strange power Juanita spoke of.
He uttered some prayers. "Lord, remove this evil thing from our blessed island. In your son's name, we humbly pray, so you do this little thing for us."
These words did the chief of state utter, looking down at Remo. He was still there. Well, if prayers to the Lord didn't work, a good holy man had other tricks.
"Power of darkness and stench of the devil, bring-
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ing down on men a curse eternal, land on that one there."
Corazon saw the white man take on two more Britishers. Looked like he could dodge bullets, too.
Corazon spat on the palace floor. "To hell with both of you," he said. It was like dealing with superpowers who were intent on ignoring him. What good were gods anyway if they didn't listen to you?
Suddenly the man stumbled. "Thank you, Beelzebub," said Corazon, but it wasn't a stumble. Remo had slid sideways to move off into the back of the alley. Corazon cursed his gods again.
That was the problem with too many people today, he thought. They were afraid to punish their gods. But he kept reminding them that if they messed around with Sacristo Corazon he wasn't going to fall down on his knees, saying, "I love you, anyhow." What was he supposed to be, some kind of Irishman? You messed with Corazon, god, forget it. You don't get so much as a candle.
But that was with Western gods. There was one god that Corazon did not call on. It was the god of the wind and the night and the cold and it lived in the hills and in its honor those voodoo drums beat twenty-four hours a day, and Corazon did not call on that god because he was afraid of it. Even more than he was afraid of this force . . . this white man across the street.
He had his own force. He had the machine. Like any commander, he knew his limits. Even with a great weapon. After a battle, everyone says you won because you had the great weapon. But before the battle, you must consider what happens if you use your great weapon and it does not work.
Nothing was worse than pointing a gun at some
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one's head and hearing a click because the chamber was empty.
What if his machine did not work against the new force?
Juanita had said t
he new force would triumph and bring kinghood to the holy man of the mountains.
And just that veiy day, the Umibian delegate had gotten two full doses from Corazon's machine before he had collapsed.
The machine was losing power, he had thought. But Juanita had gone quickly. Did the machine still work the way it should or not? Corazon had to think carefully before he used it. He could not afford to aim, fire, and leave someone standing. Then, even if he did live, which was doubtful, all the money would go. The embassies would return to lazy one-man operations. The ships would leave the harbor and Baqia would be almost as bad as before the Spanish came.
One did not use one's major weapon lightly. But how to use it? When Corazon was thinking, he liked to have a woman. When he was thinking deeply, he liked to have two women. Very deeply, three. And so on.
When the fifth woman had left his private rooms, which were a minifortress within the fortresslike presidential palace compound, Corazon knew what he would do.
Major Estrada had the Britisher, Dr. Jameson, in tow. Dr. Jameson was still in a state of shock.
"I don't believe it. I don't believe it," he gasped.
"Who was that man who did those awful things to your people?"
"I don't believe it," Jameson gasped. He sucked on the pipestem, which was now minus a bowl. He had lost his entire crew. It was impossible. No one man
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could do that. And besides, what would M.I.5 say about the lost instrumentation? This was hardly a neat operation.
"Who was that man?''
"American."
Corazon thought about this. With any other country that had a force like that, you would give respect. But Americans, he had learned, could be made ashamed of their force. They could be made helpless. Americans like to be abused. Quadruple the price of a raw material and they would hold conferences at their own expense to explain to the world that you had a God-given right to that raw material and so could set any price you wanted. They had forgotten what everyone else knew. Force gained you respect. America was insane.
If it had been the Russians who had that force with them, Corazon would have gone directly to the Russians, run the hammer and sickle up the Baqian flagpoles, and declared his everlasting friendship.
But you didn't do that with Americans. When America or any of its allies used force, it became the focus of ill will at the United Nations. People from all over condemned the U.S. warmongers. As the Russian had reminded Corazon today:
"Be a full-fledged member of the Third World, supporting us in everything, and you can't commit a crime. Only America and friends of America can commit crimes. And we can give you two hundred American professors swearing you are being picked on unfairly if you should ever have to start a real bloodbath. And we're the only ones still making gas ovens for human disposal. And no one says a word."
The Russian pointed out that good, safe governments had to kill all the time. It was the only sure
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way of getting respect. With communism, one could do it free of criticism. And never have to hold an election.
Now Corazon did not like Russians as people, but as a leader one had to make sacrifices.
"Break the relations with America," said Corazon.
"What?" asked Major Estrada.
"Break the relations with America and bring me the Russian ambassador."
"I don't know how to break the relations with a country."
"Do I have to do everything?"
"All right. When?" asked Corazon.
"Now," said Corazon.
"Anything else?"
Corazon shook his head. "It is big thing, breaking the relations with a country. People read this to me all the time."
"Who reads?" asked Estrada.
"The minister of education. He reads."
"He's a good reader," admitted Estrada. He had seen him read for an audience once. The minister of education had gotten through a big fat book with no pictures in one short afternoon. Once, Estrada had asked a so-called smart American how fast he had read that book and the so-called smart American said it had taken him a week. Baqia had a good minister of education.
"Another thing," said Corazon. 'Take care of this man here." He nodded to the dazed Dr. Jameson.
"Bring him to the British consul?" asked Estrada.
"No," said Corazon.
"Oh," said Estrada, and with his .44 put two thumping slugs into the blue blazer. One of the slugs blew the breast patch off the jacket.
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"Not here, stupido," yelled Corazon. "I want him shoot here, I shoot him here myself."
"You say take care of him. You say break the relations with America. You say get Russian ambassador and get him here. Hey, what's all this, eh? I got one afternoon."
"Anybody else as stupid as you, Estrada, I shoot."
"You can't shoot me," said Estrada, putting his smoking pistol back in the holster.
"Why not?" demanded Corazon. He didn't like hearing a thing like that.
"Because I the only one you know who won't shoot you if I get a chance."
The Russian ambassador perspired profusely. He rubbed his hands. He wore a very floppy suit. He was a middle-aged man and had served as a consul in Chile, Ecuador, Peru, and now here in Baqia. He had his own ratings for countries, on a scale of one to ten. Ten being the most likely to get killed in. He didn't mind living for socialism but he certainly didn't want to die for it. He rated Baqia at twelve.
He had three children and a wife at home in Sverdlovsk. He had a sixteen-year-old dark-eyed island beauty here in Baqia. He didn't want to go home.
When he heard the Generalissimo wanted to see him, he didn't know if it was for his own execution, someone else's execution, or just a request to give more help to another Third World country aspiring to break the chains of colonialism, which was just another word for a shakedown. The Russian ambassador was Anastas Bogrebyan. He was of Armenian descent. He had one purpose on this island and that was to oversee all operations aimed at getting the device that disintegrated people, and failing that to make sure no
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one else got it. On important scientific matters that had to be done right, the Russians now sent Armenians. It used to be Jews, but too many kept right on going once outside Russia.
"I love Russia and communism and socialism and all that stuff," Corazon told the ambassador. "And I am thinking what can I do for my Russian friends, I am thinking?"
Corazon tapped the blue velvet drape over the special machine. Bogrebyan had dealt with natives before. He knew he wasn't going to get this machine right away. Not without bargaining.
"What is the very best thing I can give my friends, the Russians?"
Bogrebyan shrugged. Was it really possible he was going to give the machine itself to Russia? No, it was impossible. Even though he was hearing what he was hearing, Bogrebyan did not think Corazon was the kind of man to surrender so easily what he knew was the only thing that was pumping money into his country. Moreover, this man who had lived all his life by stealth and death was not about to panic into giving something away when he could put on the squeeze. And then Bogrebyan saw the squeeze.
Corazon announced he was breaking diplomatic relations with America, but he was afraid.
"Afraid of what?" asked Bogrebyan.
"What America will do to me. Will you protect me?"
"Of course. We love you," said Bogrebyan, knowing there was more to come.
"There are American CIA killer agent spies here, on my sacred soil of Baqia."
"There is no place of value that does not have spies from everywhere, comrade," said Bogrebyan shrewd-
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ly. He had a honker of a nose with a few small hairs on the end of it. Perspiration collected on the hairs. But Bogrebyan's soul was cool.
Corazon grinned. He had a round face like a big dark melon.
"You protect us?" he said.
"What do you want?"
"I want Americans dead. Ove
r there. In the Astarse. Americans, yes?"
"Perhaps," said Bogrebyan. "But we want something in return. We want to help you use your new device for the good of all mankind. For peaceful purposes. For us."
Corazon knew he had been outmaneuvered, but he was not about to give up.
"Or I might join those killers over there. In the Astarse. Throw myself at their mercy. It can happen."
Now Bogrebyan wondered why Corazon himself could not take care of the Americans. Cautiously he said, "We'll see. There are many, many spies here now. We are not quite sure, comrade, why you fear these two."
"Comrade," said Corazon, embracing the Russian. "Get them, you get my magic." But in his heart the great fear was growing. It was possible the Russians would fail. "Do not fail," Corazon blurted. "Use enough men and do not fail."
In the evening he went to his window overlooking the Astarse. He waited for the Russians. They would be coming soon. Bogrebyan was not a stupid man. The sun set red down Baqian Route 1. He saw the Russians then, down the road, strolling quite casually. Twenty-five men with guns and ropes and light mortars. All pretenses were gone. It was going to be a war.
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Corazon's heart beat with a dash of joy now. It might work. It might very well work, he thought.
He had heard among other things that morning that one of the lower officers who worked at the airport said there was an old Oriental one should be afraid of who was part of the American team. Old men died quicker when helped to their deaths. And then to his further joy Corazon, peering from the palace window, saw that another equally strong group of Russians were coming from the other direction on Route 1.
The Russians were pulling out all the stops. The melon face had a big white-toothed wedge of a smile from ear to ear. Corazon would have sung the Russian national anthem if he had known it.
He saw heads peer out windows in the Astarse. He saw the same heads disappear. He saw men jump out windows. Run out through the alley limping. The Astarse was clearing like a sink of roaches when the light was suddenly turned on. Some men left their weapons.
The Russians began to chant, smelling their triumph. A bold move. A strong move. Corazon knew that when you dealt with Russians, you dealt with action. But nothing like this had he expected.
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