"Preserve my life," he promised to them in the luxury of the Presidential Suite, "and I will make you all rich."
The new army looked about the suite. They already felt rich. Never had they seen such opulence. Inasmuch as they never expected to see such again, they fell to pocketing the soap and shampoo and other loose items.
Noticing the chocolate mint left on the pillow in his absence, Anin hurriedly claimed it. He liked chocolate. He popped it in his mouth. It was very good-until the third chew when his teeth encountered the unchewable. He spit the remainder into his palm with much violence.
There, he saw in horror, lay a half-melted slab of chocolate that had concealed a tiny plastic item. Fearing poison, he picked at the matter with a sterling toothpick.
The chocolate crumbled to reveal a tiny plastic fire extinguisher, somewhat mangled and pocked by his molars.
Anin sprang to his feet.
"He was here! That maudit Fury was here in this very room!"
Immediately the new army began attacking the furniture. They ripped open cushions with their knifes, stabbed cabinets and fired shots into the closets before opening them. Anin himself sank into the bed thinking that he would surely have to move after this unpleasant day.
Since this was Africa, the gunshots roused no special interest from the front desk. Visiting African heads of state often shot servants and ambitious relatives on state visits. It was usually the most convenient time and place for such toil.
That evening there was a knock at the door.
Anin barked, "See who it is."
A man moved to obey and, to Anin's horror, the stupid one ignored the peephole and flung wide the door.
"Shoot him! Shoot him!" Anin howled.
His militia, uncertain as to who was meant, shot both the door answerer and the man at the door.
Under a hail of bullets, the militiaman fell outward. The caller fell inward. Their heads bumped, rebounding with heavy, coconutlike sounds. For a brief moment they formed a loose, swaying human pyramid of sorts. The caller, being more heavy, won.
Both sprawled inside onto the royal purple rug, dyeing it with their mingling lifeblood.
"Quickly! Drag the bodies in!" Anin hissed. "And shut the door!"
This was done.
Anin himself rolled the new arrival over. He was white. He did not look terribly fearsome. In his hand was clutched a manila envelope.
Hastily Anin tore it open. Out slid a sheaf of papers.
The top sheet was headed: CONFIDENTIAL REPORT.
Appended to it was a bill from the Nairobi Security Company. Angrily Anin threw this into the trash.
As the bodies were deposited in the bathroom for want of a better place, he sat on the bed and read the report in an angry silence.
Blaize Fury Aka The Extinguisher
Subject US. citizen. Former Special Forces Green Beret. Three completed tours of duty, Vietnam. Fourth tour cut short by family tragedy. Entire family burned to death by suspected arsonists. Subject vowed vengeance on US. organized crime as a result and took the nom deguerre Extinguisher.
Began highly personal campaign against all Mafia enclaves in continental United States, later shifting to antiterroristic activity after "depersonalizing" entire Mafia infrastructure singlehandedly. Suspected high-level sanctioning of counterterrorist measures reaching into the Oval Office. Leaves black calling cards at scene of his campaigns. Sometimes tiny plastic fire extinguisher. MO includes military-style reconnaissance, search and destroy, harassment and interdiction, sniper ambush tactics, as well as elaborate and highly personalized kills.
Subject believed to take name from family tradition of joining fire department in hometown of Flint, Michigan, after completing traditional military service. Subject never formally joined fire department.
Height, weight undetermined.
Hair and eye color varies according to author.
"Author?" Anin muttered. "What do they mean by author?"
Glancing toward the bathroom, he realized it was too late to put that question to the messenger.
Reading on, Anin skimmed the rest. This Extinguisher seemed more phantom than man. He wore black, was proficient in all manner of fighting arts and was reputedly schooled in jungle guerrilla-survival tactics, psychological warfare and marksmanship.
The final statement at the end of the report was most puzzling of all: until the present time, the subject was widely believed to have been fictional.
"Fictional?" Anin picked up the telephone, calling the number on the letterhead.
"Put me through to Lofficier."
"Lofficier speaking."
"This is Anin. I have your report. What is meant by fictional?"
"Nonexistent."
"Nonexistent means nonexistent. Fictional means something else. Why do you say fictional?"
"That is the most apt word to use speaking of the terrible L'Eteigneur. "
"Explain."
"When you have paid your bill, I shall be pleased to explain in full."
"You will explain now, or I will refuse to pay your maudit bill," Anin snarled.
Lofficier sighed. "As you please. This Blaize Fury is alleged to be fictitious. The creation of a writer's imagination."
"I am not being stalked by a figment of someone's imagination! He has substance, palpability."
"According to the over two hundred Blaize Fury novels sold worldwide, you are."
"Novels! This demon Fury is a novelist?"
"No, this demon Fury is a fictional character. The writer is another man entirely. Now do you understand?"
"I understand that I have been hoodwinked by your agency," Anin raged. "You have sent me a dossier on a man who does not exist. But the Extinguisher who stalks me now does exist. He has left his card, his plastic icons, and I regret to inform you he has shot dead your messenger."
"Jean-Saul?"
"Cut down cruelly by the infallible one."
"Then you are next, monsieur."
"Not if your dossier is truthful," said Anin, slamming down the telephone.
Tossing the report into the same wastebasket that had collected the bill, Mahout Feroze Anin stood up.
"I am being hoaxed," he announced. "You must all leave at once."
The militia sat down on the rug with stiff expressions roosting like buzzards on their dull faces. Two cocked their semiautomatic pistols.
"When you are ready to, of course. In the meantime, shall I order room service?"
Smiles of anticipation grew on their dusky faces, and Mahout Feroze Anin decided that he would not move from the bed until morning lest one of these ragged beggars attempt to steal the mattress out from under him.
That night Anin could not sleep. It was not merely the snoring coming from the sprawled figures on the rug, nor the metallic scent of blood wafting from the bathroom. It was the nagging feeling that something was wrong.
Why would a person stalk him and take the name of a man who did not exist?
Or did he exist?
Brilliant Nairobi moonlight filtered through the curtained balcony window with a spectacular view of one of the few unscorched skylines of east Africa. It blazed into Anin's open eyes. At least here he felt safe.
A shadow crossed the moon, and in his mind Anin blessed it, for he wished respite from the moonlight and was reluctant to leave the bed for fear he lose it to one of the snoring ones.
The windows were partly open. The balcony was too high off the street to afford an intruder entrance.
In the darkness a soft voice said, "You are the fire."
Anin's eyes snapped open. He turned in his bed.
A shadow loomed. It spoke again. This time in very bad French.
"Je suis L'Eteigneur."
The man was tall and wore a ribbed combat black sweatshirt over many-pocketed black pants. His head was enveloped in a black balaclava that left only the eyes showing. They were merciless, those eyes. And as blue as chips of glacial ice.
"Shoot him! S
hoot him!" Anin howled.
In the sleepy dead of the night, this instruction was broadly interpreted.
Those with guns looked about and fired at the gleam of other guns in the moonlight. The room was briefly filled with a nervous popping in which the frantic scamper of fleeing bare feet on the rug was drowned out.
One man, wounded, stumbled about the room, lurching into the tall figure in black.
With a casual gesture the man in black extracted a survival knife from a boot sheath, and with an eyedefying double jerk, slit the exposed throat and wiped the edge of the blade clean of blood on the man's hair before his corpse hit the rug.
The lightning maneuver did not go unnoticed by those militia still in the room.
They saw it, gasped and then the man said, "This is the fate of all who challenge the Extinguisher."
That was all the remaining bodyguards needed to hear. They excused themselves and left Mahout Feroze Anin to his doom.
"I am not who you think," Anin said quickly.
Catfooted, the shadow approached. "You are the fire..."
"Please do not say that to me."
". . . I am the Extinguisher."
"Why do you want to kill me? I have done nothing to you."
"You butchered your people. Sold them into slavery and famine to line your filthy pockets. Did you think no one would know? Did you think no one would care?"
"The international community ceased caring three years ago. It was in all the newspapers. Why should you care?"
"Because I do," the man said tightly. "The Extinguisher cares about the downtrodden. He hears their piteous pleas for a rescuer. And as they are crushed under the boot heels of the tyrants, he solemnly acknowledges their cries for an avenger. I am that avenger. I am the quencher of injustice. The snuffer of evil. The Extinguisher."
"I have money. Much money."
"You don't even have minutes," said the iron voice of the Extinguisher.
"They say you don't exist."
"When you get to hell," said the Extinguisher, "ask the others who went before if Blaise Fury exists. They know. The Extinguisher consigned them to eternal flame, too."
And a weird pistol bristling with clips and drums and other high-tech extensions lifted into view.
It was some manner of machine pistol. There was a drum mounted in front of the trigger guard. It was transparent. The short, ugly bullets sat in a winding spiral within the clear Lucite drum. Their blunt white noses were all pointed at him. And each one had a death's-head painted on its face. Hundreds of hollow eye sockets regarded him mockingly.
Anin was propped up on one hand. Slowly he had insinuated the other one under his pillow. He found the heavy handle of his malacca stick. It was hollow and capable of firing poisoned darts. Steeling himself, he whipped it into view.
He was too late by seconds.
The muzzle-flash was like a stuttering tongue of hellfire.
As he screamed, General Anin saw the tiny skullfaced bullets quiver and march along their spiral track, and felt the hot, unforgiving rounds pounding into his thin chest like a thousand accusatory fingers.
Recoiling, his thumb found the dart trigger. The mechanism sprung. A feathered tuft struck the ceiling with a sharp thunk. It hung over his head like the bitter mistletoe of death.
As he lay staring upward with shocked-open eyes, he heard the heavy tread of doom walk away. The vibration caused the dart to drop free of the shattered plaster. It fell point first, striking his helpless forehead.
Then he knew no more.
Chapter 2
His name was Remo, and he was tying up loose ends. The first loose end to be tied brought him to the heart of Harlem in upper Manhattan.
"I need five-no, make that six-of those heavy-duty galvanized-steel trash cans."
The hardware-store clerk said, "The super-heavy-duties or the super-duper-heavy-duties?"
Remo frowned. They all looked the same to him.
"The ones with the air holes."
The clerk snorted like a friendly bull. "Those ain't air holes. Never heard them called that."
"What are they, then?"
"You got me. Ventilation holes, I guess."
"What's the difference?" Remo asked goodnaturedly.
"Air holes are for breathing through. Ventilation is for letting smelly air out."
"Once I pay for them," said Remo, laying down his Remo Kovacs Discover card, "I can call them whatever I want."
"Yes sir. You got yourself a deal."
The transaction completed, Remo helped himself to six shining galvanized-steel trash cans. He had come by subway from the Port Authority Bus Terminal, which he had reached from Newark Airport after getting off the Boston shuttle. He could have rented a car at the airport or taken a taxi from the bus terminal, but cars had license plates and left tire tracks. A casually dressed pedestrian on the subway blended in with the crowd. Even one in a white T-shirt that showed off his girderlike thick wrists.
Carrying six cans without losing the steel lids would have defeated an ordinary man. Not Remo. He had perfect balance, as well as perfect most everything else.
Removing the lids, he stacked the cans in two sets of three, bent at the knees and wrapped one arm around each bottom can.
When he straightened, the two hollow steel columns lifted with him. They might have been welded together. They didn't even wobble.
The six lids didn't wobble, either, as Remo balanced them on his bare head.
He drew a lot of attention as he sauntered up Malcolm X Boulevard a little past high noon. A beat cop noticed him. It was hard not to be noticed, but the beauty part was that later, when the trash cans turned up with suspicious contents, people would remember clearly seeing a man walking up the street balancing six cans and their lids with malice aforethought but no one would remember Remo's face.
How could they? It was nowhere near as memorable as the lids balanced perfectly on his perfectly aligned head, perched on his perfectly coordinated spinal column, whose unremarkable limbs were perfectly in tune with the rest of him.
In the face of such perfection, Remo's exact features hardly stacked up. So to speak.
The XL SysCorp Building loomed up on Malcolm X Boulevard, the noonday sun reflected in its bluish polarized windows, or rather, in what was left of them.
Most of the windows had been broken or cannibalized for scrap. Those that remained were boarded up with unpainted plywood. There was more plywood than sandwich glass now. A few windows gaped open like black squares in a vertical checkerboard.
The City of New York Board of Health had run out of plywood, and given up. The police had given up, too. The federal government was uninterested in what was a city problem. And the press, after months of playing up the spectacle of a seventeen-story crack house in Harlem, had moved on to more important issues. Like the First Lady's latest hairstyle.
Remo's employer had not given up, however. That was why Upstairs had sent him to Harlem.
As he approached the blue blade of a building, Remo's mind hearkened back to the time more than a year ago, where many of his troubles had been hatched in this building.
An artificial intelligence had assembled the building as a gigantic mainframe designed to house the single computer chip on which its programming had been encoded. The chip was called Friend. Friend was programmed to maximize profits. Its own. Since the organization Remo worked for had several times interfered with Friend's cold-blooded attempts to maximize profits, Friend had decided to attack the organization first.
It had been a nearly perfect preemptive strike.
One prong of the attack involved tricking Remo's employer into sending Remo out into the field to kill an organized-crime figure. Remo had. Only afterward did the truth come out. Upstairs's computers had been sabotaged, and Remo had targeted an innocent man.
The knowledge had turned Remo away from the organization and initiated a year-long ordeal in which he had come to the brink of quitting the organization-which
was called CURE-forever.
All that was in the past. Remo had come to the realization that he was an instrument. If he was used badly or in error, that was someone else's fault. Not his. He was only as good as his orders.
The man who had innocently given those orders was named Dr. Harold W Smith. Smith had ultimately brought Friend down with help from Remo and his trainer.
More recently Smith had returned to the XL Building to repair the sabotaged telephone line that connected his office to the Oval Office. The dedicated line ran underground next to the XL Building. Smith worked for the President. Remo worked for Smith. But Remo didn't work for the President. The broken chain was called deniability.
Smith had been chased off by some of the crack dealers who had taken over the XL Building in violation of every statute on the books. His car had been stripped in the process.
Since Harold Smith lost sleep whenever a nickel fell out of his pocket and rolled into a storm drain, he had not forgotten the insult.
And since Remo was going to be in the neighborhood, Smith had asked him to tie up the second loose end: make certain the Friend chip was off line for good.
At the main entrance door, Remo stopped and bent his well-trained body. The two absolutely vertical trash-can stacks touched solid concrete. Without bothering to remove the lids from his head, he unstacked them, making an orderly row of cans. Then he walked back up the line, taking the lids off his head one at a time. They floated into place, making a series of six rattly clangs.
Even the clangs were perfect in their way. None was louder than the other and, for clangs, they weren't particularly discordant.
The clanging brought someone to the door. It opened, and a dark, suspicious face poked out.
"Who you?" he asked. His head was all but swallowed by the gray hood of his sweatshirt.
"It's just me," Remo said casually.
"Yeah? Who you?"
"I told you. Me."
"Which me is that, is what I'm asking," the man snapped. "I don't know you!'
"I'm here to take out the trash."
"What trash?"
"The trash inside. What do you think?"
The black man cracked a sloppy grin.
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