Oil Slick

by Warren Murphy

  “There are many wise men.”

  “The one who calls himself Baktar.”

  “Baktar is dead these many years. Fifteen years is Baktar dead.”

  “That is impossible. Just four years ago he sent me a prophecy in payment for food.”

  “Oh. You are that one. Come with me.”

  Baraka felt the gun go from his head. He rose unsteadily in the light of the moon upon the rocky hillside that was part of what his people called the Mountains of the Moon, but the world called the Mountains of Hercules. He was led up a path and was surprised to see women scurry around his Rover like so many desert bugs, carrying away blankets, a rifle, a bandolier, the canteens. No one bothered to turn off the engine. He knew then that these people would just leave his vehicle running until it was out of gas. He, Colonel Muammar Baraka, would die because he ran out of gas on a road that was built over billions of barrels of it. It was unthinkable.

  Unthinkable, hell. It would probably happen. True, there was a gigantic spare tank along with the extra large Rover tank, but still not enough to let it waste. He might be left with barely enough to get back to the main road. In the one hundred and thirty degree daytime heat of Lobynia, that would be the same as barely dying.

  “Let me go back and turn off my car’s engine.”

  “You go back nowhere. You go ahead. Up. Move.”

  “Please, I will reward you. I will give you a great reward.”

  “Up. Move. Up.”

  And Muammar Baraka, whom the world thought ruled this land, climbed upward along the sharp rocks that cut his knees and hands. His captor seemed to lope with ease up these very cliffs that were so hard for him to climb. He realized that man not only does not rule land, he does not own it, but is a transient creature across its surface. Countries were not made from borders, but from people acknowledging some sort of common bond.

  He was brought to a small fire, golden in the moon-washed chilly night. A man in rags, for these people lived in rags, sat before the fire and motioned the president of the nation to sit.

  “Four years you govern this land, Muammar, and yet you come here in terror, do you not?” the man said.

  “Yes. I seek further direction.”

  “And what do you give us in exchange?”

  Muammar Baraka smelled a strange odor, and then he realized that the fire was burning dried animal droppings. The whole encampment reeked of human filth. He was used to air conditioning now and showers and cars and telephones. The Europeans had captured him, just as surely as if they put him in a cage. They had captured his soul, as they must have captured many a soul in this land. If he should live, he would outlaw electricity and ice cubes and air conditioning, except, of course, for hospitals. He would allow it in hospitals. And the world would call him crazy again, as they had when he had outlawed alcohol, reinstituted cutting off hands for thievery, forced women to wear the burka again—the long sheetlike garment that covered everything but one eye.

  He had done these things, and still the oil under the land flowed out and his people had not changed and he was their leader and he sat captive on a rocky hillside in the Mountains of the Moon which would still, in another hundred years when the oil was gone be called the Mountains of Hercules and his people would still burn animal droppings to keep warm.

  “What do you give us in exchange?” the old man repeated.

  “I have built you a road to Dapoli. For you have I had this road built. No longer will it take months for you to reach the capital.”

  “When they were laying down the smooth blackness, it was good. There were things we could steal from the workers but now they are gone. The road means nothing.”

  “You can get to Dapoli in hours now instead of months.”

  “If you have a car.”

  “I will send you cars.”

  “You need gas for cars. We have no gas.”

  “I will send you gas.”

  “Will you send us fatted sheep?”

  “I will send you fatted sheep.”

  “Rams or ewes? Of what number?”

  “Of hundreds,” said Baraka, annoyance rising in him as if this were another ministers’ meeting.

  “How many hundreds?”

  “Three hundred,” snapped Baraka.

  “Of the three hundred, how many ewe and how many ram?”

  “Three hundred of each. Now get to my problem. I need a direction.”

  “From whom will you steal these sheep?”

  “Never mind, I’ll buy them.” But then, knowing the suspicious mind of his captors, he added, “From money we get from oil that comes out of the ground.”

  “You will steal it from the ground, then. All right. For we know you, Muammar, and we have heard of your tribe, and you have never earned anything in all your lives. Knowing you have done nothing for this money, we believe you.”

  “This night I have received a note,” Baraka said. He drew the note from a pocket and opened it in front of the dim flames from the fire. “It reads ‘You face the death of the prophecy. Only I can save you.’” He looked up at the old man.

  “So? What is your worry, if you have a champion?”

  “Whoever he is, he kills in a most horrible way.”

  “Then you should be happy.”

  “I do not want around me someone who kills so many, just to say hello. And what is the death of the prophecy?”

  “Did you not depose King Adras?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he not tell you of the assassin’s curse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then, you are about to pay the price for stealing the kingdom from a descendant of the great Caliph. This story is very old and we of the mountains have known it, surely you in your city which has horses of great beauty should know it. Your city has silks and sweet drinks and you should know it. Why do you not know it?”

  “But that story was just a story. Why should I now pay the price?”

  “Why not now? Did the curse say you would lose your life the day you took the crown? In the season you took the crown? In the year you took the crown?”

  “No,” said Baraka and his voice was hollow and flat. He waited, looking at the campfire. He realized he was hungry, but when he asked for food he was refused.

  “The blessed Mohammed never lived in the Mountains of the Moon. But I will give you something of his before you leave. He said, and it is written, that a tiger cannot be anything but a tiger. That a chicken can never be anything but a chicken. Only a man has a choice. He can be a beast or a man. Go now, for we are afraid of you here. You carry a curse on your head.”

  “I will not leave until you shed light on your sayings.”

  “You will meet death from the East but it comes from the West. Nothing can save you. Go, before you bring death to others.”

  Baraka was led back to his Land Rover, which was still idling on the last dregs of the first tank. He put the car into reverse and began backing out of the wash when the tank ran dry. He switched to the emergency tank, but the switch did not work. He looked for a flashlight; it was gone. The beams of his headlights began to dim. He looked for a canteen the women of the tribe might have missed, but it was gone. He turned off the lights and crawled under the Rover. Perhaps he could activate the second tank by hand. Or even siphon the reserve tank into the first one. His head hit the grease-and-sand-coated tank as he slid between rock and undercarriage. It made a hollow sound. Colonel Muammar Baraka who had been harassing the industrialized nations of the world by jacking up the price of their oil, was out of gas. And in the Mountains of the Moon, he began to realize what it was like to be out of gas. And cold.

  He cursed the tribe that had left him stranded, and then he heard a strange voice.

  “Do not blame them. They were frightened. There has been a mysterious apparition here, waiting for you.” The voice was squeaky and high-pitched.

  Baraka struggled out from under the Rover. He looked around the barren rocks, bright in the lig
ht of the full moon, but he saw no one. Then he heard the voice again.

  “You are such a fool, Baraka, such a fool. Do you think you can escape what is written by running back here? I tell you, Colonel, I am the only one who can save you.”

  “Are you the one who killed my commandos?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you the one who wanted death payments for Philbin and Mobley?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you want to protect me?”

  “I don’t, really. Your life is nothing to me. Important to me is a white pig I have awaited. And also he who gave away the precious secrets to the white man. I await them both.”

  “Are they of the legend?”

  “We all are.”

  “Oh,” said Colonel Baraka, his mind already made up. He would do anything, pay any price, to be protected. Legends need not always be true. He waited a moment, then said, “I hope, if you’re going to keep me alive, that you have a way out of here.”

  “I do. Go up that little rise and there are several cans.”

  “How did you get out here? Where is your vehicle?”

  “Never mind that. Move, wog.”

  “Help me with the cans.”

  “You will fetch, Colonel. For you are good for little else. Neither womb, nor wealth he has not earned is the measure of a man, but what he has been trained to do. Only his skills are his worth. You are fit for little more. Fetch.”

  And as the voice had said, there were canisters of gasoline. The supposed ruler of the land filled the Rover’s tanks, and as he backed out of the wash a frail figure glided into the seat next to him. The figure chuckled and placed the colonel’s own revolver on the colonel’s lap. When the Rover had reached the highway again and the way was smooth, the colonel got a good look at the face of the man who sat beside him. He was Oriental and fragile-looking. The hair was black and straight and long, and the smile seemed almost gracious.

  With one hand, Baraka gripped the handle of his revolver. He pointed it at the smiling face.

  “Never call me wog again,” said Baraka, anger mounting in his throat.

  “Put the gun away, wog.”

  Baraka squeezed the trigger. The barrel flashed bright white. The colonel blinked away the bright spot which remained in his sight but he could not blink away that smiling face. It was still there. Somehow the point blank shot had missed.

  “I told you to put the gun away, wog.”

  “Please don’t call me that.”

  “A ‘please’ is a different thing, wog. I will think about it. You might as well know the name of your new master. I am called Nuihc. You are the bait for my trap. You and your savage nation’s oil. The oil is very important. Much more than you are.”

  “What about the oil?” asked Baraka.

  “Tomorrow you will turn it off. You will sell no more.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHIUN’S INTERMINABLE AFTERNOON with the soap operas had finally ended. He rose from his lotus position and turned, all in the same fluid motion, and looked toward the far wall of the hotel room, where Remo was exercising.

  Chiun, as was his habit, left the television on. Turning it off was servant’s work, fit only for Chinese or students. Remo would do it later.

  Remo was upside down against the far wall, but he was not touching it. His feet pointed toward the ceiling, his arms were fully extended and he held himself up on his two index fingers.

  He raised his head awkwardly and saw Chiun.

  “How’s this, Chiun?” he called.

  “Try it on one finger,” Chiun said.

  Remo slowly shifted the balance of his weight until his body was directly over his right index finger. Then he lifted his left hand off the floor.

  “Hah? Hah?” he called triumphantly. “How about that, Little Father?”

  “There is a man in your circus who can do that. Now bounce.”

  “Bounce?”

  “Yes. Bounce on your finger.”

  “All right. If you say so,” Remo said. He tensed the tendons of his wrist, then relaxed them slightly. His body lowered imperceptibly over his hand. Then he snapped the tendons into tightness. The sudden expansion raised him by inches. He did it again and again, faster and faster. On the fourth try, the upward momentum of his body pulled his right index finger an inch off the floor.

  He came back down on the index finger. It held, but wavered a moment, and the slight wavering tossed him off balance. His feet hit the wall, rebounded, and he fell softly into a ball on the rug.

  He looked sheepishly toward Chiun, but Chiun’s back was turned to him, again looking at the television.

  “I fell, Chiun,” Remo said.

  “Shhhh,” said Chiun. “Who cares?”

  “But I fell. What did I do wrong?”

  “Be born,” Chiun said. “Be quiet. I am listening to something.”

  Remo got to his feet and went to stand alongside Chiun, whose attention was riveted on the six o’clock news.

  The announcer’s crisp voice was saying: “In announcing the cutoff of Lobynian oil to the United States, President Baraka said it was in retribution for this nation’s continued support of Israel.”

  Chiun looked to Remo. “Who is this Baraka?”

  “I don’t know,” Remo said. “The president or something of Lobynia?”

  “What happened to King Adras?”

  “Adras? Adras?” Remo thought. “Oh yeah, he was deposed. By Baraka.”

  “When?” demanded Chiun.

  “I don’t know,” shrugged Remo. “Three…four years ago.”

  “Bird droppings,” Chiun hissed. His hand flashed out and slammed the off button on the television set.

  He turned to Remo, his hazel eyes filled with anger. “Why did you not tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “About this Baraka. About King Adras.”

  “What should I have told you?” asked Remo, puzzlement on his face.

  “That King Adras was deposed by Baraka.” He looked at Remo in outrage. “Never mind,” Chiun said, “I see I shall have to do everything myself. One can not count on a pale piece of pig’s ear for anything. Nobody tells me anything. It is all right. I will get along very well by myself.”

  He turned and walked away from Remo.

  “Will you please tell me what the hell this is all about?”

  “Silence. Pack your bags. We must leave.”

  “Mind telling me where we’re going?”

  “Yes. We are going to Lobynia.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have work to do. But don’t worry. I won’t ask you to help. I’ll do it myself. I’m used to doing everything myself.”

  He turned and walked into the other room, leaving behind Remo, who shook his head and said over and over again, “God spare me. God spare me.”

  Thirty-six hours later, Remo sat facing Dr. Smith in a sealed car in the parking lot of John F. Kennedy International Airport, where cargo shippers no longer counted percentages stolen, but percentages delivered. Remo carried a small Air France bag. He glanced at his watch.

  “I didn’t order you to come east, Remo,” Smith said. “I tried to set up a meeting on the coast.”

  “I was on my way out of the country.”

  “This is no time for a vacation, Remo. This oil thing is serious. In a month or so, this country’s going to be so short of oil the economy could close down.” Remo looked out the window at the plane. “Now I just don’t know, Remo. We haven’t been able to come up with anything. It’s just a hunch, but I think Baraka or one of our oil companies was behind those killings.”

  Remo watched the heat waves from the back of a jet distort the landscape behind the wide airstrip.

  “Yes,” Smith went on. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Oxonoco Oil were behind this. Oxonoco. Have you heard of it?” He waited. “Remo, I’m asking you a question. Did you ever hear of Oxonoco Oil?”

  “Do I ever drive a car?”

  “Excelle
nt. Now, as I say, I don’t know whether it’s Baraka or Oxonoco, but I just feel it’s one of them.”

  “One of them what?” asked Remo, who had not been paying attention.

  “One of them behind the oil scientists’ killings.”

  “Oh, that,” said Remo. “Don’t worry about it. I know who’s behind them.”

  Smith looked startled. “You do? Who?”

  Remo shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He watched another jet take off and asked, “You done now? I want to catch a plane.”

  “Damn it, Remo, what are you talking about? You’ve got a job to do.”

  Remo looked at Smith and said, “You’ve got a helluva nerve. Coming here and telling me maybe it’s this guy and maybe it’s that guy. Maybe these murder attempts are coming from the Martians.”

  “How do you figure that out?” asked Smith.

  “Well, if we don’t find new energy sources soon, we'll run out of fuel for rockets and have to stop polluting space. It could be the Martians. I start with the head Mar.”

  With that Remo was out of the car and headed toward the Air France Terminal. Smith followed him, but in the open area he was forced to speak obliquely. Remo really detected little difference. His mind was miles away, staring at the Rockies.

  There he had learned. He worked for Smith and for Smith’s organization not because of any moral superiority of one side over another, but because that was what he should do. Just as Chiun had many contracts in his life, Remo could have only one. It was what he had realized looking at the mountain. He was never going to become like the Master of Sinanju, because he was not Chiun. He was Remo and he was the only person who could be what he could be, just as Chiun was Chiun was Chiun. And Smith talked more silliness.

  “Remo, this is a maximum priority situation that is crucial.”

  Remo hopped a curb. Smith puffed after him. A large group of dour-faced people, many in their early twenties and many more in their forties, trudged solemnly into the Air France building. A few girls wore smocks. The men wore rumpled slacks and sports shirts, or else overalls, almost as two sets of uniforms. Some carried signs. “Third World International Youth Conference.” He wondered at the large numbers of forty-year-old youths, who seemed to be in the vanguard as the group pushed its way like a small army into the terminal.