A pound of prevention, p.15
A Pound of Prevention, page 15
“Ah, Nunzio,” Deferens said, stopping as the Camorra agent approached. The minister’s voice was muffled. “I see you’ve survived the perils of the Bachsburg sewer system.”
Nunzio’s breath was hot inside his mask. He could feel the first itching of a prickly red rash beneath the rubber.
“Barely,” he replied. “I don’t know why we have to meet down here.”
“Business, my friend,” Deferens insisted. “And speaking of business, how is our last holdout?”
“I spoke to Don Vincenzo this afternoon,” Nunzio replied. “He has been in contact with Don Giovani, who will personally represent the Sicilian Mafia. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
Although the defense minister’s mouth was obscured, his eyes crinkled happily beyond the wide plastic goggles of his mask. “That is wonderful news,” he enthused. “And Don Vincenzo will be coming, too?”
Nunzio shook his head. “No certain answer,” he said. “Given what we have planned, he is still hesitant to come.”
Deferens’s eyes steeled. “No, no, no,” he said. “If Don Vincenzo doesn’t make an appearance, Don Giovani will not stay. And if Giovani leaves, others might, as well. Forgive me, Nunzio, but your people are deeply suspicious. I must insist that Don Vincenzo come to the city for an hour or two. Don Giovani need only see him here. He may leave then.”
Nunzio Spumoni shrugged his sweaty shoulders. “I’ll call him when I get back to the hotel,” he said, exhaling.
Deferens nodded. “Stress that all the major syndicates around the world will have representatives here within the next twenty-four hours. Given the size of their entourages, we should be able to wipe out the upper echelon of nearly every organization in the world, save Camorra.” He stepped aside, extending a pale hand. “Speaking of which, we’re about finished here. If you are interested.”
He ushered Nunzio farther up the tunnel.
A few dozen yards more and they came to a confluence of sewer lines. Their own tunnel split off in three directions. Near the mouth of the nearest aqueduct, a recessed well was built into the slippery wall. In the opening sat an ominous stainless-steel device.
Nunzio Spumoni gulped. Fresh trickles of sweat formed beneath his reed-thin arms, running down his torso.
“Are the others in place, as well?” he asked. He kept his muffled voice low.
Deferens nodded. “We would be ready to go now, if Don Vincenzo desired us to.” The minister’s eyes grew sadly pleading. “Please, Nunzio, convince him to come.” Delicate hands pressed against the breast of his perfect white suit. “Promise him from me that no harm will come to him.”
“I will do my best,” Nunzio promised. His wide eyes behind his plastic goggles studied the casing. “Although you should know he was not pleased to learn that Mandobar has fled to China. If he is not willing to take the risk for his own plan, why should Don Vincenzo?”
“Why didn’t you say, Nunzio?” Deferens said, frowning. “If this is the problem, tell Don Vincenzo there is more than one Mandobar. Ours never left East Africa.”
Nunzio Spumoni raised a surprised brow. He’d heard before that some heads of state employed doubles for certain situations. The world had come to know that Saddam Hussein used many. But as far as Nunzio knew, the doubles didn’t function as full replacements for high-profile events. Was it possible that the Chinese were so blind they couldn’t tell a phony Willie Mandobar from a real one?
“So I may tell Don Vincenzo that Mandobar is here?”
“Absolutely,” Deferens insisted. “And please tell your employer that he may leave in complete safety as soon as he is seen here. You will be joining him on the flight back to Naples, presumably?”
Nunzio glanced at the device planted in the mosscovered wall. “I have no desire to be here when it happens.”
Deferens caught his troubled look.
“There is nothing to worry about,” he promised. “I am staying here until not long before, Nunzio. It will be perfectly safe …provided, of course, the wind is blowing in the right direction afterward.” His eyes smiled once more.
Another gesture from his delicate arm and the defense minister led Nunzio from the tunnel to his waiting entourage.
“I suppose I really cannot blame you for wanting to leave, Nunzio,” Deferens mused as they threaded their way along the slippery path. “It will be safer for you back home. After all, as far as I know, in Italy the terrorists have not yet started using nuclear technology.”
Nunzio had to be careful not to lose his footing when Deferens gave him a cheerful slap on his sweaty back.
Chapter 19
Both Masters of Sinanju had decided that Chief Batubizee’s hut was too depressing. Remo and Chiun were strolling amid the pitiful huts of the main Luzu village.
The night was warm. Despite the surrounding rules of drought-ravaged land, a sweet scent carried on the breeze. White moonlight bathed the shabby village.
Once Remo had told the Master of Sinanju all that had occurred to him over the past two days, a thoughtful expression found root on the old man’s age-speckled brow.
“Most strange,” the wizened Asian nodded. As he padded along the dusty path, slender fingers stroked his thin beard.
“You’re telling me,” Remo said. “So who is this kid, Little Father? And why is he following me around?”
“I do not know who he is,” Chiun admitted. “The scrolls do not speak of a Master Who Never Was. But you first saw him in the company of your wisewoman. Both spoke of your destiny, so we can assume they are both merely acting as vessels of the gods, speaking to you on their behalf.”
On this subject, Remo remained mute. He had once had a healthy skepticism for Chiun’s tales of gods interacting with mortal beings, but that was long ago. He had seen too much by now to continue in the role of doubter.
“If they know what the grand plan is for me, I wish they’d just spit it out,” Remo muttered. “Everything doesn’t have to be so damned cryptic all the time.”
“It sounds clear enough to me,” Chiun replied. His voice grew soft. “The boy was speaking of your pupil, Remo. The one you will take to train as Master to succeed you.”
Remo stopped dead. “He didn’t say that.” He frowned.
Chiun’s smile was sad. “Did he not say it was nearly your time? And the crone told you that the coming years will be difficult for you. Such is the case when a Master takes a pupil. Believe me, I know.” He resumed walking.
Remo followed beside him in thoughtful silence. Luzu men and women watched them as they passed.
“I never gave any of that much thought,” Remo said after a long pause.
“Perhaps that is why the gods found it necessary to dispatch an emissary,” Chiun replied.
“I wouldn’t even know how to find a pupil.” He was speaking to himself now, trying to absorb the ramifications of all that was being said.
“It is traditional for a Master to train his own offspring,” Chiun offered.
Remo’s eyes widened. “No way,” he insisted. “Freya’s not having anything to do with any of this.”
Chiun’s face puckered in displeasure. “Of course not,” he said, scowling. “Why would your thoughts fly immediately to your daughter? You have a son, as well.”
“Oh.” Remo nodded. “Winston.”
Winston had been a grown man when Remo met him. Remo’s daughter was still a teenager. Both were living with Remo’s biological father on an Indian reservation in Arizona.
In truth he did not know why he thought of his daughter and not his son first.
“I don’t know about Winston, Little Father,” Remo cautioned. “He’s not exactly Sinanju material.”
“They are not necessarily alone,” Chiun replied mysteriously. “Your bull-like rutting habits of years ago has likely given us many more male offspring to choose from. But rather than squander years scouring orphanages around the world for children who have your beady eyes and unpleasant temperament, you could sire another now. We need only return to Sinanju and find a suitable maiden to accept your seed.”
Remo shook his head. “I don’t like that idea, Little Father,” he said. “And not just because most Sinanju maidens look like they’ve taken one hit too many from the shit end of the ugly stick. I just don’t think it’s right to breed a baby just to raise for this crazy life. A baby’s supposed to be the product of two people’s love for each other, not some experiment in assassin’s eugenics.”
Chiun raised his bony shoulders in a tiny shrug. “Then you are left with the same choice of finding an heir I was. Go out in the world and trust that fate will supply you with what you need. With any luck, you will do better than I.”
Remo hardly heard the gentle gibe. “It’s always been you and me,” he said. “Can we handle bringing someone else on board this mess?”
“You will be doing all the handling,” Chiun replied, in a low and even tone. “When the time comes for you to train your successor, I will return to Sinanju.”
Remo froze. “What?”
“Do not pretend you did not know this was the case, Remo,” Chiun warned. “In all the stories of Sinanju, have you ever heard one in which two generations of Masters were still actively plying their art while one trained a successor?”
“Well, no, but—I never gave it much thought.”
Chiun resumed his slow, reflective pace. “That is because it has never happened,” he said somberly. “It is not proper for a teacher to remain active when his student takes a pupil of his own. When you find your successor, I will retire to Sinanju, there to sit in the warming sun of the bay and mend the nets while I watch the men go out to fish. In a few years, when your pupil passes the first phase on his path to Masterhood, I will leave the shore and enter the caves near the village for the traditional period of seclusion.”
Remo couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Chiun was talking about a ritualistic cleansing of the spirit taken on by all retired Masters of Sinanju. The rite could take several decades, and once he entered into this last phase of his life, Chiun would only emerge from his solitude to die.
With Chiun’s words, Remo’s heart hollowed.
“I don’t want you to just lock yourself off from the world like that,” he said, quiet emotion straining his voice.
“The world will get along without me,” Chiun replied. “Besides, it is tradition.”
“Screw that.” Remo scowled. “Can’t you just this once break with tradition and do what you want? I mean, God, there can’t be another Master in the history of Sinanju who’s been more slavish to those stupid scrolls. I think your ancestors would forgive you one lapse.”
Chiun’s face grew serious. “While I have done my best to uphold our traditions, it would not be my first and only sin were I to avoid the period of seclusion,” he intoned. “When the time comes, I will do as I must.” He shook his head, dismissing all they had said. “This is not the time for this conversation. The gods have merely endeavored to plant this thought in your mind. We could have many more years before it becomes time for you to act on what you have learned.” Though his words were meant to bolster Remo’s spirits, his eyes told a different story.
Chiun found a nice flat rock beyond the last straggling huts of the village. Scampering up it, he settled cross-legged to the boulder, encouraging his pupil to do so, as well. They sat across from each other, father and son.
For Remo, the whole world suddenly seemed very small and very precious. Like the wizened figure that now faced him—the one person on the entire face of the benighted planet who had ever given him anything of any real meaning.
Chiun’s laugh lines were deep creases in aged leather. His once white hair had, in the autumn of his life, given way to yellow. To Remo, in that moment, his teacher had never seemed quite so old or frail.
Nearby, the clawing branches of the baobab raked the dirt. The machete still protruded from its cracked trunk.
“Getting a point across?” Remo asked gently.
“Sometimes it is the only way to get fools to listen,” the Master of Sinanju replied simply.
A few women scraped the shattered tree’s pulp for water. Moon shadows played across the children at their ankles. As they went about their work in the dark, they didn’t seem as malnourished as they had when first he arrived. A sudden peal of laughter carried back to them on the warm breeze.
Given all they had just discussed, there seemed an air of finality to the world. Remo resolved to enjoy the moment.
“This reminds me of the Loni,” he commented as he watched the Luzu children.
“Why?” Chiun asked. “Because that was an African tribe and this is another? This continent is littered with the bones of former empires, Remo.”
“Maybe.” Remo nodded. “But I remember that time. You practically had to set yourself on fire to fulfill some crazy prophecy.” He looked at his teacher, his eyes level. “I won’t let you do that again.”
Chiun soaked in the warmth of his pupil’s tone. “Your concern is touching but unnecessary. There will be no purification by fire. In that other time you mention, there was a Sinanju contract that had not been satisfied. Our ties to the Luzu are different.”
“How so?” Remo asked. “A contract’s a contract.”
“Ordinarily, that is true,” the Master of Sinanju said. “Do you remember, Remo, the story of Master Nuk?”
“Nuk,” Remo said, considering. “He succeed Koo?”
Chiun’s heart swelled with pride. He had remembered. There were times when Remo’s devotion to the history of the House of Sinanju nearly matched his own.
“Yes,” the old man said. “Do you remember his tale?”
“Wasn’t much to remember.” He began repeating the story by rote. “‘And, lo, Nuk the Unwise did travel to the belly of the dark beast. There he found a people in despair and did nurture them to greatness. Eventually, they paid.’” He shrugged. “That’s all you ever taught me.”
“That was all that was written in the official records of our House,” Chiun replied. “However, the Master has access to other histories.”
“You’re always saying that,” Remo chided. “When do I get a chance to look at the top-secret stuff?”
“Are you Master yet?” Chiun asked aridly.
His words brought back their earlier conversation. “No,” Remo said softly.
“Then be quiet.” Resettling his robes, Chiun took on the pose of teacher. “Now, the people from whom Nuk sought employment were the ancestors of the Luzu. It was a dark time for our House. During Nuk’s tenure as Master, there were few emperors in need of his services. The great treasure house in the village, while full from the efforts of previous Masters, was in danger. There was talk that the babies might one day have to be sent home to the sea.”
“But there’s tons of dough there,” Remo suggested. “It’d hold the whole village for about a billion years.”
“And at the end of that time?” Chiun said, his brow arched.
Remo sighed. “I know. Always plan ahead.”
“That is correct,” Chiun said with a crisp nod. “And so when the normal avenues failed to yield work for him, Nuk did travel to the land of the Luzu, and made he of these impoverished nomads a powerful nation.”
“How’s that?” Remo asked. “If they didn’t have any money, why would Nuk come within a country mile of them? I thought we only ever went where the cash was.”
The old Korean was growing uncomfortable. “Nuk took the promise of future earnings from the Luzu. For in the hills near these simple tribesmen were diamonds more flawless than the finest in the Sinanju treasure house. These early Luzu were not advanced far enough to mine the gems, and a Master of Sinanju does not dig. Therefore, Nuk did shepherd the Luzu to greatness. Over time they did grow and prosper to the point where they were able to mine the diamonds from the rocky hills. Nuk was paid and went on his way.”
Remo had been listening to the account with interest.
“Sounds like a pretty savvy move to me,” he commented with an appreciative nod. “Small investment, big payoff.”
Chiun gave an annoyed cluck. “We are not a house of financial brokers,” he complained. “Payment for a contract year is due in full, up front. Preferably gold. We invest not in stock markets, but in the future of Sinanju. Anything could have happened to the Luzu during the years Nuk nurtured them. Famine, war. A single plague could have wiped out all that he worked for.”
“I suppose. But it didn’t. Nuk got his payday.”
“That is not the point. Nuk should have found an employer who paid immediately. His years with the Luzu created a dependency of them on us. He even resurrected the long-abandoned practice of offering weapons training to his charges due to the guilt he felt. Because of Nuk the Unwise, we are responsible for these people as we are for no other.”
“Nuk the Unwise,” Remo mused. “Back when you made me learn the names of all the masters, I always thought that one sounded a little harsh.”
“Harsh, perhaps. But well earned,” Chiun said.
“Probably, from our mercenary standpoint. But the guy worked hard to be a Master of Sinanju. We went through it, we know what it’s like. So what if he screwed up a little along the way? He got paid in the end. But that doesn’t matter. The final kick in the teeth to poor Nuk is someone scribbling ‘unwise’ in front of his name in the scrolls.”
“Pray that your pupil does not give you a worse honorific,” Chiun said somberly.
While Remo didn’t want to think of his future pupil right now, Chiun’s last words caused his ears to prick up.
“You mean the pupil gets to pick the honorific of his Master?” he pressed.
A look of flickering horror passed swiftly across the parchment face of the Master of Sinanju. He quickly banished it far beneath a bland veneer of tan wrinkles.
“I am not certain,” he said vaguely. “I have been forced to nursemaid you so far beyond the point of my own retirement that I forget that particular rule.”
