Standing before the trembling gangster, Remo was already regretting his actions. The three mobsters hadn't given him much of a choice, but that didn't matter. Killing in broad daylight in a crowded restaurant was a stupid thing to do.
That was it. The mission was over. He had been depressed coming into it and had allowed his own problems to cloud his judgement.
After this, Smith would probably make him slip quietly out of the country. If the CURE director wanted something done in East Africa, he would have to rely on Chiun to do it. Assuming he could find the Master of Sinanju. All of this passed through Remo's mind in one angry moment.
But as he stood there, wishing he could melt into the background, a startling thing happened. Something he had never experienced in all his time as a professional assassin.
A tiny trickle of applause rose softly from one corner of the restaurant. Someone else quickly joined in. And in a shocking instant, the entire restaurant erupted in thunderous applause.
At the eye of the outburst of approval, Remo didn't know what to do.
Johnny Books glanced to the main restaurant, a dumb expression on his sweating face. Hands still raised, he offered the crowd a shrug that turned into a confused bow. When he turned nervously to his assailant, he was surprised to find that Remo had disappeared.
Johnny spun left, then right.
No sign of the skinny name-caller anywhere. Great relief drained the blood from Johnny Fungillo's underused brain. Eyes roiling back in their sockets, the New Jersey mobster fainted face first onto his spilled plate of fettuccine. He fell so hard, he broke one of his opposable thumbs.
"EXCUSE ME, SIR!"
Remo heard the smooth, efficient voice a minute after he'd slipped out of the sidewalk cafe.
He scowled as he looked over his shoulder.
The coldly handsome man had trailed him from the restaurant. Jogging, he caught up to Remo, a perfect smile on his chiseled model's face.
"We should talk," the man said, puffing to keep up. Though he had run half a city block in the sun and heat, he'd failed completely to break a sweat.
"I'm kind of busy," Remo said, still walking.
"Not for me," the man insisted. For an instant, the too genial smile vanished. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am L. Vas Deferens, defense minister and head of internal security for East Africa."
"Whoop-de-do for you," Remo replied.
The sidewalk was alive with foot traffic. A steady hum of street-clogging cars rolled by to their left. Remo noted a single limousine had pulled to the shoulder of the road and was now trailing him. He felt the mistrustful glare of Deferens's bodyguard driver through the tinted windshield.
"Yes," Deferens said flatly. The smile returned, though it seemed more forced than ever. "And your name is ... ? I make it a point to learn the identities of the men who impress me. It happens so rarely."
"Try a different bathhouse," Remo suggested.
Deferens's rosebud lips pulled to a faint frown. "I cannot legally compel you to tell me your name now. But it will be necessary eventually. Are you registered?"
"Not even engaged," Remo said.
A hint of confusion. "This would be what? American banter? I'm afraid it impresses me far less than your work back there." Deferens nodded back beyond his trailing limo, toward the restaurant. "I was the one who started the applause, by the way."
Still walking, Remo glanced at the pale blond man in the spotless white suit.
The East African was somewhere in his early to late forties. His cool outer demeanor wrapped a cold angry core. His grin was flash-frozen conceit.
Remo had a sudden desire to plant his hand, wrist deep, into that pale, smug face.
Instead, he screwed his mouth shut and kept walking.
"You must register properly if you are going to advertise your services in East Africa," Deferens insisted.
"Advertising's for amateurs without reputations," Remo muttered, paraphrasing an old Sinanju tenet. "The truly great don't have to hawk themselves in the classifieds."
At this, Deferens shook his head. "You don't strike me as a fool. If you are here now, you are serious about your business. Given your performance in the restaurant, I don't think there's any question what that business is. Of course, we take a relaxed attitude toward that sort of thing here. But not commerce. You must register within the twenty-four-hour required period or face the consequences."
"I won't be here that long," Remo promised.
Deferens tipped his head thoughtfully. "Pity," he said.
A business card appeared in one soft hand. If he'd been carrying it since he'd left the restaurant, it didn't show. Despite the intense heat, there wasn't a sign of perspiration on the cardboard. He slipped the card into Remo's hand.
"If you decide to stay and need work, contact me," Deferens said seriously. "If we do not see each other again, it has been a distinct pleasure to meet you."
Braking behind Remo, Deferens stepped briskly to the curb. His car stopped obediently. The door sprang open as if from its own volition and Deferens climbed inside. With a thrum of its powerful engine, the car was absorbed into traffic and slipped off down the busy street.
Alone on the sidewalk, Remo looked down at the card in his hand. Deferens's name, title and Bachsburg number were printed in black, raised letters.
A manipulation of fingers brought the card from thumb to pinkie. By the time it had gone from one side of his hand to the other, the card had been slit into five neat strips.
He let the sections flutter to the concrete. "Dipshit country," Remo muttered to himself. For a brief instant, he was angry at Chiun once more for abandoning him. But almost as soon he realized that the East Africa the Master of Sinanju knew would almost certainly not have anything in common with this one. Chiun would have as difficult a time interpreting the customs of this modern Sodom as he was having.
The revelation brought little comfort.
Stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, Remo wandered off down the busy Bachsburg street.
Chapter 7
And thus it was that a Master of Sinanju did return to the land of Kwaanga Luzu, discovered by Master Nuk in the year of the Dead Milk Sky. But, lo, the nation to which this current Master did come was not the rich and prosperous land described by Nuk in the Master's Scrolls...
AS THE TRUCK bounced along the rutted path, a cloud of thick dust rose in its wake. The Luzu tribesmen accompanying Chiun jounced on their threadbare seats. Beside his Luzu driver in the front seat, the Master of Sinanju could have been frozen in amber. Though the rest were thrown from side to side, the old Korean remained suspended in space, as if beyond the vicissitudes of tire ruts and bad driving.
Although his face was an inscrutable mask, his thoughts were deeply troubled.
Nuk had painted an image in the Sinanju histories of a Luzuland blessed with rich soil and full crops, with a people strong and proud. But where Chiun expected to see fields of gently waving grain, he saw mile after mile of barren wasteland. Where he thought he would see powerful men and robust maidens, he found emaciated husks of human beings.
They had left the rented limousine in Bachsburg. Chiun had been transferred to a battered GMC Suburban at the edge of the East African capital. He was glad Remo hadn't been around for that disgrace. The big truck bounced and creaked its way along the winding, rutted road in the desert wilds north of the country's urban center.
"Who are these pitiful creatures?" the Master of Sinanju queried as they passed a miserable collection of people squatting forlornly in the dust at the side of the road. He assumed they were vagabonds from some other tribe who had found their way to Luzuland.
His driver had stripped off his jacket and tie. Most of his dress shirt buttons were open.
"They are Luzu," his young driver said, shame in his voice. His name was Bubu.