The rest of the Seasonings were just walking out of the sex shop, their arms loaded with overstuffed bags when Trollop plowed into them. The big boxes that were balanced on their massively pregnant stomachs went flying in every direction.
Remo wasn't around to witness the fallout. When the screaming started, he was already ducking around the corner of the busy four-lane street.
He didn't have time to revel in the little bit of unhappiness he'd delivered into the lives of the four women who had irritated him so much. The instant he turned the corner, he became aware of someone watching him.
It wasn't one of the Seasonings, or even one of the many prostitutes who trolled the streets of Bachsburg. With a shudder, he realized that it was the same strange sensation he'd felt at the Carlson wake.
Without breaking stride, he casually sought out the source.
Years of exacting training designed for the express purpose of not telegraphing moves to an opponent couldn't prepare him for the shock of what he found. Any pleasure he'd gotten from tormenting Trollop Seasoning bled away.
Standing on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the busy street was the child from baby Karen's wake. The same Korean boy he'd seen at the airport in New York.
Remo stopped dead. Someone bumped into him from behind, cursing him for stopping so abruptly. Remo didn't even hear.
It was impossible. First in Peoria, then the disappearing act at JFK and now here.
There was something very odd going on.
As the cars continued to rush past, Remo caught only glimpses of the boy between them. At one moment he was staring at Remo, his big brown eyes filled with a world of sadness; the next he had turned away. With small, mournful steps, he began walking slowly down the adjacent street.
On the other side of the road, Remo shook his head. "Not this time," he muttered firmly.
There wasn't time to wait for a break in traffic. From a standing position, Remo vaulted into the street.
His toe caught the hood of a speeding Jaguar. It made neither dent nor scratch as he pushed off. Brushing the roof of a Volvo, he skipped over the two racing Saabs that were heading in the two opposite lanes before landing at a full sprint on the far sidewalk.
But when he reached the spot where he'd last seen the boy, he was no longer there.
Remo scanned the sidewalk, spinning a complete circle.
The foot traffic was not so great that the boy could be swallowed up by it. Yet he was nowhere to be seen. As he had at the airport, the young Korean child had vanished.
Remo didn't know what to make of it. But one thing was certain. The depression he had been feeling was beginning to be eclipsed by a growing sense of apprehension.
Keeping his eyes peeled for the strange apparition, he began walking down the suddenly eerie East African sidewalk.
Chapter 8
Tea and fruit had been laid out on a long low table in the center of the small dining area. There were also strips of fish that had been cured in salt, making them inedible to the Master of Sinanju.
Choosing a small sliver of citrus fruit, Chiun settled amid the rugs and pillows arranged on the dirt floor of the oversize hut. On one knee, the Master of Sinanju balanced a china teacup and saucer; on the other knee was a matching plate with his meager slice of fruit.
"Your journey was a pleasant one, I hope," Chief Batubizee said. The big man had settled into a comfortable pile of cushions across from the old Asian. Bubu stood behind him, off to one side.
"As pleasant as travel through the air can be," Chiun replied, lifting his china cup.
Batubizee nodded. "I have never been in an airplane. They are frightful contrivances. I fear the wings will drop off and they will plummet to the ground."
"A wise concern." Chiun nodded. "Yet to avoid all progress is to be mired hopelessly in the past." Letting his words hang in the air between them, the old man bit into the wedge of fruit. It was sweet and pulpy. Frowning, he ate only one-quarter, leaving the rest on the expensive china plate.
Batubizee fidgeted on his pillows. He shot a quick glance at Bubu before looking back at the Master of Sinanju.
"Do you not wish to know why I summoned you?" the chief asked.
"I assumed you had not brought me all this way to eat what little food is left in this barren land," Chiun replied.
As the old man sipped carefully at his green tea, a dark cloud passed over the Luzu chief's brow. Batubizee took a deep breath, drawing the musty smell of the big room deep into his lungs.
"Mine is not the tribe your histories describe," he admitted. A proud man, he fought hard to hide his shame. "We are not as the Great Nuk left us, all those years ago."
"Nuk the Unwise," Chiun corrected.
The chief's brow furrowed once more. "I beg your pardon?" he said, confused.
Chiun set his teacup to the floor. "In the annals of my House, the honorific 'great' is not bestowed lightly. All Masters aspire to it, but only one has yet achieved it. And Nuk is not that man."
Batubizee shook his head. "Forgive me, Master of Sinanju, but this cannot be. Nuk was a man like no other. So it has been told from the time of Kwaanga, passed down from one generation to the next. Your ancestor was a warrior of great strength and skill."
"As are all Masters of Sinanju," Chiun said simply. "And if a man gives all of his sons the same name, how will any of them know when he is being called? Imagine the confusion in our histories if everyone was described as the 'great this' and the 'great that.' Hence Nuk the Unwise."
"But he was wise," Batubizee insisted. "He shepherded the Luzu Empire to greatness. If not for him, we would be but poor vagabonds, dwelling forgotten in the wilderness."
At this, Chiun fell silent.
The stinging silence wasn't necessary. Batubizee realized the irony of his own words the instant he had uttered them. Still seated, he pushed his shoulders high in a sorry attempt to recapture his dignity.
"It was not always so," the Luzu chief said bitterly.
"No," Chiun agreed. "Nuk the Unwise set sail from a thriving civilization. For centuries after his departure, when word of the Luzu reached the shores of my village, it told of the strong and prosperous empire Nuk had established in the wilds of Africa."
"For many years it was true," Batubizee admitted. "Until the Europeans." The last word was spoken like a curse. "Our wars with the English went poorly. The whites established settlements that grew into cities. They took our land and called it East Africa. Because of them, we die." His strong voice quavered with passion.
Chiun considered the chief's words for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft.
"What the whites have done to you with their socalled civilization is not unique. My own land has been visited many times by the armies of emperors, khans and presidents. The Luzu I have seen seem infected in their souls. You cannot blame the government in Bachsburg for what I have witnessed here."
Batubizee's nostrils flared with thin impatience. "The whites showed my people a new way of life. They had power and wealth that dwarfed our own. Over the past century, many of our young fled to the cities. Poverty flooded the void they left. Now even the slums of Bachsburg are richer than the land of my fathers."
"I have traveled much in my long life, O Luzu chief." Chiun nodded wisely. "The West's influence is inescapable, though one flee to the most distant corner of the world."
Nodding at Chiun's words, Batubizee willed himself calm. "There was a time that I thought I could affect the white system from within. When free elections were established, I campaigned for president of East Africa."
Chiun raised a thin eyebrow. "A Luzu chief run for president?" he clucked in disapproval. "Surely things are not so bad. If you want for anything, rally your people and take by force from the whites in Bachsburg."
Batubizee shook his head. "The whites are no longer the problem-though the system they created has outlived them. As for my taking anything by force, the government in Bachsburg with its tanks and guns does not fear the spears of a few starving tribesmen."