"His name is L. Vas Deferens," Smith corrected. "That is Vas, as in pause."
"However it's pronounced, he's one cool customer," Remo said. "I've gotta admit, I'm thinking of taking him up on his offer. He's way better looking than you. I could clean up on his sloppy seconds."
Smith refused to become distracted. "And you are saying Deferens saw you-" he searched for the right euphemism "-at work?"
"Him and a restaurant full of people," Remo said. "And before you start on me, it was not my fault."
Pushing up his rimless glasses, Smith pinched the bridge of his nose. "Were you seen with him?" he asked wearily.
"Beats me," Remo said. "I skedaddled from the restaurant, but he caught up with me outside. His driver saw us for sure. Plus there were about a billion cars going by."
"Remo, given the delicate nature of this assignment, it should have been a priority with you to avoid public exposure-more so than usual." Smith's hours at his computer had made him bone tired. Exhaling the acid stench of bile, he readjusted his glasses. "As defense minister of East Africa, Deferens is known. By allowing yourself to be linked publicly to him, you automatically remove him from the list of those you can eliminate."
"What kind of dopey reasoning is that?" Remo said sourly. "No one's gonna make any connection."
"Perhaps. However, we cannot take that chance," Smith said. "Given the circumstances, it might be wise if you kept a low profile for now. Where is Chiun?"
Smith could almost see Remo's foul expression. "I told you, I don't want to talk about it."
"Remo, be reasonable," Smith said. "It's possible you cannot follow through on the mission as outlined. Perhaps Chiun can. I need to speak with him."
"Good luck," Remo snorted. "The last I saw him, he and the rest of the Royal Explorers Club were schlepping off into the wilds of Luzuland."
A knot of concern. "Luzuland?" Smith asked, puzzled. "Why was he going there?"
The answer was the one he hoped he wouldn't get.
"Who knows?" Remo groused. "Another million-year-old Sinanju contract, by the sounds of it. But if he expects me to get tangled up in some ancient House obligation where I've got to wrestle a hippo or marry the chief's spinster sister, no way. Remo don't play that anymore."
Smith's thin lips had tightened. As Remo spoke, he tapped an angry finger on the smooth surface of his desk.
"You have succeeded, Remo, in making this situation more problematic for us than it already was," he said, his voice tart with accusation.
"Don't blame me for Chiun going AWOL," Remo warned.
"I am referring to both of you," Smith retorted.
"You're the one making this harder than it has to be," Remo accused. "Why don't we just do what we should have done in the first place? Let me go zap Mandobar. He's the chief crook and bottle washer here. With him gone, the rest of them will just fade into the woodwork."
"Mandobar is already gone," Smith said tersely.
Remo paused. "What do you mean?"
"He left the country during the night. It was only announced an hour ago. President Kmpali was on a goodwill tour of the Far East that was not going well. According to reports, Mandobar was recruited because of his stature to aid the current president in his mission to bring investment to East Africa."
"Then let me go after him."
"No," Smith insisted. "That is not an option." The CURE director sighed. "We can assume Mandobar has left the country to maintain some of his integrity should word of what is happening in East Africa leak out. Perhaps we can still follow through on our original plan. Give me a little time to see if another option presents itself." Smith checked his Timex. "Call me-"
He was interrupted by a new voice on the line. "Hands up!" the muffled voice barked.
Seated in his cracked leather chair, Smith's spine stiffened. "What was that?" he demanded worriedly.
He held his breath, awaiting Remo's response. When Remo spoke, he was more irritated than concerned.
"Just a sec, Smitty," he said, aggravated.
STANDING AT THE East African phone booth, Remo had sensed his assailant's furtive approach. When the stiletto jabbed into the small of his back, his body had already willed blood to flow into the dense muscles.
Given the surprisingly unyielding nature of its target, the knife skipped out of his attacker's hand, clattering to the sidewalk.
"Don't move," warned his as-yet unseen assailant as he pounced on his lost weapon.
The East African voice had the usual harsh consonants of the former British colony.
Remo turned, already knowing what he'd find. The kid was no more than nine years old, with features a mix of white and black. He had retrieved his small knife and was brandishing it menacingly. "Gimme your wallet," the kid scowled.
"Isn't this a school night?" Remo replied tersely. The youth didn't appreciate the unexpected response. To prove he meant business, he jabbed his knife at Remo's belly.
With his free hand, Remo snagged the blade. When his two extended fingers closed around the sharp metal, the knife blade snapped in two. A long silver section clicked to the sidewalk.
"Scissors break knife," he said.
The kid wasn't listening. He was staring in wonder at the broken remains of his weapon.
Before the shock of what had happened could trigger the kid's impulse to flee, Remo reached out and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. Twirling him in place, he gave the youth a good solid kick in his hindquarters.
The broadside of Remo's loafer propelled the would-be mugger five yards down the busy street. He landed in a painful protracted slide on his bottom that lasted another five yards. When he scampered to his feet, most of the seat of his trousers was missing. Thin smoke rose from the tattered edges. Visible flesh had been scraped raw.
Howling in pain, the boy scurried away, fanning his smarting derriere.
"Unbelievable." Remo scowled, returning to the phone.
"What was that?" Smith's worried voice asked.
"Freaking Sodom and Gomorrah," Remo snapped. "I'll call you in a while, Smitty, assuming I haven't turned into a salt lick first."
And when he slammed the phone into the cradle he did so with such ferocity the concrete around the steel pedestal cracked.
Chapter 10
The mountain route to the Luzu treasure storehouse had been carefully recorded in the histories of Sinanju by Nuk. Chiun made no note of this as the rotted old Suburban steered the familiar path into the hinterlands of KwaLuzu.
Bubu drove Chief Batubizee's truck along the old trail across a vast arid plain and up into a jagged collection of low-lying rock hills. When they were halfway up the mountain road, Chiun spied what appeared to be a new development at the distant fringes of the Luzu territory.
"What is that place?" the old Korean asked, his eyes narrow.