Chapter 18
Oily water dripped from mossy, slime-covered walls. Even the corroded metal rungs embedded in the ancient brick felt greasy to Nunzio Spumoni. Revulsion touched his sweaty face as he climbed the ladder to the lower platform.
Although it was cooler in the sewer tunnels that crisscrossed beneath the busy streets of Bachsburg, the Camorra representative still perspired. But with hands slick from the ladder, he dared not dig in his breast pocket for his handkerchief.
Nunzio delicately tugged the collar of his damp cotton shirt with one finger as the defense ministry men led him down the arched tunnel.
The stench was powerful, even through his surplus gas mask. The stink of tons of human waste battled past rubber and filter. He had always had a delicate stomach. Nunzio had no idea how his companions could stand coming down here with faces uncovered.
A dark river of frothy filth rolled relentlessly by the raised platform on which he walked.
The sewage was wide and deep. The last thing in the world Nunzio wanted was to fall in. He kept his eyes on the floor as he stepped with slow caution on the wet stone.
Feet clattered with the urgency of their purpose. "This way," directed the man in the lead.
He ushered Nunzio and the rest into another subterranean corridor. This one was older than the last. Sheets of salt-white slime stained the century-old walls. Clumps of rust-colored mold chewed away at the crumbling mortar.
Nunzio stepped gingerly along the slippery walkway.
The men who led him through these catacombs were all whites. It still amazed Nunzio that somehow in the modern East Africa, a government official as highly placed as L. Vas Deferens managed to associate with no blacks whatsoever.
In the 1980s, Hollywood stars and music industry giants in search of a cause had focused on the racial injustices of East Africa. Russia and China had racism, oppression, state-mandated feticide, imperialism, gulags, religious intolerance, expanding nuclear stockpiles and enough murdered dissidents and purged peasants to make the Altamont Rock Festival look like a half-filled phone booth. But they also had communism, which made every despicable thing done by their governments an exercise in equality. Since the East African system wasn't Communist, it was fair game to every empty-headed millionaire entertainer with a soapbox and a mouth. It was almost twenty years since the start of their crusade and, thanks to their great work, integration in East Africa had progressed to the point that criminals of all races could work together in peace and harmony. Except, it would seem, for those employed by Minister L. Vas Deferens.
As Nunzio Spumoni picked his careful way along the catwalk, his thoughts were far from the political upheaval that had transformed East Africa. His only concern right now was not falling into a river of shit.
His toe touched a slick, fat brick. When he brought his heel down, the stone popped loose. Before he knew what was happening, both feet flew out from under him. Nunzio was about to topple off the platform when strong arms grabbed hold of him, pulling him upright.
His companions seemed more disgusted by the skinny man's sweaty jacket than by the sewer. Worried that they wouldn't bother to catch him a second time, Nunzio exercised even greater caution than before as they turned into an adjacent tunnel. Minister Deferens was walking toward them, a gas mask obscuring his soft features. In spite of their surroundings, there was not a single smudge on his snow-white suit.
"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.