The old Italian glanced around, scanning for Don Vincenzo of Camorra. It was nearly 12:30 a.m., and the party was still going strong. Some men had disappeared a few times during the evening, always in the company of one of Nellie's hired whores or one of the Seasonings. They always returned, smiles plastered on their faces. From what Don Giovani had seen, the Seasonings seemed to be taking on more action than the professional prostitutes.
As his sagging eyes searched the sea of faces in the huge meeting hall, he did not see his Camorra rival.
"He had better be here," Don Giovani grumbled to Nellie. "I am leaving. If you do not wish to be incinerated in four hours, I suggest you sober up and do the same."
Turning on his heel, the old man marched away. Alone again, Nellie Mandobar sipped her drink. Although she knew she was very drunk, she was still lucid enough to know that he was right. It was time to think about leaving. A shame. It was quite a good party. And she had certainly earned this time to celebrate.
Willie Mandobar would be ruined. Short of hanging a gasoline-soaked tire around his scrawny neck, this was the best revenge she could hope for.
Her plan had been timed to come to a head while her ex-husband was away. It was her own sympathizers in the Kmpali government who had requested his presence in China.
The explosion here would prove that East Africa's claims of being a nuclear-free zone were a lie. The government of her husband's party would be discredited. And without his leadership as president, the new East Africa would have to turn to another Mandobar to lead.
Nellie Mandobar would succeed. And she would crush utterly the weakling man who had failed to stand by her at her time of greatest need.
Nellie struck off around the edge of the crowd, sipping her drink as she walked.
The band screeched on. Wails that passed for singing attacked the crowd from the speakers positioned at angles just below the bordering skylights. On stage, there were now only two Seasonings left. As she walked, Nellie thought she saw a pair of white go-go boots sticking up in the air behind a vibrating amplifier.
Nellie returned a few smiles as she weaved her way out to the main hallway. The high glass doors of the grand foyer muffled the cacophony from inside. Mrs. Mandobar's ringing ears were just starting to relax when she became aware of a fresh sound.
Pop-pop-pop.
Listening to the muted noises, Nellie frowned. For a moment, she thought it was static from the sound system. But it seemed to be coming from outside.
When she pushed open one of the thick front doors, she was instantly assaulted by the hot African night. Stepping onto the vast patio, she let the door swing shut behind her. The party sounds grew softer still.
Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she searched the immediate area for the source of the popping sound. It came again. Louder now than before. A sharp slap that echoed out across the savannah. It was followed by another. Then another.
Worry immediately knotted Nellie's ample belly. Gunshots.
Even as this shock was registering, Nellie heard the screams. A moment later, men and women in various states of undress appeared, running up from the village.
Trollop Seasoning-her pregnant belly bouncing to beat the band-led the pack of crime figures and whores.
As she ran, she tugged at her sides. With a rip of spirit gum, her stomach prosthesis came free. Like her bandmates, she only wore it for media attention. The faux stomach was trampled beneath frantic stomping feet.
"My God, they're attacking!" the pop singer screeched as the first of the crowd stampeded up the auditorium stairs.
Mrs. Mandobar didn't need to ask who. When the first Luzu natives appeared down the road, Nellie's drink slipped from her pudgy hand. It shattered into splattering green fragments on the flagstone patio.
Far away, the natives fell upon the stragglers, machetes slicing the night. Running bodies surrendered heads and arms.
Trollop and the others pounded past the stunned Nellie Mandobar.
"Girl domination, my ass!" Trollop was screeching as she clawed past a pair of hookers on her way through the door. "Get me men with big bulging biceps and guns! I mean-God, this is worse than that mall opening we did in Detroit!"
As the men and women streamed inside, more gunshots rose from the village.
Nellie finally got her bearings. Spinning from the rampaging Luzus, she raced back inside.
It was coming apart. All her planning, all her dreams. But none of that mattered now. Suddenly safety was her overriding concern.
When the door closed on her ample derriere, it was torn open a minute later by the first charging Luzu.
The natives swarmed the building.
And as the band stopped dead, their rehearsed shrieks supplanted by cries of pure terror, high on the roof the first of the helicopters coughed to life.
Chapter 37
Simple persuasion was all it took to convince one of Nellie Mandobar's pilots at the airport in Bachsburg to ferry Remo and Chiun to the site near the secret village. The man was still spitting out bloody tooth fragments as Remo and Chiun's helicopter rattled in over the area of savannah where they were to rendezvous with Batubizee's Luzu natives.
An undercarriage searchlight revealed nothing but empty ancient road and mile after mile of barren savannah.
"I thought you said they'd wait," Remo commented tightly as they swept over the treasury road. As he scanned the path, a spark of optimism lit the Master of Sinanju's youthful eyes. "We are late. Perhaps they have decided not to wait for fate to come to them."
"Well, good for them and the Boston Braves," Remo griped. "Why couldn't they decide to carpe diem on their own damn time?"
The Master of Sinanju gave a flickering nod of approval. "It is a start," he said.
Remo directed the pilot to take them to Nellie Mandobar's village. They spotted the fleeing helicopters the instant their own chopper skirted the rough black hills.
There were dozens of them, flying up out of the distant night, one after another. The helicopters raced out in every direction, desperate to put distance between themselves and the glass-and-stone auditorium that rose up like a glistening, illuminated diamond from the arid black earth. Remo and Chiun's pilot had to swoop and dive to avoid three midair collisions.
The choppers clustered back together far out over the savannah. As they raced off in the direction of Bachsburg, more fleeing helicopters roared in behind them.
When they arrived at the village, it was still far too dangerous to land on the busy plateau airfield. Remo instructed the pilot to set down on a dusty stretch between bungalows and hall.
There had been sporadic flashes of light as they approached, indicating spotty gunfire. The shooting had dwindled to next to nothing by the time their helicopter touched ground.
As soon as they landed, a dozen panicked guards swarmed the craft.
Remo popped the rear door into the faces of two of the charging figures. With a crunching clang, the men collapsed to the dust. As the first guards fell, Remo and Chiun sprang out into the night.
One guard tried to shoot Chiun, while another managed to get one leg aboard the helicopter. Chiun's flashing nails sought legs and hands. The gunman was left with two pumping wrist stumps while the other guard found himself pitching forward in the dirt onto his own severed legs.
When Remo planted a single rifle barrel through two consecutive heads, the remaining guards seemed to get the lay of the land. The six men tore away from the helicopter they'd hoped to commandeer. They had no sooner vanished in the darkness behind the nearest bungalow before Remo and Chiun heard the swish of machete blades through air.
Screams cut the night.
"Guess there's no doubt who the party crashers are," Remo said aridly as he slammed the helicopter door closed.
The instant he did so, the chopper lifted off. Flying fast, it joined the mass migration back to Bachsburg.
At a full sprint, the two Masters of Sinanju raced for the huge auditorium, which sat in a blare of lights at the far end of the street. They met up with Chief Batubizee and Bubu on the sprawling flagstone patio.