Chiun crowed, "Hah! I told you so, but you refused to heed my warning."
"What was that?" Smith asked.
"Just Chiun busting my chops. He claims to have felt the earth move a couple hours ago. And he was alone."
"The Mexican situation is precarious, Remo. A nationwide state of emergency has been declared by the Mexican president. Already, frightened immigrants are flooding U.S. border checkpoints, clamoring for refuge."
"So? Either we let them in or we close down the border. It's our country, isn't it?"
"There is more. You are familiar with Subcomandante Verapaz?"
"Yeah. The rebel leader who thinks he's the next Fidel Castro."
"Exactly. He had called upon his followers to take to the streets. He wants revolution and he sees this as the historic moment. It is time to take him out of the political equation."
"Good"
"I am glad you agree."
"I don't care two fingers about Mexico. I just want someone to take my frustrations out on," Remo said fiercely.
"You have no frustrations," Chiun countered. "I am the frustrated one. I have exalted you above all others and am now forced to endure the sight of your disfigured, impotent fingers as my reward."
"Blow it out your barracks bag," said Remo.
And as Remo watched, the Master of Sinanju flung himself about and ran the perfect fillets of sea bass down the complaining garbage disposal.
"Your tickets to Mexico City will be waiting for you at the Azteca Airlines counter at Logan Airport," Smith was saying. "Connections to the Chiapas city of San Cristobal de las Casas will be through Aero Quetzal. From there, pick up his trail in the town of Boca Zotz. It is a hotbed of Juarezista sympathizers. Verapaz holds most of his press conferences there."
"If we know that, how come the Mexican army doesn't?"
"They do. But liquidating Verapaz would create more political problems than it would solve. This is why we are taking the initiative. Make certain it looks like natural causes."
"Anything else?"
"Be discreet. Relations with Mexico City are delicate. We want no diplomatic incidents."
"Is there a meal on that flight?" asked Remo.
"Yes."
"Good." And Remo hung up. "We're going to Mexico, Little Father."
Chiun did not look up from the sink. "Do not forget to pack your gloves," he said thinly.
"It's jungle down there. I won't need gloves."
"Then allow your fingers to flower like the fearsome thorns they are so that shame-concealing gloves will not be necessary."
Remo rolled his eyes ceilingward.
Chapter 8
The Extinguisher approached Mexico City airport customs bearing a passport that identified him as Laszlo Crannick, Jr. His hair was darkened to a jet black. Wraparound mirror-finish sunglasses concealed the piercing blue color of his eyes. A gray sport coat thrown over his black turtleneck combat shirt gave him a vaguely Continental look.
He carried a duffel bag, his rucksack hanging off one heroic shoulder.
Divided among them were the nonmetallic components of his Hellfire supermachine pistol, the most sophisticated and versatile hand weapon ever designed.
In the leather holster at the small of his back was a backup pistol made of space-age ceramics undetectable by conventional airport magnometers.
The customs area was equipped with stoplights. You pressed a button. If the light came up green, you were passed through. If red, you were subject to a baggage search.
Striding to the button, he pressed it confidently. It glowed red. No problem. It happened. He'd ace it no sweat.
The Extinguisher dropped his bags on the table while the customs man sized him up with an unreadable glance.
"Pasaporte, por favor."
"Huh?"
The customs man looked closer, his eyes hard as obsidian.
"American?" he demanded.
"Yes."
He held up his hand. "Let me see your passport, senor. "
The passport was offered. Here was the critical moment. If he cleared customs without incident, all of Mexico was open to him.
The customs officer in his dark green uniform looked at the passport carefully. If he knew the real name of the wildhaired warrior who sought entry into Mexico, he would wear a more respectful face. But he did not know he was facing Blaize Fury. He did not know he stood within killing distance of the internationally feared Extinguisher.
When his eyes came up, they were hard.
"I must see other identifications."
He was just being thorough, the Extinguisher decided. Chances were he wouldn't check the baggage. Odds were long he would be passed through without a hitch.
"Here."
The bogus U.S. driver's license was surrendered.
The customs man gave it only cursory examination. He motioned for another customs officer to join him.
The Extinguisher stood his ground. He had no quarrel with these two. If it came to a fair fight, then he would do what was necessary. All that mattered was the mission. Nailing Subcomandante Verapaz. In his war against tyrants, he and Mexican customs were on the same team. They just didn't know it. If they were fortunate, they never would.