Warren Murphy: A Pound of Prevention

"I guess so," Remo mused thoughtfully. "It was still tempting, though. Our work would have been done for at least a year or two while the bad guys regrouped."

As he spoke, he reached into his pocket. Remo took out the stone-carved figure. He was studying the remarkably detailed image when he heard a gasp beside him.

When he glanced over, Chiun's mouth had formed a shocked O.

"Where did you get that?" the old man demanded.

Remo glanced at the figure. "Oh, yeah," he said. "I forgot to show you. That little Korean ghost kid gave it to me. You want to see it?"

When he tried handing it over to his teacher, the old Asian took a startled step back. He bumped into the still squatting Deferens, knocking the defense minister to the ground.

For an instant, Remo pulled his eyes from his teacher's uncharacteristically bewildered expression.

He saw the LED counter racing down to zero. "What the hell did you do?" Remo snapped. Deferens scampered back up, plastering his back to the face of the bomb. Sweat covered his pale forehead.

"Nothing," he promised desperately.

For Remo, the Master of Sinanju's strange behavior was instantly forgotten. Dropping the stone figure quickly back into his pocket, he shoved Deferens out of the way.

There were only twenty-five seconds left. "Dammit, he screwed with this thing, Chiun," Remo said urgently.

"You're too late!" Deferens barked triumphantly, his eyes burning hatred. "You're both dead!" He wheeled to Remo. "You are an idiot! I would have hired you both for twenty times what I paid you!"

He shook visibly-terror, exhaustion and victory pummeling his rattled senses.

Before Remo could take even a single step toward him, a new expression overcame his triumph. Deferens gasped in pain, clutching at his stomach where a red incision had abruptly slithered across his abdomen.

Remo alone saw the flashing nail as it exited the wound. As Deferens's organs slipped through the yawning opening, Remo wheeled to the Master of Sinanju.

The old man's hand was returning to his side. "Chiun, are you nuts?" Remo snapped.

The display was down to ten seconds.

The Korean's shocked expression upon seeing Remo's gift from the Master Who Never Was had steeled.

"Move," Chiun commanded, sweeping past Remo.

Crouching before the bomb, the Master of Sinanju's hands became a blur over the control pad. "This isn't your VCR," Remo warned.

With only six seconds to go, Chiun shot his pupil a single glance. "You have yet to learn how to program that, too," he said thinly. Without turning back to the control pad, a single tapered index finger reached out and entered a final number.

The countdown halted with three seconds left. The display panel on the side of the nuclear device winked to multiple zeroes and then slowly faded to black.

Standing beside his teacher, Remo blinked amazement. "How did you do that?" he asked. "I have been paying attention all evening," the Master of Sinanju answered. He still seemed vaguely unnerved. His tone grew serious. "Someday, Remo, you will be required to use your eyes and I will not be here."

Remo didn't have time to respond.

On the floor, even as his grimy hands struggled to hold on to his dying organs, a waxy smile had formed on the perfect face of L. Vas Deferens. But when he saw the display grow dark, he began to slowly shake his head.

"No," the minister panted weakly. A thin trickle of watery blood gurgled up between his model's lips.

"Sorry, Elvis," Remo said with not a hint of sympathy. "Guess you're just shit out of luck." A toe kick sent the East African defense minister into the stagnant pool. Trailing organs, he hit with a splash.

"What did that one say about paying you?" the Master of Sinanju asked as the sewer water accepted the gutted body.

Remo shook his head. "We'll talk about it later. Right now we've still got an army of Luzus to meet, and if Batubizee's got one whiff of the dessert cart, he's probably already led the charge." Spinning from his teacher, he hurried down the platform.

For an instant, a troubled flicker passed across Chiun's wrinkled face. As quickly as it came, he banished it.

On steady, gliding feet, he raced to follow his pupil.

Behind them both, the body of L. Vas Deferens bobbed on silent ripples in the water of the stagnant pool.

Chapter 36

Through a boozy haze, Nellie Mandobar watched Don Giovani approach. She staggered over to him, throwing a huge flabby arm around his shoulders. The Mafia leader shrank from both her touch and her alcohol-fueled breath.

"And how are you enjoying our party?" Mrs. Mandobar belched. She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. "Partner," she added, giggling.

His dark tan paled. Giovani strained to keep his horror from showing. "Keep your voice down, fool," he whispered. An unnatural smile that did not match his words was plastered across his weathered face. He tried to twist from her embrace, but her big arm was stuck fast to his shoulders.

"No one hears us," she grinned. She waved to the stage where three of the Seasonings cavorted in Lycra and Spandex. Their massive pregnant bellies bounced to the beat. "They're too busy enjoying the last party anyone here will ever have. Everyone but us, that is." Winking broadly, the former first lady of East Africa took a slug from her omnipresent glass.

"Shut up," Giovani snarled. He glanced around. "Have you seen Vincenzo?"

Nellie was exchanging her empty glass for a foamy green concoction from a passing waiter's tray.

"Hmm?" she asked, oblivious to the question. Don Giovani exhaled quiet disgust. He had thrown in with this woman, whose only motivation seemed to be revenge against her husband. The Mafia leader was stuck with her. For now.

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.