Warren Murphy: Fool's Gold

Moombasa couldn't believe how well it worked. He spent municipal taxes on a new pleasure boat for himself instead of sewage disposal and half a city died from the ensuing diseases. Then he blamed American imperialism for the suffering of his people, and immediately scores of new articles appeared in Europe and America describing how the generalissimo fought hunger, disease, and American imperialism.

It gave him an international license to kill. Having been granted that, he made his first important purchase from Lord Wissex: a delayed-action bomb and, more importantly, the Wissex employees to deliver it.

He almost toppled two neighboring governments that way, before they sent armies to his borders, and he suddenly decided they were brothers in the never-ending battle against American aggression and tyranny.

36

But now, Lord Wissex was asking an astounding price for knife fighters.

"Five million dollars?" said Moombasa. "Let me see the knife."

Lord Wissex nodded the Gurkha knifeman to approach the large chair on which the generalissimo sat. The Gurkha handed the blade hilt forward.

Moombasa looked at the knife. He felt the blade. It was sharp. He ran a hand across the back of the blade. It was curved.

"I give you twenty-five dollars," said the generalissimo to Wissex.

Lord Wissex smiled tolerantly.

"That's ten dollars too much, my friend Moombasa, President for Life. It is not the knife. It's the delivery. You can buy a lump of lead for a penny, but delivered from a high-powered special sniper's rifle, that bullet costs much more. It is not the material but what you want to do with it that costs," Wissex said.

"Right. I got no one worth five million dollars dead," said the generalissimo, handing back the knife. He told the Gurkha who had killed his soldier, "Nice cut, kiddo."

"You don't want to kill someone, old friend," said Lord Wissex. "You want to capture someone."

"I don't want to torture no one worth five million."

"You probably won't have to torture her," said Wissex.

"Her? I can get any woman I want in Harnidia for ten bucks, two thousand in Hamidian cash, which is"

"Nine ninety-five today," whispered an aide who

37

had one of the few secure jobs in the nation. He could read and count. Sometimes without moving his lips. "The exchange rate down again today."

"Right," said the generalissimo. "Nine ninety-five."

"You want to talk to her," Wissex said.

"Ain't nobody I want to talk to five million dollars worth."

"Ah, but you do. Talk to her and you may become the richest, most powerful man in the world."

"God is good," said Moombasa. "How?"

"The ancient Hamidians that first settled this land were the greatest traders of the ancient world. They created a fortune so vast that in gold alone, they owned an entire mountain."

"Lots of money in mountains of gold," said the generalissimo blandly. "Nice legend. I like legends."

"Suppose the legend is true. Suppose it is and suppose there is, hidden somewhere, that mountain of gold. It would make anyone the richest, most powerful person in the world. It's more important than oil because it is so spendable. No market prices being set at conferences. No delivery halfway across the world, like oil. Gold is pure wealth."

"Who's got this mountain?"

"We don't know who has it yet, but we know who rightfully owns it."

"Who?" asked Moombasa. He knew he was going to like this answer.

"You," said Lord Wissex. "It is Hamidian wealth."

"God's light shine through your eyes. Your mouth

38

speaks His truth," said Moombasa. Tears welled in his eyes. He looked to his generals and aides. They were all nodding. He would get them new uniforms. Medals with real gold in them. Maybe even the new electronic gear for torture. Every other country in South America had them. And himself? He would be able to live up to the name he had given himself: "the Great Benefactor." And he would be able to stash more gold in Switzerland than anyone else who had ever lived.

According to Lord Wissex, in America there was a woman who could read ancient Hamidian. An ancient plaque had been found and she had translated it to tell where the mountain of gold was. But she was keeping it to herself. And the evil Yankees were keeping her surrounded so she would lead them to the gold, the gold that was rightfully the natural property of the proud Hamidian people.

"The thieves," said Moombasa.

"Exactly," said Lord Wissex. "I'd like to interest you in the knife. The knife is basic. It is classic and, in this case, highly appropriate. Seven knife fighters of the highest quality and training, and guaranteed service by the House of Wissex, the greatest house of assassins in the history of the world. We deliver the girl and she delivers the gold and everything is neat and proper."

"Good. When I get the gold, you get the five million," said Moombasa.

"I'm sorry, General President, but we are not in the gold business. We are purveyors of violence and it is the tradition of the House of Wissex that we must be paid in advance, in cash."

"Five million dollars? You talking about ten tanks.

39

Or the education budget for the next five hundred years."

"How much do you want your gold?" Wissex asked.

"I give you two million."

"I'm awfully sorry, my friend, but you know we can't bargain. It's just not that sort of business."

"All right, but I got to get some blood too," said Generalissimo Moombasa Garcia y Benitez, President for Life and the Great Benefactor. "I ain't spending no five million dollars for no dry knife."

"All the blood you wish. You are, of course, the client," said Neville Lord Wissex.

Dr. Terri Pomfret was finally taking solid foods when the two walked into her hospital room and said they were her protection. At first she had thought they were patients.

The old Oriental could not have weighed a hundred pounds if his green kimono were sewn with lead. The white, obviously, was a manic hostile.

Rather handsome in a sinister way, of course, but hostile. Definitely.

He told her to stop eating the food because that would kill her faster than anything outside the hospital. Then he told her that he wasn't all that interested in her problems, her anxiety about height or depth, and as for anyone cutting anyone else's throat, she didn't have to worry, her throat was safe.

"I was assured I was going to get the finest protection in the country. Now who or what are you?" asked Terri Pomfret. She felt the tears com-

40

ing up again behind her eyes. She wanted a tissue. She wanted another Valium. Maybe a dozen Valiums.

The old one said something in an Oriental language. She recognized it as Korean, but he spoke quickly and in an accent she had never heard so she could not translate.

What he had said and she didn't understand was: "What a disgrace! Once proud assassins and now nursemaids."

And the white answered in the same guttural accent. "Smitty says it's important. We've got to get a mountain of gold or something and this glutton can find it."

"We will be selling shirts on your street corners before that happens," said Chiun.

"What are you two talking about?" said Terri. She dabbed an eye with the tissue.

"We are discussing how lovely you are," said Chiun. "How your beauty radiates through your sorrowed eyes, how your travails bear down on not only a fine woman but a most beautiful one as well."

"Really?" asked Terri.

"What else would we say, gracious lady?" asked Chiun.

"Really?" said Terri to Remo. She was starting to like these two a bit.

"No," said Remo.

"What?" said Terri. "Did you say no?"

"Sure," said Remo.

"He cannot bear such loveliness," Chiun told her and then barked to Remo in Korean: "What is wrong the matter with you? You never understand