Warren Murphy - The Last Alchemist

"How much do you miss by, little worm of a man?" Chiun asked in the old tongue of the tribe.

The archer lowered his head in shame, and put another shaft against the hide of his bow. Carefully he drew it back, and then fired at the palm. He had felled flying birds with this bow. The arrow sang out and stopped where the palm had been, clutched in the hand of the visitor.

The man had caught it. Women cried out old praises for the hunt. They banged the kettles. Youngsters cheered. Old men wept. There was pride again in the Anxitlgiri. They could hunt animals, not men. They could show pride in themselves. As one, the entire tribe began to chant the glories of the hunt.

Francisco Braun felt the vibrations of the chanting through the jungle floor as he centered his telescopic sight on the Oriental at the prow. The old face turned to the gun sight and smiled triumphantly into the cross hairs.

Chapter 8

The crew remained locked in the cabin. Consuelo refused to leave the deck. Remo stood at the stern, and Chiun, triumphant, raised his arms to the multitude coming out of the jungle. One of the women brought her child that he might touch the hem of the garment of the Master of Sinanju who remembered their ancestors.

A great hunter fell to his knees and kissed the sandals beneath the pale yellow kimono.

"See how proper respect is paid," said Chiun.

"I'm not kissing your feet. C'mon. Let's get out of here."

Remo banged on the cabin. He told the crew everything was all right. But the guide refused to go on. "I don't care how much you pay me, I'm not going on up this tributary."

"We're looking for someone," said Remo. "If he went up, we go up."

The guide took a quick peek out a window, then buried himself beneath pillows.

"No one went up. There's no point to going on."

"What about Brewster? Your company took James Brewster up the river. If he got up, we can get up."

"That's not exactly so," said the guide. "We did a bit of promotion for your trip."

"How can you promote a trip that we wanted to take in the first place?" asked Consuelo.

"We lied through our teeth," said the guide. "There never was a James Brewster."

An Anxitlgiri hunter had found a way into his cabin and was examining the guide's teeth. He took the pillow as a souvenir.

"I know there's a James Brewster," said Consuelo.

"And maybe the other guy knows there's a James Brewster, but he never took a cruise on one of our ships. We received a bonus to enhance your cultural horizon."

"Whadya mean a 'bonus to enhance our cultural horizon'?' asked Remo.

"We were bribed to steer you here."

"Who bribed you?" asked Consuelo.

"A man who wanted you to appreciate the joys of the Giri tributary. Now let's get out of here. This Indian is poking around my liver."

Chiun, hearing the conversation, called out:

"He won't harm you in my presence. He is a good man. They are all good men and women, these Anxitlgiri."

"You'd say that about anyone who would kiss your feet, little father," said Remo.

"It is not the worst form of obeisance," said Chiun, sticking out the right sandal. The left had been properly honored enough.

Remo warned the guide that the Indian standing over his cowering figure would harm him if he said so. "Who bribed you?" asked Remo.

"I don't know his name but he had a very compelling argument for telling you that a James Brewster had gone up this tributary. He was a handsome man. Now get this Indian away, please."

"Was he blond?" asked Consuelo.

"Very," said the guide.

Consuelo turned from the cabin and dropped her head into her hands.

"I led you into this. I led you into this like a foolish girl. A trusting, foolish, lovestruck girl. I did it."

"Shhhh," said Chiun. He was about to publicly acknowledge the bowed heads of the village elders.

"He was gorgeous, Remo. The most beautiful man I have ever seen. I trusted him."

"It happens," said Remo.

"He said he was from the NCA, the agency that controls all nuclear projects and factories in the country. He had good identification. He wanted to know where you were all the time."

"I've seen him around," said Remo.

"But I saw the flight manifest. I saw Brewster's name going down to Rio. I double-checked the passport numbers. His was there. I know he went down to Rio."

"I could see him going to Rio, but not to this cesspool. Let's check Rio."

"It's such a big city. We don't know anyone."

"We can get help. You've just got to know how to be friendly," said Remo. Downriver, a bullet of a speedboat pulled away from the shore with a very blond man driving it. It kicked up a spray a full story high as it headed down the Giri tributary toward Rio. Chiun saw Remo watch the boat.

"We are not leaving yet," said Chiun. The tribal elders were preparing a dance of laudation, to be followed by odes to the greatness of the one who came in yellow robes.

"A decent people," said Chiun, "decent to those who know the histories of Sinanju."

"Decent if you like having your feet licked in a jungle," said Remo. He spoke in English now, and so did Chiun. Consuelo listened, fascinated. She couldn't miss the mass of adoring people. Who were these men? And why were they on her side?

"The histories will teach you about peoples. They will teach you who they are and who you are. The histories will teach you to survive."

Consuelo asked Remo what the histories were. "Fairy tales," said Remo.

"I saw what happened with the Giri. They're more than fairy tales."

"The names are right. The incidents are right. But everything else is bulldocky. The good guys are the ones who pay their assassins. That's it."

"So you're assassins. Isn't that illegal?"

"Only if you're on the wrong side," said Remo.

"Who do you assassinate for?"

"You don't understand," said Remo. And he left it at that. Once again, he turned to Chiun. "Consuelo is being eaten alive out here and your foot is getting chafed. Your skin isn't used to so much adulation in one day. Let's get the show on the road."

"Exactly," said Chiun. He clapped his hands twice. "Let the laudations begin."

Harrison Caldwell had moved himself out of New York City, although the office remained there. He kept in touch every day by telephone. He had purchased two hundred and fifty acres in New Jersey, drained a swamp, planted a lawn, and had a large iron fence built around it. It was patrolled day and night by his own guards, who wore the sign of the apothecary jar and sword on their liveries.

He placed his own agents in charge of the bullion office in New York City. The great talk, of course, was why gold had not gone higher. It was the favorite metal of international disasters. Whenever a war threatened or broke out, whenever stocks did wild and crazy things, people around the world invested in gold. It was the one commodity that could be traded anywhere. Money was paper, but gold was wealth.

And yet despite numerous small wars, numerous warnings about the stock market, gold had remained steady. It was as though someone was constantly feeding in a source of gold to the international market, absorbing any frenzy for it. There was always more gold than there was cash and the price remained steadier than at any time in history.

For a bullionist like the Caldwell company, the profits should have been modest. One did not buy gold and sell it at relatively the same price and make money. Yet there was more money coming into the shop than at any time in its history. More people selling for Caldwell. More accountants. Larger bank balances around the world. It seemed that whatever Harrison Caldwell wanted, he could buy.

In fact, the one thing he wanted most, he could not buy. Nor could it be rushed. There was one phone call Harrison Caldwell wanted, but he had not gotten it. He had told his valet that he should be awakened for this one call. He said it would come from South America.