Warren Murphy: Dangerous Games

When a knock came on the door, he almost pulled the pin on the grenade in his hand.

"Who is it?" he shrieked.

"The house is surrounded by men as you ordered."

"Idiot. Get out there with them where you belong," Mkombu shouted. "Make sure no one enters. No one, you hear?"

He sat in a chair facing the door with the machine gun across his lap.

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Let him come, he thought, let this white avenger come. We are ready for him.

Into the night, he could hear widely spaced shots from outside, as his men shot at shadows, and with each shot he jumped. He felt hot and began to sweat under all the equipment he wore, but he kept it on. Better to be wet than dead. He regretted having broken his last bottle of wine.

He could go out and get one.

No. He would stay right here until morning. Right here, awake.

Five minutes later he was asleep.

Outside, sixty men ringed the small building.

The officer in charge of the detachment was talking to his second in command.

"It is the only way for us to stay alive," he said.

"I suppose," the second man agreed. "I will discuss it with the others." Ten minutes later, he returned and said, "Everyone agrees."

"It is the only way," said the officer in charge, and the two sons of Jimbobwu Mkombu looked at each other and nodded. The only way to live was to kill Mkombu. Then, when the white avenger came, he would find Mkombu dead and would have no reason to kill all of them.

"The only way," the second man agreed.

Mkombu awoke several times with a start, staring around the room in stark terror, firing his machine gun at shadows.

The walls of the bedroom were riddled with bullet holes. His dresser had pieces gouged out of it, and stuffing protruded from the mattress. But he was still alive.

For a moment he wondered if he really had anything to worry about. Those stories must be exaggerated. How could one man, one white man, be so awesome a force?

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Impossible, he thought, crossing the room and peeking in the closet.

Preposterous, he told himself while he crouched down to peer under the bed.

He checked the locks on the windows and the door, then sat back down, fondling a grenade as if it were a woman's breast. Perhaps he needed a woman to relax him. And then perhaps these wild irrational fears would cease.

Outside, the officer in charge said, "It's time. We might as well get it over with."

"Who goes?" said the second officer.

"All of us," said the officer in charge.

"All sixty can't fit into the house."

The officer in charge thought about this for a moment. "All right, six of us will go in, but the others will stand in the hallway. They are part of it too."

"Of course. I'll stand in the hallway."

"You'll come with me," said the officer in charge to his brother. "Pick four more men."

A moment later, six of them were creeping up the steps toward Mkombu's bedroom.

Jimbobwu Mkombu heard a noise. He awoke but he could not move Ms head. He realized that he was paralyzed by fear. All these weapons he wore to protect himself and he was paralyzed by fear anyway.

It must have been a dream, he thought. A terrifying dream. I'm dreaming that I can't move. Just wake up. Then I'll be all right. It's just a dream.

When people are dreaming, do they know they are dreaming? He didn't know.

But then he remembered that, since boyhood, he had never dreamed.

He wasn't dreaming now.

With a monumental effort of will, he overcame his fear and turned his head.

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And there in the shadow behind him, he saw a face. A white face.

He opened his mouth to cry out hi terror, but no sound came out.

Outside Mkombu's door, the six soldiers held a convention. The door was locked and they were split three-three on kicking the door in, or knocking and trying to get Mkombu to open it by subterfuge.

"If I knock on the door, he probably won't start firing," said the officer in charge. This bit of logic started a landslide of votes toward knocking on the door, which eventually carried, six-zero.

The officer knocked.

Silence.

He knocked again.

Silence.

He knocked and called, "General." He paused, then called, "Father."

Silence.

"He knows why we're here," one of the other soldiers said.

The officer nodded. One last time. "General," he shouted, and when there was no answer, the six men threw their weight against the door and the flimsy wood gave way and the door swung open.

Jimbobwu Mkombu sat in a chair facing them. His eyes were wide open.

"I am sorry, Father, but we do not wish to die," the officer said.

"I'm sorry too, Father," said the second officer.

Mkombu did not move or speak.

"General?" the first man said.

The soldiers moved into the room and in the shadows they saw a piece of paper pinned to Mkombu's chest.

"The avenger," someone hissed.

"But how . . ."

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The officer in charge walked toward Mkombu and as he reached out his hand to touch the note, he slightly jarred the body and Mkombu's head rolled off his shoulders, hit the floor with a bounce, and rolled along the floor until it came to a stop next to his pile of copies of Playboy magazine.

The soldiers screamed.

"He is dead," said the officer in charge. He plucked the note from Mkombu's chest.

"Can you read English?" he asked his brother.

"You're the lieutenant," his brother said. "I'm only a sergeant."

"I'm an African lieutenant. I don't have to read English."

"I read English," said one of the soldiers in the back.

"Here, read this," ordered the officer in charge.

The soldier looked at it several times, turning it often in his hand to make sure he had the words right side up.

"Well? What does it say?" demanded the officer.

"It says, 'Vengeance is mine.' It is signed . . ." and he peered closer at it to make sure he was reading it right.

"It is signed, 'Everyman.' "

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CHAPTER NINETEEN

Chiun was still depressed but he seemed happy to be heading back to the United States on the British Airways plane.

"Russia is a land of barbarians," he said. "So is the United States, but at least the United States does not hold Olympic games there."

"They will in four years," Remo said.

Chiun looked at him.

"The '84 Olympics will be held in Los Angeles."

Chiun nodded. "Next tune," he said, "we will not let that lunatic Smith talk us into entering just one event."

"Next time?" asked Remo.

"That's right," Chiun said. "And next time, I will accept no more excuses from you."

"Little Father," said Remo.

"Yes."

"In my heart, you'll always wear a gold medal," Remo said.

"Really?" said Chiun.

"Really," said Remo, feeling warm and expansive.

"I'm sure that will warm me in my old age as I starve to death," Chiun said. "Next time, you win a real gold medal."

"Whatever you say, Chiun."

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