The men dutifully ran inside the terminal. Through the tinted windows they could be seen swarming for the luggage carousel.
"Please wait with me in my vehicle," the native offered, opening the door to the limousine.
Chiun took a step toward the car.
"Everybody freeze for one goddamn minute!" Remo snapped. "Chiun, you are not getting in that car."
"If the Master so wishes, you may accompany us in the limousine," the young native offered helpfully. "Where do you wish your servant to ride, Master?"
"That other vehicle is good enough for him," Chiun said, waving toward the parked truck. "But I would be certain to keep the windows down," he added in a low voice.
The men appeared through the terminal doors, bearing Chiun's trunks. They loaded the baggage into limo and truck.
"This is why you were so quick to change your mind," Remo snapped as the men worked. "You were coming here already."
"For a mere servant, your deductive skills are impressive," Chiun droned near the open car door.
"Servant my ass," Remo growled. "This is incredible, even by your standards. You bilked Smith for the airfare. You were coming to freaking East Africa anyway, so you just hitched a ride at his expense."
Chiun's face was stone. "Mad Harold's coffers are deep," he said dismissively.
"He even sent us first class," Remo muttered to himself. "Smith never sends us first class."
Chiun had been scrutinizing the men as they loaded his luggage. The trunk and front seat of the limo were crammed full. There was only a little space left in the ATV as the men climbed inside. Hiking up his kimono skirts, Chiun started to get into the rear of the limousine.
"You can't just leave, Chiun," Remo said, exasperated.
"I must," the Master of Sinanju said seriously. "For I have an appointment in Luzuland. You may come if you wish. But this one is correct." He nodded to his driver, who was even now getting behind the wheel. "It would not be seemly for a servant to accompany me in my vehicle. You may follow with my luggage." He slammed the door.
"Smitty sent you here to help me," Remo insisted through the open window.
"You are a full Master of Sinanju," Chiun said impatiently.
"And you're a thief. Don't think you're gonna get away with this. I'm telling Smith."
"Tattletale."
''Fraud."
"I do not have time for this," Chiun hissed. "You will be fine without me. There are only two things one needs to know to survive in East Africa."
"Yeah," Remo snapped, "what's that?"
"Do not trust anyone. White or black." "And the other?"
Chiun considered. "Perhaps there is only one thing."
He powered up the window, and the limousine drew away from the curb. The truck waited for it to pass, then fell in behind. The miniconvoy headed away from the Bachsburg airport terminal and out into the sweltering street.
Remo Williams could only stand helplessly on the sidewalk and watch them go.
Angry. And alone.
Chapter 6
Nunzio Spumoni was melting in the heat.
It was East Africa. The heat and humidity were infernal. Oppressive. Relentless.
Although he kept the air conditioner cranked up to its maximum, the air in his hotel room was still wet enough to wring out by hand. Outside, it was like trying to breathe underwater. And more aggravating than the heat itself was the fact that it didn't seem to bother anyone as much as him.
"Try wearing a lighter suit, Nunzio," his cousin Piceno Spumoni suggested.
"This one is one hundred percent cotton," Nunzio snapped in reply. He mopped his forehead with a paper napkin.
The two men were sitting in a busy Bachsburg restaurant. The dining room was filled with the worst humanity had to offer. Nunzio recognized a few of the criminals from some of the many meetings he had recently attended. They were much seedier than the men he ordinarily associated with.
The air in the cramped restaurant was thick. So many people in such a confined space. So, so hot. Nunzio wanted to scream. Either that or strip off his clothes and run outside. He'd seen a fountain down the street.
He tried concentrating. Maybe if he thought hard enough, he could feel what it might be like to stand naked in the ankle-deep pool, cooling water dripping down his bony shoulders and running down his scrawny legs.
But though he taxed his imagination to the limit, it was no good. The heat was just too great. He flung the sopped napkin to the checkered tablecloth, wrenching a fresh one from the stainless-steel dispenser.
"Maybe it's the color," Piceno ventured as Nunzio ran the napkin around neck and chin.
"White! I'm wearing white, for God's sake! I have it dry-cleaned every day and it's still knotted in the ass and stuck to my back. Any color suit is a damnable sponge in this humidity, so please keep your ridiculous suggestions to yourself and kindly shut up."
Piceno ordinarily wouldn't be put off so easily by one of Nunzio's trademark outbursts. But today was different. Piceno dutifully fell mute.
Nunzio flung another soaked napkin to the growing pile. The rattle of silver and china in the overcrowded restaurant assaulted his ears.
"Damn climate," he muttered, tugging out the collar of his shirt. With a flapping menu, he tried to force some air down onto his sweaty chest.
Nunzio had been plagued by perspiration since childhood. It was ironic, considering the fact that all the other men in the Spumoni family weighed over three hundred pounds and rarely broke a sweat. At six foot two, 140 pounds, Nunzio was the skinniest Spumoni in Napoli, yet he perspired like a man three times his size.
At least back home in Italy he knew how to control his environment. From homes to cars to offices, he carefully mapped out his schedule to spend as much time as possible in the relative comfort afforded by air-conditioning. But since arriving in East Africa two weeks ago, he had been forced to spend more time in the natural air than he could bear. He'd lost ten pounds of sweat in the past fourteen days.
"I cannot take much more of this," Nunzio breathed, flinging the menu to the table.
The napkin dispenser was empty. Fishing a sopping wet handkerchief from his pocket, he began sponging the back of his pencil-thin neck.
Piceno had been watching the front door. As his cousin smeared sweat with his hankie, the younger Spumoni sat at attention. "He is here," Piceno whispered gruffly.
Limp rag hanging from his long fingers, Nunzio glanced at the door.
The man who had just entered the restaurant was handsome enough to be called beautiful. Blond hair, grown long and greased back, framed a cover model's face. In spite of the years spent in the hot East African sun, his skin was pale and perfect. With eyes of rich green he searched the crowded room. When he spotted Nunzio, rosebud lips pouted a perfect smile. The man wended his way through the crowd to the back table where Nunzio and Piceno sat.
Although the man was maddeningly handsome, Nunzio did not envy him his looks. The thing that bothered the Italian most was the fact that this man stubbornly refused to perspire. The white cotton suit he wore as he slipped in across the table from Nunzio was a perfect match to Nunzio's in every respect, save one. The infuriating man's suit was not tinged gray with sweat.
"Nunzio, how good to see you." L. Vas Deferens smiled.
Dentists had been known to weep openly at the sight of the man's naturally perfect white teeth. Nunzio waved a sweaty hand. "Vas," he said, nodding.
Despite the fact that a handshake had not been offered him, Deferens extended a soft, manicured hand to Nunzio.
Nunzio detested shaking hands. Especially with someone who did not sweat. Reluctantly wiping as much perspiration from his palm as his sopped handkerchief would accept, he took the offered hand.
"Piceno, you are well?" Deferens smiled. He didn't wipe Nunzio's perspiration from his palm as he shook hands with the other man.