Chapter 24
When L. Vas Deferens stepped through the main door to his government suite, the offices of the Ministry of Defense were abuzz with activity. Much of the excitement spilled into the rest of the presidential palace, as harried workers labored to coordinate the events scheduled for the day.
Pagers buzzed and rang. Directions were barked into cell phones. Keyboards clattered relentlessly as computers connected to those at the airport recorded arrivals, adding them to the growing list of foreign dignitaries.
Everywhere, people were talking, running. Conducting the business of the new East Africa. It was a thrilling chaos, barely controlled.
Through it all, L. Vas Deferens strode, cooler than the air-conditioned marble beneath his feet. The defense minister had been inspecting his troops. As he walked from office to office, from floor to floor, the thing he was most proud of was the fact that the faces of all who worked for him were like his own: white.
It was an amazing thing to be able to get away with in this current mooka-loving East Africa, especially in the presidential palace of all places. After all, this wasn't like the old days.
Deferens had been born and raised in the whitest of white Bachsburg suburbs. His father had been a judge under the old system. In an irony that resonated with his son to this day, the older Deferens had been on a panel that had twice denied parole to political prisoner Willie Mandobar.
His mother had been the grande dame of the lilywhite East African society set. Before he could even walk, Deferens had long grown used to her daily abuse of the black help.
From his father's knee, straight through Bachsburg University, Vas had been conditioned to accept his superiority. So ingrained was it, it wasn't even an issue. He fervently believed in the Kipling theory that care of the dusky-skinned races was the burden of the white man.
But unfortunately for Deferens, the caste-system world of his parents would not last for his lifetime. Unlike most racists, Deferens had seen the way the wind was blowing. Back in the 1970s he had guessed correctly that the old regime was unsustainable. Already a low-level government functionary by this time, Deferens was risking all when he threw in with Mandobar's African Citizen Caucus.
At the time, his parents had disowned him, his wife had divorced him and his friends had abandoned him. But in the end, all the personal costs were outweighed by the benefits.
After the white government structure was dismantled, Deferens was one of the few nonblacks kept aboard. After all, he had a public track record of racial tolerance going back almost twenty years. Deferens was the reed that bent in the wind. And because of his pragmatic flexibility, he had prospered.
The public face of the ice cold defense minister was one of great liberal open-mindedness. But in that private part of himself that he dared not share with anyone, his racism blazed.
L. Vas Deferens was white.
L. Vas Deferens was proud to be white.
L. Vas Deferens hated anyone who was not white. And yet the world mocked him by forcing him to throw in with one of the most famous black faces on the planet.
No matter. Deferens had just made a deal that would guarantee insulation from nonwhites for the rest of his natural days. And Bachsburg would be a smoking crater. A final stab at the mookas who had led his nation to ruin.
A soft smile brushed Deferens's perfect white face as he headed down the hallway to his private office.
In the small lobby, his white secretary informed him that there had been an urgent call while he was away. When Deferens picked up the note, he found that it was from one of the scientists working on his special project.
Frowning, he carried the scrap of paper into his office. The soundproofed door clicked shut on all the noisy activity outside. Deferens bolted it securely.
He crossed to his desk. The minister was just sinking into his seat when the door popped open again. When he looked up, the door was closing gently once more.
Remo Williams stood before the East African defense minister, a thin smile on his cruel features. He wore a clean set of clothes.
"Remo?" Deferens said, masking his surprise. "I was not informed you were on your way up." He looked beyond his guest, to the door he was certain he'd locked.
Remo seemed to enjoy the minister's thin discomfort. "Didn't check in at the front desk," he explained. As he crossed the room, his feet made not a sound.
"I see." Deferens sat up more straightly. He placed his secretary's note carefully on his desk. He was getting a strange sensation from this man-something Deferens himself had been accused of giving everyone all his life. An icy chill ran up his rigid spine.
"I trust Batubizee is dead," he ventured.
Remo shook his head as he sat on the edge of the desk. "You're too trusting," he said. "Now me, on the other hand? The only thing I trust in is man's limitless capacity to be a two-timing asshole to his fellow man. So far, Elvis, I haven't been disappointed."
A cloud crossed the defense minister's face. "What is the meaning of this disrespect, Remo?" he asked, feeling the first stirrings of fear in his chest. "I hired you because you led me to believe you were competent. Now you break into my office-yes, break-and tell me that Batubizee is still alive. On top of that, your rudeness is inexcusable. Get off my desk," he ordered.
Remo didn't move.
"Gee, I hope I don't have to give up my job as East Africa's official assassin," Remo mused. "I already ordered the stationery. Course, I could always get a job as a sewer worker. You gotta watch your step down there, though, what with all the alligators and thermonuclear warheads people flush these days. But I hear the benefits are good."
When the grin broke full on Remo's face, Deferens was already diving in his desk drawer. A delicate hand wrapped around the butt of an automatic.
The gun turned to brittle ice, shattering into a hundred metal shards. When he looked up, Remo stood above him. Panic spread wide across Deferens's face.
He grabbed for the phone. It seemed to explode on contact with his flesh. Shards of black plastic scattered across his spotless desk surface. When he tried to bolt from the room, a strong hand pressed against his chest.
Coaxing the East African official back into his well-oiled chair, Remo leaned against the edge of the desk.
"Okay, all the nukes weren't dismantled when they were supposed to be," Remo ventured. "That's pretty clear. So I'm guessing you and Mandobar planted one of them beneath the city for what, blackmail? Because if it's just to unclog some backed-up pipes, you're really overcompensating." Deferens stiffened in his chair. Screwing his mouth tightly shut, he stared defiantly at the wall.
His defiance lasted only until the pain began. Remo pressed but two fingers into his shoulder. To Deferens, it was as if someone were pouring molten metal into the joint. He gasped in pain. "No," he breathed. The pain was too great for him to shout. "I brokered a deal with Camorra to destroy Bachsburg. Mandobar doesn't know." Remo eased back the pressure, a puzzled look on his face. "Isn't Camorra that big turtle that's always trashing Tokyo? Shoots fire from his ass?" Deferens shook his head. His green eyes watered. "It is a rival of the Mafia. Based in Naples, not Sicily."
"Never heard of them," Remo said.
"Few have in this century," Deferens said. "That is why they wished to destroy Bachsburg. World crime will be crippled at midnight tonight when the bombs go off. Afterward, Camorra will dominate the global scene."
"And you swear Mandobar doesn't know?"
"No," Deferens insisted. "The plan is the result of lengthy negotiations between myself and Don Vincenzo."
Remo's fingers dug into his shoulder. "Elvis wouldn't lie to me?" he cautioned.