Remo alone saw the flashing nail as it exited the wound. As Deferens's organs slipped through the yawning opening, Remo wheeled to the Master of Sinanju.
The old man's hand was returning to his side. "Chiun, are you nuts?" Remo snapped.
The display was down to ten seconds.
The Korean's shocked expression upon seeing Remo's gift from the Master Who Never Was had steeled.
"Move," Chiun commanded, sweeping past Remo.
Crouching before the bomb, the Master of Sinanju's hands became a blur over the control pad. "This isn't your VCR," Remo warned.
With only six seconds to go, Chiun shot his pupil a single glance. "You have yet to learn how to program that, too," he said thinly. Without turning back to the control pad, a single tapered index finger reached out and entered a final number.
The countdown halted with three seconds left. The display panel on the side of the nuclear device winked to multiple zeroes and then slowly faded to black.
Standing beside his teacher, Remo blinked amazement. "How did you do that?" he asked. "I have been paying attention all evening," the Master of Sinanju answered. He still seemed vaguely unnerved. His tone grew serious. "Someday, Remo, you will be required to use your eyes and I will not be here."
Remo didn't have time to respond.
On the floor, even as his grimy hands struggled to hold on to his dying organs, a waxy smile had formed on the perfect face of L. Vas Deferens. But when he saw the display grow dark, he began to slowly shake his head.
"No," the minister panted weakly. A thin trickle of watery blood gurgled up between his model's lips.
"Sorry, Elvis," Remo said with not a hint of sympathy. "Guess you're just shit out of luck." A toe kick sent the East African defense minister into the stagnant pool. Trailing organs, he hit with a splash.
"What did that one say about paying you?" the Master of Sinanju asked as the sewer water accepted the gutted body.
Remo shook his head. "We'll talk about it later. Right now we've still got an army of Luzus to meet, and if Batubizee's got one whiff of the dessert cart, he's probably already led the charge." Spinning from his teacher, he hurried down the platform.
For an instant, a troubled flicker passed across Chiun's wrinkled face. As quickly as it came, he banished it.
On steady, gliding feet, he raced to follow his pupil.
Behind them both, the body of L. Vas Deferens bobbed on silent ripples in the water of the stagnant pool.
Chapter 36
Through a boozy haze, Nellie Mandobar watched Don Giovani approach. She staggered over to him, throwing a huge flabby arm around his shoulders. The Mafia leader shrank from both her touch and her alcohol-fueled breath.
"And how are you enjoying our party?" Mrs. Mandobar belched. She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. "Partner," she added, giggling.
His dark tan paled. Giovani strained to keep his horror from showing. "Keep your voice down, fool," he whispered. An unnatural smile that did not match his words was plastered across his weathered face. He tried to twist from her embrace, but her big arm was stuck fast to his shoulders.
"No one hears us," she grinned. She waved to the stage where three of the Seasonings cavorted in Lycra and Spandex. Their massive pregnant bellies bounced to the beat. "They're too busy enjoying the last party anyone here will ever have. Everyone but us, that is." Winking broadly, the former first lady of East Africa took a slug from her omnipresent glass.
"Shut up," Giovani snarled. He glanced around. "Have you seen Vincenzo?"
Nellie was exchanging her empty glass for a foamy green concoction from a passing waiter's tray.
"Hmm?" she asked, oblivious to the question. Don Giovani exhaled quiet disgust. He had thrown in with this woman, whose only motivation seemed to be revenge against her husband. The Mafia leader was stuck with her. For now.
The old Italian glanced around, scanning for Don Vincenzo of Camorra. It was nearly 12:30 a.m., and the party was still going strong. Some men had disappeared a few times during the evening, always in the company of one of Nellie's hired whores or one of the Seasonings. They always returned, smiles plastered on their faces. From what Don Giovani had seen, the Seasonings seemed to be taking on more action than the professional prostitutes.
As his sagging eyes searched the sea of faces in the huge meeting hall, he did not see his Camorra rival.
"He had better be here," Don Giovani grumbled to Nellie. "I am leaving. If you do not wish to be incinerated in four hours, I suggest you sober up and do the same."
Turning on his heel, the old man marched away. Alone again, Nellie Mandobar sipped her drink. Although she knew she was very drunk, she was still lucid enough to know that he was right. It was time to think about leaving. A shame. It was quite a good party. And she had certainly earned this time to celebrate.
Willie Mandobar would be ruined. Short of hanging a gasoline-soaked tire around his scrawny neck, this was the best revenge she could hope for.
Her plan had been timed to come to a head while her ex-husband was away. It was her own sympathizers in the Kmpali government who had requested his presence in China.
The explosion here would prove that East Africa's claims of being a nuclear-free zone were a lie. The government of her husband's party would be discredited. And without his leadership as president, the new East Africa would have to turn to another Mandobar to lead.
Nellie Mandobar would succeed. And she would crush utterly the weakling man who had failed to stand by her at her time of greatest need.
Nellie struck off around the edge of the crowd, sipping her drink as she walked.
The band screeched on. Wails that passed for singing attacked the crowd from the speakers positioned at angles just below the bordering skylights. On stage, there were now only two Seasonings left. As she walked, Nellie thought she saw a pair of white go-go boots sticking up in the air behind a vibrating amplifier.
Nellie returned a few smiles as she weaved her way out to the main hallway. The high glass doors of the grand foyer muffled the cacophony from inside. Mrs. Mandobar's ringing ears were just starting to relax when she became aware of a fresh sound.
Pop-pop-pop.
Listening to the muted noises, Nellie frowned. For a moment, she thought it was static from the sound system. But it seemed to be coming from outside.
When she pushed open one of the thick front doors, she was instantly assaulted by the hot African night. Stepping onto the vast patio, she let the door swing shut behind her. The party sounds grew softer still.
Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she searched the immediate area for the source of the popping sound. It came again. Louder now than before. A sharp slap that echoed out across the savannah. It was followed by another. Then another.
Worry immediately knotted Nellie's ample belly. Gunshots.
Even as this shock was registering, Nellie heard the screams. A moment later, men and women in various states of undress appeared, running up from the village.
Trollop Seasoning-her pregnant belly bouncing to beat the band-led the pack of crime figures and whores.
As she ran, she tugged at her sides. With a rip of spirit gum, her stomach prosthesis came free. Like her bandmates, she only wore it for media attention. The faux stomach was trampled beneath frantic stomping feet.
"My God, they're attacking!" the pop singer screeched as the first of the crowd stampeded up the auditorium stairs.
Mrs. Mandobar didn't need to ask who. When the first Luzu natives appeared down the road, Nellie's drink slipped from her pudgy hand. It shattered into splattering green fragments on the flagstone patio.
Far away, the natives fell upon the stragglers, machetes slicing the night. Running bodies surrendered heads and arms.