He joined the crowds at the hotel at Lake Te Amau, then melted away unseen into the mountain trails. By midnight he had skirted the guarded posts where Extreme Sports Network’s expensive long-range cameras were stationed for viewing the big event. More guards were on duty on the trail to keep unauthorized personnel from hiking up the mountain to set up their own cameras. This was an ESN event and they intended to keep it that way.
The foreman had no trouble with the guards, and he kept climbing up. The snow grew deeper and the trail was unimproved. Warning signs told him so. He didn’t give it a second thought as he trudged the narrow, icy shelf that skirted a half-mile drop-off.
He found a good site, almost a thousand feet above the nearest camera station, with an unobstructed view of the vast ice wall on the adjoining mountain. The foreman began to roll snowballs.
The foreman’s snowballs became a wall, and then another wall, and then a three-sided, roofless structure. He sat inside and opened his case, assembling the cannon-like sniper rifle and tripod. There was a sound suppressor in the case, but the foreman never touched it. His target was a mile away, and he wanted every ounce of energy the weapon provided. The suppressor would decrease the force of the rounds. Besides, the walls of snow would channel the noise up and out from the mountain.
He peered through the scope until he found the little red flags jutting out of the ice wall. He had the luxury of time to line up the targets, then he fired the weapon.
Chapter 28
Remo felt the plane land, but he didn’t bother opening his eyes until pain shot through his elbow.
“What was that for?”
Chiun was standing in the aisle with his hands in the sleeves of his kimono. “We have landed.”
“So?”
“We debark.”
Remo sat up. “This is Auckland.”
“Yes.”
“You know, New Zealand? Australia’s ugly cousin? Wisconsin down under?”
“I know where we are.”
Thirty or forty people were in the aisles, unable to get past Chiun. Unlike a typical crowd of aircraft passengers, there was no pushing or shoving, no rude comments. Everyone waited in patient silence, leaving a big safety cushion between themselves and the Master of Sinanju Emeritus.
Remo sighed and followed Chiun off the 747. “I take one catnap halfway across the Tasman Sea, and you’ve got the entire coach section shivering in their skivvies. How was I supposed to know we were coming to Auckland?”
“I did not say where we were going. You did not ask.”
“We got on a plane bound for Los Angeles so I assume we’re going to Los Angeles, even if there is a short layover in the land of belching mud holes. Why’re we here, anyway? The Maoris rebelling again? Just so you know, I’m on their side.”
“A true Master of Sinanju does not take sides,” Chiun reminded him. “We will attend another ridiculous sporting exhibition, at the request of Mad Emperor Harold. We do this without regard for the inanity of his reasoning. We don’t take one side or the other. Harold’s gold is good so we follow his instructions. After all, Remo, it is the gold that keeps the babies of Sinanju from starving”
“Really? Explain how that works?”
It was akin to the President asking somebody to bring him up to speed on this Constitution that people kept talking about. Remo had heard the story of the starving babies of Sinanju thousands of times.
It was the genesis story of Sinanju. Long ago, about the time that the first civilizations were coming of age in Egypt and Persia, the history of Sinanju began in a time of despair. The fisherman of Sinanju were dying of hunger, their nets coming in empty. Rather than put their offspring through the misery of starvation, the Sinanju villagers sent their babies home to the sea—which was a nice way of saying they dropped the infants into the icy bay.
These drastic times spurred Sinanju men to go out into the world to seek employment as assassins and send home their earnings to support the village.
It had been some time since the villagers had been forced to resort to infanticide. These days every one of them would be millionaires if Chiun were to divvy up the treasure stored in the Sinanju Masters’ house in the village.
Chiun ignored the gibe and stopped before a poster in the airport terminal.
“Extreme Sports Network presents the challenge of a lifetime, blah blah blah,” Remo read. “Extreme athletes defy death, et cetera, et cetera. Extreme Blind Ice Climbing? Ice Climbing? Blindfolded?” As they headed for their connecting flight; he said. “Little Father, there’s one thing you were right about. They are morons.”
“Who is?”
“Just about everybody.”
The foreman sat in the men’s room stall for twenty more minutes, more nervous than he had felt in years.
“You okay in there?” It was airport security. The foreman spotted a young, dark-skinned man in uniform. Just a floorwalker. On the other hand, Maoris were a perceptive bunch. The foreman knew he had to play this just right. “I’m feeling better now.” He opened the stall, trying to look drained and queasy.
“A little of Te Wherowhero’s Revenge, mate?” the Maori said with a smile.
“It’s the wine.”
“Don’t like our wine?”
“I liked the first couple of bottles just fine,” the foreman joked. “That’s what I get for trying to drink a bunch of Kiwis under the table.”
The Maori kid chuckled gently and left. The foreman shouldn’t have been worried about the kid.
But something worried him. He’d been lounging in the airport terminal awaiting his flight to Los Angeles when his nerves went riot on him. It was the same warning system that had saved his ass time and again over the years, but now it was more like an air-raid siren. He got to his feet quickly, looking for the source of the danger, but there was nothing unusual in the terminal.
The attendant at the counter had announced the arrival of a flight from Sydney, and the foreman’s nerves went wild. Whatever threatened him was on that flight. He looked for a hiding place with a view of the exit ramp, but something told him not to. He had to get completely out of sight or he was a dead man.
The Auckland airport serviced flights from all over the world and was designed for security. Hiding places were not in abundance, so the foreman locked himself in the bathroom stall. When the flight landed, his nerves jangled like discordant bells, and when he heard the voices of the passengers from the Sydney flight he almost did throw up for real.
“Little Father…” the foreman heard someone say, but he didn’t make out the rest.
“Who is?” said another high-pitched voice, but also male.
Then they were gone.
Chapter 29
“Hi, Champ!”
“Who zis?” Fred Magnum slurred into the phone as he struggled to sit up in the hospital bed. He’d spent the night pickling in painkillers, but the sunlight through the window told him night was over.
“This is Sherman MacGregor, calling from Battle Creek, Michigan, in the good old U.S. of A. Just watched tape of your spectacular win. Man, you are some kick-ass athlete.”
“Thanks. Who zis again?”
“I’m Sherm MacGregor, president and chief executive officer of MacGregor Biscuit Company. As in Mac-BisCo. Ever hear of Extreme Nuggets? I want to put you on our cereal boxes.”
Fred felt a surge of lucidity. Oh, man, this was the call he’d been waiting for! This was his dream come true! Had he blown the deal before it was even offered? “Extreme Nuggets! I love Extreme Nuggets!”