"For the last five weeks, a crew of workmen has been laying a sewer next to the wall of the east wing of the Scambian presidential palace. They are no ordinary sewer workmen; they are my men.
"When President Dashiti is assassinated, at that very moment, the national treasury of Scambia will be removed from its vaults, in the east wing of the palace. Our Asiphar will find that he is the head of a country without funds even to pay for its president's funeral. He will be on an allowance. From us."
There were murmurs of approval around the table. Hee nodded his head to Nemeroff in satisfaction. Fabio remembered what he wanted to ask:
"What about PJ Kenny? Why is he here?"
"I was coming to that, Mr. Fabio, because that is another guarantee of Asiphar's cooperation." Nemeroff slowly scanned the table, meeting individually as many pairs of eyes as he could, before speaking again. "Those of you who are from the United States have, I am sure, heard of Mr. PJ Kenny. Certainly, you have heard of his work. I daresay many of you from other nations have also.
"It is my proposal to keep Mr. Kenny in Scambia as our resident manager, as it were. He will guarantee President Asiphar's cooperation, because Asiphar will be given to understand that if he steps out of line, Mr. Kenny will slit his throat. Mr. Kenny's presence will have another benefit too. I think it would have a dampening effect upon the ambitions of anyone who might try to display his entrepreneurship in Scambia." The words were soft and measured, but the meaning was blunt and hard, even to the Americans who had never heard the word entrepreneur. Anyone who stepped out of line, who tried to get cute and take over the Scambia setup, would be killed. By PJ Kenny. Who never missed.
"Does that answer your question, Mr. Fabio?"
Fabio grunted.
Nemeroff added, "Mr. Kenny is in the castle right now and I expect him here momentarily. I would like to caution some of you who have seen him in the past that you will not recognize him. He has undergone plastic surgery recently, to facilitate his departure from his own country. He will not look like the man you may remember."
"Just so he works like the man we remember."
"He does," Nemeroff said, smiling at the underboss from Detroit. "In fact, he is awesome. That and his reputation for fairness should make him an ideal representative for us in Scambia."
There were nods of agreement from the Americans, most of whom were clustered around the far end of the long table. Fabio was busy now watching Asiphar on the screen and had forgotten what the discussion was about. All he could think of was that blonde on the screen. She knew some tricks. He wondered if she was in the castle. He would ask Nemeroff before he left.
"What is the financial arrangement to be?" Hee asked.
"I was coming to that. Here, now, we represent twenty-two different countries. From the United States, there are eight major families. For the purpose of this discussion, each family will count as a country. I am asking each of you for $500,000. For your membership in our private country." He smiled, his face breaking in the big horse grin. "And for each man you send, the fee will be $25,000."
"And what do we get out of it?," asked Pubescio from California.
"I am sure, Mr. Pubescio, that you will understand that the $25,000 per person is what is paid to Scambia. In other words; to me, to Mr. Kenny, to President Asiphar. But what you charge for your service is, of course, up to you. I need not point out that $25,000 is a ridiculously inexpensive cost to a man fleeing for his life."
"And what about the $500,000?" Pubescio said.
"That gives you the right to determine who shall be permitted to go from your area to Scambia. I think you quickly see that that power carries with it great monetary value. In just months, you will recover all that sum and much more, I know.
"There are other things which may have crossed your minds also," Nemeroff said. "There will also be ways to send people to Scambia, who might meet with a terrible accident upon running into Mr. Kenny. That could be arranged."
The American leaders looked at each other and smirked. They understood. So did Dong Hee. Soon, so did the others. Around the table heads were nodding.
"Gentlemen, I do not wish to press you for time, but it is of the essence. Within 48 hours, our plan will be underway. I must have your answers now."
"And suppose our answer is no?" Hee asked.
"Then it shall be no. Nothing could be done at this late hour by anyone to thwart our plan. If any of you choose not to participate, that would be your decision. But I would then reserve the right to deal with others in your country, to try to interest them in our proposal."
"It costs too much," Fabio said. That is what he always said at any discussion of any new idea. And then he always went along. Men at the table buzzed, discussing the idea with their neighbours.
Nemeroff had them; he knew it. He had primed Dong Hee well and Hee had handled his role perfectly, firing the questions with just the right degree of animosity, but allowing Nemeroff to calmly break down the resistance that was every one's natural posture.
Hee stood. "Baron," he said. "It will be a pleasure to join with you."
Nemeroff cocked an ear. He heard the faint whoosh of the elevator.
"Thank you, Mr. Hee. Gentlemen, I believe Mr. Kenny is coming. Perhaps some of you would like to meet our resident manager."
He came from the end of the table and walked toward the elevator door, separated from the main room by a simple mahogany panel.
The elevator door opened and the man known as PJ Kenny stepped out.
"Mr. Kenny," Nemeroff said. "There are gentlemen here who would like to meet you."
"I've brought company," Remo said. Eyes at the table turned toward the elevator, and strained to get a look at the new arrivals, and Chiun and Maggie stepped out of the elevator after Remo.
"I thought you were going to dispose of them," Nemeroff said.
"You thought wrong," Remo said coldly, stepping from behind the mahogany panel and standing next to Nemeroff, under the television pictures of Asiphar and his woman, casually looking around the conference room, meeting the faces that stared back at him intently.
Nemeroff put a hand on Remo's shoulder and hissed into his ear: "What's wrong with you, Mr. Kenny? The whole plan's ready to go."
"Two mistakes, Baron," Remo said. "First, I'm not P. J. Kenny; I'm Remo Williams. And second, the plan's not ready to go; you are."
He took another step into the room, and Chiun stepped out from behind the mahogany panel. Almost as if by magnetism, his eyes were drawn to those of Dong Hee, who was turned in his seat, casually watching the scene at the elevator door.
He tensed when he saw the old Oriental in the blue robes.
"Who is that man?" he said to Nemeroff.
Nemeroff looked at Chiun, who stepped closer to Hee. "I am the Master of Sinanju," Chiun said.
Hee screamed. The sound unleashed the room into action.
Hee stood and tried to run. Men scrambled to their feet, their hands moving with practiced ease toward guns under their jackets. Chiun seemed to float in the air and then he was atop the conference table. His blue robes flowed around him, angelically, but his face was that of an angel of death and he roared, in a hollow, doom filled voice: "Despoilers of men and jackals of crime, your end is here. It is the hour of the cat."
Hee screamed again. He was still trying to get away from the press of men in chairs, to escape the legend he had heard of all his life, and then his head dropped limply to his side, as a stroke from the old man's hand crushed his neck.
Chiun swirled along the table like a dervish. Men scattered; more drew guns; shots were fired, and through them all, now on the table, then on the floor, raced Chiun, the Master of Sinanju.