Fool's Gold (6 page)

"Oh no, great one."

"Still I am compassionate and generous. I am your friend and a man of honor. You may run. I will not shoot you close-up for your thievery. Run."

The gardener fell to his knees, crying "Please."

"Run or I will shoot you here and you will see the end to my compassion."

The gardener stood up, trembling.

"Run," said Walid ibn Hassan and, true to his word, he did not fire until the man was fifty yards away. At that point, he sent a slug into the flailing left hand and got the first finger. At sixty yards he got the second finger and at seventy he had to take the hand. By a hundred yards, the hand was a stump on the wrist, breathing blood.

Hassan had the Mauser at his cheek and working well. She was a good gun. She took a piece out of the right shoulder, and at 180 yards when the distance was becoming too great for perfect accuracy, she put a perfect slug into the left knee.

It dropped the man. Hassan worked his beauty, quickly, before the man could die of blood loss. He took off the feet, changing clip after clip to keep shooting.

The gardener twitched and jerked each time Hassan's beauty sent a lead kiss across the grounds to their target. She tortured the man beautifully, even taking off his manhood, and when she was asked, she sent the gardener to eternity with a shot through the eye.

Walid ibn Hassan kissed his beauty on her grip and very tenderly put her into a velvet case. She was ready.

The gardener would be buried among the roses where his body could, in death, nourish the roots as he had in life.

Hassan had cured his weapon in blood.

He was ready. That afternoon he was on an airplane bound first to Mexico City and then to the nation of Hamidia. To get his beauty through all the airport checks, he had her disassembled into several sections; but finally, after the flight from Mexico by a small airplane to the People's Democratic Republic of Hamidia, he was at the gates of the People's Liberation Palace with his beauty, as he had been instructed to be.

Nine other men waited with their rifles.

"Hello, Mahatma," he said to the Indian. "Blessings upon you, Wu," he said to the Burmese.

"Walid, my brother," said the Ghanaian, dark as pitch with a killing eye that Walid knew was as accurate as a beam stretched to the dark side of the universe.

"What is it this time, Walid?" Wu asked.

"I do not know. Mahatma always knows."

Mahatma shrugged and readjusted his turban. "I do not know. But we always do well with Lord Wissex."

On this, everyone agreed.

They waited for half an hour in the hot Hamidian sun with the odors of Liberation City wafting to them from unfinished sewers. They did not mind this, mainly because their own countries were run remarkably like Hamidia. It was a requirement of the Third World that one's grandiose ambitions for a new world order were in inverse proportion to how well your government treated human waste. Thus sewers were delayed while delegates built the new infrastructures of world governments. This was best done, however, away from Third World countries because their streets stank. It was no accident that the Third World countries never moved the United Nations away from New York City.

Finally Lord Wissex emerged from the People's Palace.

"Are we all here?" he called out.

There were ten yeses amid wishes for his long health, the fecundity of his wife concerning male children, and various assorted gods wishing him all manner of eternal life and wealth.

"Thank you all," said Lord Wissex. "The House of Wissex has always relied on its loyal allies and friends in its hour of need. We are assured by your faithful service of your good wishes and we see fine fortune ahead for all in these endeavors upon which we now embark."

There was general applause.

"We have been called upon to defend the natural rights of the independent nation of Hamidia— which we will do," said Wissex. "And do forthrightly."

"Hear, hear," came voices from the ten gunmen.

"Tally ho," said Lord Wissex. "Follow me." All ten snipers marched into the courtyard and then into the palace, where Generalissimo Moombasa sat brooding with his general staff.

"Rifles," he said to Wissex in disgust. "I got thousands of rifles."

Walid ibn Hassan heard his precious loved one called a "rifle." He said nothing; nor did the others. He had been in situations like this before and Lord Wissex had explained:

"In situations like this, talk not with your tongue but with your weapon. And I will decide when that talks."

But Hassan did not need Lord Wissex to explain this. His father had told him this. And his grandfather had told his father and his grandfather had been told by his great-grandfather.

For the family of Hassan had worked for the House of Wissex for many generations. In days gone by, way in the past, Hassan knew, a man would pledge himself to a king's service and when the king prospered, the man would prosper. But when the king fell, so did the man. He would lose everything.

Then one day, an Englishman had arrived in Tunisia looking for the best rifle shot and when it was shown to be a Hassan, he explained to the man a new way of doing things. One did not serve a single king, but one provided a service to any king. One worked for gold. Gold never failed. Gold was never assassinated or defeated in battle or ever betrayed its owner one dark night with poison in a friendly-looking cup. All eyes smiled on gold and never was the revolution that had overturned it.

Gods disappeared before man's love of gold. Give Lord Wissex your rifle and Lord Wissex would give you gold. After, of course, proper commissions were taken by the House of Wissex. Lord Wissex had not come to the shores of Tunisia as a charity.

Through the years, the House of Wissex had been proved right, so Hassan waited, letting the insults pour from the semiliterate South American dictator. As did Mahatma and Wu and the Ghanaian and all the other snipers. They had heard insults before, but they always got paid.

"I use my own rifles. Why I gotta pay you, Wissex? Millions?"

"Because these are not just rifles," said Lord Wissex coolly. "These are prime-quality snipers."

"Already I got snipers. You hang in a tree and you shoot someone in the head."

"Would you like a demonstration?" asked Wissex.

"Sure. You. Carlito. General Carlito. Shoot that nigger in the face." He pointed to the Ghanaian.

General Carlito wore dark sunglasses and many shiny medals. Walid ibn Hassan could hear the medals shaking.

General Carlito spoke. "You there. Captain. Shoot the nigger."

And the captain spoke.

"You there. Sergeant. Shoot the nigger."

And the sergeant, looking at the Ghanaian's fine rifle, and remembering tales of what happened when Wissex's knife fighter had come to the palace, jumped out the first floor window and ran.

"Must I do everything myself?" said Generalissimo Moombasa. He put his right hand on his pistol and with his left hand pointed to Hassan, who was holding his beloved one in his fingers in front of him.

"You there," said Moombasa and Hassan stepped forward.

Moombasa stared at him with Latin dark eyes. A deadly smile crossed his face. His weight balanced evenly on both feet. His hand rested on the pistol as light as a bird, but as deadly as a hawk.

"You there," said Moombasa again and beckoned slowly with a left finger. Moombasa's officers stepped aside lest a bullet stray, a bullet heading for their beloved generalissimo.

"You there," said Moombasa, his voice now even arrogant. "Shoot that damned sergeant who jumped out the window."

The Hamidian general staff applauded.

"We got to keep discipline," said Moombasa. The general staff agreed. Without discipline, man was nothing. Discipline, said one colonel, separated man from beast.

"You got a point there," said the generalissimo.

Hassan walked casually to the window, raised his gun in a smooth motion, and fired as soon as it reached his cheek.

The Hamidian general staff thought he had made a mistake, that the gun had gone off accidentally. They had not even seen the Tunisian aim.

"You want another shot?" said Moombasa.

"Excuse me, Generalissimo," said Lord Wissex. "He hardly needs that, what?"

"What?" said Moombasa.

"Doesn't need that, what?"

"What? What what?" asked Moombasa.

"Please come to the window," said Lord Wissex.

The entire general staff moved to the window and there, lying at the wall of the palace courtyard, was the sergeant with a single shot in the back of his head.

"What you call that thing?" said Moombasa, pointing to the weapon in Hassan's hands.

"Beloved," said Hassan.

"Yeah. Where they sell them beloveds? Looks like a Mauser to me."

"Excuse me," said Lord Wissex. "The hiring of the tool includes the man."

"Can I shoot that thing?" Moombasa said.

"I am afraid that is one thing I cannot sell you," Wissex said.

"All right then. The rifleman," Moombasa yelled. "But I want that mountain of gold. I was assured that the knife fighters wouldn't fail."

"I beg your pardon," Wissex said, "but not so, sir. What we assured you was that we provided the finest knife fighters there are."

"This time I want success."

"You are getting the best," said Lord Wissex.

"Make sure," said Moombasa, and while Hassan and the other snipers marched out, Wissex finalized the contract. Five million dollars more.

Before the snipers set off, Wissex described the woman they were to seize. Apparently, there was some obstruction, he said, some bodyguards that were better than the usual thick-witted musclemen.

"You there, Mahatma, you will be in charge. I want to know what the bodyguards are like, before you destroy them. But seize the girl unharmed."

And then Wissex took out a map and showed where the woman and her bodyguards would be going. It was a small village in the Yucatan peninsula.

"They will be going to this village. Camping over probably. And then on to this area over here, where the woman may find an inscription. That might be the best point because they will all be concentrating on that inscription. Do you understand?"

"Spoken is done," said Mahatma.

There were other things Terri Pomfret didn't like besides heights and depths. She didn't like mosquitoes. Some said the Yucatan grew them with bellies like baseballs and beaks like railroad spikes.

"How come he isn't bothered? Or you?" she said to Remo. They had stopped four times for her to rest.

"Because, like the forces of the universe, mosquitoes respect the good," Chiun said. "However, they do not bite Remo because I have taught him tricks."

"Teach me tricks," said Terri.

"Why?" said Chiun.

"Because I'm not going any farther unless you do," she said.

"Then sit and stay here. We have promised to keep you alive, not comfortable," Chiun said.

"Why did you have to say that to him?" Remo asked Terri.

"What difference does one more insult make in a life?" Chiun interrupted. "They are like the mosquitoes. Killing one does no good, nor is it missed."

"What insult? What insult did I say?" screamed Terri. Her skin bitten, her legs raw from the sweating pants, the jungle so humid it was like swimming; and now to top it all, the Oriental was angry at her.

"Well, you wouldn't think it's an insult," Chiun said.

"Of course I don't think it's an insult. I don't even know what it is," she said.

"How crude. How white," said Chiun.

"I didn't say it," Remo said.

"No. This time you didn't. But your friend did."

Remo was mad. Terri Pomfret wasn't his friend. She was a very talky professor who had to be escorted to some make-believe mountain of gold. But early on, when he had had trouble convincing her that she would be safe, Chiun had decided that she was Remo's friend. That way, he could add her actions to Remo's and keep brimming the bowl of the world's injustices to a kind, decent old man wishing only peace. It sometimes could keep Remo in line.

But this time, Remo had decided it was not his fault and she was not his responsibility. And he was going to do the job because it was his job. No more. She was not his friend, and he wouldn't take that baggage from Chiun. Even if she was attractive when she wasn't yelling as she was now.

"Will you, for heaven's sakes, please, please, please tell me what insult I committed. Just tell me. I won't do it again."

"It's nothing," said Chiun.

"No. Tell me. Please tell me. So I will never do it again."

"If you wish and only because you beg. I should be addressed as 'Gracious Master.' "

"Certainly, Gracious Master. Absolutely, Gracious Master."

And Chiun raised a finger so that the long nail was perpendicular to his shoulder.

"Correct," he said. "See, Remo. I have just met this noisome woman and already she knows how to address me."

"I'm not calling you Gracious Master," Remo said.

"And after all I have given him," Chiun told Terri.

"Why don't you call him Gracious Master if that's all he wants?" Terri asked.

"You don't understand," Remo said. "Let's go."

"And now you're mad," Terri said to Remo.

"Sweetie, if you want to go through life with everyone liking you, better dig a hole and end it now because that isn't going to happen," he said.

Terri slapped her neck. There was another mosquito bite. Chiun picked three leaves and told Terri to chew them.

"The Chocatl chew them from birth and mosquitoes never bother them. A good people, the Chocatl. In your calendar of 907, we serviced the Chocatl, although they were somewhat poor. We took carvings instead of gold. The Incas had gold. The Mayans had gold. But not the Chocatl. But because they showed proper respect for a Master of Sinanju, we killed the evil king who was persecuting these good people. Even though they had no gold. Only carvings."

"That's a beautiful story. But I thought the Americas were only discovered in the 1400s," Terri said.

"By white men," Chiun explained.