Minister of Internal Security Antoine Fudende was attempting to get his arms into his uniform jacket, but every time he stuck an arm in, it was pierced by one of the medal pins. There were countless medals on the jacket and he couldn’t find the open pin. He helplessly sat down with one arm in the jacket, another arm not. “My people say it is the genuine Michele Rilli in the car, Mr. Prime Minister. For one thing, the cost and resources that went into staging this demonstration must have come from someone very wealthy and with very strong ties to grand prix racing.”
“Or one of a hundred wealthy, insane individuals known to us in Europe, Australia and Latin America,” added the minister of foreign security.
“Also, the coverage of the event by the media is tremendous. We estimate there are more video news production crews inside Ayounde at this moment that there has ever been.”
“Ever?” the minister of foreign security demanded. “I know for a fact that your media-activity records only date back to the 1950s.”
“Since the 1950s, then,” Fudende stormed.
“Enough. Fudende, how are we preparing for this ‘spectacle’?” the prime minister asked.
“All our troops are standing by. None is deployed.” Fudende looked nervous, but no one was alarmed by this lack of readiness. Even the exterior security minister nodded with his eyes.
“My honor guard?” the prime minister asked. “They’re in full dress and ready for any call to duty.” The prime minister sighed. “We should arrest him and put him in jail.”
The ministers murmured in alarm.
“That would be disastrous,” said the minister of tourism gently. “He’s a star in every corner of the world except the States. The networks claim the demonstration is intended to bring a grand prix into our country. To arrest him would be to shoot ourselves in the foot.”
“I know that!” The prime minister was scowling. “So how should we respond to this reckless display?”
The minister of internal security felt a rush of indecision. There was the warning from the United States government to consider. The Americans claimed that Rilli was trying to stage a coup in Ayounde. They said that such a coup had already occurred in a place called Newfoundland, which sounded like a blatant fabrication. Surely not…
He actually opened his mouth to voice the alarm. The know-it-all minister of foreign security looked at him expectantly, his broad mouth already showing his amusement at whatever bit of foolishness Fudende had to say next.
Fudende said nothing.
“The entire cabinet of ministers are moving all together,” Chiun announced. He listened to another stream of Ayounde patois from the radio announcer. Chiun never seemed to run up against a human language that he couldn’t understand. “The prime minister is among them.”
“To safety, I assume?” Remo cranked the wheel and sent the stolen Chevrolet taxicab tearing around a near empty corner in the city of Ayounde.
“To National Square in the center of the city,” Chiun, said. “The prime minister’s honor guard is clearing the way and the national police are being asked to keep the public safely away from the race route.”
“It’s like they want to be conquered,” Remo griped. Fruit stands were untended. Electronics shops were standing unlocked and empty. Even would-be looters were on their way to the grand prix route as the stragglers streamed toward the city center.
“They sure didn’t take Smitty seriously. They’re actually getting themselves all bunched together so Rilli can send them to heaven without exerting himself.”
“You must transport us to National Square in time to prevent it,” Chiun said.
Remo already heard the sound of the excited crowd, still several city blocks ahead of them. The timbre of the crowd told him there were more human beings than he had expected. “Depends how close we park.”
“We will not be close. We will be on the opposite end of the square from the national pavilion.”
Remo glared at him. “If you knew that, why didn’t you say anything?”
“You are the driver,” Chiun sniffed. “It would have done no good. We are too late to approach in this vehicle.”
As if by magic, the city with the auras of a ghost town turned into an African version of Carnival, with blasting music and intense, happy crowds. Remo hit the brakes.
“We hoof it.”
“You have hooves. I have feet.”
Remo slithered through the densely packed population of the city, moving as if through the reeds in the swamp shallows, and by unspoken agreement he followed in the wake of a figure that moved with even less notice. Chiun, the ancient Master of Sinanju Emeritus, was brilliant in his kimono colors but remained unseen. Even Remo couldn’t help but admire the stealth of the old Master. He was tiny, light skinned, dressed in expensive silks in primary yellows with red-and-green bands of flashing gold stitch work. Logic said he would have contrasted sharply with the tall, dark-skinned African peoples in drab earth tones and occasional tribal colors. Instead, Chiun was a sprite, glimpsed peripherally or not at all.
