“Uh-huh. Why all the disclaimers, Smitty? You’re setting me up for something.”
“I am not. I am giving you the information you need.”
“And me not taking notes. Now hit me with the bad news.”
Remo could hear Smith tighten his mouth. He had actually learned to hear Smith get more sour. One of the Sinanju benefits. “British law is invoked. So far, the British haven’t come up with a response to the crisis, so they’re failing to deny the legitimacy of the takeovers.”
“
“I’m saying they have failed to deny the legitimacy of those takeovers. British law therefore holds in the colonies, and we’re not going to test our relationship with the British by deconstructing the colonies.”
Remo huffed. “That was one of the filthiest bits of claptrap ever to come out of your sour little mouth.”
“Regardless, your work there is done. We see signs of a coup attempt about to occur in Jamaica. I’d like you to head for Kingston.”
“The government of Ayounde is still held hostage,” Remo reminded him.
“CURE will cease activities in Ayounde.”
“You’re pulling us out on a technicality?”
“On a political reality.”
“You talk like a two-bit whore from the Senate floor. I’m gonna wash your mouth out with Zest.”
“Just accept it, Remo.”
Remo hung up the phone. Since he didn’t know how to hang up these new mobile phones with their tiny buttons, he pushed his finger through the middle and watched the color display go dim.
“Oh. Sorry.” He handed it back to the videographer with a bunch of bills. “Will this pay for it?”
“Mate, that’ll buy me fifty phones.” The videographer was nervously expecting some sort of a trap. He wouldn’t touch the stack of U.S. hundreds.
The tiny old Asian went from statue to hawk in a flash, slipping in and snatching the cash from the younger man’s hand. A trio of hundreds fluttered at the videographer’s feet. “More than sufficient,” the Asian squeaked, and the wad of bills vanished, like a magic trick.
The videographer took the bills without complaint. The pair of lunatics walked away from the scene of death and violence without a backward glance.
The videographer wondered who was going to clean up this mess. He decided he had best not be around for it, and he left, too. But he went in the opposite direction.
Amazingly, he spotted the pair of lunatics at the airport. While he was struggling to deal with the chaos and get a flight out of the country, the old Asian and the younger man with the thick wrists were already boarding a chartered Airbus—alone. The gleaming, sleek aircraft was one of the immensely expensive luxury craft.
“They’re the only ones going anywhere,” said the ticket agent in accented English. “All the scheduled flights are running hours late. The security’s searching everything. Nobody knows what the situation is.”
The videographer nodded thoughtfully. “Where they headed?” he asked, nodding at the chartered plane, a white virgin visible through the terminal windows.
“How should I know, sir?”
The videographer prompted her with a twenty-pound note and got the information in a whisper. “They’re going to Jamaica! Believe it? From this mess over to Jamaica, with all-you-can-eat-and-drink buffets! If those boys be friends of yours, now’s the time to ask a favor.”
The videographer considered that, but at that moment the younger one turned, looked directly at him across the vast terminal and spoke in a voice that was somehow as clear as crystal. “Don’t even think of it, bucko.”
“Hey,” said the ticket agent in a quiet voice, “how did he do that, sir?”
“Do what? I didn’t hear a bloody thing.” The videographer ran for a pay phone.
Remo didn’t want to go back to Jamaica. He’d had enough of all things Caribbean. He also didn’t like waiting around for things to happen. “I especially don’t like standing around waiting for things to happen in Jamaica.”
“This you have stated ceaselessly.” Chiun was impatient, too, but better at hiding it. They were on foot and they had been strolling the gardens and neighborhoods in the vicinity of Jamaica House, where the prime minister was ensconced, apparently taking the warnings of a possible coup attempt more seriously than his compatriots in Africa.
Hope Road was busier than normal, with a few extra Kingston police on the beat, a few extra Jamaican military folks visible. These were ostensibly the “precautionary measures” the government was taking in light of recent troubles around the world. There were also 4 plainclothes commandos, Jamaican and U.S., roaming the Hope road vicinity, to be on hand should the expected attack come. Some bumbled; others were so good Remo couldn’t be sure if they were undercover or real tourists.
Still, he had little confidence in their ability to halt whatever was coming. “What’ll it be this time, Little Father? Will they attack with dreadlocks? Will they hurl coconuts?”
