The Last Dragon, page 10
“Hello. This is the BCN Evening News with Cheeta Ching.”
Chiun sighed. “What eloquence.”
“What crap,” Remo muttered.
Smith sat attentively.
Cheeta fixed her predatory eyes on the camera. “Tonight, a startling video out of Africa–and a mystery. Did the Burger Triumph corporation send a safari into the darkest Gondwanaland to bring ’em back alive only to fall into a snare themselves?”
The camera zoomed in on Cheeta’s flat features.
“BCN News has obtained an exclusive video of what may be confirmation of what explorers and natives have been claiming for over a century. That deep in the Gondwanaland’s imperiled Kanda Tract, an actual dinosaur survives.”
Remo brightened. “No kidding!”
“Here is a clip reportedly shot last night by a Burger Triumph-sponsored exploration team,” Cheeta announced.
Remo sat up straighter. Chiun’s eyes narrowed.
The clip ran nearly three minutes–long for network TV.
It showed an orange-and-black long-necked dinosaur lumber out of a swatch of jungle growth and fall before a withering fusillade of rifle fire.
“A spokesman for Burger Triumph assures us that only nonlethal tranquilizer bullets were employed to stun the creature, which appears to be some sort of dinosaur.”
“Brontosaur, you dip,” Remo said,.
“Remo, hush,” Chiun admonished.
“How can she call herself a reporter when she doesn’t even recognize a Brontosaur when she sees one?”
“Actually,” Smith started to say, “it is a–”
“Silence!” Chiun thundered, and both men fell silent.
Cheeta Ching was still doing a voice-over as scenes of the dinosaur falling onto its stomach were played and replayed.
“After this footage was shot,” she said, “the monster was loaded on a train and set out for the capital, Port Chuma. Mysteriously, no trace of the train has been seen in over twenty-four hours. Authorities in Port Chuma express confidence that the train, with its strange cargo, will eventually be found. But as of this hour, there are no new developments to report.”
“Which is anchorspeak for ‘We don’t know nothing,’” Remo said sourly.
“A Burger Triumph spokesman who asked not to be named said the company is considering launching a second expedition to locate the first. Next up, an interview with my personal gynecologist with his third trimester report. But first, this message.”
The screen cut to a different shot of Cheeta Ching extolling the virtues of a home pregnancy testing kit, and Remo and Smith looked to Chiun to see if it was acceptable to talk or not.
Chiun’s eyes were narrow. Almost slits. He was very still.
He turned to meet Smith’s gaze with his own.
“Emperor Smith, I crave a boon, as ungrateful as it may sound.”
“Yes?”
“Dispatch Remo and me to Africa to seek those who are lost.”
“Oh no!” Remo said harshly. “I’d rather stay here than go to Africa. I’ve been there. It’s hot and it stinks.”
“I will go alone, then,” Chiun said coldly.
“Why?” asked Smith.
Chiun made a face. “I cannot tell you, but granting this boon may mean that the House of Sinanju will continue to serve America far into the next century.”
Smith looked to Remo. Remo shrugged. Smith cleared his throat. “Well, since these people are American citizens, I suppose you could go. So long as you are discreet.”
Like smoke rising, the Master of Sinanju came to his feet. He bowed once. Then, padding over to the TV, he did something that made Remo’s mouth hang open in surprise.
He switched off the set just as Cheeta Ching was starting to speak.
“Remo, you and I will look into the Shortsleeve question while Master Chiun is away,” Smith offered.
“Nothing doing,” said Remo, finding his voice. “I don’t know what’s got into Chiun, but if it is big enough to make him turn off Cheeta Ching in mid yap, I want to be along for the ride.”
· · ·
They ran the rental van back to the airport, dropped Smith off at the departure terminal, and drove on to international departures.
Remo bought two round-trip tickets to Port Chuma, using a credit card that identified him as Remo Burton, with the Department of Health and Human Services. He had a matching passport.
“Proof of shots?” asked the ticket agent.
“Would someone from the Department of Health and Human Services be going to Africa if he didn’t have his shots?” Remo asked in a firm voice.
The agent thought not, and the tickets were surrendered.
· · ·
Over the Atlantic, they sat in a silence that was not broken until they reached London, where they had to change planes.
At Heathrow, Remo decided to break the ice.
“Care to tell a fellow traveler why he’s traveling?”
“No.”
“Toss a hint in my direction, then?”
“Reflect upon the lesson of Master Yong.”
Remo reflected. In the early days of his training in Sinanju, Chiun used to drum into his head the exploits of past Masters. Each Master, it seemed, was remembered for one special reason. Wang because he discovered the sun source. Yeng because he was too greedy. Yokang because he consorted with Japanese women and caught certain diseases from them. Remo had learned about every Master–or so he thought. In recent years, there had been fewer legends. Remo had assumed it was because Chiun had run out of Masters, but was forced to conclude that the true reason was that in Chiun’s eyes, Remo had grown to full Masterhood, the penultimate step toward Reigning Master status, which Remo could only achieve upon Chiun’s death or retirement.
Master Yong, Remo could not remember.
He wracked his brain as the British 747 winged its way to Africa.
“Yong, Yong, Yong,” he muttered aloud. “Not Bong. He discovered India. Can’t be Nonga. He was deaf and dumb.”
“Render it in English,” Chiun said thinly.
Over his twenty-year association with the Master of Sinanju, Remo had picked up a little Korean here and there until one day he found himself, to his infinite surprise, considering that he had flunked French I three years running in school, fluent in the language.
“Dragon!” he said snapping his fingers. “Yong means dragon.”
“Some Masters are remembered for their true names, others–those held in contempt–are remembered by false names so as not to shame their ancestors. It is so with Yong.”
“Yeah? What’d he do?”
The Master of Sinanju made a face. He touched his thin beard as if debating the wisdom of answering the question.
“I will tell you if you promise not to reveal what I am about to divulge to Emperor Smith.”
“Family secret, huh?”
“A deep shame is attached to Yong the Gluttonous.”
“Gluttonous? Are we off to Africa to make the world safe for hamburger companies?”
“Silence! If your ears would hear, your mouth must be still. Preferably closed.”
Remo folded his bare arms. It was cool in the big jet and his arm hairs were lifting in response. He willed them to lay flat and they did. It was a minor example of the nearly total control he exercised over every cell in his superbly trained body.
Chiun began speaking.
“The story I am about to tell you transpired in the Year of the Peacock.”
“Give me a number.”
“I do not know the American year and I do not care,” Chiun retorted. “In these days we served the Middle Kingdom, Cathay, a land of barbarians who ate their rice with their fingers.”
“Don’t rub it in.”
“Master Yong–not his real name of course–was summoned to the throne of Cathay. For a great dragon was devouring rice farmers and other subjects of the Chinese emperor. This being how dragons typically passed their days.
“Now the days of which I speak are the old days of Sinanju, before Wang, who discovered the sun source. This was when Masters performed many functions, and not merely practicing the assassin’s art. Masters in those days would perform executions for the proper price. For this task, a previous Master had had forged a tremendous sword, known as the Sword of Sinanju. Later, as you know, Remo, the thieving Chinese stole this great trophy, and kept it.”
“Until we got it back,” said Remo.
“Until Chiun the Great recovered it, aided by a white lackey who may or may not be recorded in the Book of Sinanju under his true name,” Chiun said frostily.
“I want to be remembered as Remo the Long-Suffering.”
Face impassive, the Master of Sinanju resumed speaking, “When Yong appeared before the Chinese emperor, he had with him the great Sword of Sinanju because in those days one never knew what service Chinese emperors would demand. A courtesan might require beheading. Or the garbage might have to be taken out. To Yong’s surprise, it was none of these things. He was asked to slay a dragon.”
“Really?”
Chiun nodded. “In those days, dragons were more plentiful than they are now, but still rare. Yong had never before beheld a dragon, although he had heard tales of their fierceness and fury. This particular dragon was known as Wing Wang Wo.”
Remo lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “The dragon had a name?”
“This dragon did. Yong agreed to slay the dragon, but not for the usual sum of gold. He asked the Chinese emperor for only one thing in return. The dragon’s carcass.”
“The Chinese emperor agreed to this. For like all of his line, he was penurious. That means cheap, Remo.”
“I figured it out from the context,” Remo grumbled.
“It does no harm to explain the difficult words when dealing with willful children,” Chiun said. “Now Yong ventured out into the Chinese countryside. And soon he came upon a magnificent if cranky dragon, storming about, its iridescent green-and-gold scales ablaze in the harsh Chinese sun.”
“Yong thought he saw a dragon?”
“Yong did see a dragon. And knowing that only the foolhardy attack a foe without first studying him, Yong watched this dragon go about his business of devouring simple peasants.”
“Yong didn’t stop the dragon?”
Chiun shrugged. “Interrupting Wing Wang Wo’s meals was not in Yong’s contract. Now be silent, One-Whose-Tongue-Is-Never-Still.
“Soon, Yong devised a plan. First he caught the dragon’s attention by bestowing upon him an insulting Chinese hand gesture.”
“Flipped him the bird, huh?”
Chiun glared.
“Sorry.” Remo fell silent.
“Naturally,” Chiun resumed, “this enraged Wing Wang Wo, who blazed ineffectual flames at the ever-nimble Yong. Hurling cutting taunts, Yong lured the dragon to a cave he had explored earlier.
“Seeking to avenge his sullied honor, the dragon naturally followed. For–and you must always remember this, Remo–a dragon’s breath is the only thing about them that can truly be called bright.”
Remo winced.
“Once in the great cave, Yong hid behind a great stone. The dragon padded past him unsuspecting, the sulphur of its breath blocking its own nostrils. The great arrow-like tail dragged past, and Yong slipped back out of the cave to climb onto a ledge just above the cave mouth, where he had placed the Sword of Sinanju, which was seven feet in length and a mighty weapon.”
Chiun lifted an imaginary sword in both thin-fingered hands. His voice shook in the telling.
“Sword held high, Yong waited patiently.”
Up and down the aisles, the passengers within hearing paused to listen attentively.
“In time, the dull-witted Wing Wang Wo stuck his thick head out of the cave mouth, whereupon Yong relieved him of this trophy with one swift blow. Chuk!”
Chiun brought the imaginary sword down.
“Ouch,” said Remo.
“The dragon whelmed, Yong had its meat stripped away and–”
“He ate the dragon?”
Shaking his head, Chiun lifted a long finger. “No. Yong wanted only the bones. For he knew what the Chinese emperor did not. That dragon bones are a potent medicine. Mixed in an elixir and drunk, they prolonged life. Yong drank dragon elixir every month for the remainder of his days, even though twice a year would have sufficed. And that is why Yong lived to a venerable age.”
“Yeah? How long do Sinanju Masters normally live?”
“Only one hundred to one hundred twenty years. It is because we work so hard and are unappreciated.”
“I feel for you,” suddenly remembering that Chiun had turned 100 a couple of years ago. The thought made him feel cold inside.
“Master Yong lived to be an undeserved one hundred forty-eight years in age,” Chiun sniffed. “For he squandered every dragon bone brought back from Cathay in prolonging his own selfish life. And it is for this reason, Remo, that Yong is known in the annals of Sinanju as Yong the Gluttonous.”
Mild applause rippled along the aisles. The passengers returned to their magazines and their meals.
“All right,” Remo said slowly, trying to figure out what this had to do with a possible dinosaur in Africa. “Yong was a pig. But what–” Then it hit him.
“Hold the phone, Little Father.”
“What phone?”
“You know what I mean. Are we by chance off on a wild dragon hunt?”
“I am not aware of any dragons that are not wild.”
“Chiun, if you’re thinking of grinding up dinosaur bones just so you can live to be as old as Methuselah, I think Smith is going to have something to say about that.”
Chiun’s hazel eyes grew veiled. “Of course. He is going to say how pleased he is that he will have a proper Master to serve him for many years to come. Perhaps, Remo, when I am one hundred forty, you will be wise enough in years so I can properly retire to my humble village.”
“By that time, I’ll be retirement age myself.”
“Americans retire in their prime,” Chiun said dismissively. “It is a foolish thing.”
“Besides, a dinosaur is not a dragon. There is no such animal. Dragons are mythological.”
“Since when are you an expert on dragons?”
“Since never. But when I was a kid, I was a major dinosaur fan. I still know all the names by heart, Iguanodon, Stegosaur, Triceratops, Allosaurus, and the overwhelming favorite of St. Theresa’s Orphanage, Tyrannosaurus Rex. And what we saw on TV was a Brontosaurus–assuming the footage wasn’t faked.”
“It is a dragon.”
“Dragons have big bat wings and breathe fire.”
“Ha!” Chiun crowed. “A moment ago you refused to believe in dragons. Now you know all about them.”
“I know a dragon from a dinosaur. You’re chasing after a freaking dinosaur.”
“Merely another word for an African dragon. Perhaps it is a Zulu word. I am sure his bones are as efficacious as a Chinese dragon. If not more so.”
“No chance.”
“You are obviously prejudiced against African dragons. It’s a terrible thing, racism. I will have to drum this white failing out of you once this assignment is over with.”
“I give up.”
Chiun smiled. “I knew you would.”
Chapter Nine
Nancy Derringer sat in the dirt around the makeshift campfire listening to the man who claimed to lead the Congress for a Green Africa. He had identified himself as Commander Malu.
The commander made a long, windy speech about African pride and the rape of the Continent by colonial powers, imperialist thieves, and business interests that put the squandering of natural resources before the land itself.
“What does any of that have to do with hijacking us?” Nancy asked pointedly.
King whispered, “Nancy, don’t antagonize him!”
“I asked a question,” Nancy repeated. “And I would like an answer.”
Colonel Malu scratched his bushy beard. “Very well. Just as the elephant no longer runs in herds and must be protected in preserves, so too must this fine animal be protected from harm.”
“Harm! You idiots threw enough lead around to kill us all twenty times over, and you talk about harm?”
“No one was hurt.”
“Which is a miracle.”
And it was. Nancy still couldn’t believe it. After the shooting had died down and they had been taken at gunpoint from the train and made to sit in a circle with the captured Burger Beret team, it was discovered that there had been no fatalities. In fact, no one had so much as been wounded. Unless one counted Skip King catching his ankle in a clump of nettles and drawing blood.
“I would like to examine the reptile for injuries, if you don’t mind,” Nancy said in a voice she had no trouble keeping steady.
“And why should I allow this?” Commander Malu asked.
“Because I am a trained herpetologist and responsible for keeping Jack–”
“Mokele m’bembe, please.”
“Mokele m’bembe healthy,” Nancy said tartly.
Commander Malu’s eyes shifted away. His gaze fell on Skip King, who glared back. “I will allow this,” he said slowly.
“Thank you,” said Nancy. Two men came up and took her by the elbows. She was lifted to her feet and her bonds removed. Then they escorted her to the train.
King’s stern voice floated after them.
“If anything should happen to Nancy, you bastards, there isn’t a place on earth you can hide from Skip King.”
“Oh please,” Nancy said.
“He is very brave, for a white man,” Commander Malu allowed.
“His jock strap must be cutting off circulation to his brain.”
Malu’s laugh shook his great body as if he were pudding. “Ha! You have spirit. A white woman with spirit is a rare thing, I think.”
“You obviously don’t know any white women,” Nancy retorted.
Nancy was given a flashlight, and she walked around the flatcar. The Apatosaur lay torpid, his tiny head tucked into the locomotive cab. His orange lids were closed, and the black-ringed nostrils pulsed and quivered in time to the bellows rhythm of its great dappled body.
Nancy plucked out a few trank darts earlier sweeps had missed and touched the pulsing vein on the long neck. It was steady, like a surging garden hose. The skin was cool to the touch and rather dry.
