Until Sir Michele Rilli got a call to perform his duty as a member of an Order of the Green Garter of England.
The cargo ship Giancarlo eased up to the cargo dock without fanfare. The Ayounde customs agent was the only individual in the entire nation who knew about the surprise visit by the one and only Sir Michele Rilli. The agent was sworn to secrecy.
“So wonderful to meet with you, Sir Rilli!” He pumped Rilli’s hand energetically. “I have watched your performances time and again on the television.”
“Yes, I’m sure you have.”
“The Monaco GP last year was a real nail-biter, sir! But we knew you would be victorious in the end. My good woman and I, we knew you would win even if all our friends and neighbors hooted and rooted for the Cobbler driver.”
Sir Michele Rilli bristled at the mention of Kenneth Cobbler. Cobbler had been nipping at Rilli’s heels throughout the entire racing season last year. The Australian Grand Prix. The Malaysian Grand Prix. Race after race, Rilli won by the skin of his teeth, Cobbler sticking like glue to his derriere.
Then, a disaster in Spain. A bent rim. A two-minute setback to change the tire. Cobbler used it to his advantage to pass Michele Rilli on the final lap and take the checkered flag.
More races followed. Monaco. Canada. The United States. The famous French Grand Prix race. Rilli won them all, but the season was not a sweep. He did not own it. Throughout the history of great car racing, they would not talk of “The year that Michele Rilli won them all.” They would call it “The year that Michele Rilli lost in Spain.”
“The purpose of this visit?” the customs man asked.
Rilli looked at him, startled, but the customs agent was speaking with the captain of the Giancarlo. Just regular customs-agent questions. Nothing to worry about. The captain described his cargo of foodstuffs and small retail goods, and the cars.
“Automobiles?” the customs man asked. “They are not on the manifest. Am I not seeing them on the manifest?” He was quite worried.
“They are Sir Rilli’s automobiles,” the captain added.
“Captain, you do not have them on the manifest. This means you have not secured the permits for the importation of automobiles, and this is a serious problem. I cannot allow you to off-load these vehicles. Why are you bringing in vehicles that are not properly permitted?”
The customs man was suspicious. Rilli knew it was time to turn on his French charm.
“I shall explain this to you,” Rilli said, turning on his Parisian accent. “The secret is bigger than you were led to believe.”
That only made the customs man more suspicious, but that was fine because his relief would be increased when Rilli told him the secret, and this would propel him into greater carelessness.
“You see, we are planning to stage the first Ayounde Grand Prix.”
The customs man gasped.
“This is our secret,” Rilli snapped. “You can be trusted with my secret?”
“Oh, of course, Sir Rilli!” the customs man gushed. He was a brown-skinned African with cheeks that bulked like shiny dark apples when he smiled.
“It shall be a demonstration only, this time,” Rilli snarled, “but we shall make such a spectacle of it that next year, it will be an official grand prix race.”
The customs man was tearing up in his excitement and joy. Rilli was not surprised. He was London-born and raised, but he was a Frenchman by blood, and he knew how to turn on the famous French charisma. It made men into agreeable puppy dogs who did what he required, and the women—it positively melted the women.
“These cars, they will not stay here in Ayounde, for this is my personal collection of race cars,” Rilli pointed out. “These are the cars that won so many races for me last year.”
“Yes, all but Spain!”
“Yes. Spain.”
“I watched every single one of them on the satellite!”
“I am happy for you. Getting a manifest for these cars and the required licenses—this was impossible and unnecessary. Firstly, the cars are not for staying in Ayounde. Next, getting such permits would have upset the beans, and the news of this race would have been all over the world. The beauty of this demonstration is in its surprise. This is obvious to you. Oui?”
“Oui!” the customs man replied, his pronunciation more natural than Rilli’s. French was commonly spoken in Ayounde.
Still, the customs man was under his spell and would do whatever Rilli asked. And it wasn’t such a big deal, allowing entry to a few race cars for a short time. The promotional stunt would help the country and certainly couldn’t do any harm. Right?
“So, my friend, what say you?” Sir Michele Rilli asked. “Will you be a part of the new Ayounde Grand Prix spectacle?”
“Of course, Sir Rilli!” The customs man was about to faint from excitement.
Such a bunch of goody-goody types in Ayounde, Rilli thought. He wished he was getting one of the tougher African nations. Truth be told, any African nation other than Ayounde would be rougher and tougher.
Everybody here was just so repulsively pleasant.
It would feel good to subjugate them, give them a little something to suffer over. Wipe some of those ugly smiles right off their faces.
Chapter 9
“So we have a potential bad guy who was born in England, but he acts and talks like he’s from France,” Remo asked. “Why again?”
“Many respect the French arrogance and see it as strength of character,” Chiun said.
“Not all French people are arrogant,” Remo said.
“This is true. Those French who lack self-esteem are merely rude.”
“Some are nice. I’m sure there are nice French people, Chiun. But if this race-car driver wants to be French so bad, why did the queen of England make him a knight?”
“The queen was compelled to take this action so as to reclaim him for England,” Smith had explained on the phone as they were en route. “Rilli had an extremely successful season last year, and his popularity wasn’t spilling over on England the way it might have. Being knighted reminded the world that Rilli was from England.”
Now Rilli was going to take advantage of his knighthood. Maybe. Smith and Mark Howard had been on the watch for unusual behavior by any persons knighted by the queen of England. Rilli’s clandestine travel to the former British colony of Ayounde—by freighter—qualified as suspicious.
As Remo and Chiun were making quick time through the sparse Ayounde airport terminal, Remo veered off course to intercept a hustling ASN broadcast crew, conspicuous in their brand-new AllSportsNetwork jerseys. The network was resurrected from the recently humiliated Extreme Sports Network. The former executives of ESN were on trial with fraud charges pending against them in more than seventy countries worldwide; ASN had been assembled from the liquidated assets—including the human assets.
“What’s up, you guys?”
“Like you don’t know,” said a frumpy woman in overalls, dragging a wheeled luggage cart burdened with video equipment. “You a driver?”
“I have a driver’s license,” Remo said.
“Are you a grand prix driver?” she added.
“No.”
“If you’re not on a car crew, what are you doing here?”
“I asked you first. Shouldn’t you people be in Hoboken, shooting a high-school soccer match?”
“It’s that jerk Michele Rilli,” a pudgy crewman gasped as he huffed along with a large equipment case in each hand.