"Sometimes I think there's no hope for our country," said Remo.
"There has never been any hope for your country," Chiun answered. "Not since you abandoned the good King George and decided to try to rule yourselves. The common man. Ptaah."
"But we've got freedom, Chiun. Freedom," said Remo.
"Freedom to be stupid is the worst slavery of all. Fools should be provided protection from themselves. I like Lobynia," said Chiun and pressed his lips firmly together, opening them again only to shout behind him to the laboring soldiers that their lives were forfeit if they so much as got a sweaty handprint on any of his trunks.
So much for freedom, thought Remo.
The capital city of Dapoli did not loom suddenly in front of them. Rather it grew slowly out of the narrow paved road. First a shack, then what looked like an outhouse, then two shacks, then three. A small store. An occasional bicycle sprawled in sand at the side of the road. Then the appearance of cracked sidewalks. More shacks. And finally when they were surrounded by shacks, they were near the heart of the city. Shacks and gas stations, Remo observed.
The cultural liaison officer raised a hand to halt the group. He waved them to the side of the road because traffic now had grown dangerously heavy, sometimes as much as one car a minute passed their group. He mounted the chipped and broken sidewalk to address them.
"We are now going to a funeral of state for brave Lobynian commandoes killed carrying the message of freedom and glory into the heartland of the Zionist pigs. After that, you will be taken to the barracks which will be your home until the conference is over. The barracks has been created especially for you for this visit and in it, you will find everything you need to be comfortable. There is soap and toilet paper. For privacy, walls have been erected around the slit latrines. Sleeping mats will be provided all. Our glorious leader, Colonel Baraka, has ordered us to spare no expense to bring you all the fine touches that you are used to. No one will be permitted to leave the barracks compound, except to travel in a group to the Revolutionary Triumph building where the conferences will be held. This rule must be observed and security must be maintained because of the presence of so many Zionist spies in our midst. Any questions?"
"Yes," piped up Jessie Jenkins. "When do we get a chance to see Dapoli?"
"Well, little black girl, we are walking through it now, are we not? Keep your eyes open and you will see it." He smiled as he answered, then stopped, looking around for approval.
Father Harrigan led the remainder of the group in good humored laughter.
"Now that the questions are finished, we will continue," said the cultural officer. He led the way through the gutter alongside the sidewalk, deep into the city toward two bigger buildings.
Chiun asked Remo, "Where are we staying?"
"I don't know. I didn't make any reservations, we decided to leave so fast."
Chiun asked the noncommissioned officer leading his trunk-bearers, "Is there a hotel in this desert?"
"Yes, sir," the man said quickly. "The Lobynian Arms."
"Go there and secure us two rooms. Carefully place my belongings in the better of the rooms. Tell them we are coming. What is your name?"
"Abu Telib, master," the frightened soldier said.
"If you fail, Abu Telib, I will find you," Chiun said. "I will seek you out."
"I will not fail, master. I will not fail."
"Be gone."
"How come you get the best room?" asked Remo.
"Rank has its privileges."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The city square of Dapoli was a trapezoid. Along the narrow back edge ran the long low palace building constructed under King Adras. To the right was the Revolutionary Triumph Building constructed under Colonel Baraka. The buildings were identical, except that having been constructed by foreign workmen, King Adras's building was in much better shape, despite being fifty years older.
The other two sides of the square were bordered by streets, on the far sides of which there were shacks, apparently designed by someone who regarded beads and colored glass as a substitute for both form and function.
The square was alive with people, sounds, and odors. The vile barnyard smell of camels mingled with the smells of burning lamb and the sounds of people talking, shouting, bargaining, singing. Over it hung the piping sounds of wooden flutes common to the area.
"All right, move aside. Everybody out of the way." The cultural attache spoke harshly. He shouldered people aside as he led his brigade of Americans through the square toward the balcony of the palace on which the ceremonies were to be held.
When the group reached the foot of the balcony, the officer turned to the Americans.
"Here you will stay. You will not move from this group. You will not talk to Lobynians. You will show proper obeisance to the great leader, Colonel Baraka, and to the customs and sensibilities of our people. There will be penalties for violators."
Chiun and Remo stood in the rear of the group.
"What are we doing here, Chiun?" asked Remo.
"Shhh. We have come to see Colonel Baraka."
"It's very important to you, Chiun, isn't it?"
"Important, yes. 'Very important?' Maybe."
"It is not at all important to me," said Remo. "What is important is Nuihc."
Chiun turned to Remo, anger narrowing his eyes to two almond shaped slits. "I have told you not to mention in my presence the name of the son of my brother. He has disgraced the House of Sinanju with his evils."
"Yes, Chiun, I know. But he is behind all this. The killings of the oil scientists. Probably the oil boycott too, somehow. And that's what my job is, to end the killings and get the oil turned back on."
"Fool. Think you that he cares about oil? He cares about us. This is all to entrap us. You remember the false agents of your bureau of investigation? A fat one and a thin one. That was his greeting. First fat, then thin. Extremes of weight mean nothing to one who knows the secrets of Sinanju. You remember, you dealt with that once before."
"All right," said Remo. "Let's say he is after us. Let's go get him."
"He will come for us," said Chiun stolidly. "I told you that once before. When we want him, he will find us. We need only wait."
"I'd rather it was on our terms," said Remo, thinking of his previous battles with Chiun's nephew. The only other man in the world who knew the secrets of the Sinanju assassins lusted for the deaths of Remo and Chiun so he could become Master of Sinanju.
"And I would rather eat duck," said Chiun, his eyes still aimed at the balcony. "The time will be of his choosing."
"And the place?" asked Remo.
"The challenge will come, as it did before and as it must again, in a place of the dead animals. Thus it has been written. It can be no other way."
"The last time, the place of the dead animals was a museum. I don't think Lobynia has any museums," said Remo. He sniffed the air. "I don't even think it's got any bathrooms."
"There is a place of dead animals," said Chiun with finality. "There you will be expected to meet his challenge again."
"How do you think it'll go?" asked Remo.
"He has the advantage of being Korean and of the House of Sinanju. On the other hand, you have had the benefit of my personal supervision. He is a defective diamond; you are a highly polished piece of gravel."
"That's almost a compliment."
"Then I withdraw it. Shhhhh."
Onto the balcony stepped a handsome Italian-looking man, dressed in immaculate Army tans. The crowd roared its approval. "Baraka. Baraka. Baraka," they screamed. It quickly built to a chant which seemed to shake the entire city.
The colonel raised his arms for silence. He noticed as he looked down that the loudest screamers were the gang of American hoodlums who had arrived for the Third World Conference.