Dark Ages

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.

Remo gave the man his full attention. “Let me give you a hand.” He slipped the cases out of the man’s hands faster than the man could see, but he was happy for the relief. Remo strolled along with him.

“He’s staging a sort of surprise grand prix demonstration. Wants to launch a real grand prix here next year. Wants it to be early in the year, the first grand prix of the season.”

Remo considered that. “Why make the demonstration a surprise?” he asked.

“Generates more excitement among the locals,” the pudgy one explained, rolling his shoulders. “How do you carry those things so easy?”

Remo was toting the heavy cases as if they were filled with lacy lingerie, not steel camera and light mounts. “But he won’t get the coverage he wants, right, by making it a surprise? I mean, you guys will be here but none of the big networks will come, will they? No offense.”

“Ha!” The woman in the overalls laughed. “When Michele Rilli calls, they’ll come. He’s huge.”

Remo nodded and placed the cases back in the hands of the pudgy man, who wasn’t expecting them and felt his shoulders get yanked out of their sockets.

“Makes sense to me, Little Father,” Remo said as he returned to Chiun, standing impatiently still and silent in the middle of the terminal. “I think this really is just a big PR stunt.”

“You are usually wrong,” Chiun pointed out.

“I’m sometimes right,” Remo added.

Calling in a few favors, the customs officer managed to have the wharf cleared within sight of the French cargo ship as it off-loaded its herd of grand prix racers.

“I cannot contain any excitement at seeing this famous collection of cars, sir.” Getting no answer, the customs officer turned and found himself alone. Sir Rilli was hustling back up the ramp and shouting orders.

Men began emerging from the deckhouse in racing gear, and the officer grew concerned when he saw that they were wearing heavy, padded race suits of a type most unsuitable for the high temperatures of the Ayounde capital city of Ayounde. More men streamed out behind them. The customs officer blinked and looked again. Certainly they were not toting grand prix car maintenance tools of any kinds; those could only be automatic rifles.

“Sir Rilli, what is the meaning of the guns, sir?” The customs officer was running up the ramp. “Why was I not informed that there were guns aboard, sir?”

“Because it is none of your business,” Rilli replied. He was relieved that now he could drop the charade of French friendliness and fall back on his more comfortable French obstinance. Most people did not realize that the French could be downright contrary when they set their minds to it. This was the side of the French personality that the tourists never saw.

But the customs agent was given the rare privilege of seeing just how ornery a British-born Frenchman by blood could be.

“This is inexcusable, sir! I will require you to keep those men on the vessel. I am afraid a more thorough inspection will now be needed.”

“Uh, well, now yuh become quite the inspector,” Rilli snarled in a French-Cockney accent that would have shattered a sparkling-wine glass. “You are unfit to work for the next governor of this colony!”

The inspector was stopped short by this confusing statement “Pardon?”

“No pardon!” Rilli cried, and backhanded the unwitting inspector. The sucker slap sent the inspector reeling off balance on the steep ramp while Rilli danced in a circle and shook his smarting hand. “Ow! Ow! Ow!”

“Are you hurt, Governor Rilli?” asked a worried assistant.

“Oui! Oui! Oui!”

Just as the customs inspector was about to regain his balance, one of the silent gunmen placed his foot on the ramp and gave it a quick, soundless shove. The inspector yelped. Rill turned just in time to see him vanish. There was a thud. Rilli stepped to the rail and found the man flattened on the wharf, limbs akimbo.

“Did I do that?” he asked.

“Yes, of course, Governor,” said his assistant, trying to wrap gauze around Rilli’s hurt hand.