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of the army doesn't win a war. Discipline, and at least enough brains to follow orders, do."

Mkombu nodded. He had finished policing his chest and again wiped his hands on his shirt. "You are right, of course, which is why I am paying you so generously to be my chief of staff."

He smiled and Muffin smiled back. Underpaying me, Muffin thought, but he was satisfied that his time would come. Patience was always rewarded.

Mkombu rose from behind his desk and said, "Well, stop killing everybody for a while." And then, as if to halt any further discussion, he said quickly, "To the business at hand."

"Which is?"

Mkombu clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward slightly at the waist. "The Olympic Games," he said.

"What event are you entering?" Muffin asked. "International pie-eating?"

Mkombu stood up straight behind the desk. He was only two inches taller than Muffin but outweighed him by more than a hundred pounds. His shirt was covered with food stains, and a glob of grease glistened in his graying black beard. He smiled and Muffin saw gold and silver glistening inside the pink cavern of his mouth.

"If I did not know better, Jackie, I would think you don't like me," Mkombu said.

It was a direct challenge and Muffin backed off, content that the day would come when he would make his move, but it would not be just yet.

"Just joking, Jim Bob," he said.

"Fine. You joke all you want. Why don't you eat that chicken in your hand?"

He watched as Muffin brought it to his mouth and took another reluctant bite.

"All right," Mkombu said. "Now the Olympics."

"What about them?"

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"The athletes from South Africa and Rhodesia may not be permitted to compete."

"So what," Mullin said with a shrug.

"It seems that might make both countries angry."

"Correct," Mullin said. "How does it concern us?"