Ship Of Death td-28 Read online

  "What?" said Helena.

  "I've got to go now. It's a long swim," said Remo.

  "You are leaving me?" Her tone tested new heights of outrage.

  "Unless you want to swim back with me."

  "Listen," she said. "Because you pulled a pretty good trick, don't go thinking that it was real. I know you let the launch tow you over on a line. Now don't be foolish. In the morning, I'll have the launch bring you back."

  "Sorry, I'd rather swim," Remo said. "I never get any exercise any more. Besides, I don't think your father would like the idea of my spending the night."

  "Father lives his life and I live mine. We made that agreement when I became a woman."

  "I've seen fathers before. They honor agreements like that only when they're talk. Put them into action and they renege."

  "Try me," said Helena.

  "Sorry. Gotta go," Remo said. He slipped on his black loafers, which he had put under Helena's bed. "See you soon."

  "You are a swine," said Helena.

  "Probably."

  "I detest you. Hate you."

  "Most do. It must just be something about me."

  "I hope you drown." Her small shapely breasts quivered as anger shook her body.

  Remo walked to the door and placed his right hand on the side of her face. "Now don't get in an uproar," he said.

  She slapped his hand away.

  "Begone, pig," she said. "Back to the sty with the rest of your species."

  "Well, if you're going to be nasty…" Remo said. He walked out the door. Behind him, he heard Helena shout a Greek phrase. Without knowing Greek, he knew it was an obscenity, and he knew which one.

  He smiled "You too," he said aloud, and then vaulted over the railing of the yacht into the cold Atlantic.

  CHAPTER TEN

  When Remo stepped off the elevator onto the main deck, water puddling about his feet, the deck was deserted except for one man. From far off came the sounds of singing and revelry, the last dregs of the Thebos party for the delegates as it dragged down into morning.

  The man on deck stood thirty feet from the elevator, his back to Remo, looking out at the ocean.

  Under his arm, he carried a tubelike roll of papers. He wore a blue brocade tuxedo jacket that looked like the hit of the night at a teeny-bopper wedding.

  From behind, Remo could see that the man's thinning hair was trimmed short, immaculately, not a single hair out of place. The man leaned forward on the rail, not in leisure but at attention, as if concentrating to hear some secret word from the wind.

  Remo could not see his face. He did not have to.

  "Hiya, Smitty," Remo said, walking toward him. "What are you doing here?"

  Dr. Harold W. Smith, head of CURE, turned slowly. "Did you have a nice swim?"

  "Not bad," said Remo. "I try to do ten laps of the ocean every night to stay in shape. What are you doing here? Why are you wearing that stupid jacket?"

  "I thought you didn't like my gray suit," Smith said.

  "After ten years of seeing one guy in one suit, of course I didn't like it. But I didn't expect you to go out and dress up in a clown's outfit either."

  Smith sniffed, a pecksniffian sniff. "I always try to dress like the natives. I didn't think this would be out of place here on party night."

  "If you want to dress like the natives on this boat, wear a fig leaf," Remo said.

  "Ship, not boat," Smith said. "Speaking of clothing, I'm surprised to see you still wearing a tee shirt and slacks. I thought you'd be wearing silk bloomers and slippers that turn up at the toes by now."

  "All right," Remo said. "Now we're even in the snot department about clothes. What are you doing here?"

  "I'm sorry, Remo. That's a government secret."

  "You've got secrets from me? Now?"

  "I just can't go around telling everything I know to any Iranian bodyguard I meet," Smith said.

  Remo paused and swallowed. "From me? Secrets?" he said again.

  Smith shrugged, a small sad lifting of the shoulders that looked as if the man were trying to readjust the weight of the world on his back, to make it more comfortable.

  "Okay. Then I'll tell you what you're doing here," Remo said. "You're here because you think something's going to go wrong on this boat and you're going to try to prevent it. You've got that big roll of papers under your arm because those are probably diagrams of this boat…"

  "Ship," said Smith. "Oceangoing's a ship, not a boat."

  "I don't give a damn," Remo said, "whether it's a ship or a boat or a goddamn rub-a-dub in a tub. You've got those diagrams because you think there's probably something flukey about this scow with those terrorists and murders and everything. Right so far?"

  "Not bad," Smith conceded.

  "Okay," said Remo. "Now I'll tell you some things. Something bad is going to happen on this barge but I don't know what. And those diagrams aren't going to show you one damn thing about this boat, 'cause it's riddled with passages and rooms that nobody knows about. And what I want to know is why don't you just collect the American delegation and all of you get off of here before anything goes wrong?"

  "If something happens to this ship," Smith said, "it would be a tragedy to the world."

  "The world survived the deaths of Laurel and Hardy, it'll survive the loss of these clowns. Come on, Smitty. You've seen these dips tonight. You're going to save them? Get out with the ambassador and his staff. Worry about America."

  "That's not the way we do things," Smith said. He paused. "Sorry, Remo, but that's one of the things you've never understood about… my country."

  "That's nasty, Smitty. That's really nasty."

  "Your choice, not mine."

  "So you're going to stay on this boat—all right, ship, goddammit—and you're going to risk your life trying to find out what's going to happen and try to prevent it and all for this bunch of money-grubbing, free-lunching phoney bastards in striped pants who'd steal the pennies from your dead eyes."

  "Yes," said Smith.

  "Then Chiun is right."

  "Oh? What is it that Chiun is right about?"

  "That you're a lunatic. That you've always been a lunatic. And you always will be a lunatic."

  "I can understand someone thinking that way. Chiun and you and other mercenaries who work only for the money always have trouble understanding people who aren't working just for the money, I guess that does make them lunatics to you. How do you like working for Iran?"

  "It's okay," Remo said. "They're nice people. Iran grows good melons and nobody gives us stupid assignments."

  "I'm glad to see you're getting along so well," Smith said.

  "Listen, Smitty. You're here to secure the ship, right? But that's what you wanted Chiun and me to do. Okay, we had our problems, you and me, but Chiun and I are here. And we're going to secure the boat. So why don't you just leave? It's what you wanted us to do anyway. We're doing it."

  "Almost, Remo, but not quite. You see, you're here working for Iran and for all I know the Iranians may have a hand in anything that's going to go wrong with this ship. Nothing personal, but I can't trust you as an impartial objective agent when you're working for somebody who might just turn out to be on the other side."

  "You are the most pain-in-the-ass man I've ever met," Remo said.

  "I'm sorry," said Smith, "but you'll have to excuse me. I've got a lot of work to do."

  He turned back toward the rail and began looking at a single sheet of paper he extracted from the roll of papers under his arm.

  Remo walked a few steps away in wet sloshing shoes, then turned back.

  "You're a lunatic," he said.

  Smith nodded without turning.

  Remo walked a few more squishy steps, then turned again.

  "And your jacket's ugly."

  Smith nodded.

  "And you're a tightfisted penny pincher and I hope the American delegation right now is eating rubber bands and wasting staples by shooting them at the wall."


  Smith nodded again.

  "Are you going to turn around when I yell at you?" Remo yelled.

  Smith turned around.

  "Give my regards to the Shah," he said.

  "Aaaaaaah," said Remo, once, long and loud, before he stalked away.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "I don't want to hear about it, Little Father."

  "Of course not," Chiun said. "Why would you wish to hear about something upon which our lives depend?"

  "My life doesn't depend on the state of Persian—goddammit, Iranian—television. I don't care if they have soap operas or not. So they don't. It's not going to take one day off my life."

  "Typical. Typical. Unfeeling callousness toward your teacher, unconcern for his misery, caring only for your own comfort. Give you an ocean to splash around in at night and you do not care what happens to me at all."

  "Look. It was your idea to come to work for Iran. So stop complaining."

  "And it was your idea not to tell me to what depths the once-proud Peacock throne had fallen. Persia was a great land with great rulers. This Iran that you call it, well, why did you not tell me about it? Why did you not tell me how backward it was? Why did you not tell me that they have no daytime dramas? That they have little television at all?"

  "Because how the hell was I supposed to know?" asked Remo testily.

  "Because it is one of the things you are supposed to know," said Chiun. "Why do you think I let you hang around with me? Because your eating habits fill me with love and respect? Because your big-nosed features are as a dew-fresh morning rose to me?"

  "My nose isn't big," said Remo.

  "You are an American. All Americans have big noses," Chiun said.

  "And all Koreans look alike."

  "That is not bad when the alike we all look is a beautiful alike. You should have known about Persia going bad."

  "I don't do that kind of work. Smitty always did that kind of work."

  "Do not go blaming your inadequacies on the poor, maligned Emperor Smith whom you betrayed by fleeing from his service," said Chiun.

  "Oh. So now it's the poor maligned Emperor Smith. Taking his place alongside Herod as one of the great martyrs of history, huh? How about 'that lunatic' Smith that you've been carping about for years? Huh? How about that?"

  "I never should have listened to you, Remo," Chiun said, his face and voice dripping hurt, his arms slowly folding in front of his seated body as a signal that this conversation was ending. "I never should have turned my back on the Emperor in charge of keeping the Constitution safe, just because of your greed. My ancestors will judge me harshly for this."

  "No one'll ever know. Just doctor the Sinanju records the way you always do."

  "Enough," Chiun said. "Have you not heaped upon one aged man enough abuse for one day? Have you no mercy? The Persians always were heartless. How quickly you have become one of them."

  Remo stomped toward the door, his salt-stiffened clothes creaking as he moved. He paused at the door.

  "Little Father," he said.

  Chiun did not answer.

  "Little Father."

  Chiun turned angry hazel eyes toward him.

  "Little Father, I have something to say to you," Remo said, lowering his voice, sounding sad.

  Chiun nodded. "Penitent, you may speak."

  "Blow it out your ears," Remo said, "and rub it in your hair." He skipped quickly out the door.

  They were supposed to be looking. They were supposed to be on the alert. But the two guards who prowled the corridor in front of the Libyan mission's offices and apartments did not notice the hard-line set to Remo's mouth. Nor did they see that his eyes were so glowering dark that they seemed almost all pupil.

  Instead they noticed only a thin Westerner wearing splotchy-looking clothing walking down the corridor, talking aloud to himself,

  "I'm getting tired of being everybody's fall guy," Remo said. "You hear that?" he yelled. "I'm tired, you hear? First Smitty. Then Chiun. Smitty blames me for leaving and it's Chiun's fault. Chiun blames me for leaving and it's still his fault. Everybody blames me. Who do I get to blame? Huh? Who do I get to shovel the blame off on?"

  The two Libyan guards moved in front of Remo as he ambled down the corridor, head down, feeling the soft rug give under his water-soaked loafers.

  "Hold it," said the larger one. He wore a pinstriped black suit, a black shirt and white tie. His hair was greased back and black. His skin was swarthy. He put an arm out and a big right hand on Remo's shoulder.

  Remo looked up at the man, a full four inches bigger than he was,

  The man let go a barrage of words in Arabic.

  "Talk English, stupid. I'm not one of your goddamn rag merchants," Remo said.

  The big guard smiled. "I asked what you were doing in this corridor, little man with large mouth. This corridor is off limits after 8 P.M."

  Remo smiled. It was not a nice smile. "Just going for a walk," he said.

  The other man moved up alongside the first. He wore the same costume, individualized by black-and-white wing-tip shoes.

  "He is an American," the second man said.

  The large guard smiled. He squeezed with the hand he had placed on Remo's shoulder.

  "Oh, an American. Is that true? Are you a Fascist, racist, imperialist dog?"

  "No," said Remo. "I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy, born on the Fourth of July, with the Stars and Stripes forever."

  "I think we hold this one for questioning in the morning," said the big Libyan guard.

  He squeezed even harder with his right hand, but failed to noticed that Remo gave no sign of feeling the pressure.

  "How are things in Libya?" Remo said. "Your brave skyjackers kill any babies this week?"

  "That is enough, swine," the second guard said. "Take him, Mahmoud. We will lock him in one of the interrogation rooms."

  "Yes, Mahmoud," Remo said. "Take me. Do you know I've been walking these corridors for fifteen minutes, pissed, really pissed, just looking for somebody to take it out on? Do you know what a favor you're doing me?"

  Mahmoud looked at the smaller Libyan and shrugged. The American might be deranged.

  "Do you know what I'm going to do to you, Mahmoud?" Remo asked. "What's your name?" he suddenly asked the second man.

  "Ahmed."

  "That's right. All you wogs are named Mahmoud or Ahmed."

  "For your insolence," Ahmed said, "I will take charge of your interrogation myself."

  Both guards now had pistols out from the shoulder holsters that lay inside their heavily padded suit jackets.

  "Let's go," Mahmoud said. He removed his right hand from Remo's shoulder and, with his left hand, poked his gun barrel into Remo's stomach.

  "What a gift you two are," said Remo. "A real pair of winners. You know what you can do with that gun?"

  "I can fire it," Mahmoud said. His thumb cocked the hammer of the gun. His left index finger felt the hard cold metal of the trigger under the ridges of his fingertip. And then the gun was in the American's hands.

  "And now you, Ahmed," said Remo.

  Ahmed jumped back a step and tried to fire at Remo. Remo removed both the pistol and Ahmed's trigger finger with one move of the side of his right hand.

  He held both guns in front of him, then juggled them in the air in his right hand. Ahmed's index finger bounced down, onto Remo's palm and Remo dumped it onto the carpeted floor.

  Ahmed looked at the four fingers of his hand, then up at Remo, then back at his hand. He opened his mouth to scream, but he found his mouth filled with gun butts.

  "You be quiet for a while, Ahmed," said Remo. "First Mahmoud."

  The big Libyan was on Remo then from behind, both hands stretching out for the thin American's neck.

  Remo spun as Mahmoud closed on him, and drove two fingers into the bodyguard's wrists. Mahmoud felt his hands freeze in position, the fingers splayed wide as if he were holding an imaginary basketball, getting ready for an underhand foul shot.

&nbs
p; He tried to close his hands but they would not move. He tried to drop them to his sides, hut they were locked in place. He saw his hands for the first time in his life, really saw them, big hands with deep furrows in the skin and callouses alongside the fingers. Ugly hands, but workingman's hands. Mahmoud's work was killing.

  But he wanted no more killing; he wanted nothing to do with this crazy American. He backed away and Remo pushed him down into a sitting position on the floor next to Ahmed.

  Remo stared down at the two men as if surveying the south forty, looking for the best place to erect a barn.

  He leaned over and removed the two guns from Ahmed's mouth.

  "That's better," Remo said. "Now you two don't like Americans very much, and that's not right."

  Mahmond's head shook vigorously from side to side; Ahmed said, "No, no, no, no, no."

  "Nope, nope, nope," Remo said. "Don't spoil everything by talking. Now it's all right for an American not to like America. But it's not all right for you. You understand?"

  Mahmoud and Ahmed nodded, so fast the hacks of their heads bumped against the wall behind them.

  "Good," said Remo. "Now we'll just have to think of some way that you don't forget that. Ever."

  Ferenzi Barlooni, the Libyan chief delegate, had had too much champagne. He was asleep on the floor, just inside the door to the Libyan wing, when something pried at his ears, some sound insinuated itself in his head and forced him to wake up.

  He did not know how long he'd been sleeping. He squinted his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear it. But the strange sound was still there. The guards. It must be the guards. Well, he would settle that in short order. They would think twice before ever again disturbing an ambassador's sleep.

  Angrily, he stalked to the door and flung it open. He looked out into the hallway. His two guards, Ahmed and Mahmoud, were on the floor, sitting against the wall. And they were singing. What kind of drunkenness was this? Guards, singing on duty.

  Both men looked up at Barlooni and smiled sheepishly, then returned to their singing.

  For amber waves of grain,

  For purple mounted majesties,

  Above the fruited plain.

  America, America…