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  Then General Nogeira proceeded to turn the tables on his captors, making a mockery of the American judicial system. He demanded-and got-prisoner-of-war status, a private cell, and privileges usually reserved for criminals serving time in corrupt Mexican jails. Not to mention the unfreezing of his assets.

  Despite this, Nogeira had been convicted of drug trafficking, and sentenced to life without parole. But no sooner had that happened than the appeals began. It was estimated that the appeals process would not be entirely exhausted until the year 2093.

  Since he had time to kill, General Nogeira announced that he had given up Voodoo, and was now a born-again Baptist. Or would be, once, as he put it, the "gringos" allowed him to be baptized.

  Naturally, the prison authorities to whom he had put this unusual request had denied his petition, citing security risks.

  Dipping into his seemingly limitless legal fund-the product of his voracious drug dealings, which he had managed to safeguard from confiscation by claiming it represented his income from the days when he was a CIA informer-General Nogeira enlisted the American Civil Rights Collective in his attempts to embrace his newfound religion.

  It had taken nearly a year, but the ACRC had taken the issue all the way to the Florida Supreme Court. The Justice Department had caved in at that point. Not on principle, but because the appeals process was threatening to devour their entire operating budget.

  General Emmanuel Nogeira had won-once again.

  This time he publicly thanked Jesus Christ, whom he had claimed as his personal savior.

  General Nogeira asked to be baptized in the Florida Everglades, claiming that it was the environment most like that of his native country, which he missed very much.

  For the first time in nearly two years, General Emmanuel Alejandro Nogeira would be outside the walls of the maximum-security federal prison in Miami.

  There were rumors that the Medellin Cartel would hit him then. There was other intelligence that they actually planned to liberate Nogeira and reinstall him in Bananama, which he had single-handedly turned into the major coke transshipping point between Colombia and the United States.

  That was when Upstairs had ordered the hit on Nogeira.

  "Not that I mind," Remo had said at the time, "but why? He's going to rot in prison until the next century. Why not let him rot?"

  "Because," he was told, "the man is costing this country thousands of dollars a day in legal fees. He's a common criminal, yet he has been declared a prisoner of war, entitled to wear his uniform and to an allowance of seventy-five Swiss Francs a day. He has his own private cell, and two adjoining ones for his shredding machine and a safe that contains classified U.S. documents the CIA was compelled to surrender to him in the name of a fair trial." Upstairs thinned already thin lips. It was clear that Remo's superior was offended by all this. Deeply offended.

  Remo had to admit that Upstairs had a point. He didn't care if there were hit teams sent out to interrupt the baptism. He just wanted to get the hit over with and get out of the Everglades.

  So the question remained: Before the baptism, or after?

  It was a serious dilemma. If he hit Nogeira before he was baptized, then the general would probably go straight to hell. After, and maybe the guy had a chance to do penance. Spend a few centuries in Purgatory. Remo wasn't sure about that part. He had been raised Catholic. The Baptists might as well have been Jains for all he knew of their theological rules. Did they even have confession?

  Crouching on the spongy isle, Remo frowned. The frown made his cruel face harden into angular lines. He was neither handsome nor ugly. Certainly not as ugly as Emmanuel Nogeira, who looked like a comic-book depiction of the Incredible Toad Man.

  Remo's eyes were set deep into his skull, and his cheekbones pronounced. His body was lean, almost skinny, and unremarkable, except for his wrists. They were as thick as door posts, as if some mad surgeon had implanted steel rods where his ulna and radius connected with his metacarpals.

  Except that the wrists were Remo's own. The two decades of training in the discipline that was Sinanju, the sun-source of the martial arts, had produced this freakish side effect.

  Remo tried to imagine what his mentor, the Reigning Master of Sinanju, would say about his dilemma.

  He could hear the squeaky voice in his mind's ear after only a moment's reflection.

  "Do the House of Sinanju proud. Leave no trace."

  Not much help there. Remo thought back to his orphanage days, and Sister Mary Margaret.

  Remo wasn't quite sure what Sister Mary Margaret would have said, but it probably would have entailed calling off the hit. Not an option for America's secret assassin.

  Finally, Remo considered the counsel of his superior, Dr. Harold W. Smith.

  It was easy to figure out Smith's hypothetical advice. "Just do it quietly," Smith would say.

  That went without saying. Smith, who ran the supersecret government organization for which Remo worked, had a mania for secrecy. And with good reason. The agency officially did not exist. It was known only as CURE. CURE was no acronym. The letters had no individual meaning. CURE was the symbolic name for the agency's function. That is, a prescription for American society, which criminals such as Emmanuel Nogeira had made sick by twisting constitutional guarantees to serve their own criminal purposes.

  Remo had dealt with a great many people who made a mockery of the Constitution, but few did so as blatantly as General Nogeira, who wasn't even a U.S. citizen. This, perhaps more than anything, Remo decided, had offended the proper Smith.

  The more Remo thought about it, the more it offended him, too.

  He made his decision.

  "Screw the baptism," he murmured. "Let him burn forever."

  Just then the sound of approaching air-boats sent birds fleeing, and brought on a spasm of splashing in the cypress roots. Remo counted eight splashes. The identical number of alligator heartbeats his sensitive ears had detected pumping in syncopation with reptilian lungs.

  Maybe, Remo thought with a fierce grin, the gators will enjoy a nice Banamanian snack.

  Remo parted a thicket of yellow-green leaves that felt like cardboard cutouts, and got a good look at the noisy procession.

  There were six air-boats in all. The lead boat was choked with Federal marshals, and a few others in blue windbreakers emblazoned with the stenciled letters FBI. They brandished machine pistols.

  The occupants of the second boat were too well dressed to be law-enforcement officials. Unless gold Rolexes and hand-tooled leather briefcases had become standard-issue. Remo decided that they were Nogeira's lawyers. He counted twenty. The rest must have had the day off.

  There was no mistaking General Emmanuel Alejandro Nogeira, as the first two air-boats rounded a twisted oak dressed in Spanish moss, and the third came into view.

  The general wore his fawn-colored military uniform, with its row of three bronze stars on black shoulder boards. His uniform was impeccable-no doubt drycleaned at U.S. taxpayer expense.

  The general stood in the blunt bow of the air-boat, unfettered, because the ACRC insisted that it was unconstitutional to manacle an individual while he practiced his religion. The Florida Supreme Court had agreed to that-by a narrow margin.

  He was, Remo saw, even uglier in person than on TV.

  The general was short and squat, like a repulsive frog. Remo recalled reading that in his native country he was called El Sapo-the Toad-because of his bestial brown face and heavy-lidded serpent's eyes. He was also sometimes called Cara Pina, or "Pineapple Face." He had more acne scars than Tom Hayden.

  Remo decided right then and there that the alligators probably would not touch the man. Unless alligators practiced cannibalism.

  The first air-boat turned, and Remo saw that the three boats trailing in the rear were filled with reporters. There were a lot of reporters, burdened with minicams and camera equipment. They were busy interviewing a man and a woman. The man was dressed in minister's black. The woman he
couldn't see clearly.

  This presented Remo with a fresh dilemma. Since officially he no longer existed, he would have to figure out a way to take out Nogeira without getting his latest face on nationwide TV. Every time that happened, Upstairs insisted he go under the knife. Remo had had so much plastic surgery over the years the only change Upstairs hadn't made was to turn his face inside out.

  There was a big hump of dry isle nearby, and one by one the air-boats throttled down and glided up to this. Their prows beached with gritty hissing sounds.

  General Emmanuel Nogeira stepped off the air-boat like Napoleon onto Saint Helena.

  He lifted his hands into the air, fists clenched-a gesture that would have been familiar to anyone who had watched television in the months before the U.S. intervention that had turned Nogeira into a prisoner of war. His thick, blubbery lips peeled back into a dazzling smile. It was the only thing about General Nogeira that was not inherently repulsive. The smile was dazzling. It belonged on someone else's face.

  The baptist minister stepped forward, open prayer book in hand.

  "Shall we begin?" he inquired.

  A throaty female voice cut in. "Not until the speech."

  This brought a glower from one of the Federal marshals, who said, "We are here to allow the prisoner to exercise his freedom of religion, not to give a speech."

  "Not him," the throaty voice snapped. "Me."

  "No time," the marshal said.

  "If I am not allowed to exercise my constitutional right to free speech," the voice growled, "then I fully intend to sue you, your superiors, and the entire United States government."

  The Federal marshal turned red. An FBI agent stepped forward. They conferred briefly.

  Finally the Federal marshal said, "Make it short." He did not sound happy about the delay.

  The woman came into view. Remo recognized her then. Rona Ripper. The ACRC lawyer who had singlehandedly spearheaded the legal drive to get General Nogeira baptized. She looked like Elivra, plus forty pounds.

  Rona Ripper stepped up to General Nogeira and put her arm around his shoulder. The general's smile gained an inch at either side of his mouth as he placed his arm under hers. His hand came to rest at the small of her back, above the belt line.

  "This man," she said loudly, "stands before you a victim of U.S. imperialism!"

  Camera flashbulbs popped. Microphones rose. Pencils scribbled furiously in lined note pads.

  "This man, this patriot in his country, was exercising his right to rule his nation as he saw fit, when murderous U.S. killer-soldiers descended from the skies and virtually kidnapped him out of his lawful seat of power!"

  Remo wondered if Rona Ripper was talking about the same General Nogeira who had nullified an election, and had his goons stone the duly-elected president and vicepresident of Bananama in full view of television cameras.

  From his vantage point, Remo had an excellent view as the general's hand slipped down over the woman's right buttock. He gave her a playful squeeze. Rona Ripper went on as if she hadn't noticed.

  "They accuse this man of all kinds of barbarism!" she thundered. "None of it true!"

  General Nogeira pinched experimentally.

  "This man is neither a criminal nor a torturer nor a murderer. He is kind, gentle, and loving. Children write him letters, and he answers every one of them."

  General Nogeira took a fistful of buttock and gave Rona Ripper a hard squeeze.

  Rona Ripper turned bright red. It was impossible to tell if the coloring was the result of blushing, or the passion aroused in her by her speech. She plowed on.

  "He is a great man, a man who-"

  General Nogeira's straying hand went up to the top of Rona's skirt and slipped down inside it.

  This produced an immediate reaction. Rona Ripper shoved him away and simultaneously slapped him in his pocked face.

  Remo took this as his cue.

  He withdrew into the water. It smelled. Remo drew in a deep breath and his head went under. He struck out in the general direction of the isle where the baptism was to take place.

  Even though it smelled, the water conducted sound perfectly. It brought to Remo's alert ears the slither and splash of an alligator entering the water.

  Remo changed direction. He scarcely had to turn his head in the direction he wanted to go, and his body followed. That was Sinanju, which unified every cell in the body into a single responsive organic engine.

  The alligator was long and greenish-black, like a mutant glob of snot, and it had hooded eyes that reminded Remo very much of General Nogeira's. Sleepy, yet as creepy.

  The gator was working in his direction by kicking and pawing the water with its feet. Its mouth yawned open, disclosing rows of yellowed needle teeth

  Remo knew little enough about alligators. He did know they could grab hold of a man's arm and literally saw off the limb. He got that from a Leave it to Beaver episode. Their muscular tails could lash out and stun a man senseless, perhaps kill him. Remo wasn't sure where he'd picked up that morsel of information. He might actually have read it somewhere, but the "where" escaped him, and there was no time to think about it because the alligator had suddenly shot forward, his jaws distending.

  For a wild moment, Remo wondered if it was going to attempt to swallow his head. Did alligators do that?

  Remo made a half fist that left his lower palm exposed and drove the hard heel of his right hand into the alligator's snout

  Limp-legged, the reptile shot back as if equipped with reverse thrusters. And why not? It had just been struck by a blow that carried as much force behind it as a steampowered pile driver.

  Remo shot ahead, catching up to the reptile.

  He took hold of its jaws and closed them like a crude suitcase. Then, twisting, he took hold of the creature's forelegs, aligning his body with that of the reptile's.

  Remo allowed himself to float upward. The feel of the alligator's knobby stomach against his back was like a pebbled beach. Although he was certain the creature had been stunned, he reached up and gave the slick stomach a tickle. He had heard that that made alligators go to sleep. He didn't believe it, but what could it hurt?

  When the alligator's ridged back and protuberent eyes popped above the water's surface, there was no sign of Remo Williams.

  The alligator started moving forward, looking for all the world like any ordinary alligator swimming through the Everglades-except that this one's legs did not kick and his long tail, instead of trailing behind, drooped forlornly in the brackish water.

  Because he wanted the reptile to look as natural as possible, Remo made more splashings with his feet than he needed to pilot the alligator to his destination.

  Remo's plan was simple. He was going to push the alligator along like a horny torpedo, toward the baptismal site, then slip away.

  While everyone-and more importantly, every camera-was focused on the reptile, he would slip out of the water, deal with the target, and slip back. A single heartstopping blow would make it look like Nogeira had suffered a heart attack.

  The unexpected crackle of gunfire made Remo abandon the plan, and the alligator. At first Remo thought they had spotted the gator too soon, and had opened up on it.

  He pushed against the beast, seeking the water bottom. His idea was to get as deep as possible. Most bullets lost force and direction upon entering the water.

  As soon as Remo touched bottom, he realized the gunfire was not directed toward him or the gator. There were almost no sounds of bullets plunking into water.

  Remo took a chance. He thrust his head above the waterline.

  He saw pandemonium.

  The phalanx of beached air-boats was coming apart in a storm of automatic weapons fire. The protective steel cages over the pusher propellers seemed to be melting, the firing was so fierce.

  The Federal marshals and FBI agents drew weapons and dived for cover. The media, however, simply stood their ground busily recording every bullet strike and sound as if they h
ad papal dispensations to protect them from harm.

  The sources of the firing were the approaching airboats and cigarette boats. Brown-skinned gunmen lined the rails. Assorted Uzis, Mac-10s, Tec-9s and other vicious weapons were pouring out concentrated hell.

  Everyone seemed to have a role to play in the sudden drama-except General Emmanuel Nogeira. He stood frozen, bestial face going from the converging attackers to the federal agents digging in for cover. His wide mouth hung open like a greedy frog's.

  It was clear the general didn't know whether he was being attacked or rescued.

  In the act of pulling the general's groping hand from her skirt, Rona Ripper went white as a sheet.

  General Nogeira grabbed her and wrestled her around and in front of him. Bullets chopped moss off cypress tree branches and made plinking sounds in the water.

  Remo submerged.

  The attacking boats were not far from his position. He laid his palms on his thighs and gave a great double kick.

  Remo became a human arrow. As he passed under a pair of boats, he poked holes in the careening hulls. If any of the cameras had been underwater, they would have recorded a casual tapping. Remo used one finger. It was enough.

  Perfectly round finger-sized holes perforated the hulls. Water surged in. Then the crafts began to wallow and slow down.

  Remo veered toward an air-boat. Its flat bottom surged over him.

  He took hold of the dangling rudder and made a fist. The fist went through the aluminum hull as if the fist were aluminum and the hull mere flesh.

  Kicking back, Remo got out of the way.

  The air-boat, being shallow, simply dropped. Mud began stirring up when the great spinning fan dropped below the water line.

  Remo moved among the floundering passengers, pulling them down by their legs and breaking their spines at the neck like a farmer harvesting chickens.

  Through the nicely sound-conducting water, Remo caught the shrill scream of panic.