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  "That was the best champagne we have!" the waiter gulped.

  "Next time, consider taking it," Remo said, gesturing toward the open door.

  "Next time I will."

  After the front door had closed, Remo knocked on Chiun's.

  "Soup's on!" he called.

  The door flew open and there stood the Master of Sinanju, his eyes steely.

  "Uh-oh," said Remo, noticing the color of the old Korean's kimono. It was black. Black silk. And cut high at the sleeve and hem. The better for combat.

  It was the traditional night-fighting garment of the Master of Sinanju. Designed for optimum stealth. Remo had a Western-style version, which consisted of a black silk blouse and flowing beltless pants.

  "Your Duck in Orange Sauce is here," he said, hiding his surprise.

  "I have no time for duck," said the Master of Sinanju, sweeping past Remo like a black patch of darkness. "I must avenge this insult to my viewing pleasure."

  Remo followed him anxiously. "Are you going somewhere?"

  Chiun shook a tiny fist in the air. "I am going to pluck every hair from the ruffian's ugly beard."

  "Not Castro?"

  "That is who he will be by the rising of the morning sun," Chiun spat.

  "Huh?"

  "Not Castro. Not anyone."

  Remo snapped his fingers. "I got an idea."

  "What?" asked Chiun, hesitating by the wheeled cart, where the heavy smell of Duck in Orange Sauce fought with the more 'delicate aroma of trout Almondine for command of the suite.

  "Let's call Smith."

  "I do not call emperors," Chiun sniffed. "Emperors call me. To do otherwise would be unseemly."

  "I have a hunch Smith sent us here to deal with the Castro thing," Remo added hopefully.

  "Then he sent us too late. The damage has been done. I have been deprived of the sight of my beloved Cheeta."

  "And so you're going to sally off and box his ears."

  Chiun paused, his expression intrigued. "I had not thought of the ears. Perhaps I will save them in a box. Should Smith come to his senses, they will make a suitable present."

  "That's not what I meant by 'box,' but never mind. What I'm saying is that you're about to perform a service for Smith."

  "I am doing nothing of the sort!"

  "But if you do it, and wasting Castro is what Smith wanted done," Remo pointed out, "you'll be doing it for nothing. Thereby violating Sinanju Rule Number Two. No free lunches."

  "But I cannot contact him. It would be wrong."

  "But you can't go after Castro, either. You'd be giving away the store. The job done, Smith wouldn't have to come to the table on the negotiation."

  The Master of Sinanju listened to the words of his pupil. His eyes narrowed. And narrowed some more. The conflicting thoughts racing through his brain were mirrored on his wrinkled parchment face. He stroked his trembling beard thoughtfully, then with agitation.

  "I must do this," he said harshly.

  "No, you mustn't," countered Remo, sensing victory.

  Now the puffs of hair over each delicate yellow ear were trembling too. The Master of Sinanju was at an impasse.

  He exploded. "Why are you doing this! Why are you telling me these things? You are up to some mischief!"

  "I pulled a you. Okay? Smith sent us here for a reason, and you're playing games. Something big is brewing. We gotta deal with it directly."

  Chiun stamped a sandaled foot. "I cannot call Smith!"

  "Fine. Just let me do it."

  "And bring shame down upon the house?"

  "Well, there's gotta be a way. And the duck is getting cold."

  Angrily, the Master of Sinanju went to the covered tray. He lifted the cover and sniffed dubiously, his tiny button nose wrinkling like a dried apricot.

  "It smells greasy."

  "Then go to Cuba and squander the negotiational high ground, if that's what you want," Remo said hotly.

  The Master of Sinanju frowned.

  Thinking I've got him now, Remo closed in for the kill.

  "Tell you what," he said. "I'll go down to the lobby and call someone on my phone card."

  "What good will that do?" Chiun wanted to know.

  "The card number will appear on the AT net and Smith will see it," Remo explained. "He'll reach out to touch us. And bingo: problem solved."

  "I will accept that." He raised a cautionary finger and added, "But be certain not to call Smith."

  "Trust me," said Remo, going to the door. "And don't let my trout get cold."

  Remo took the elevator to the cavernous lobby and used his phone card to call the local Dial-a-Joke.

  The joke was: How do you get a one-armed man out of a tree? Remo hung up before the punchline.

  By the time he got back to his room, the bedroom phone was ringing.

  He scooped it up and said, "Wave to him."

  Smith's voice was high and anxious. "Remo! I've been trying to reach you all day!"

  "Well, we've been here," Remo said innocently, "Chiun and I, patiently waiting."

  "I told Master Chiun to register at the Biltmore."

  "He brought me here, Smitty."

  "According to the front desk, you are registered under the names Frodo Jones and Mr. C. Lee."

  Remo rolled his eyes. "I think I'm Frodo," he growled. "Chiun checked us in. You'll be happy to know he's been very security-conscious lately."

  "I am pleased to hear this, but I think he's gone too far. I have no record of any of your credit cards being used to check in."

  "Chiun must have picked up the tab. Amazing as it seems."

  Smith's voice sank to a lower register. "Has this anything to do with the current contract dispute?" he asked.

  Before Remo could answer, the Master of Sinanju's voice came loudly: "Remo, your meal is becoming cold. Please inform the illustrious Emperor Smith that you will be happy to converse once we have dined."

  "No, Remo, don't hang up! We have a crisis. An unknown military force has landed at the Bay of Pigs, and in retaliation Castro has attempted to take out the nuclear power plant at Turkey Point."

  "He did!"

  "Yes. Fortunately, the MIG was shot down before it could inflict any damage. But we expect another attempt."

  "So what do you want Chiun and me to do?" Remo asked sourly. "Patrol all of southern Florida with our slingshots poised?"

  "No. I have conferred with the President. Castro is convinced this is a CIA-U.S. operation, but it is no such thing. It is critical that we locate the true provocateurs and expose them."

  "Wait a minute! Hold the phone! Are you saying we're supposed to go after the guys who are attacking Castro?"

  "Yes. And it is imperative."

  Remo lowered his voice. "Uh, Smitty, I hate to break this to you, but Old Bushyface has been jamming the TV channels down here."

  "I am aware of that."

  "Are you aware that he cut in on Cheeta Ching's evening screed?" Remo added.

  "Why is that important?" Smith asked, testy-voiced.

  "Oh, I don't know," Remo said airily. "Maybe because Chiun was watching and got pissed."

  "I will have a tape made," Smith said quickly. "He will have missed nothing."

  "And just as you called," Remo added, "he was on his way out the door to assassinate Castro."

  "I was not!" Chiun called from the other room.

  "Remo," Smith hissed. "Do not let Chiun provoke that lunatic. Our highest priority is to keep the lid on an explosive situation."

  "I can't make any guarantees," Remo said slowly.

  "Those who are without gainful employment are unpredictable," Chiun called out. "The homeless are without hope, and where there is no hope, passions run high."

  "What is he saying?" Smith asked harshly.

  "Tell you what, Smitty," Remo said. "Maybe you should talk to Chiun. Get this contract knot unraveled."

  "There is no time," Smith said, his voice rippling with concern.

  "I will perform no serv
ice without certain considerations being met," Chiun announced.

  "Tell him I'll meet them," Smith said quickly.

  "I thought you were too broke," Remo asked.

  "Remo, I will meet them. Now tell him!"

  "No need," said Remo, handing the phone to the Master of Sinanju, who had suddenly appeared in the doorway. Chiun took it and listened quietly, the receiver pressed so tightly to his ear that Remo heard nothing of Smith's end of the conversation other than an intermittent lemony buzz.

  At length the Master of Sinanju said, "Remo and I will do what we can." Then he handed the phone to Remo, saying, "You will receive the instructions. I must finish my meal."

  Remo clapped the receiver to his ear. "Okay, Smitty. Nice move. Shoot."

  "We are in the dark," Smith said urgently. "There is no time for stealth or finesse. You must start in the Cuban community of Little Havana. Go there immediately. Turn the place upside down if you must. Find out who sponsored this Bay of Pigs incursion and put a stop to any further activity."

  "Sounds simple enough," said Remo. "Any name in particular I should start with?"

  "Yes. Dr. Osvaldo Revuelta, reputed leader of Ultima Hora."

  "Ultima what?"

  "Ultima Hora. It is Spanish for 'Eleventh Hour.' Revuelta is a wealthy Cuban expatriate who is suspected of financing Ultima Hora, a group of Cuban mercenaries bent upon retaking the island. It is believed that Revuelta's ultimate goal is to establish himself as the first democratic President of Cuba."

  "Sounds like he's on our side," Remo said.

  "Not if his activities put the U.S. and Cuba on a collision course," Smith said, flat-voiced.

  "What's the big deal? We can take those Caribbean losers in an afternoon. Remember Grenada? The Cuban troops ran for their lives."

  "Remo, you know the situation in Russia. It is extremely delicate. There is a mood to return to the Soviet model. Our government and theirs have a tacit understanding: Hands off Havana. If we embarrass the former Red Army, they may agitate to intervene. War fuels depressed economies, as you know."

  "I still don't like it," Remo said, face and voice bitter.

  "Nor do I. But we live in a changing world, and we must adapt. Castro can't stay in power forever. But he can cause great harm if he seizes upon this incident as a way to rally his people behind his crumbling regime."

  "Okay, Chiun and I are on the way."

  "Report as necessary."

  Remo hung up and sauntered back into the kitchen. There, the Master of Sinanju was patting his tiny mouth with a linen napkin. On the plate under his bearded chin lay the bodily remains-largely spine-of a trout.

  "You ate my trout!" Remo shouted.

  "The duck was greasy," Chiun said.

  "But you knew that!"

  "I did not know how greasy. Besides, the trout would have been cold by the time you returned to it, and both of our dinners would have been ruined. Why should two suffer when the wisdom of one can prevent this?"

  Remo picked up a bamboo chopstick and poked at the duck. The crackling brown skin broke. No steam leaked out. He could see by the gelatinous state of the orange sauce that the meal was stone-cold.

  "I wasn't in the mood for duck," he complained. "And I'm sure not in the mood for cold duck in congealed orange sauce."

  The Master of Sinanju stood up and shook back into place his black silk kimono sleeves, which had been folded high over his bony elbows.

  "Fasting is good for a Master of Sinanju-especially one who is about to embark on an important assignment," he said sagely.

  "Oh, yeah? Then why didn't you fast?"

  "Because," cackled the Master of Sinanju, "I was faster than you. Heh heh. I was faster, therefore I had no need to fast. Heh heh heh."

  Chapter 6

  Dr. Osvaldo Revuelta considered himself a soldier of the Americas.

  He was proud. He was brave. He was a Cuban through and through. There was nothing he would not do to restore his beleaguered nation to its former glory.

  When the ragtag guerilleros of the Sierra Maestra began their campaign, he had laid down the shining tools of his lucrative La Plata gynecological practice, absolved himself of his Hippocratic Oath, and taken up arms against them.

  It was a terrible day when Fidel rode through the streets of Havana. Dr. Revuelta had gotten on the first Cubana plane to Miami. He had seen how the crowds were with Fidel.

  He had thought it would be a temporary thing. But the years had rolled on, slow and terrible. And when he'd realized there would be no soon return to Havana, Dr. Revuelta decided to fight the Fidelistas from a distance.

  His first act was to shoot at a Bulgarian tanker. He used a bazooka purchased on the black market. The bazooka rocket punched a neat hole through the bow of the Bulgar ship, which sailed stubbornly on. The government of Bulgaria had protested to the United States.

  The FBI came knocking at his door, since Dr. Revuelta had taken to boasting about his act of retaliation to his compatriots in the watering holes of Little Havana.

  "Yes, I did shoot the Bulgar bastardos with my bazooka," he admitted forthrightly. "What of it? They are the allies of our great enemy, Fidel." And he spat at the feet of the two unblinking FBI men.

  "You'll have to come with us," one said with a toneless politeness.

  "Jou have use for me, perhaps?" Revuelta said eagerly. "I will gladly lead the charge up San Juan Hill, eh?"

  "I'm sorry, Dr. Revuelta. You are under arrest."

  "Por que? Why? I have done nothing illegal."

  "You fired a bazooka at a ship of foreign registry while standing on U.S. soil. A clear violation of the Neutrality Act."

  "Hah! Jou are wrong! I was in my cabin cruiser. She is a speedy yob, that ship. I call her What a Country! Is true, no?"

  The FBI men did not laugh. They barely moved. And they continued to insist that Revuelta was under arrest.

  Dr. Revuelta went with them. He answered their tiresome questions truthfully, and when he saw that-amazement of amazements-they were taking this matter very seriously, he pretended to break down.

  "I am anguished with shame," he said mournfully. "Jou are correct. I have done a terrible thing, and now my friends are about to commit a worse act of heinousness."

  The chief FBI interrogator became very interested indeed. "What act?" he had asked.

  "My compatriots. Fellow exiles. They are placing bombs in ships down at the docks."

  "Which ships?"

  "I will take jou there." He dabbed at his dark eyes. "I am so remorseful."

  A drab sedan whisked them to the docks. As they got out, Dr. Revuelta lifted his manacled hands and brought them down on the chief interrogator's crewcut head. The man had crumpled like a trenchcoat crammed with potatoes. The driver was harder to conquer. Dr. Revuelta had to punch and kick him many times, and still he did not lose consciousness.

  As the man lay stunned, Dr. Revuelta rushed along the docks, trying to unlock the handcuffs with the tiny key he had rummaged from the first man's pockets.

  He was looking for Spanish names on the ships. When he came to the Santander, he smiled broadly and started up the gangplank.

  Halfway up, the handcuffs finally came loose and he flung them with all his might into the filthy water by the bow.

  The sound brought all hands to the bow rail in search of stowaways. This was distraction enough for Dr. Revuelta to slip aboard and find a place to hide.

  When the Santander docked in Pernambuco, Brazil, Dr. Revuelta walked off the boat as he did everything: boldly. No one questioned him.

  In Pernambuco he continued his work, certain that he would not be criticized for his continued counterrevolutionary activities by the United States government, which was altogether too sensitive about these matters.

  He learned different when the Cubana Airlines jet exploded over the Gulf of Mexico and seventy-three Cubans died. The United States denounced it as a terrorist action.

  "Terrorista!" Dr. Revuelta had screamed from his p
alatial seaside hacienda. "It is counterrevolution! How can they call me terrorista?"

  Dr. Revuelta happened to ask this question in a Pernambuco bistro, and soon the Brazilian security police were knocking on his door.

  Fortunately, he spotted them from his bedroom window. Dr. Revuelta slipped out the back and hurried down to the docks. This time he stowed away on the freighter Garaucan. It took him back to Miami where, now white-haired and thin, he picked up where he had left off.

  This was in 1984, and Miami had changed. Little Havana was no longer strung along Southwest 8th Street, but spread out over virtually all of Miami. This was after the Mariel boat lift. The Marielitos had swollen the Cuban population until Miami was virtually Cuban.

  And in that rich environment, Dr. Osvaldo Revuelta began to recruit for Ultima Hora-the antiFidel guerilleros who would be his instrument of terror.

  They trained in the swamps. They set out for Cuba in boats. Sometimes they landed and blew up power lines and telephone poles. Other times they simply released propaganda messages in bottles.

  Sometimes they did not return.

  Dr. Revuelta never went with them. He was a soldier of the Americas, but more, he was a leader of soldiers of the Americas. Leaders who did not come back from battle did not live to lead.

  Emboldened by the new spirit of Miami, where the minorities had become the majority and Spanish was the lingua franca-despite the nervous referendum that had established English as the official language of Dade County-Dr. Revuelta began to boast once more.

  It was another mistake. He loudly claimed credit for the Cubana bombing, believing that sympathies had shifted, and overlooked but one minor detail: that the passengers of the flight had had relatives and the relatives-or some of these-had come to Miami to escape oppression. He was reported to the FBI. This time by fellow Cubans.

  On this occasion, the government tried Dr. Osvaldo Revuelta in the courts and sentenced him to jail. The Justice Department had wanted to deport him as an undesirable alien, but no country would take Dr. Revuelta.

  Except Cuba. Havana let it be known that Dr. Revuelta was very much desired in Havana.

  This time, Dr. Revuelta did not attempt escape. He knew Cuban justice. Besides, the judge had given him but five years. As it turned out, he served only two. Political pressures forced his early release.