Ship Of Death td-28 Read online

  "Kill him," ordered Zarudi. But the bodyguard only smiled dully at the ambassador's shoulder, the chin touching his cheek. "Kill him," said Zarudi, turning to the right behind him. But the other guard looked back at the ambassador with a sickly grin and tears in his eyes. He held his hands in front of his dark pants, even darker at the crotch where he had wet them.

  "Kill him," ordered Zarudi again.

  "My lord, look," said the guard, pointing to his partner.

  The ambassador, already annoyed at the man's insolence in resting his chin on an ambassadorial shoulder, heard sticky liquid at his left shoe as he shifted his weight. He looked down. The guard's arm was bleeding at Zarudi's shoe. How could his arm be down there and his chin resting on Zaradi's shoulder?

  Zarudi stutter-stepped backward and when he saw the guard's head held aloft in the air, and the headless body on the floor, bleeding like a red sewer from the neck, he screamed. The American had decapitated the guard with his hands and had done so silently. Zarudi remembered the guards' thick neck muscles and the comment from the military that in hand-to-hand combat, the Shah's personal guards liked to hare added layers of neck muscles because that was where hand fighters liked to hit.

  "That's the biz, sweetheart," said Remo. He dropped the head onto the floor with a clunk and wiped an imaginary stain from his hands. "One must believe what one must, mustn't one?"

  And thus it was that the Peacock throne in the last quarter of the twentieth century again welcomed the services of the House of Sinanju with most felicitous heart and optimistic feelings about the co-joining of Throne and loyal House.

  "Loyal to the end of the stars. Long life to the Shah. Long life to the Empress. Long life to the Prince, who in many many years shall assume his rightful throne in true glory of his true royalty, the House of Sinanju by his right hand, his sword, his shield and his assurance of ultimate victory in every encounter." So said Chiun.

  "This garbage on the floor yours? Clean it up." So said Remo.

  The ambassador, in terrified delight, wanted to assure the Master of Sinanju how grateful he was to be able to report to his Shah that the throne and House were now co-joined, but asked if the American had to come along and, if he did, could he at least be a bit more formal in his treatment of the ambassador?

  "Hey," said Remo, grabbing $150 worth of ambassadorial tie and using it as a pedestal for the man's chin. "I am very polite. Very."

  Zarudi wondered if Remo might express it a little less vigorously.

  And Chiun spoke.

  "When there is a flower of great beauty and great value, sometimes there are thorns. The greater the beauty, the sharper the thorns. We are sure His Majesty will be most appreciative of what you endure in his name."

  Thus it was agreed that the House of Sinanju would begin work immediately, but not in the capital, Teheran, but as special guards on the great ship Ship of States where there were troubles and where the Iranian delegation might itself be in danger.

  The small power craft was taken beyond the three-mile limit, the body and head weighted and dumped with a prayer from Chiun about there being no greater way to lose one's life than in the service of one's emperor. This brought up the subject of the thousand-dollar bonus, not to be taken in paper currency but in gold and jewels, the large emerald ring of the ambassador's right hand being worth approximately a thousand dollars.

  Ambassador Zarudi said the ring was worth eighteen thousand dollars.

  Chiun explained that that was a retail price, not wholesale, and he did not see why the House of Sinanju should be responsible for the inflated charges of overpaid middlemen.

  Ambassador Zarudi said he gave up the ring with a light heart.

  "Or a missing finger," said Remo.

  On their flight to New York City, Remo told Chiun he had seen pictures of the Ship of States. Smith had wanted him to learn something about it for CURE. He said he did not know how he would feel if he had to kill Americans in the line of Persian duty. He didn't know if he could do it.

  "Do not worry," said Chiun. "We are working for fools."

  "But you said there was nothing better than working for Persian royalty."

  Chiun had a sudden lapse of memory. But he pointed out that when they reached the Emperor, Remo must show more formality.

  "You think I'm maybe not polite?" asked Remo.

  "No," said Chiun. "You are most polite. I ask that you be a bit more traditional."

  "No. I think you're right. I'm not polite."

  "You can learn to be polite. You can learn the ultimate in gracious manners by merely following me."

  "I'd rather be me."

  "A noble goal and a worthwhile one," said Chiun.

  "You're only saying that because I'm down. I think I liked it better before when you were abusive."

  "So did I," said Chiun. "But I was not abusive. The toad always thinks the flower offends his ugly body. As for your goal to just be yourself, the rocks that line the road have achieved that. Your contentment with yourself is an overwhelming triumph of bad taste over perception. And as for going to the Shah's court in Teheran, I must now haul mud to the Peacock throne and attempt to disguise it as jewels. It has been very wearing on me, trying to lift your spirits. I am tired of being nice."

  A stewardess returned from the front of the plane with two messages. One, the ambassador wished to see Remo and Chiun up front immediately. Two, the stewardess would settle for Remo later. She gave a wet-lipped smile.

  "Tell him if he wants us, he can come back here," Remo said.

  "Tell him," said Chiun, "we work industriously in his behalf."

  "Well, which is it?"'asked the stewardess.

  "They are both the same," said Chiun.

  Soon, the second and still-living bodyguard came respectfully from the front of the plane with two large envelopes. He said Ambassador Zarudi wanted his assassins to read the newspaper articles, so they would know the dangers of the United Nations ship.

  Remo told Chiun he had been at some sort of briefing about the ship and the security men from many nations feared it might become the target for terrorists, possibly holding the entire ship for ransom on its maiden voyage.

  Chiun took half the clippings and Remo took the other half. Chiun read "Mary Worth" and Remo read "Peanuts." The other sides of the clippings were marked with red crayons. The headlines told of a new terrorist group—the Scythian Liberation Front.

  Chiun asked to exchange clippings. He read "Peanuts" and Remo read "Mary Worth." Chiun did not like animals that talked. Momentarily, the ambassador himself returned.

  What, he asked, did the Master of Sinanju think of the dangers of the Scyths? What, in the great history of the House of Sinanju, did the world's greatest assassins learn about the Scyths? Zaradi pointed out that the once-feared Scyths no longer existed as a people. At least that was what everyone thought, but they had thought the same thing about the House of Sinanju. Perhaps the Scyths still existed too.

  Chiun allowed as how the use of the name was quite significant. He pointed out that the Scyths were ancient enemies of the Medes, the ambassador's forebears who came even before the Persians. Excited, Zarudi said, yes, this was true. And Chiun said that the very use of the name posed special dangers to the Peacock throne. But, along with the dangers, there was also a great advantage, because those who used the name Scyth did not know that the House of Sinanju now dominated the night in the name of Persia, waiting to deal death to the ambassador's enemies.

  "You are going to attack?" asked Zarudi.

  "No," said Remo. "We are going to use their strength as their weakness. The weaker you appear, the more fatal for the Scyths."

  Chiun nodded with approval.

  "Hail the House of Sinanju," said the ambassador.

  Churn wanted even more information about the Scyths, preferably with "Mary Worth" on the back.

  "A time of great danger and great opportunity," Chiun told the ambassador, winking at Remo. He carefully examined Remo's newspape
r clippings. There were no more "Mary Worths."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was a grand launching.

  The great United Nations ship moved out into New York Harbor bearing enough lights to power Iowa for a month.

  There were enough newsmen from around the globe to staff The New York Times, the London Times and Pravda combined, although they all covered the launching from the dock, the United Nations having decided that the press of the world was scandal happy and not to be trusted. Henceforth all news of United Nations activities would come from a UN press officer, a fourteen-thousand-dollar-a-year African with a degree in Cultural Anthropological Artifacts, otherwise known as basket weaving.

  The holds of the big ship carried enough food and luxury liquors to supply the great armies of Genghis Khan for two years in the field. The awesome atomic engines, deep in their sealed and cooled water beds, moved the great propeller screws with 120 times the power of the atomic weapon dropped on Hiroshima in World War II.

  Ship of States moved like an immaculate white peninsula, slowly drifting from land out into the great Atlantic Ocean. Men were dots on this behemoth. It would take delegates a full year to explore the entire ship with its ballrooms, meeting rooms, consulates, tennis courts, and gymnasium/stadium with an Astro-turf floor and seating for five thousand. At full speed the great ship took a minimum of 12.27 miles to stop.

  There was no feel of motion but passengers were told that sudden earthquakelike rumblings in the stem would really be the shock waves of the bow crushing waves before the boat. The UN ship did not cut through waves, but crushed them. A demonstration for delegates had likened it to a broom handle pushed down into a tall narrow tumbler. The water splashed up around the broom handle.

  Ambassador Zarudi himself explained what he knew of this great ship as porters carried Chiun's fourteen lacquered trunks into the Iranian consul section. Zarudi asked what the Master of Sinanju thought of this marvel of the twentieth century.

  "Drafty," said Chiun. The ambassador himself showed Chiun how to adjust the temperature control, which also provided the exact humidity desired.

  "Stuffy," said Chiun.

  Zarudi adjusted the panel again,

  "Moist," said Chiun.

  The ambassador went back to the panel.

  "Dry," said Chiun.

  Zarudi offered to let Chiun adjust the temperature and moisture to his own tastes.

  "No," said Chiun. "Hardship for the glory and honor of the Peacock throne is not hardship but joy." Remo knew this was nonsense because the human body itself was the greatest furnace and the greatest air conditioner if one could use it right, and Chiun could. However, he said nothing because Chiun had explained that in working for an Emperor, the only person necessary to please was the Emperor himself. He had warned Remo about becoming too friendly with Ambassador Zarudi, which Remo had said was highly unlikely.

  "Be polite but not friendly," Chrun warned.

  Zarudi asked Chiun to examine the consulate for safety to see where any terrorist group might find a flaw in the protective devices.

  He talked of electronic eyes and guards posted here and guards posted there and how a person could not unlock certain doors without certain codes.

  "Did you build this?" asked Chiun after serenely gliding through staterooms, reception rooms, clerks' rooms, communications rooms, meeting rooms and bedrooms.

  "No," said Zarudi. "This was built by the great shipping magnate, Demosthenes Skouratis. It is the greatest ship ever to float."

  "And this Skouratis is loyal to the Emperor?"

  "He did not build it for the Emperor but for the world."

  "If someone sewed a suit for someone else, would you wear it, Persian?" asked Chiun.

  "No. Of course not," said Zarudi who was known as one of the better-dressed men in the diplomatic corps.

  "If you would not trust your appearance to something made for someone else, why then do you trust your life? You will tell His Excellency that the Master of Sinanju declares this consulate unsafe because it was not built by Persian hands. This I give as a gift. We are not bodyguards, but we know how they should think and work. You talked of flames in rooms and people disappearing who have cut off heads. This is not surprising, none of it. You should be grateful that these things happened early, sealing the greatest exposure in your armor—your false sense of security. For the greatest danger to any man is his illusion of safety."

  "What should we do?" asked Zarudi.

  "Build your own fortress."

  "But we are part of a greater ship. We can't build our own ship."

  "Then learn how to die in such a manner as not to bring shame to your emperor."

  Zarudi's glacial composure shattered like an ice cube under a mallet. What had the Master of Sinanju been hired for? If Zarudi were killed, it would show weakness in the Peacock throne. How could a Master of Sinanju tell his employer to die well? Chiun was not hired, Zarudi said, to stand around and watch favorites of the Emperor die.

  "The great sword does not make the world safe for fleas," said Chiun, and turned away from Zarudi. Remo shrugged. He didn't like this business. He didn't like Zarudi. He didn't like the ship. He didn't like the perfumed smell of the diplomats and he didn't like having servants around. He felt uncomfortable with them.

  There were gifts from the Shah in their rooms: silver tea services, a jeweled cup, a large French-made television set inlaid with the symbols of the House of Sinanju in gold and silver, porcelain boxes, silk mats for sleeping, the choicest fruits and fowls and a young dark-eyed girl in a very stiff European suit. She had been educated in Paris and was their clerk-typist.

  "We don't use that sort of stuff. Thanks anyhow," said Remo.

  "I have much correspondence," said Chiun. "She will be used."

  "Who do you write to?"

  "Many people write to me," said Chiun, and it was time for silence because he was about to use the television set from the Shah for the first time.

  "An emperor," said Chiun, "knows how to treat an assassin. In America, Smith was so ashamed he bade us work in secret. What disgrace. See now, Remo, the way that civilized people respect the House of Sinanju?"

  Going up on deck was like taking a subway through New York City. You knew you would eventually get where you were going but you weren't sure how. Security men with badges from different nations crowded the elevators to the decks. The men in the elevator with Remo sported an assortment of rifles, submachine guns and pistols that could fill a small armory.

  "I see you're Iranian security," said a thin man with a very cumbersome pistol that looked like a shotgun with a grip. Remo couldn't place his accent.

  "Yeah," said Remo. He wore the Iranian badge with his identification picture on a black tee shirt. He wore his usual loafers and gray slacks.

  "You don't carry a weapon?" the man asked.

  "Right," said Remo.

  "A bit dangerous, no?"

  "What?" asked Remo.

  "Not carrying a weapon."

  "No," said Remo.

  "You don't sound Iranian."

  "I studied language arts in Newark, New Jersey."

  "You don't look Iranian," the man said.

  "That helped in Newark."

  "I know a faster way to the deck. Want to take it?"

  "All right," said Remo. The man was quite interested in the Iranian consulate's new security system.

  "You're supposed to have something nobody else has."

  "Really?" said Remo.

  "Yes. Ambassador Zarudi was boasting about it. Everyone is talking about the new Iranian security system. They say it's the best in the world."

  "You don't say," said Remo. The elevator door opened to a corridor that looked decorated in nineteenth-century-American galvanized pipe. The other corridors Remo had seen were done with tapestries and rugs and lush indirect lighting, glistening off polished teak and mahogany. Even the floor here was bare rubber.

  It absorbed the other man's footsteps so that he wa
lked soundlessly. Remo had not made a sound when walking for the last ten years. He could run through a corridor of Rice Krispies softer than a Kleenex dropping on a pillow. It was the way you moved, not the speed. But this ugly gray floor seemed designed to smother the clumsy clop and press of the average walk.

  Pink and blue and black strips ran along the gray walls. It was obviously a repair corridor of some sort hut there was no plumbing here. The strips Remo recognized as one of the newer forms of wiring. Yet why was the wiring exposed and not the plumbing? Remo's conclusion about these contradictory facts was that he did not care all that much.

  "I don't see the deck," Remo said.

  "We're coming to it."

  "When?" said Remo.

  "Soon," said the man. "Don't raise your voice."

  "Suffocate," said Remo loudly and began to sing.

  "I asked you once nicely," said the man. The heavy-barreled pistol came out of the holster.

  "You didn't fall down on your knees when you asked. Where's the deck?"

  "You will keep quiet," said the man.

  "And if I don't you're going to shoot that thing? That's stupid."

  "This has a silencer," said the man. "It's not really a shotgun, you know."

  "No kidding," said Remo, snapping it out of the man's hands so quickly that the man was pulling his trigger finger through the air where the trigger had once been. Remo held the pistol in his palm and tried to tell where the silencer was. He used to know guns fairly well but he thought this must be a new model. He flipped the pistol back to the thin man and as the man's arms went up to catch it. Remo snapped a forefinger into the man's belly button. The floor absorbed the sound of falling bodies also. The man moaned softly.

  Remo walked the strange corridors looking for an exit. He passed a room that had one full wall filled with television sets, all on, receiving pictures of what was going on in the conference halls, staterooms and even the bedrooms.