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  "Couple of spooks," the blond man said. "That's some karma you two got, man."

  "It comes from thinking good thoughts."

  Ed threw the pistol and ducked out of sight behind the counter.

  Remo caught it with one hand. "Okay. Party's over," he said, following him. "Now, where are the..."

  There was no one there. Where the big blond man had stood, nothing remained but the black and white tiles of the floor. From the corner of the counter came a faint scratching sound. Remo turned toward the noise.

  It was Ned, crawling along the floor. "Is the coast clear?"

  "Oh, yeah," Remo said, disgusted. "It's clear, all right. The creep's disappeared."

  "Thank the Lord." Ned spread out flat on the floor with a sigh of relief. "Hey," he said, lifting his head. He was rubbing something on the floor. He dug at it with his fingernails. Surprisingly, the tile lifted, along with six others. Ned pulled it upward. A large square panel came away, revealing a deep hole with steps leading down. "What do you know," the old pilot said. "A trapdoor. Something these dope wackos would put in, all right."

  "Ned, you're a saint," Remo said. "Chiun! Over here."

  Remo scrambled into the hole. Ned scurried in behind him. Above, Chiun speeded up his work with the few die-hards who remained to fight for their missing boss. Remo heard three more screams, then silence.

  Chiun met them at the end of the passageway leading from the trapdoor to the open shore of the ocean. Docked a half-mile away was a glittering eighty-foot yacht, rising majestically out of the sea beside a bobbing dinghy. Its small outboard motor was still running.

  "That's where he went," Remo said.

  "And he's going to keep on going," Ned said. "That ship's pulling out."

  He was right. The yacht was turning slowly, preparing to head out for open sea. "You'll never catch him now. Ain't no other boats here."

  "My pupil and I do not require boats," Chiun said haughtily. With that, he was in the water, heading toward the yacht at porpoise speed as Ned watched in amazement.

  "Why don't you get back and call the police," Remo suggested.

  "The cops? After what I seen you do, I'm calling Ripley's Believe It or Not."

  "Better make it the cops," Remo said. "By the way, don't bother mentioning my friend or me. We don't exist."

  "Anything you say," Ned said, smiling. "Hope you get where you're going. If you ever want to fly anywhere, call me. I'm in the book."

  Remo smiled once and then vanished below the water.

  Moments later, they were on deck. Big Ed was at the helm, the wind streaming through his wild hair; he was oblivious to the silent approach of the two men behind him. All he knew was that, within a fraction of a second, the ocean stretching in front of him was replaced by a close-up view of Remo's face, inches away from his own, and that his windpipe had inexplicably ceased functioning.

  "I can kill you, or I can let you live," Remo said. "What'll it be?"

  Big Ed pointed to his throat.

  "Talk?" Remo asked. Ed's blue lips opened and shut like a flounder's. His head slapped back and forth in a nod.

  Remo kept his finger on the man's windpipe. "Where'd the Lear jet go?" He released the tension slightly.

  "Abaco," the man gasped. "The Bahamas. About an hour east of Grand Bahama Island."

  "Who was flying it?"

  "A woman. Don't know her name. Had a big scar running down her face. That's all I know, honest. Look, take the boat. It's yours. Just don't kill me, okay?"

  "That's a deal," Remo said. "Now, don't forget to go straight home." With a heave, he sent the man arcing high over the side of the ship and into the ocean with a splash like a fountain.

  He slapped his forehead. "The dinghy! He can escape in the dinghy."

  "That has been taken care of," Chiun said.

  By the time Big Ed reached the small boat, the fist-sized hole in the bottom had let in enough water to submerge all but the rim. He swore once, and looked up in despair at the two figures on the deck of the yacht.

  "You can make it to shore if you swim in a straight line," Remo called.

  "The cops will help you ashore." He waved as the sodden blond turned away and began the long swim back to land.

  The air crackled with the roar of a jet taking off. A few seconds later a small, sleek craft whistled overhead. It looped around and dipped low, buzzing just above the ship. The man in the pilot's seat saluted. It was Ned.

  "Looks like he found a way home," Remo said.

  Chiun nodded. "Let us hope we can say the same for Emperor Smith."

  ?Chapter Nine

  Greater Abaco Island, it turned out, was not appreciably larger than the Houston Astrodome. If it hadn't been for Chiun's relentless search for TV antennae, Big Ed's powerful boat would have passed it by in minutes. As it was, though, they arrived, with, Chiun estimated, plenty of time to catch the 3:00 P.M. airing of "Ways of Our Days."

  "Quickly, a hotel," Chiun said restlessly to Remo. "Preferably with cable reception. Also a vibrating bed."

  Remo looked around at the unpainted shacks appearing at infrequent intervals between stretches of rock and greenery. From the deep natural harbor where they'd left the yacht, they had made their way to a single-lane dirt road where chameleons scattered before their feet. This, it seemed, was the island's main thoroughfare.

  "I don't think that's going to be so easy, Little Father," Remo said. "Besides, we don't have time for soap operas. Smitty's trapped here someplace."

  "He who has no time for beauty is but half a person," Chiun said.

  "And you won't need the vibrating bed, either. Wait a minute. Someone's coming."

  Down the road, a tall black man was ambling gracefully toward them. When Remo jogged to meet him, the man's face lit up with a broad smile.

  "You run too fast," he said amiably. " 'Round here, plenty of time for walking, taking things easy. That is the island way."

  "I'm looking for someone," Remo said, glad that the only person he'd managed to find seemed to be a cooperative fellow.

  "Yes? Maybe I know him. Abaco is a small place. Most folks know each other. 'Cept for South Shore, of course."

  "Who's at South Shore?"

  The black man chuckled. "Nobody you want to know. They put up the big fence, nobody can come in. The folks there, they stay inside the fence alla time."

  "Doing what?"

  The man stuck his thumb in his mouth and threw his head back. "Drinking." His eyes twinkled mischievously.

  "Oh," Remo said. "Well, Smith's not there."

  "Your friend's name is Smith?" He beamed. "I know Smith."

  "You do?"

  "Naturally. Everybody here know Smith. Fat man, very sweaty, girls on him alla time?"

  "Wrong Smith," Remo said. "This Smith is tall, gray haired, but he wears a hat... Actually, he's pretty ordinary looking," he mused half to himself. "But he might be with someone. A woman."

  "White woman?"

  "I think so. All I know about her is that she has a scar on her face. A big one, I guess, running down the side... What's the matter?"

  The smile had faded from the man's face. He backed off, making the sign against evil with his fingers.

  "Do you know her?"

  "I don't know nothing," the man said. "I don't see nothing. The South Shore not my business, okay?" He turned so quickly that he skidded on the dirt surface of the road, then headed at breakneck speed into the thick foliage of the hills.

  "Your charm has worked its usual magic, I see," Chiun said as Remo walked back.

  "I don't understand it. I just mentioned the woman with the scar, and he went berserk. But he said something about a place called South Shore. It doesn't sound like Smitty's kind of place, but if he was kidnapped, he might be there."

  "It is as easy to walk south as north in this place," Chiun said glumly.

  He was ecstatic by the time they'd walked a mile. South led into the village of Abaco, comprised of a grocery, a hardware store, and
the Greater Abaco Beach Hotel, providing six rooms complete with television.

  "Twenty minutes to spare," Chiun said, checking the sun. "Go and check us in at once."

  "Come on, Chiun. What about Smitty? What about the way that guy freaked out when I mentioned the woman with the scar? Aren't you even interested?"

  "I am interested in whether or not Dr. Sinclair knows that the wealthy widow he has just treated for manic depression is his long lost daughter," he said angrily. "Besides, you want scar-faced white girls? Bring her along."

  "Who?"

  "In the car," Chiun said impatiently.

  Although there were only two automobiles on the road, a major traffic jam was in progress. One of the vehicles was a battered Land Rover, parked and empty in the middle of the street. The other was a white Opel, driving up onto the turf to pass the first car. Remo squinted through the bright sunlight to catch a glimpse of its driver.

  It was a woman. With a long scar on the side of her face.

  "How could you see that from here?" Remo asked.

  "How couldn't you?" Chiun said, equally astonished.

  "It doesn't matter. I've got to stop her." He ran toward the car, which had passed the blockage and was speeding up the road.

  Chiun sighed and picked up a small stone. "The brain of a tuna," he said resignedly. He cast the stone.

  It spun through the air with a sound like a whip cracking. A split second later the Opel's right rear tire burst and flattened, and the car shimmied to a halt.

  Remo stopped short. He turned back to Chiun. "Thanks, Little Father," he said sheepishly. "I should have thought of that."

  "The hotel," Chiun reminded him.

  "Um... do you think you could register us?"

  "I? I do one favor for you and suddenly the Master of Sinanju is reduced to servant's work?"

  "Then just wait inside for me," Remo said, looking back quickly at the girl. She had gotten out of the car and was looking hopelessly at the blown-out tire. "You know how it is," he said confidently. "Women are my specialty. I figure if I can have a few minutes alone with her, she'll lead us to Smitty."

  "Such is the power of your sex appeal?" Chiun's face was bored.

  "Something like that. Just leave it to me." He swaggered off toward the car.

  "Hi. Need some help?" He gave her his most winning smile.

  She returned it. Point one, Remo said to himself, taking in the woman's face. She was a real beauty, all right. If anything, the scar made her look more interesting.

  "You're staring," she said. The deep sultriness of her voice pulled him out of his reverie.

  "I'm sorry."

  "It's all right. I'm used to it. And yes, I accept your kind offer." The accent was subtle and hard to place. She opened the trunk, and Remo lifted out the jack and the spare tire.

  "Do you live here?" he asked, hoping for a clue as to her origins.

  "Sometimes. But you don't. I've never seen you before. A tourist?"

  "I guess you could say that."

  "A rare breed in these parts."

  Remo jacked up the car and removed the tire, going slowly enough to give him the time he needed. "Say, I've heard some stories about the South Shore here. I guess that's really a swinging place."

  She hesitated. "I'm afraid you are mistaken," she said cautiously, the rich voice losing its cheer.

  "Oh, I heard it was pretty wild. Lots of parties—"

  "I'll finish that," she said, reaching for the tire iron. Remo held it away from her.

  "C'mon. What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't finish the job? Why, just the other day I was telling my friend Harry Smith..."

  He saw her stiffen. "Oh, do you know him?" he asked casually. "He travels a lot. Tall guy, gray hair but wears a hat—"

  "I don't know him," she said harshly.

  So Big Ed was telling the truth. The woman was going to lead him directly to Smith.

  "Now, if you don't mind, I'm rather in a hurry," she said briskly.

  "Almost finished." He placed the final lug nuts in place and stood up. "You know, I'm new here, and I'd really appreciate it if I could buy you a drink."

  "I don't drink," she said.

  "Then how about dinner?"

  "It's three o'clock in the afternoon."

  "An after-school snack?" He brushed her left wrist. She shivered.

  Long ago the old Master had instructed Remo in the ancient arts of pleasuring women. It was one skill in which Remo excelled immediately. There were many ways of bringing a woman to ecstasy, but all of them began with the left wrist.

  Plays like a harp, he thought. Scar or no, this was one seduction he was going to enjoy.

  "I— I think not," she stammered.

  In a seemingly accidental movement, he touched the outside of her thigh. "It would be a pleasure to see you," he whispered close to her ear. The small hairs at the nape of her neck stood on end. "A pleasure."

  "Perhaps you had better finish with the tire," she said breathlessly. Her breasts swelled beneath the thin fabric of her dress. She was ready.

  "And then?"

  She brought her mouth to his. The sensation of her full lips pressing against him felt like electric velvet. "I'll wait for you in the car," she said.

  "Yes, ma'am." Bingo. Five minutes, ten tops, and she'd tell him everything there was to know about Harold W. Smith. He stopped beside the jack.

  All it took was a little finesse, he thought with some pride. She'd already started the car. This one was raring to go. He smiled as he removed the jack. Oh, well, when you had it, you had it....

  The car skidded away with a shriek of burning rubber. Dust and soot plowed out behind it, leaving Remo in a foul-smelling cloud with the jack in his hand.

  "Hey," he croaked through the pall as he watched the white Opel grow small on the road ahead. Hacking and wheezing for breath, he cleared two spots for his eyes from the greasy black film on his face.

  "Ah. So that is how you work at your specialty," Chiun said, walking toward him. "I cannot tell you how honored I am to have been able to observe your prowess in action. The parting, I think, was most romantic."

  "Drop it," Remo warned, throwing the jack to the road so hard that it disappeared beneath the surface.

  "And now, perhaps, a little television?"

  "Whatever you say."

  ?Chapter Ten

  The task force meeting lasted all day. Much of it was spent in lengthy introductions, the delegates pouring pink cocktails down their throats as each one rose to speak about his area of expertise. Smith's group consisted of a banker, a stockbroker, an economist, a military strategist, a mathematician, an educator, a historian, a journalist, an engineer, and the former secretary of state, who looked considerably more decorous than he had the last time Smith saw him. His "Shake Your Booties" T-shirt had given way to a white linen suit that hung shapelessly on his shapeless body.

  Smith wondered about the peculiar collection of occupations designated for Phase Two of the Great Plan, but he said nothing. He was forced to attend the meeting, and he attended. Period. He would make no other contribution to Abraxas or his murdering council.

  The man named LePat, seated at the head of the long redwood conference table, chaired the meeting. Behind him was a large blank projection screen. He was a changed man from the timid dormouse who had stood, hat in hand, at Smith's doorway in the middle of the night. Now an aura of confidence surrounded him. His manner was efficient and commanding.

  The born bureaucrat, Smith mused, comfortable only when enmeshed in a net of rigid rules. Aside from LePat's mannerism of stroking his patent-leather hair, he seemed as much at ease as the imperturbable Circe, who sat on a corner divan near a film projector, smoking a cigarette.

  Directly across from her was a television camera, humming as it swung in its continuous arc around the table.

  "And, at last we come to the final delegate in the Phase Two task force, a man whose brilliance in the field of computer science will broach new
horizons and forever benefit mankind in his work for the Great Plan of Abraxas," LePat said. "Gentlemen, I present to you Dr. Harold W. Smith. Please rise, Dr. Smith, and tell us about yourself and your views on the world and how we of the intelligentsia may improve it."

  Polite applause sprang up, along with shouts for more of Samuel Longtree's pink firewater.

  Smith remained seated. "Call the American embassy," he said directly into the camera. "I'm here against my will."

  LePat sputtered. The camera stopped in its arc and rested on Smith. "But Dr. Smith—"

  "Leave him alone," came a highly amplified voice from all four walls at once. The other delegates fell silent, searching the room for the source of the sound. LePat's mouth dropped open. After a moment, a whispered buzz of excitement circulated around the table.

  "I am Abraxas," the voice declared, a deep, full bass sounding like a proclamation of Moses.

  The whispers turned to gasps as the delegates clasped one another frenziedly and slogged down the pink cocktails. Only Smith was unimpressed. He folded his arms in front of his chest and continued to stare at the camera.

  The voice answered his unspoken challenge. "Dr. Smith, do I detect some hostility from you toward our benevolent conference?"

  "Oh, no," LePat said quickly, his veneer of self-control shattered.

  "Let the doctor speak for himself."

  Smith answered, his expression unchanging. "That is correct," he said. The room fell again to silence. Even Circe stubbed out her cigarette and sat upright, a wave of apprehension crossing her face. "The 'benevolence' of this so-called conference is a farce. I have been brought here against my will and my personal belongings have. been taken by force. That, as far as I'm concerned, is kidnapping and theft. I don't know what sort of brainwashing you're carrying on here with your pink drinks and subliminal suggestions to do murder, but you're not going to make an Orville Peabody out of me."

  The room burst into chaos. Shouts rose up from the delegates. The Belgian economist sitting next to Smith jumped up and lunged for him. "You can't talk that way to Abraxas," he shouted, grabbing Smith by the collar.