"So you came to the throne with him?" Remo asked. "You weren't born a princess?" His voice was stunned. His features a little sick. The truth was starting to sink in.
The Low Moo shook her head. Her gaze was faraway. "I was the younger of two sisters. Tuka-Tee was Low Moo before me."
"What happened to her?" Remo wanted to know. The Low Moo shrugged unconcernedly.
"I poisoned her. Crushed stonefish spines in her food." Remo turned away.
"I think I'm going to be sick."
"Not as sick as you would have been had I not come to your rescue," Chiun pointed out.
"She's a princess, for Christ's sake," Remo said to no one in particular. He towered over the Low Moo. "You're a princess!" he roared. The Low Moo cringed. "And you're a freaking cannibal."
"Do not be insulting," the Low Moo shot back. "Moovians do not eat one another. Only whites. And no one has eaten human flesh since the last white man came to these shores. They were made slaves for a time. When they were freed, there was a feast. The Low Moo always had her choice of the best meat. And only the Low Moo."
"Equal eating for the High Moo was out?" Remo said bitterly.
The Low Moo shrugged. "No white women ever came. The royal family does not eat members of the same sex. Do you think we are ... perverts?"
"Perverts!" Remo shouted. "Listen, where I come from-"
"Enough," Chiun said. "Now you know the truth."
"Now I know," Remo said dully. He hadn't loved her, but somehow the truth hurt. He didn't understand why. "What do we do with her?" Remo asked. "She's still the Low Moo."
"She stabbed her father."
"Yes," said the Low Moo. She sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing. Her bare breasts shook with the vehemence of her words. "The High Moo is dead. I possess the Shark Throne now. And all of its wealth. If you wish to claim any of the coins, you will do as I say."
"No," Chiun said, taking her by the wrist. The Low Moo struggled. The old Korean's fingers tightened like claws. "He lives, thanks to Sinanju."
And Chiun dragged the Low Moo, spitting and scratching, from the room. Remo went along uncertainly.
The Master of Sinanju threw the Low Moo at the feet of her father. She sprawled there, supine and frightened.
"I lay at your feet your assailant," Chiun said coldly. "Speak her fate and I will make it so." His hands went into his kimono sleeves. His spine straightened proudly.
"Wait a minute, Little Father," Remo began. A raised hand hushed him.
The High Moo's eyes were clearing.
"She is my daughter," he said dully. "There is no other I trust. Let her live. She is willful and cruel as a cat, but she only wanted to feel the white man's flesh between her teeth."
Remo shivered in spite of himself.
"There are others," Chiun went on. "Other plotters. Remo has uncovered their perfidy."
"Yeah, it's real bad," Remo offered. "Just about everyone on this anthill wants to kill you. Now I know why. It's their only chance for upward mobility. The Low Moo told us how it really is on your little tropical paradise."
"I need my peasants. Without them, there will be no one to mine the metal, make the coins, and grow the rice. "
"Then choose one or two plotters," Chiun suggested. "I will make an example of them before the others. A few heads sitting on spears is a wonderful deterrent to plotters."
The High Moo shook his head slowly. "I need every peasant. We have already lost too many."
"Then what would you have me do?" Chiun demanded in an exasperated voice.
"Let them go."
"Go! I am royal assassin to the House of Moo. How can I protect you if I cannot deal justice to pretenders to the throne? Where is the deterrent? What is your power?"
"My power lies here," said the High Moo, pointing to his right arm. He lifted his war club feebly. "And in the wealth of my treasure, which every Moovian covets but no one may possess but me."
"In other words," Remo said, "you have nothing."
"Well-spoken," said Chiun, distaste thickening his voice.
"I would sleep," said the High Moo. "Leave me. We will speak of these matters after the sun has restored the color to my empire."
"Some empire," said Remo, turning to go from the room.
The Master of Sinanju beheld the supine figure of the Low Moo, and the great snoring bulk of the High Moo. They no longer appeared royal to his wise eyes. He saw only a fat man with a feather drooping over his thick features and a spiteful and treacherous girl.
He left them without a word.
Chapter 35
They asked Shane Billiken if he could swim and he said yes.
They asked Shane Billiken if he could swim with his hands tied behind him and his feet weighted with vats of cheese.
"Of course not," he snapped.
"Then it's settled," Dirk Edwards said. "You go over the side."
It took three of them to hold Shane Billiken down on the deck while a fourth tied his wrists behind his back with rope. Getting the goat cheese tied to his feet proved more difficult. For one thing, they found they would have to drill holes through the vats for the ropes to go through. For another, Shane kept kicking the wooden vats to pieces with his frantic feet.
"Let's think this through," Dirk Edwards said at last.
"Great idea," said Shane Billiken. "Let's not rush into anything. "
I meant how we're going to do it, not if," Dirk Edwards said. "You got us into this fool operation."
"I hired you. I gave you all my money."
"Your mistake. Besides, we aren't in this for the money. We're soldiers. We have a soldier's pride. How the fuck do you think this operation will look written up in the pages of Soldier of Fortune?"
"Not so hot if it comes out that you murdered your employer," Shane pointed out.
"Exactly. Not to mention all the screwing around these islands we've done. Gus, find something we can use as a plank. "
"Plank?" Shane said blankly.
"Yeah, it's traditional during mutinies to make the captain walk the plank. And I'm a traditional kind of guy."
"I don't think you guys are considering the karmic repercussions of this."
"You're right. We're not."
"Look, I can pay you more money. Just don't kill me."
"We got all your money. You just said so."
"Then I'll cut you in on the treasure. Did I tell you guys about the treasure? Half for me, half for you guys to split up."
"We don't need you to find any treasure."
"Sure you do. Only I know what the girl looks like. And the two with her."
"A white guy and a gook in a party dress. How many of them can there be in the South Pacific?"
"You never know. Synchronicity is one of the great misunderstood forces of the cosmos."
"So are sharks. Hey, somebody see if there's any red meat left. Throw it in the water. It'll be more fun if we toss him into a mess of man-eaters."
"No, not that. Anything but that."
"No, not that," Dirk Edwards mimicked. "Anything but that. You sound like a pansy. I hate pansies. I gotta kill you for that reason alone."
"And for the cheese," someone joined in.
"Yeah. For the damned cheese. I should never have signed on without checking you out more carefully."
"There's no more meat," a voice called up from below.
"Damn. I guess it's back to the cheese."
Shane Billiken resumed kicking wildly. "No, no, no!" he screamed.
"Hey, shut up! Shut him up." It was Gus. His voice was excited.
Dirk Edwards dropped into a crouch and clamped a dirty hand over Billiken's wide mouth. "What is it?" he hissed.
"I see an island."
"Steer clear of it. The Hawaiian authorities probably have the whole South Pacific on the lookout for us."
"Maybe. But not this island."
"Say again?"
"There's a junk lying at anchor on this side."
Dirk Edwards replac
ed his hand with a boot and stood up. Shane Billiken tried to shake the boot out of his mouth, but that only made the boot press down harder. He stopped struggling.
"Yeah, yeah," Dirk said, his voice rising.
Shane Billiken felt the boot go away and two hands yank him to his feet.
"That the junk?" Edwards demanded, pointing.
Shane Billiken said, "Yes!" He would have said yes if he had been asked if Peking was the capital of Alaska.
"Change in plans," Dirk said. "We ain't going to kill you. But you gotta do everything we say from now on."
"Done," said Shane Billiken. "Thank you."
"We ain't doing this for you. We can't kill you without noise and I ain't blowing our chance to salvage something from this miserable operation."
"Whatever works," said Shane Billiken gratefully.
"Okay. Pull down the sails. Cut the engines. Douse the lights. And everybody listen up. You too, Billiken. You play your hand right and we'll cut you in for a piece of the treasure."
"Half?"
Stone faces stared at him. "A quarter?"
"Aww, Dirk, why don't we just strangle him and get it over with?" Gus drawled.
"We need every hand. Provided we get cooperation."
"Ten percent!" Shane called out. "Ten percent works for me."
"You get five-if you pull your weight."
And Shane Billiken found his hands being untied and an M-16 placed into his trembling fingers. This was his last chance and he knew it. He promised to pull his weight from now on. He used his most convincing voice. Anything to avoid the sharks. Shane knew everything there was to know about sharks. He had seen every jaws film. Talk about unevolved.
Chapter 36
Michael P. Brunt's voice was jaunty over the long-distance line.
"Brunt the Grunt," he said. "You point and I do."
"This is Brown," Harold Smith said. "Have you completed your assignment?"
"Mission accomplished."
"You have recovered the tea service?" Smith asked blankly.
"What if I said yes?" Brunt asked. Smith could hear a raspy scratching noise. It sounded like Brunt was scratching his beard stubble.
"Please stop talking in circles. What did you find?"
"Nothing. No tea service. No furniture, unless you count a TV and a bunch of boxes. If you want my opinion, the guy took it on the lam, as we detectives like to say."
"Boxes? What kind of boxes?"
"What do you care?"
"What was in them?"
"Got me. They were padlocked. For all I know, they were booby-trapped too.
"Could you describe them?"
"Oh, about four or five feet long. Kind of like footlockers. Some of them had brass handles and fittings. They came in an assortment of colors. Gaudy, too. Designer luggage they definitely weren't."
"And you did not open them?"
"My job was to go in and recover the tea service without disturbing the domestic environment, correct?"
"Yes," Smith admitted glumly.
"Those babies were secured with monster brass padlocks. Not the combination kind, which I could have cracked, but the kind you open with a key. A big brass key. Get it?"
"Clearly," Smith sighed. "You dared not open them."
"Not without the big brass key, which I did not find, or a hammer and cold chisel, which I must have left in my other suit. Did I do right?"
"Yes, of course," Brunt suggested, "for more bucks, I could take another whack at it. Maybe you want your tea service so much you don't mind if I make a mess."
"I do mind. The occupant must never know his dwelling was penetrated."
"Burglarized, you mean. Only CIA types say 'penetrated.'"
"Yes. Burglarized."
"So now what?"
Smith considered. The scratching came over the line again.
"If I need you, I will call you again," he said at last.
"Sounds like a kiss-off to me."
"You have your check."
"Cashed and spent already. I could use more. My secretary keeps asking for a raise."
"Good-bye, Mr. Brunt," said Smith, hanging up. He swiveled in his cracked leather chair, his gray eyes regarding Long Island Sound through the office picture window.
"Boxes," he muttered. What could these boxes contain? Armaments, perhaps. Brunt had described them as footlockers. Assault weapons were often shipped in similar boxes. Or weapons components. Stinger missiles, for example. Or in the case of a more complex device, such as a portable rocket launcher, the components were often transported in several boxes of the type Brunt described.
Was the house being used as a weapons-storage site? Was Smith the target of terrorists'? If so, why hadn't they made their move? If not, who was their target?
This was too critical now for a broken-down private investigator. Smith would have to get into the house himself, despite the risk. He must learn the contents of those boxes.
The time for waiting was over. Smith went to his file cabinet and from a folder deep in back extracted an Army-issue .45 automatic and two clips. He inserted a clip and sent a round into the chamber to check the action. Then he placed them in his briefcase, where they nestled in a false compartment under the telephone hookup.
Dr. Harold W. Smith left his office, a gray man with a cold white face and a purposeful stride that made the guards in the lobby dispense with their usual tipped-hat acknowledgments. They had seen that look on Smith's face before. It usually foreshadowed someone getting fired.
Chapter 37
Shane Billiken felt positively transformational. He really did.
Under cover of darkness, they had heaved to outside the lagoon. Dirk "Ed the Eradicator" Edwards and his men donned their jungle fatigues and greased their faces with green and black camouflage paint. They slid survival knives into ankle sheaths and taped magazine clips together to make reloading easier. Then they went over the side in rubber rafts, which they scuttled in shallow water. From there, they waded.
Shane Billiken carried an M-16 assault rifle over his head and clutched a marlin spike between his teeth. His shirt pockets were stuffed with spare clips and extra rounds and Gouda cheese. He hadn't any camouflage clothes, so he settled for rubbing his white ducks with borrowed jungle paint, not forgetting to anoint the triangle of hairy chest exposed by his buttonless shirt. At the last moment, he kept his mood amulet because, happily, the bull had turned green. It blended in perfectly.
He felt truly in touch with his animal side. There was just one nagging doubt to be resolved.
"Does it get easier?" Shane wanted to know as they waded onto the crushed-shell beach. "The killing stuff. I mean. "
Dirk shot him a wolfish grin. "Sure it does. Hardly anybody ever throws up the second time."
"That's good," said Shane. "I hate throwing up. It's so, you know, primal."
"Nothing's more primal than killing," Dirk snorted. "Right, boys?"
They scaled the island's steep western slope. The face was riddled with square openings shored up with bamboo beams.
"Are these tunnels?" Gus demanded. "I was in Nam. I don't dig tunnel action. Gives me the creeps."
Dirk Edwards waved them into a crouch. He eased forward to one of the dark openings. He sniffed. No animal smells. He pulled a flashlight from his belt and shone the light in.
"Looks to me like a mine," he whispered.
"Maybe the treasure's in there," Shane said eagerly.
"Yeah," Dirk said slowly. He detected faint stirrings inside the mine. "Maybe it is. What say we check it out?"
"Suits me," Shane said, slipping the safety off his rifle. "Glad to hear it. You go first."
"Me?" Shane was shoved forward by several of the others. His eyes were sick. Dirk grinned at him. Shane decided the tunnel was less threatening than Dirk's grin. He crept in.
A murmur of laughter rippled up from the others. They waited, listening. The sound of Shane Billiken's stumblings echoed from the mine.
"The fo
ol don't have sense enough to take off his sunglasses," Dirk guffawed.
His laughter died suddenly when sounds of firing came from the tunnel. Shane burst out, his face a twisted warp of panic.
Dirk pulled him down. "What was it?" he spat. "What'd you find?"
"Eyes. I saw eyes. Human eyes. I shot at them. I think they're all dead."
"Natives," a man hissed. "They'll be all over us."
"Don't panic," Dirk barked. "Tunnel probably muffled the sound so it didn't carry."
Shane Billiken started to gag. Everybody saw it coming. They piled on him; stuffing headbands and belts into his mouth to stifle the vomiting sounds. When Shane's convulsions stopped, they let him go. He spent fifteen minutes quietly spitting chunky yellowish fluid out of his mouth. He rinsed his mouth out with dirt.
"I thought you said it never happened that way twice," Shane gasped. His breath smelled like sour cheese.
"Some people have to get used to blood," Dirk replied. "'Okay, we press on. Stay away from the tunnels. There's a big building on the high ground. I'm betting that's the treasure house."
"No," Shane said. "I dreamed on it again."
"You gonna start that bilge all over?"
"No, the building is the sacred temple. I saw it in the dream. The treasure house will be near it, though."
"Yeah, and did you dream its location?" Dirk asked sarcastically.
"No, but I brought along an attuned way of finding it."
"What's that?"
"This," Shane said, pulling a Y-shaped branch from under his silk shirt. "It's a dowsing rod," he explained when confronted with a circle of blank camouflage-painted looks.
"Ain't those used for finding ground water?" someone asked.
"This is a willow branch. It will find anything I want. Including treasure. Watch."
Shane Billiken put down his rifle and stood up. He held the dowsing rod by its forked ends, with the tail of the Y pointing outward. The branch quivered in his hands. His hands quivered too. It was impossible to tell which was affecting the other.
"I can feel the magnetic pull already!" he declared. "Come on!" Shane went up the hill. The others hung back uncertainly.
"Wood ain't magnetic," Gus pointed out.
Coin of the Realm td-77 Page 22