Except for them, the hallway was empty.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Remo found the storage closet in the passageway near the Lebanese mission, went inside, then didn't know what he was doing there.
He didn't give a doodley-doo about secret passages in the ship. He didn't care if spies drilled holes in the bottom and sank it. He didn't care if the whole damned Iranian delegation drowned, if Smith was swallowed by a whale who suffered heartburn for the rest of its life, or if all the delegates wound up as chum for sharks.
He didn't care. He and Chiun would survive. To hell with everybody else. To hell with Chiun, too, come to think of it.
So why was he in this broom closet, ripping a hole in a steel wall to gain entrance to the secret passages? The only person on the ship who cared about the passages was Smith and Remo didn't work for Smith anymore. He didn't work for the United States anymore.
"I am a Persian," he said to a ripped piece of sheet steel in his right hand. "Hear that? I am a Persian. Could an American rip a piece of steel like this?" he asked, tearing back a large panel of the wall.
"Long live the glorious Peacock throne," Remo said, and tore back another steel panel.
"Three cheers for Reezie Paleezi, Shah of shahs, King of kings, hirer of assassins."
Remo stepped through the rip in the wall and found himself back in the small room in the heart of the ship. It was lit only by a red overhead bulb. Ahead of him was a metal door without a knob, the kind of security door in which one inserted a key and the key itself served as the door handle.
Remo kicked the door off its steel hinge pins.
"To the great glory of Persia, land of history, home of the melon, garden spot of the Far East. Far East? Mideast."
He grabbed the hinged side of the door, and pulled the heavy steel plate into the room and tossed it onto the floor.
"So much for Greek shipbuilders."
The corridor outside the small room was empty. Remo went down it slowly, kicking in each door along the way. All the rooms were empty. The underbelly of the ship was wormed through with passageways and rooms.
In one of the rooms, Remo found a half dozen sleeping bags on the cold metal floor and some open but empty cans of pork and beans.
But where had everyone gone? The last time he had been here, the area was filled with killers, technicians, with men with jobs to do. Now there was nobody.
Midships, Remo found the computer room, metal and gray, smelling of new electrical cable. Next to it was a covered garbage pail filled with sheets of paper and empty cans. Atop the computer panel was a bottle of gin, another bottle of vermouth, and a bottle of pills made out by a London pharmacist to Oscar Walker.
Remo saw a small stack of papers on the side of the console and sat down before the machine to read them.
He saw his name written on the top sheet.
"REMO. Nationality: American." The sheet had room for comments in four categories.
The first category was labeled "Diurnal Rhythms." After it was neatly printed in ink, "None noticeable. Subject operates at peak at all hours." Remo nodded.
The second category was "Biorhythms." A printed comment followed: "None. No apparent critical days. No obvious down periods." Remo nodded again.
The third category was "Physical Characteristics." After it, was written, "Vicious, cruel, violent, extremely dangerous."
"Vicious?" Remo said aloud. "Violent? I'll show you vicious, you son of a hitch." He punched his fist through the face of the computer. The machine sparked and sizzled.
The final category was entitled "Emotional Makeup." The comments read: "Unpredictable, arrogant, abnormally strong response to minor intrusions."
"Minor intrusions," Remo said. "I'll give you a minor intrusion, you bastard." He intruded his hand into the hole he had punched in the computer and pulled out a great handful of wires and transistors. The machine gave an audible sigh and stopped. Remo tore up the sheet with his name on it and glanced at the next. It was Chiun's.
Remo read it aloud. It read exactly the same as Remo's. "Unpredictable, arrogant, abnormally strong response to minor intrusions," he read.
"Right," said Remo. "Right, right, right and right." He carefully folded the analysis of Chiun and put it in his pocket to show Chiun later.
Remo read through the rest of the pages quickly, looking for an analysis of Smith. He was disappointed. There was none, only reports on diplomats Remo had never heard of and did not care about. He threw them all on the floor.
When he got back to the door, he was smiling. "Right. Chiun: arrogant, vicious, nasty, kvetch, carping, petty, insensitive, nasty, conceited and not nice. Now he'll see."
Farther down the corridor, Remo kicked in the door that led to the banks of television monitors, dozens of screens that covered every area of the ship. Remo turned them all on. He caught four orgies in progress, nine drinking bouts, and twenty-two diplomats snoring alone in their beds before he busted the screen of each television monitor, and left the room in a bitter cloud of acrid smoke.
He checked every room. But there was no one left. Except for an occasional sleeping bag or a can of food, there were no supplies, no weapons, nothing left that could give all the rooms and passageways a purpose.
He had found only the TV monitors and a stupid computer that had misread his character entirely. Now Smitty could have a time with that computer, Remo thought. Smith knew computers.
A large circle of the main passageway brought Remo all the way back to the small room with a mop and bucket and the wall through which he had entered. He went back into the maintenance closet, then into the hallway. On his way out, he jammed the closet lock so no one else could enter.
Most of the passageways on the ship were deserted. Guards should have been on duty but the copious overflow from the evening's party must have reached them, and Remo could hear snoring as he passed along the corridors.
On another level near the front of the ship, Remo found what he was looking for. Smith was walking slowly down a passageway, taking a few steps, pausing head down to stare at one of the large diagrams of the ship he held in both hands.
Remo recognized him from behind and came up on him silently and quickly.
"Smitty."
Smith turned. "Hello, Remo. Going for a swim?"
Remo ignored that. "Looking for something?" he asked.
"The secret of this ship," Smith said.
Remo smiled. "There's a string of passageways from front to back of the boat."
"Ship," Smith corrected. "And it's fore to aft, not front to back."
"Who cares? And there's some empty rooms. But no weapons. And a big computer."
Smith's face brightened, almost showing interest. "A computer? Where is it?"
He had him. He had him. After all these years, Remo had him.
"I can't tell you," Remo said.
"Why not?"
"It's a state secret. An Iranian state secret," Remo said. "See you, Smitty."
With a spring in his step, Remo turned and walked away, whistling. But by the time he got back to his stateroom, the happiness had dissipated and he went to bed, but did not sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
At high noon, the Ship of States was flanked on hoth sides by sleek white yachts.
Aristotle Thebos, aboard the 212-foot Ulysses, had gotten word of the arrival of Demosthenes Skouratis aboard the 213-foot Tina, and had called a meeting in a belowdecks conference room of all the men who had been working in the secret rooms inside the United Nations ship.
He explained to them very carefully what had to be done, and stressed that correct timing was essential.
Aboard the Tina, Skouratis was preparing to hold a similar meeting with some new crew members. He had been up before daybreak, checking the facsimile machines, reading the front pages of newspapers around the world.
The stories had not changed since the previous night. They all still contained Thebos' muted challenge to Skouratis to come to the Un
ited Nations ship.
Skouratis read them and smiled. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, The New York Times and the Washington Post and the London Times and Paris Match, tomorrow they might he carrying a different kind of story. One Skouratis would enjoy.
If there was a tomorrow.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Heavyweight fighters often wait in their dressing rooms hoping to be last in the ring and gain a psychological edge over their opponents by forcing them to wait for their arrival.
Aristotle Thebos knew this and was surprised when the captain's launch left from Skouratis' yacht Tina, which was cruising along on the port side of the Ship of States, and headed for the big United Nations vessel.
He waited until Skonratis' launch was near the docking station near the big ship's waterline before setting off in his own launch toward the UN ship.
The Skouratis launch pulled alongside the platform leading to the ship's outside elevator and waited there a minute for Thebos' launch to arrive. The two launches tied up together at the docking platform, gently bumping in the soft, rolling swell of the Atlantic.
Thebos, immaculate in a white dinner jacket and black satin-trimmed trousers that looked as if they had been painted on him, stepped onto the stern of his launch and leaned over the railing toward Skouratis' launch.
Looking down from the top deck of Ship of States, Remo saw Helena Thebos step out after her father. A half dozen men scurried behind her.
"Demo," Thebos called into the Skouratis boat. There was no answer.
"Demo, my old friend," Thebos repeated. "Come out."
A scruffy sailor stepped onto the stern of the Skouratis launch. He wore a blue-and-white striped shirt with a rip at the shoulder and grease-stained white trousers.
"He ain't here," the sailor said. "Hear me? He ain't here." He moved up close to Thebos, who recoiled as if dirt were catching. "He ain't here," the man said again, then laughed.
He untied his boat's lines and, a moment later, went back into the cabin and sped away from the big sailing city.
As Remo watched, Thebos punched his right fist into his left palm. The Greek nodded once to himself, vigorously, as if he had just become convinced of a point that had been doubtful up till now. Remo saw him whisper something to Helena.
Four hundred yards away from the Ship of States, Remo saw the Skouratis launch cut back on its motors and begin slowly to turn in lazy circles, as if waiting for something.
Down below, Thebos helped Helena out of the launch and onto the elevator platform. He turned and gestured toward the group of men on his launch and seven of them, all carrying attaché cases, followed Thebos and his daughter onto the elevator platform where they were hidden from Remo's view by the curving sides of the giant ship.
There was a pause of ninety seconds and then the elevator started moving up the side of the ship. Remo watched as it came up to his level at the main deck. The doors opened smoothly and Thebos and Helena stepped out alone. They paused in front of the elevator and a crowd of almost a hundred persons, taking the early evening air on the deck, applauded.
Helena saw Remo only a few feet away. Remo waved. Helena turned away in a gesture of rejection.
The empty elevator closed its doors automatically and started back down to wait at midships for the next call from either above or below.
The diplomats on deck continued clapping for Thebos and his daughter, who acknowledged the applause with smiles, nods and waves. Then the clapping stopped as another sound took over, the whirring of helicopter blades buzzing over the big ship. All eyes turned upward and saw a bright yellow helicopter, with the name Tina emblazoned on its underside, hover over the ship, then slowly settle in for a landing on the helicopter pad.
Remo watched Thebos and saw the man's lips tighten in a thin line. Then Remo glanced down and saw Thebos' launch pulling away from Ship of States with only its pilot aboard. Skouratis' launch was still halfway between the UN ship and Thebos' yacht, cutting lazy loops in the water, like a soldier marking time.
The helicopter touched down on the landing platform, the size of Roseland's dance floor, and the engines were cut and the blades slowly whirred themselves to a stop. The crowd on deck advanced toward the chopper. Left behind were Thebos and Helena.
"Don't worry," Remo said to her. "I still like you."
"Begone from me," she snarled. Her voice caught her father's attention and he turned, saw Remo and smiled. "Remo, isn't it?" he said.
"None other," said Remo,
Thebos pulled Helena roughly away and they followed the crowd to the helicopter whose door was opening slowly. And then Skouratis hopped out.
He had won the battle for late arrival and had obviously decided not to fight Thebos in the clothing arena. Skouratis wore a rumpled gray suit, ill-fitting and baggy at the knees, and his hair was wild and shaggy in a thick clump atop his lined face.
He stepped down onto the wood-and-steel landing platform, raised above the deck, and looked around at the crowd below. They cheered.
"Viva Skouratis."
The small dump of a Greek smiled, and the smile broadened as he saw Thebos and Helena approaching the platform.
"Hello Telly," he called out.
"Demosthenes," acknowledged Thebos coldly, stopping at the bottom of the steps with his daughter. "I am glad you could come."
"I wouldn't have missed tonight for the world," Skouratis said. He smiled at Helena and Remo saw the power that emanated from the man. It was a power won not by beauty or by brains or by financial muscle alone. It was a power that glowed from a man who knew who he was and what he was, as if that knowledge gave him an edge over almost everyone he would ever meet.
"Helena," Skouratis said. "You have made the Ship of States the Ship of Beauty. Telly, we will have to rechristen her."
"You will have to, Demosthenes," said Aristotle Thebos. "It is your ship. Yours alone."
Skouratis laughed raucously as Thebos visibly winced. "Today mine," said Skouratis. "Tonight Helena's. Tomorrow? Who knows."
Then, with agility that surprised Remo, he hopped down the small flight of steps and took Helena's arm. "It is the custom of Greek men to dance with other men," he said to her. "But tonight I shall dance only with you because your beauty is immeasurable."
Remo watched Helena's face soften. She glanced up and caught Remo's eyes, looked cold, and turned back to Skouratis, a half head shorter than she. She blinded him with a smile and kissed his forehead.
"And someone said gallantry was dead," she said.
"Someone who never met you," answered Skouratis. "Come, Telly, let us go."
And, clearly the leader, Skouratis moved away from the helicopter platform with Helena on his arm and Thebos, looking as wilted as his clothing looked fresh, following them.
The news of Skouratis' arrival had swept the ship and the main deck was filled now with thousands of persons who pressed in on Skouratis and Thebos as they tried to make their way to the large auditorium for the evening's party.
Remo backed up a step to make room for them. He felt as if he had backed into a building. He pressed back harder. Nothing moved. His shoulders hurt.
"Ox," came a voice from behind him.
"Sorry, Chiun," Remo said, without turning.
"Sorry? Because you almost disabled me by crashing into me like a cannon-shot? Just a sorry?"
"My deepest, most profound apologies, Your Excellency, for allowing my unworthy form to so much as touch yours."
"Much better," said China. "Who are these people?"
"That's Thebos and his daughter. They gave the party last night. The little one is Skouratis. He built the ship."
"If you must have anything to do with these people, be careful of that ugly one."
"Why?"
"He would use your eyes for marbles. He is a man to watch carefully."
"And the other one?" asked Remo, nodding to Thebos.
"He would steal your eyes from your head, but only at night, only in a coward's manner. He is
a weasel, the other is a lion."
"Remo. Master of Sinanju."
Smith stood alongside them. He carried his roll of maps under his arm.
"Hiya, Smitty," said Remo. "Find any secrets?"
"I'm working on it. And Chiun. How are you? How do you like your new clients?"
Chiun looked uncomfortable. "Actually, they are Remo's clients. It was he who suggested to me that we leave your gracious…"
"Chiun," said Remo.
"I understand," Smith said. "Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that Iran is really pleased with your work so far."
"As well they should be," said Chiun.
"Oh?" said Remo.
"Yes. I bumped into somebody from Iran that I knew a long time ago. We talked about security."
"And?" Remo said.
"And he said that Iran was lucky. They had hired…"
"Hired?" said Chiun, his voice squeaking with outrage.
Smith nodded. "Hired… the two most vicious, sadistic killers-for-money that they had ever seen. Murderers, I think he said. Yes, that was it. Murderers-for-money."
"They called us murderers?" Chiun said.
"Sadistic?" said Remo.
"I have to leave," Smith said. "I truly hope that everything stays well with you." He turned and melted into the crowd still milling about the deck, vanishing like a pebble into pea soup.
"Did you hear," said Remo, "what your sweet Persians think about us?"
"Iranians," said Chiun. "Obviously they are not Persians any longer. Persians knew the difference between assassins and murderers. They knew the difference between hiring people—hiring servants like doctors—and giving an offer to worthy men like those from the House of Sinanju. Oh, no. These friends of yours are no Persians," Chiun said.
"Friends of mine?"
"I no longer want to hear you discuss them," said Chiun. "I am disgusted with this evening's events. I will return to my room."
He moved off and the milling crowd seemed to envelop him, but he cut a path through them like a ripsaw through redwood. He moved through the people like the dorsal fin of a shark cuts water, surrounded by the people but not impeded by them at all.
When Remo reached them, Skouratis, Thebos and Helena had paused at the railing on the main deck to look out toward Thebos' yacht. Remo noticed Skouratis look directly at his small launch, still circling several hundred yards away from Ship of States, and then nod.
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