Rashid, cursing behind his kaffiyeh, sent the bus skittering around. If he could not outrun them, he would run them down.
The bus slammed around. Its sharp turn sent the gate flying. The tires were free. Rashid pushed the accelerator harder.
The two saw him coming. They stopped, side by side in the middle of the road, as he bore down on them. They did not move. Rashid grinned fiercely. Good. They were paralyzed with fear.
Their faces did not look fearful as they filled the windshield, however. They looked resolute. Even fearless. Rashid could see the whites of their eyes now. There was no mistaking their resoluteness. Were they suicidal?
Rashid had no more time to contemplate it. The bus was upon them. He whipped the tail of his kaffiyeh in front of his face protectively. The impact would certainly shatter the windshield into a million dangerous pieces. He shut his eyes.
But no sound of impact came. Instead, there was a double pop. Rashid wrestled with the suddenly difficult wheel. He shook the kaffiyeh free so he could see. The windshield was intact. And in the rearview mirror he could see, on either side, the two enemies of Islam settling to their feet as if they were coming out of attacking spins.
But what had they been attacking?
When the steering wheel lurched to the right, Rashid experienced understanding. He had a momentary flash, like telepathy, that his front tires had burst. Somehow, he had the wild mental image that the two men had burst them. He could imagine their flying feet doing that somehow. He knew it was impossible, but his mind leapt to that conclusion as if it was the only way it could correlate what was happening to him.
Then the bus lurched off the road onto the soft shoulder and down the riverbank.
Rashid's face kissed the windshield with shattering finality and the brackish taste of the river mud fouled his mouth.
Remo waded into the water, shoved open the folding doors, and looked in.
"Dead," he called back to Chiun.
"So perish the enemies of Sinanju," Chiun said firmly.
"You mean the enemies of Reverend Sluggard," Rerno said, returning to the roadside. "And he was probably the only one who could tell us what's going on."
"Perhaps one of the others lived."
"After a double Scarlet Ribbon? We'll be lucky if their fingerprints survived."
"True," said Chiun. "Although I noticed that during the first stage of the attack, your elbow was bent."
"It was not."
"Slightly."
"No way."
"Just a hair."
"Let's see if the Booe kid is alive," Remo said, annoyed. "I think he might have something to tell us."
"What makes you say that?"
"Reverend-General Sluggard turned white as a sheet when I mentioned that the kid was back. He was scared shitless."
"Reverend-General?"
"He was wearing a uniform, sword, and all the trimmings. "
"Then I was right!" Chiun exclaimed.
"About what?"
"I will tell you after the boy confirms it."
"Why not now so I won't be surprised?"
"You will be surprised in either case. And perhaps then you and Smith will finally learn to heed my wisdom. "
"Don't count on it," Remo said.
Chapter 21
They found Lamar Booe on the floor of the guard box. The floor was a sticky red.
Remo snapped the door off its hinges and knelt over the boy.
"Can you talk, son?" he asked.
The boy's mouth opened. A line of scarlet leaked out of one corner. He gurgled. Remo saw that the ragged hole in his chest bubbled like a little red fountain. He would not live. Remo placed a forefinger over the hole and said gently, "Try."
"Is he dead?" Booe gurgled.
"Yes, we got them all. Were they Iranians?"
"Yes," said Chiun.
"No," Lamar Booe gasped.
"He is clearly delirious," Chiun said. "They were Persians. "
"I meant ... Sluggard," Booe gasped.
"Sluggard? An Iranian?" Remo asked.
"I believe he is trying to learn if the Sluggard is dead. Is that correct, boy?" Chiun asked.
Lamar Booe nodded weakly. His face was drained of color.
"No, he got away," Remo told him.
"Too . . . damn . . . bad. "
"What are you saying?" Remo demanded.
"He ... got me ... into this," Lamar Booe said in a pain-blurred voice.
"This what?"
"Crusade."
"What about his crusade? What does that have to do with anything?" Remo asked.
Lamar Booe shook his head wearily. No words came.
"He means 'crusade' in the old sense. A holy war," Chiun intoned. "Is that not so?"
Lamar Booe nodded. "I went over with ... first wave. We were ... massacred. Iranians. We had no ... chance. They let me come back only ... if I led them to ... Sluggard. Said I'd be set ... free. They lied. Everyone lied. I only wanted . . . something to believe in."
"A Crusade?" Remo asked. "For what?"
"Nail."
"Must be a hell of a nail," Remo put in.
"From ... the Cross. Sluggard said ... nail from Crucifixion. Iranians have it. A rug seller uses it to hold up ... picture of Ayatollah. Sluggard said it was ... monstrous blasphemy. Our task was to ... liberate nail. "
"A nail?" Remo repeated, puzzled.
"Whites have launched their holy wars over lesser trifles," Chiun said disdainfully.
"The Holy Nail," Lamar Booe said, his words stronger now. "I carried the banner. We were going to sweep over them, shouting hosannas, until we reached Tehran. Nothing could stop us. We were the Knights of the Lord. "
"Who is this carpet seller?" demanded Chiun.
"Masood . . . something."
"When did this happen?" Remo asked. "Weeks-weeks ago. Seems like years." And under his breath, Lamar Booe of Sapulpa, Oklahoma, began to chant.
"Marq bar Sluggard! Marq bar Sluggard!" Suddenly the light in Lamar Booe's eyes flared up in pain. Then it died like a dwindling star.
"He's gone," Remo said, closing the boy's eyes with his fingers. He turned to Chiun. "All this over a nail," he said, looking at the bodies scattered about the quadrangle of the Eldon Sluggard World Ministries.
"No," said Chiun. "It is never over the things they claim. The nail is merely the excuse. This Sluggard wants more."
"Such as?"
"In the old Crusades, they marched on Jerusalem, claiming that it was a holy place being defiled by Moslems. But in truth, they lusted after the wealth of the lands surrounding Jerusalem. Calling it holy was a way to manipulate the gullible. Like this boy. Like such as you who do not outgrow their childhood superstitions."
"We can argue religion later. What do we do now?"
"We follow this Sluggard. It is time to wring some truth from his oily lips."
Remo looked over toward the Wilmington River. "He's long gone."
"I see a small boat. We will take that. Eventually we will come upon his ship. When we do, we will find the place of his camp."
They found the Mary Magdalene docked nearly ten miles downriver. It was deserted. Remo sent the speedboat up onto the muddy riverbank, not bothering to tie it up. They jumped off and followed a gravel path into a moss-draped forest. In a clearing, they found it.
But the Christian Campground was deserted.
"They took off awfully quick. But in what?" Remo looked at the dirt. There were no conspicuous vehicle tracks. Certainly not enough to cart away the thousands of teenage volunteers that had been shipped here.
Chiun pointed out the imprints of many footsteps. They followed them back to the river.
Out on the water there was little traffic. A sloop tacked into the wind. A trawler crossed its wake. Out on the Atlantic a huge black ship moved slowly. Its long low lines and tall white superstructure told Remo that it was an oil tanker. He dismissed it from consideration.
"Now what?" he asked Chiun.
"We go to Persia. Where Smith should have sent us in the first place."
"You think that's where they went?"
"There is no question. Look around you. What do you see?"
"Looks like boot camp. Those long buildings are barracks. That's an obstacle course. Probably a firing range somewhere too."
"Let us find a telephone. I must call Smith."
"You? I thought you were mad at him."
"Mad enough to tell him I told him so," Chiun said firmly.
"Told him what?"
"I spoke with Smith the other day, when I first suspected the true nature of Sluggard's Crusade. Smith dismissed my theory. Now we have proof."
"Oh, really?" Remo said skeptically. "You knew it all along? I'll have to hear that from Smith himself, if you don't mind."
"Then follow me, O ye of little faith," said Chiun, leading the way.
The long low buildings were indeed barracks. They were filled with empty rumpled cots. But no telephones. Another building housed target-shooting stations. Cardboard cutouts of Middle Eastern terrorists and mullahs in white turbans stood in long rows. They were riddled. The walls behind them were riddled. Even the ceiling was punctured by bullet holes.
Walking through the obstacle course, Remo remarked, "Reminds me of Camp Pendleton."
One building proved to be a headquarters. In a map-covered office, Remo found a telephone. He put in a call to Smith.
"Smitty? Remo. Yeah, it's been a few days. We've been busy. But we got results. You might find them hard to accept, but here it is. Ready for this? Sluggard's launching a Crusade. Yeah, that kind of a Crusade. It's over a nail, believe it or not. Supposed to be from the Crucifixion."
Remo found Chiun tugging on his wrist. "What? Hold it a sec, Smith. What is it?" Remo asked Chiun.
"Ask him if he believes me now."
"Right. Smitty, did Chiun brief you on this before? Oh, he did." Remo turned to Chiun. "You were right, Little Father. I apologize for not believing you."
"Does Smith apologize? That is what I wish to know."
"Smith, Chiun wants to know if you're going to apologize for not believing him."
Remo listened. Finally he told Chiun, "Yes, he apologizes."
"Not good enough. I want it in writing."
"Later," Remo said, waving Chiun off. "We have to deal with this situation first. "
Swiftly Remo related the events of the day, the attack on Sluggard's headquarters, and the departure from the Christian Campground of several thousand hotheaded teenage volunteers.
Remo finished with a growled, "They disappeared into thin air."
"They did not," Chiun put in. "They were on the big boat. "
"What big boat?" Remo wanted to know.
"The big black boat. I saw you watching it."
"The oil tanker? Impossible."
"You are very confident for a person who has just apologized far his earlier lack of faith in my awesome powers of deduction."
Remo sighed. "Chiun says they got away on an oil tanker. Feed that to your computers, Smitty."
At Folcroft Sanitarium, Harold W. Smith called up his computer. It was preposterous. The very idea of a modern Crusade against Iran. But Remo had described the so-called Christian Campground. And it fit reports Smith had been tracking of other parents whose children never returned from Sluggard's Christian retreat. "Did you get the name of the ship?" he asked into the phone.
"Afraid not," said Remo.
"Yes," came Chiun's squeaky voice.
"What is it?" Smith asked.
Chiun's voice came thinly. "The Seaworthy Gargantuan."
"Thank you," Smith said as he began inputting the name. Remo passed along Smith's thanks. Chiun's huffy reply was inaudible.
Smith read the file aloud when it came up. "The Seaworthy Gargantuan is owned by the Mammoth Oil and Shale Recovery Corporation of McAllen, Texas. They're big. Or they were before the Texas oil collapse. Hmmmm. What is this?" he muttered. A flag light was blinking. Smith hit a key.
Up came a file on a ship registered to the same firm, the Seawise Behemoth.
"Listen to this, Remo," Smith said excitedly. "The Seaworthy Gargantuan is a sister ship to the tanker that was seized by the Iranians over a week ago, the Seawise Behemoth. According to my sources, the Iranians claim it was on some kind of espionage mission and they are holding it until they get reparations. We assumed it was another of their strange political games, but I'm beginning to see a pattern, aren't you? Remo? Remo?"
"What?" Remo said. "Sorry, Smith. I was looking at this wall map."
"Please pay attention. This is important."
"So is this. You ever hear of the Pershing Gulf?"
"Persian. Look closer."
"I am and I see the Pershing Gulf. And next to it the Kingdom of Sluggard. Where Iraq should be is Victorialand. And I think Eldon Island is what normal people call Kharg Island, where the Iranians ship out a lot of their oil."
"My God. Then it's true."
"It's crazy, is what it is," Remo muttered, "I see a lot of red arrows and lines on the coast. They look like lines of attack. This circle must be a beachhead. Could be where they expect to land. It's just up from the Strait of Griselda. Who the hell is Griselda, I wonder?"
"Obviously that is the Strait of Hormuz. I think the best course of action is for you and Chiun to be there to meet them on the beach."
"Why bother?" Remo asked. "The way I see it, we don't have a downside. If the Iranians wipe out Sluggard, all the better. If it goes the other way, I'm not going to cry over a few less Revolutionary Guards."
"Have you forgotten the terrorist attacks that came in the wake of Sluggard's first move-for obviously that is what has triggered this entire crisis. Another attack means more terror for us. And Sluggard's actions are in violation of the Neutrality Act forbidding U.S. citizens from making war on a foreign power. His Crusaders are innocent dupes. Your job, Remo is to prevent Sluggard from attacking Iran and to neutralize his army. Failing that, you are to eliminate Sluggard and somehow convince the Iranians that he is not acting on behalf of the United States, either officially or unofficially."
"Convincing the Iranians will have to be Chiun's department," Remo said reluctantly. "All right, we're on. Got any idea how you're going to get us there?"
"Er, no," Smith admitted hesitantly. "Actually, this could be difficult."
"Well, at least Chiun will be happy. He's getting what he wants."
"And what is that?" Chiun asked distantly.
"Smith says we're going to Iran."
"Persia! Ah, I can taste the tender melons now."
"And I can smell the blood," Remo said. "Any ideas about how to get us there?" he asked Chiun. "Smith says he's stumped."
"Why, it is simple. As Masters of Sinanju, we will use our diplomatic impunity."
Smith, hearing Chiun's words, protested, "But I can't arrange diplomatic immunity for you and Chiun. We're in a state of low-intensity war with Iran."
"Chiun didn't say 'immunity.' He said 'impunity.' "
"What does that mean?" Smith asked.
"It means," Remo returned, "that I wouldn't want to be the Iranian who tries to get in Chiun's way."
Chapter 22
The supertanker Seaworthy Gargantuan plowed the waves under a full moon.
Reverend-General Eldon Sluggard paced the afterdeck. "Where is that bitch?" he raged.
Finally Victoria Hoar came down the deck, her high heels clicking. Her long hair danced behind her like a horse's tail.
"Ah been askin' for you," he said. "Ah been tryin' to talk sense to the captain, but he won't turn this scow around."
"Not possible," Victoria Hoar said simply. "We're on course for Iran."
"Ah-ran!" Reverend-General Sluggard screeched. "Ah ain't goin' to raghead land."
"Yes, you are. It's your job to keep up the morale of your Cross Crusaders."
"Who's Reverend-General around here anyway?"
"You. But this ship is saili
ng under my orders."
"It is? I thought you said your daddy ran this oil company. Well, Ah want to talk with him."
"You'd need a Ouija board. He died. Heart attack. When they plugged up the best well he ever drilled down in Hidalgo County, Texas, it killed him. I run the company now. "
"Ah smell a setup. You had this tub waiting all along."
"I didn't expect to move this soon, but here we are."
"Ah can't go to Ah-ran. You know what they'll do to me if Ah'm taken prisoner."
"Don't get taken prisoner," Victoria Hoar said.
Reverend-General Eldon Sluggard turned red. "You been playin' me right along, ain't you? Like an old fiddle. "
"More like a saxophone. And you hit every note. Now, let me suggest you start practicing for when you hit the beach."
"When mah Cross Crusaders hit the beach, you mean."
"When they hit the beach under your charge. I didn't want to tell you before this, but remember when I said I'd figured out what had gone wrong the first time? That last Crusade didn't have a truly inspiring leader. This time, it will. You."
"No damn way."
"I'd put that silver-tongued voice of yours to work," Victoria Hoar went on, indifferent to Reverend-General Sluggard's rantings. "Because you're going to be the first to hit the beach, like it or not. And you'd better have a well-motivated force backing you up, or you're going to be out there all alone."
The thought settled onto Reverend-General Sluggard's beefy face.
"If Ah could swim . . ." he said gratingly.
"But you can't," returned Victoria Hoar, turning on her heel and stalking off.
"Bitch," called Reverend-General Eldon Sluggard. And this time he did not say it under his breath.
A mocking laugh floated back to him.
Chapter 23
General Adnan Mefki entered the Grand Ayatollah's private garden, his face set.
The Grand Ayatollah looked up from his raisin-sweetened tea and signed for the general to speak. The soft winds coming down off the Elburz Mountains sent the baskets of red roses rippling, filling the air with their perfumy sweetness.
"I have word that a delegation from the House of Sinanju desires an audience with your holiness."
"I know of no such place," the Grand Ayatollah said distantly.
"Sinanju is a village in North Korea, Imam, the seat of a powerful sect of assassins. They serviced the former shahs and before them, the caliphs of old Persia. I have known of this house all my life. Many believed them extinct."
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