Sunshiny wasn't listening to Jerry's passionate defense. He was looking back inside the cage.
"He looks even more evil in person," Sunshiny Ralph commented softly.
"You hit him awful hard," Jerry said. "Are you sure he's even still alive?"
Another glare at the sleeping form of the former President of the United States. They couldn't tell if he was breathing.
"Maybe we should poke him with a stick," Sunshiny suggested.
Jerry shook his head. "Sticks ain't allowed, remember? Gotta protect old-growth timber and the rain forest."
"Oh, yeah. How 'bout a pipe?"
"Hash pipe or pipe pipe?"
"Pipe pipe," Sunshiny said. "That'd be okay. You got one?"
There ensued a fruitless search through their ragged clothing, during which the only sounds were of the creaking boat and the swelling water outside the hull of the Grappler. They turned up three hash pipes and zero pipe pipes.
It was finally decided that Jerry would watch the maybe-dead prisoner while Sunshiny went off in search of a good, solid poking pipe.
Sunshiny Ralph scaled the ladder at the side of the hold up to the cabin level. He had just struck off down the narrow corridor where he and the rest of the Radiant Grappler II crew bunked when he bumped into a man in a dark blue double-breasted suit walking in the opposite direction.
On the man's left lapel was a familiar pin: a single dove wrapped its wings around a lone fir tree. Everyone on board the Grappler wore the same insignia. Sunshiny sported one on the collar of his grimy shirt.
The instant the man in the suit saw Ralph, his jowly face drew up into an angry scowl.
"What are you doing up here again?"
Sunshiny opened his mouth wide. It remained agape even as his brow collapsed in utter confusion. "Um..." Sunshiny said. He scratched his bald pate.
The suited man emitted a hissing sigh. "Get back below," he ordered.
He had to guide Sunshiny by the shoulders to start him off in the right direction. He stood in the narrow corridor and watched to make sure Sunshiny didn't accidentally wander into one of the cabins and fall asleep. Again.
"And to think we're saving the planet for the likes of that," America's secretary of the interior, Bryce Babcock, muttered to himself.
Still scowling, Secretary Babcock headed down an adjacent corridor.
There were no portals so deep in the Grappler. Not that it mattered. Babcock knew precisely what was going on outside. He could feel the watery displacement taking place beyond the hull.
In spite of the small difficulties he was having with the Earthpeace crew, Bryce Babcock had to admit, everything else was going perfectly. No, better even than that. Flawlessly. The complex plan he had developed was unfolding without a single major error.
As he walked through the ship's maze of narrow passages, his drooping scowl re-formed into a sagging smile.
Once they passed through the Miraflores section, they would move on to the Pedro Miguel Locks. The eight-mile Gaillard Cut would bring the Grappler and its precious cargo across the continental divide to Gatun Lake. On the other end of the canal, the three flights of Gatun Locks would lower the water level by eighty-five feet, easing them gently into the Atlantic Ocean. They would then sail past Colbn and into the Caribbean Sea.
And, Secretary Babcock thought with a giddy shiver, into history.
Still smiling in his sad, drooping way, Babcock pushed open the door of an unmarked cabin. The room beyond was small and dimly lit. A dull fluorescent light shone down on a workbench against the distant wall.
A lone man sat on a stool before the bench, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. His underarms were stained yellow with old perspiration. On the lapel of his discarded jacket was the familiar dove-fir pin.
Dr. Ree Hop Doe didn't even look up as the interior secretary stepped inside the muggy room.
With a tiny click, Babcock closed the small door. The air inside was fetid. Hours of human sweat and ripe body odor clung to the walls. The only ventilation passed through a small metal grate near the ceiling.
At the bench, Dr. Doe's hunched shoulders obscured much of the large, shiny object with which he continued to tinker even as Babcock crossed over to him. Tired hands used tweezers to lay out strings of multicolored wires.
For several giddy moments, Babcock watched in silence as the Asian scientist worked. He finally couldn't contain himself any longer.
"How's it going, Doctor?" he said eagerly.
Dr. Doe almost fell off his stool, so startled was he by Babcock's voice. He had been so engrossed in his work that he hadn't heard the secretary enter.
Eyes that had been staring too long at miniature components attempted to blink back into focus.
"I arr set," Doe said, his accent thick. He lay his tweezers on the bench. "It ready for arming."
At the news, an excited grin flickered across Babcock's saggy face. It disappeared almost in the same instant.
"It won't go off now?" he asked, suddenly worried.
"No," Dr. Doe insisted. When he shook his head, the greasy black hair plastered to his scalp didn't budge. "That not problem."
"Because now won't do any good," Babcock stressed. "We need the optimal location."
"Do not worry, Mr. Secretary," Doe said. It came out wolly. "Nothing happen till I make it happen." The secretary's smile returned.
This was the precious cargo. Not the former United States President. That old fossil was just gravy. The real reason for this trip sat on the oil-stained bench before him.
On the workbench, the stainless-steel casing of what appeared to be a small nuclear warhead reflected the wan light of the room. But even though it had the appearance of a standard nuclear device, Secretary Babcock knew that it was much, much more.
The smile on his flaccid face broadened as he considered what this one piece of hardware would mean for the world. Humankind was finally going to get its come-uppance. And it was about damned time. Bryce Babcock would bear witness to the event that would have global repercussions for generations to come.
Far below, the engines suddenly rumbled to life. The ship had reached equilibrium. Slowly, the Grappler began to move forward into the final set of Miraflores Locks.
Bryce Babcock felt a trickle of warmth at his groin.
It was a problem he'd had since he was a toddler. All the excitement, the movement of the ship and so much water all around had tickled his nervous bladder.
"I'll be on the bridge," he said quickly.
Hoping Doe hadn't caught a whiff of his very pungent urine, he excused himself from the room. Usually if he hurried fast enough, he had to change only his underwear.
As he hustled up the hallway, Babcock hoped he'd brought along enough spare pairs. This trip promised much excitement. It would be very risky for him to attempt to witness the event that would end Man's technological age without the backup safety of a good, thick pair of Hanes.
Chapter 11
Remo had left most of the IDs Smith regularly issued him on the dresser back home. He was worried that he'd have to try to bluff his way past the Secret Service with his blue Bombshell Video card when he found a spare ID next to his passport in the back of his wallet. As luck would have it, it identified him as Remo Blodnick, an undersecretary of the Treasury Department.
The laminated card got him and the Master of Sinanju through most of the security checkpoints between the sixth and eighth floors. Only on their way down the eighth-floor hallway toward the suite in which the former President had spent the previous night were they finally stopped.
The Secret Service man on duty inspected Remo's ID with great care. When he looked up, he nodded crisply. "You're okay, Mr. Blodnick," he said. "But he doesn't have clearance." He nodded to Chiun.
"It's okay," Remo assured the agent. "He's with me."
"No, I am not," Chiun interjected.
The man raised an eyebrow. "Sir?"
"He is with me," Chiun expl
ained.
"Be that as it may, I can't allow you to pass without clearance."
Remo sensed a troubling stillness about the old Korean. Fearing a repeat of the Stan Ronaldman wig incident, he quickly stepped between the Master of Sinanju and the agent.
"It's okay, Chiun," Remo said. "I won't be long."
The Master of Sinanju gave each man in turn a vaguely dissatisfied glare before turning away. The drab wall suddenly became infinitely more fascinating to him than Remo.
Taking this for approval, Remo left Chiun in the care of the Secret Service agent and hurried down the hall to the President's hospital room.
At several points along the way, he spied bloodstains on the floor. The bodies of the slain had been removed-only very recently, it would seem-but there was evidence of a battle all around.
Black scuff marks marred the floor. Bullet holes outlined in pencil crayon pocked the bland green walls.
The deadly activity had come to a head in front of the suite itself. Here, the bullet-and-blood trail stopped.
When Remo stepped inside, he found an FBI forensic team methodically searching through the hospital rooms. They were being watched with great suspicion by a team of Secret Service agents. Most of the men were huddled near the door inside the bedroom. A man in an FBI windbreaker was lifting a fingerprint off the door of the closet.
"Let me guess," Remo said to the ten men near the door. "The stateroom scene from A Night at the Opera, right?"
The faces that turned his way were annoyed. Most were too engrossed in the single fingerprint being lifted to even bother to look at him.
One man separated from the rest. His face was angry as he approached Remo.
"You can't be here," he announced. A Secret Service emblem was emblazoned on the back of his blue windbreaker. His clip-on tag identified him as Agent John Blizard.
"Can," Remo disagreed. "Am." He flashed his ID. "Blodnick, Treasury. What have you got so far?"
Agent Blizard inspected Remo's credentials carefully. When he looked back up, his narrow face was pinched.
"Since when do undersecretaries get involved in investigations?"
"You haven't heard of me?" Remo asked. "I'm like the Miss Marple of Treasury. They put me on all the really big stuff. Every time the VP gets lost in the woods or needs help shaking down Buddhist nuns, I'm there."
The glint of mistrust in the agent's eyes sparkled more brightly. "I better call Washington," he said suspiciously.
The others had returned to their duties. No one was even looking their way. Remo nodded to the agent.
"Be my guest," he said, smiling tightly.
"Be back in a minute," Agent Blizard announced to no one in particular.
As soon as they stepped into the hallway, Remo frowned. The Master of Sinanju was nowhere to be seen. Nor, it seemed, was the agent Remo had left him with.
"Swell," Remo griped to himself.
"What's wrong?" Agent Blizard asked.
"What's always wrong?" Remo grumbled as they headed down the hall. "He's got a bug up his ass and he's taking it out on me."
"Who?" Blizard asked. He suddenly wasn't interested in a reply. He had just noticed that there was no longer an agent posted near the stairwell door. "Hey, where's-"
It was all he could manage to say before he felt a strange tightening sensation at the small of his back. His spine instantly went rigid.
"This is just like him," Remo muttered as he guided Secret Service Special Agent John Blizard down the hall. "Doesn't give a damn about me or anyone else. It's all the time him, him, him."
Agent Blizard tried to yell for help, but found he couldn't even speak. There was no pain, just Remo's hand and the knot of tense muscles in his lumbar region.
"He says he's turned over a new leaf," Remo stated as he kicked open the fire door at the end of the hall. "But that's bullshit," he added, hauling Agent Blizard into the stairwell. "And I know it's bullshit," he insisted, kicking the door shut with his heel. "And he knows I know it's bullshit. He's this frigging Korean volcano, and I wish he'd just erupt already and get it over with."
Alone in the stairwell, Remo released the agent. "You know what I mean?" he asked, spinning the man so that they were face-to-face.
Up until now, the only responses Agent Biizard had been capable of consisted of frantic, Morse-code blinks. The instant Remo's hand fled his spine, Blizard grabbed for his side arm. Remo pulverized it in its holster. Thick metal fragments clanked to the concrete landing. The Secret Service man's face registered shock.
"I'm tired, I'm cranky and I can do the same thing with skulls," Remo warned. "Plus I'm on your side. So why don't you do us both a favor and tell me what I want to know?"
Agent Blizard wasn't buying it. He fumbled in his pocket for his retractable truncheon. Desperate fingers had just closed around it when he felt a fresh sensation in his back. This time, it wasn't like before. This time, there was pain.
The Secret Service man sucked in a shocked gulp of air.
"We've got nothing so far," Agent Blizard gasped. "Couple of fingerprints. Could be from anyone. Witnesses all dead. Kidnappers wore masks."
Remo's face clouded. "If the witnesses are dead, how do you know what they wore?"
"Surveillance cameras," the Secret Service agent explained. Beads of sweat had erupted on his forehead.
"They got a good look at them?" Remo asked. "For what it's worth, yeah."
Remo considered. If the only evidence available was the security tapes, he'd better look at them quick. For all he knew, Chiun was somewhere in the hospital doing something that would insure they both wound up on the Treasury Department's most-wanted list.
"C'mon, Eliot Ness," he said, sighing.
Hand firmly in place, he guided the Secret Service agent down the stairs.
WHEN REMO PUSHED open the door to the security room, he was surprised to see a familiar wizened figure.
Chiun stood before a bank of television monitors, arms folded imperiously over his narrow chest. Seated near the old Korean was the Secret Service agent that had stopped them in the eighth-floor hallway. The man held a blood-speckled handkerchief firmly against his left ear. He and another man-this one wearing an FBI tag-were operating the equipment.
"Where have you been?" Chiun asked blandly as Remo entered the small room in the basement. "We have been waiting hours for you."
"You've been waiting all of ten minutes," Remo replied, pushing Agent Blizard into the room before him. "And you could try giving me a little warning when you take off like that. I figured you were in some other wing of the hospital terrorizing Liz Taylor."
"And why would you think something so foolish?" Chiun asked, all innocence.
The seated Secret Service agent interrupted. "This is it," he offered, glancing up. He leaned back to allow the Master of Sinanju a better view of the monitor before him.
The camera that had collected the footage was stationed at the end of the eighth-floor hall beyond the former President's room. The image was in color, but grainy, as if the tape had been reused many times. The sharpness was washed out.
Their own conversation forgotten, Remo and Chiun stepped forward. Alert eyes watched the recording of the morning's events.
At first, little happened. A pair of Secret Service men stood at attention outside the former President's room. A doctor entered the room, closing the door behind him.
"This is dead space," the FBI agent said. He fast-forwarded through five minutes of footage, during which nothing at all happened. He stopped when the first sign of trouble appeared.
Men swarmed from both directions. Some came from down the hall near the elevators and others from the stairwell beneath the surveillance camera itself.
Bandannas masked their faces. Hats were pulled low. Even given the condition of the tape, the guns were obvious. With eerie silence, they fired.
The Secret Service agents near the door didn't have time to draw their own weapons before being cut to shreds. The doctor eme
rged in the doorway briefly, only to be blown back into the President's room.
A masked man hurried into the President's room. He collapsed back out into the hall almost instantly, legs jutting, unseen, inside the room. The unconscious man's body shook, as if someone were trying to drag him into the room.
The three agents in the security room were drawn in by the silent, unfolding drama. They watched alongside Remo and Chiun, grimly fascinated.
A kidnapper wielded his gun like a club against an unseen target in the room. Afterward, the former President made his first appearance, toppling into the hallway.
The kidnappers flocked around. A needle was injected into their captive's arm. Once empty, the syringe was flung away.
Remo's face was severe. "What did they give him?" he demanded.
"Three distinct compounds," the sole FBI man volunteered. His voice was hollow as he stared at the tape. "Methohexital and a diazepam variant. That's a barbiturate and a heavy-duty tranquilizer. They're still working on the third compound, but I'd guess it's more knockout juice. They didn't want him waking up for a while."
Smith would find some small comfort in that. Whoever had grabbed the former President wouldn't be getting anything out of him anytime soon.
Remo shot a glance at the Master of Sinanju. The old man's expression was unreadable. Flickering images from the monitor lent his face a ghostly cast.
When Remo looked back to the screen, his face hardened.
"Freeze the tape," Remo ordered urgently.
The seated FBI agent glanced furtively to his Secret Service colleagues before pressing Pause. The image locked in place. The kidnappers were struggling to lift the former President.
"It's no good," Agent Blizard grunted unhappily. "Too blurry without enhancement. Whatever you think you see, it's nothing."
Remo ignored him. "You see it, Little Father?" he asked Chiun.
The Master of Sinanju nodded. "However, it is unfamiliar to me."
"What's unfamiliar?" Blizard asked. "What do you see?"
"I'm pretty sure I've seen it before," Remo mused, brow furrowed.
"Seen what before?" Agent Blizard demanded. He leaned forward, examining the monitor, trying to see if there was something new, something he could possibly have overlooked.
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