The Last Monarch td-120

by Warren Murphy

  The jaw of one of the younger group members jutted defiantly. "In Washington, man," he said, sneering.

  "You wanna get this one, Little Father?" Remo asked.

  Chiun impatiently removed the sleeve from his face. "If only to hasten our departure," he snapped. The arrogant young Earthpeacer was fouling the air a few feet from the Master of Sinanju.

  His face was a cast of youthful disdain. A curling, contemptuous mouth snarled within spotty patches of goatee and mustache. Eyes glistened with wet malevolence.

  The man didn't seem to find Chiun a threat, directing his contemptuous attitude solely at Remo. He was stunned, therefore, when he felt a sudden sharp pain in his chest.

  Sucking in a shocked gasp of air, he looked down. The fingertips of one bony hand were pressed against his grubby Green Day sweatshirt. Only four long fingernails were accounted for. When the pain exploded within his chest, he realized where the fifth had gone.

  Chiun whipped his hand away, his curving index nail slipping out through the incision it had made between ribs.

  Pulsing blood erupted through the tiny snick the Master of Sinanju had made in the man's pulmonary artery.

  With a sudden surge of crazed energy, the Earthpeacer clutched both hands desperately to his chest. Face turning ashen, his eyes bugged wildly as his mouth opened and closed in pained confusion. As the last powerful squeeze of his heart pumped blood into his chest cavity, the man pitched forward, landing spread-eagled on the conference table.

  A final twitch, and he didn't move again.

  Brad Mesosphere watched the scene with growing horror. When he tore his gaze away from the body, he found that he was staring into Remo's dead eyes. "Where?" Remo repeated.

  "Halfway across the Atlantic by now," Brad blurted. "He was flown down to Central America after we snagged him. We put him on the Radiant Grappler."

  Remo felt his entire body tense.

  Out of the country. More great news for Smith. "The Radiant Grappler?" Remo snarled. "I thought the French sunk that barge."

  "That was Radiant Grappler I. This is the RG II."

  "Great," Remo complained. "Now I have to schlepp all the way out to the middle of the ocean. Do you even care how big a nuisance that's gonna be? The guy isn't even in office anymore. Why'd you kidnap him?"

  Brad gulped. He seemed like a death-row inmate who was only just beginning to come to terms with his fate.

  "He was taken as an example to all the fascist warmongers in the world," the Earthpeacer offered. "As the greatest living illustration of oppressive capitalist imperialism, it's only fitting that he be present at the first outbreak of true peace."

  Remo turned to the Master of Sinanju, a blank expression on his face. "Okay, I'm lost. Do you know what the hell he's babbling about?" he asked.

  Chiun had taken up a sentry position next to the doorway. "Do not ask me," he sniffed. "I speak English, not American."

  "The peace bomb, man," Brad insisted. "The final ironic twist to humanity's adoration of technology."

  Remo had heard enough nonsense. "Okay, here's where it gets painful, Maynard G. Krebs," he said. He took a single step toward Brad. It was as far as he got.

  "Long live Gaia!" a voice screamed from the hallway.

  All eyes in the room turned to the corridor. Lumbering up the hall, an automatic clutched in her filthy hands, was the woman from the reception desk.

  Remo assumed the gun was for him and Chiun. But when she squeezed the trigger, the first rounds slammed into Brad Mesosphere's chest with meaty thuds.

  The Earthpeace member was thrown backward, crashing from chair to floor.

  She whipped around the weapon to target another Earthpeacer.

  At the table, the 1970s pop singer had moved on to dessert. She continued to shove brownies into her mouth even as the bullets ripped into the back of her head. She fell face first into her plate.

  "Stop her, Chiun!" Remo yelled to the Master of Sinanju, even as the woman swept around to the last remaining environmentalists.

  "Who, me?" the Master of Sinanju called.

  But it was too late. The final three were ripped to shreds in an instant.

  Quickly, the woman turned the weapon on herself. Her grin was one of vicious, gleeful victory as she yanked the trigger. Her head popped like a dirty red balloon.

  A few feet away, Chiun had to step back to avoid the grisly spray. The body collapsed near his sandals.

  Far across the room, Remo's face collapsed into a scowl.

  "Dammit, Chiun, why didn't you stop her?" he snarled.

  Chiun looked at the body at his feet. When he looked back up, his eyes were bland. "You were closer."

  Remo threw up his hands. "I'm sick of this passive-aggressive crapola," he snapped. "Thanks to you, we don't even know where that dingdong boat of theirs is heading. Now if I want to find out from this guy, I'm gonna have to use a Ouija board. I hope you're happy." Scowling, he kicked Brad Mesosphere's leg.

  "I am always happy," Chiun replied placidly. "In fact, there are times when I am positively ecstatic."

  And, stepping over the receptionist's lifeless body, the old man slipped back into the hallway. As he disappeared from sight, his wrinkled face was a mask of utter calm.

  Alone in the Earthpeace conference room, Remo slowly shook his head. It seemed to take all his effort.

  "And I thought you'd be insufferable if your movie was a hit," he muttered.

  Still shaking his head, he trailed the Master of Sinanju outside.

  Chapter 14

  Smith's voice on the phone was fraught with tension.

  "Report."

  "What do you want first," Remo asked, exhaling, "the bad news or the really bad news?"

  He was on an outdoor phone in a small park. Behind him, the Golden Gate Bridge with its garishly painted cellular steel towers rose red from the Golden Gate Strait, the waterway linking San Francisco Bay to the Pacific Ocean.

  Smith was instantly wary. "What went wrong?" he asked.

  "Chiun and I are in San Francisco," Remo explained.

  "No names, please," the CURE director pleaded.

  "Yeah. Right. Anyway, Earthpeace is behind the kidnapping. Assuming it's all right to say 'kidnapping.'"

  Smith didn't respond to the sarcasm. His lemony tone took on a hopeful edge. "You're certain of their involvement?"

  "Sure as shootin'," Remo replied.

  "Where is the, er, package they collected?" Remo knew he was referring to the former President.

  "Now this is where it gets a little tricky," he said. At the pay phone, Remo glanced around for the Master of Sinanju.

  Chiun was standing several yards away down a gravel path. The old Asian had a handful of pebbles that he was tossing-one at a time-into the air. A flock of eagerly circling seagulls, which assumed the old man was throwing pieces of bread, dove for each stone. Each time at the last minute the birds would discover they'd been had. As the pebbles dropped back to earth, the seagulls would break away, flying back up to join the swirling flock.

  It was a cruel trick, Remo knew, but it could have been a lot worse. So far, none of the birds had bought the farm.

  "We tracked them to their headquarters," Remo said, turning his attention back to the phone. "I barely started to question them before one of their own members gave them all 9mm enemas."

  Behind him, the seagulls began to squawk in greater agitation. He did his best to ignore them. On the phone, hope had drained to hollowness. "Then this is the end." Smith's voice was perfectly level. "I will make the necessary arrangements. Remo, you and Chiun are relieved of your contractual obligations. Good luck and Godspeed." Remo's eyes shot open. He pressed the phone more tightly to the side of his head. "Are you out of your mind?" he whispered. "If Chiun hears you, I'll be picking melons in Persia by next week. And what happened to all that 'no names' garbage?"

  "It no longer matters," Smith explained. "This will be our last phone conversation. I will initiate the shutdown procedures that w
ill make tracing impossible."

  "Keep it down, will you?" Remo said.

  He shot a glance at the Master of Sinanju. Fortunately, Chiun hadn't heard Smith. He was still taunting the flock of seagulls.

  "Smitty, there's got to be something we can do," Remo insisted. "From what I saw on the security tapes, they pumped him full of knockout juice before they carted him away. He's in no position to talk."

  "But how long will he remain unconscious?" Smith asked reasonably. "This is a security risk like none we have ever faced. There is someone out there who knows of much more than our existence. He knows specifics of our operation, as well as details of events to which we are tied. That information could topple our form of government."

  "No one listens to ex-Presidents, Smitty," Remo insisted. "Hell, half the people in the country probably couldn't name the current President. Not that I'd blame them for pleading the Fifth."

  "They would listen to this. Even you must see that," Smith said patiently. The older man was infuriatingly calm.

  "Okay, okay," Remo said. "It's big and it's bad. Possibly. But before we take down the tents and move on, why don't we wait until we've exhausted all our options? One of the Earthpeace freaks told me they've got the former President aboard the Radiant Grappler."

  "The Radiant Grappler?" Smith interrupted sharply.

  "Yeah," Remo said. "It's the boat they use whenever they want to nudzh out on the high seas. Guess they're not content to just pester people on dry land. "

  "Why didn't you mention this before?" Smith asked, annoyed. "Wait a moment."

  In the background, Remo could hear the dull, persistent drumming of Smith's fingers as he typed. When he returned to the phone a minute later, his voice was tight.

  "Remo, the Radiant Grappler passed through the Panama Canal several hours ago. It made it into the Atlantic without incident. If the President was on board, he was not discovered."

  "Can you say 'big fat bribe'?" Remo asked thinly.

  "That is possible." Smith's voice was distant, as if he were having difficulty digesting this new information.

  Across the country, the CURE director gripped the edge of his desk with one hand, knuckles white. He felt light-headed. His acid-churned stomach clenched in knots of growing fear as a wave of concern swelled within him.

  "You still with me, Smitty?" Remo asked after a moment of silence.

  Smith was trying to will himself calm. The air he drew into his abdomen was ragged and searing; his breath was labored.

  "The President is no longer in the country," Smith said at long last.

  "Yeah..." Remo said leadingly. "I think we determined that."

  "Since the outset, I had assumed this was either an old enemy seeking vengeance or a simple kidnapping for ransom that had taken place at an unfortunate time for us. It is likely it is much more than either now. I doubt they would take him out of the country if they desired only ransom."

  Smith was trying to force his reeling mind back into focus. Since learning of the President's abduction, he had been preoccupied with both the risk to CURE and the search for the former chief executive. He had been so busy that he had not contemplated a more sinister reason to the abduction than those he had initially assumed. Now it seemed as if it could be for a larger purpose.

  "Remo, the Radiant Grappler is en route to South Africa," Smith said. "According to my information, it will be in Cape Town in three days."

  Remo nodded. "Okay. Great," he said. "Chiun and I can head them off, no sweat." He was relieved when Smith didn't argue.

  "I am curious as to what possible motive Earthpeace could have. Why kidnap a former United States President and take him to South Africa?"

  "Don't put too much hope in finding a why with these nudnicks. They said something about having him around for the outbreak of peace. I figured it was another dog-and-pony show for sixties rejects to plant daisies on Siberian missile silos."

  "Outbreak of peace?" Smith sounded puzzled.

  "Don't read too much into it, Smitty. Everyone in that place was probably looped on something. My guess'd be a contact buzz from whiffing the lobby seats."

  There was a sudden loud squawk behind Remo. Phone in hand, he spun.

  The Master of Sinanju stood below the flock of seagulls, no longer tossing pebbles. The wizened Korean's bony hands were tucked inside the wide sleeves of his kimono.

  Remo frowned. Did the flock seem thinner? "Okay," he said into the phone, still eyeing Chiun. "So what's the story? We still in business, or what?"

  "For now," Smith replied. "But we must act quickly. I want you in South Africa before their arrival. You must be there to greet that ship. If they manage to sneak their cargo off before you arrive, the risk of exposure multiplies to unacceptable limits. So far, we can only hope that their passenger has remained unconscious."

  "Gotcha," Remo said. "Light a candle in the window."

  He hung up. Turning from the pay phone, he struck off toward Chiun. As Remo headed down the gravel path, the Master of Sinanju made a point of keeping his back to his pupil. The seagulls had begun to disperse, flying in ever widening circles around the old Asian.

  As the birds began to separate and fly away from one another, Chiun's bald head bobbed appreciatively. The smile on the old man's face was a disconcerting sight.

  "Looks like the avian population's been made to pay for Hollywood's transgressions," Remo commented dryly once he'd caught up to his teacher.

  Chiun's face was perfectly calm. "I do not know what you are talking about," he said. "A refrain, I might add, that I have been forced to use far too often in our interminable association."

  "Yeah, right," Remo said, deadpan. "Let's go." On the way to their rental car, Remo glanced once at the sky. The fleeing seagulls were black specks against a tapestry of brilliant blue.

  As they climbed in the car and drove away, Remo briefly wondered what Chiun had done with the missing birds. He knew enough not to ask.

  Ten minutes after they were gone, the first wispy seagull feathers began floating gently to the ground.

  Chapter 15

  At the edge of the Columbian Basin, before the Radiant Grappler II had even passed the divided island of Hispaniola on which sat the tiny countries of Haiti and the Dominican Republic, a change was taking place aboard the huge vessel.

  Potbellied men in tie-dyed shirts swarmed up from belowdecks, hauling buckets and heavy burlap bundles. Thinning hair blew wildly in the warm breeze; breath came in rasping puffs as they ran through their arranged routine.

  Knives were produced. As the heavy sacks were dropped to the deck, frantic hands sliced them open. Thick fishing nets spilled out, the smell of the salt ocean already strong in their fibers.

  The buckets held drab gray paint. Screwdrivers pried the tin lids. Another burlap bundle yielded paintbrushes. The men shouted encouragement to one another as they raced along the deck, buckets and paint in hand.

  Some stayed behind with the nets. These were hooked into the trawling arms that had been left affixed to the deck after the ship's conversion from its original purpose.

  As the men were fastening their nets, Secretary of the Interior Bryce Babcock stepped from the Grappler's bridge into the brilliant Caribbean sunlight. He surveyed the activity on deck.

  It was all going according to plan. The men worked quickly, efficiently.

  They appeared not to notice the secretary as they hurried past him on the broad deck, each lost in the minutiae of his own assigned duties. Here, men painted. There, nets were unfolded and hooked into place.

  As he viewed the activity, Babcock felt the familiar excited tingle in his bladder. He dared not take a bathroom break. Not now. Not when the most brilliant part of his plan was coming to life right before his very eyes.

  As the ship picked up steam for its trip past Puerto Rico and the Leeward Islands, Babcock could not avoid congratulating himself.

  The scheme was flawless, masterful. He had hoped it would go well, but he hadn't da
red dream that the plan would be executed with such exacting precision.

  They were moving fast now. Barreling through the waves at sixty-two knots. The massive, intimidating form of the Radiant Grappler pummeled ocean beneath her enormous, merciless prow.

  They would be out in the Atlantic in no time. And then...

  Another tingle. Standing, Babcock crossed his legs.

  "Mustn't get ahead of ourselves," he murmured, resisting the urge to squeeze his privates like a three-year-old. "We have to get there first."

  But the fact was, they were on their way!

  Salty spray pelted Babcock's basset-hound face. An observer would never have guessed he was ecstatically happy. Judging by his face alone, it looked as if he'd just come back from putting his dog to sleep. Bryce Babcock had always had that same hangdog expression. Even in grammar school, the other kids had called him Droopy, after the cartoon character. Even when he was elated, Babcock looked dejected. But he was absolutely not unhappy. Not now.

  His sagging face drawn up in what, for him, was the closest thing to delighted he could manage, Babcock strolled along the deck.

  All around, men worked and yelled. And beyond them all, the beautiful blue ocean.

  "Water, water everywhere," Babcock said. He tried to avoid looking at the sea.

  He walked a little farther, each droplet of salt water that collected in the worry lines of his hanging face reminding him of the heaviness that was swelling beneath his belly.

  The bathroom was enticing, but the view here was too splendid. All of the men working on the plan. On his plan. He couldn't go now. He'd tough it out a little longer.

  Bryce Babcock tried not to think about the pressure that was building in his bladder as he made his way down the deck.

  In the stern, he noted the sadness on the faces of the men near the trawler arms. Unlike the others who were still hurrying to complete their chores, these sailors were sitting around. Waiting. They were staring into the churning white wake of the Grappler.

  The men back here knew what their next task would be. And they did not revel in it. They looked up with sad eyes as Babcock approached. Fat tears streamed down long faces. Squatting on the deck, Bright Sunshiny Ralph sniffled.