"What is this?" Nossur Aruch asked, a catch of intrigue in his soft voice. Eyes wide and unblinking, he took a hesitant, reverential step toward the device.
"The solution to all the world's ills," Babcock intoned. He beamed through his jowly face.
The former terrorist looked at the interior secretary.
"It is a bomb of some sort?"
"It is the bomb," Babcock explained. "The last bomb ever needed."
"It is atomic?"
Babcock glanced at Doe. The scientist nodded. "Ye-es," Babcock replied vaguely. "Technically it does work on the atomic level. But it's far more sophisticated than your garden-variety nuke. You must know that Earthpeace would never have anything to do with a common nuclear device." Aruch didn't seem interested in the moral distinctions the environmental organization drew between one bomb and the next. His fascinated gaze was leveled on the bomb before him.
"They are supposed to be available on the black market," the Palestinian commented as he stared at the stainless-steel casing. He reached out a tentative hand. "Former Soviet warheads are alleged to be popping up the world over. I have yet to see one, however. Radioactive junk is all one can get these days. This is the genuine article?"
"No, actually," Babcock admitted, frowning slightly. Aruch seemed a little too interested in the bomb. "As I told you, it's not a typical nuclear device."
"It will level a country?" Aruch asked hopefully. Babcock retreated a step. The glimmer of cunning in the PIO leader's eyes was unexpected and disturbing.
"Not in a standard way," the interior secretary offered slowly.
"Oh." The former terrorist's shoulders slumped. Hope instantly returned. "A city?" he asked.
"Maybe," Babcock admitted. "Listen, I'm not quite sure I like the way this is going."
"How big a city? Like Tel Aviv? Or Jerusalem? Do you have more than one? Where did you get it? Can you get more?" The questions came out in a flood.
Aruch didn't even wait for an answer to any of them. He wheeled to the men who had followed him onto the Grappler's bridge.
"Load it in the truck," he commanded.
"Now wait just a goldurned minute there, Nossur," Bryce Babcock warned. He slid protectively between Aruch and the bomb. "I don't know what you have in mind, but-"
Without a look at the secretary, Nossur Aruch snapped his fingers. Guns instantly rattled up.
The interior secretary's sagging jowls locked in midprotest. His face registered utter shock.
Silent now, Babcock was shoved roughly aside. Helpless, he watched as two PIO soldiers hefted the prototype neutrino bomb off the console, carting it out into the sunlight.
Babcock cringed when they accidentally banged it on the metal door frame.
"He knows how it works?" Aruch demanded. He aimed a stubby finger at Ree Hop Doe.
When Babcock nodded dully, Dr. Doe's hooded eyes opened wide.
"I onry hera for cash," the scientist pleaded. "Rawyer costa much money. Appear process taka rong time. China no foot birr anymore." He wheeled on Babcock. "Terr him I no wanna be stuck with clummy Mexican marr rawyer!"
Aruch ignored the man's pleading eyes. Fatang stood near the door. Turning to the soldier, Aruch pointed at Doe.
"Bring him," the PIO leader commanded.
The guard directed two men to drag the whimpering scientist outside.
"What of this one?" Fatang asked, indicating Bryce Babcock with a jerk of his automatic rifle. Sudden, intense fear gripped the secretary. Babcock's bladder reached critical mass. The warm release flooded down his legs and into his leather boots.
"He may yet be of use," Aruch admitted with some reluctance. "Bring him, as well."
There was no time for relief. Fatang grabbed the stunned Babcock by the arm, shoving him outside. A military urgency seized the Radiant Grappter. Aruch quickly deployed his men around the ship, instructing them to look for other bombs. The first was loaded by soldiers onto Aruch's canvas-covered truck on the dock far below.
"There aren't any more," Babcock pleaded as PIO soldiers swarmed down into the bowels of the Earthpeace ship.
"We will see," Aruch said, big nostrils flaring. A muffled popping sound was audible beneath their feet. Gunshots.
Babcock and Doe exchanged sick glances. Standing in the warmth of the soft Mediterranean breeze, the pops seemed to go on forever. One for each Earthpeace crew member.
At first, Babcock's trousers clung wetly to his inner thighs. By the time the PIO soldiers returned to the deck, the same white sun that had browned the skin of pharaoh and bedouin for thousands of years had begun to dry the damp material to salty stiffness.
The soldiers cried ululations of triumph. Above their heads, they carried a lumpy bundle. Running, panting, they dumped their prize at the feet of Nossur Aruch.
The PIO leader raised an unhappy eyebrow beneath the great peak of his checkered kaffiyeh.
It was a man. He was lying on his side, his face turned away from Aruch. It was unclear if he was dead or alive.
"What is this?" Aruch scowled, nudging the body with the ice of his black boot. The man plopped over onto his back.
When the face became clear, Nossur Aruch's eyes sprang wide. His mouth formed a shocked O.
"It cannot be," he breathed. Arms flailing, he whirled on Bryce Babcock. "It cannot be!" he sang, delighted now.
Babcock shrank from the grubby, ecstatic little man.
"I thought it'd be poetic." The interior secretary shrugged, afraid. "He was always a warmonger." The PIO leader's wild eyes flew to the slumbering form of the elderly former United States President. He was the devil. A saber-rattler who had set back the cause of terror a generation. At least. A man whose time in office had put people like Nossur Aruch virtually out of business. To finally have this hated creature. Here.
It was a dream come true.
Joy bloomed like a desert flower on Nossur Aruch's face.
"He lives?" Aruch hissed.
"Pumped full of tranquilizers," Babcock admitted. "But, yes, he's alive."
"Take him," the terrorist ordered Fatang with growling delight.
As the ex-President was hoisted into the air, Babcock's eyes took on a look of wild helplessness. "You want him? You can have him. He's yours. No fuss, no muss. Signed, sealed and delivered. Bomb, too. Hell, I'll even throw in the Chink, no charge." He stabbed a shaking finger at Ree Hop Doe. "Just let me go."
Nossur Aruch turned slowly to Bryce Babcock. The Arab was a crushed beer can in wrinkled khaki. A demonic smile split his stubbly face.
"Do you not wish to see the peace you have brought?" he asked with soft menace.
"Me? Nah. Not really," Babcock dismissed. "I really should get back to America. The department's got this new program where we're gonna be releasing grizzlies into Central Park. I really should be there to head off the protests. But, hey, don't let me stop you."
He spun. A rifle barrel was aimed at his face. He turned back to Aruch.
"Or I could go with you. See how this plays out." He nodded agreeably. "You know. Whichever."
Aruch ignored Babcock's panicked rambling. With a crisp nod, he turned away. PIO soldiers shoved Bryce Babcock and Ree Hop Doe forward.
With Nossur Aruch leading the way, the entire group hustled down the long gangplank of the Radiant Grappler.
Chapter 22
Admiral Harris saw to it that the USS Ronald Reagan brought them as close to the maritime boundary of Lebanon as possible.
Concerned for Chiun's safety, the Navy man offered to have them taken ashore under cover of darkness. It was Remo who refused the assistance. He had the carrier's crew throw the smallest inflatable life raft they could find into the gently chopping waters.
Chiun climbed down onto the reinforced rubber seat in the front of the boat. Remo took to the rear with a paddle.
On the way to shore, they managed to avoid all boat traffic. Remo beached the raft in the rocks north of Tyre. Once they were on land, he grabbed the raft by its slippery r
ubber skin and tore it apart at the seams. It quickly became a flat yellow stain, washing back out to sea.
The two Masters of Sinanju scurried up the rocks. A sun-bleached road ran parallel to the shore. Side by side, they began the long trek down to the port city of Tyre. The sun beat hot on their faces.
"I know what you were doing back there," Remo commented as they walked along the empty roadway.
The Master of Sinanju was taking in their surroundings. "Isn't it a lovely day?" he said, ignoring Remo.
"Don't change the subject. I finally figured out what that act was you were playing with your pal, the prince of the sea. And why you've been doing the nice-nice thing so much lately."
"Act?" Chiun queried, all innocence. "Do not presume you know everything about me, Remo. I have had a love of the sea ever since my childhood in Sinanju. I was merely engaging in polite conversation with a fellow maritime enthusiast."
"Baloney," Remo said. "You were cozying up to him just to bug me."
"What?" Chiun frowned.
"Don't deny it," Remo cautioned. "I know what the last few days have been all about. You're trying to piss me off. This Abu ben Bubbie bullshit is just the latest installment."
"You are babbling nonsense," Chiun said. "I have always had an abiding love for the sea. It is the pool from which all life sprang."
"Aha! Aha!" Remo exclaimed triumphantly. "You don't believe that, either. Koreans think man was crapped out by some big hairy bear."
"Trust you to reduce the miracle of human creation to an excretory function," Chiun said blandly. "And get it wrong."
"Don't change the subject," Remo countered. "You're being deliberately weird just to annoy me. And I know why. Even though you're claiming you're not, you're ripped at this whole Mr. Chin thing. But everyone you want to go after in Hollywood is already dead, so you're doing the next best thing. You're trying to bug me with all this nice and agreeable malarkey. You wanna put me on edge by making me think that every minute you might explode. Well, it's not gonna work, so you might as well cut it out. You're not bothering me one bit." He clenched his jaw accusingly.
"I do not know which I would prefer this to be a product of," Chiun said, shaking his head, "dementia or stupidity."
"Har-de-har-har. And don't even bother. I'm on to you," Remo announced. He outpaced the Master of Sinanju, marching with angry determination up the road.
Behind him, a barely perceptible smile crinkled the cobweb vellum corners of the old Korean's mouth. The smile remained fixed to his face the rest of the long walk to Tyre.
WHEN THEY GOT to town, Remo decided to find the Earthpeace ship before making his call to Smith. According to the histories of Sinanju, Alexander the Great conquered the ancient city of Tyre by constructing a causeway that extended the mainland to the island on which the city was built. Once they had reached what had once been ancient shore, Remo and Chiun crossed the causeway and found their way to the docks.
It didn't take long to locate the Radiant Grappler II.
The Earthpeace vessel was berthed alongside a flat expanse of concrete. Its huge steel hull loomed high above them. The shadow cast by the Grappler was enormous, stretching across dozens of smaller ships docked nearby.
A single stenciled word on the prow of the ship identified her as the Mykonos.
"If they were trying to disguise it, they should've picked up a couple hundred crates of Renuzit," Remo commented. "The crate stinks like a floating bong."
They took the long gangplank up to the deck. "Blood," Chiun said, the instant his sandals touched metal plating.
Remo was already sniffing the air like a dog on a scent. "This way," he announced.
Taking the lead, Remo stepped across the deck. The two men slipped through an open door that led into a narrow passageway.
The air conditioning was off. In the merciless Lebanon sun, it hadn't taken long for the interior of the boat to become oppressively hot. The warm-blood scent grew stronger the deeper they traveled inside the ship. A spiral staircase at the end of one hall led down another level. Both Masters of Sinanju climbed down to the lower deck.
The blood stench was thick here, intermixed with the stale sweat of old fear.
"It is coming from the hold," Chiun commented gravely.
Remo nodded, his face etched in lines of deep concern.
During their journey through the Grappler's bowels, neither man had sensed even a single, faint human life sign.
After a few labyrinthine turns in the corridors, a final straight passageway brought them to the hold. They spied the bodies from the catwalk.
The Earthpeace crew had been shot. Coagulating blood-a blackish-purple after so many hours-clung to tie-dyed clothes and torn jeans. The human corpses had been dumped onto a pathetically small pile of rotting tuna.
Adding a surreal edge to the grisly tableau, a few of the Earthpeacers had apparently surrendered their hammocks to the largest tuna. The fish swayed ever-so-gently in their final resting places, pennies over their dead eyes.
Remo ignored the bizarre scene. His worried eyes had alighted on the steel zoo cage in the center of the hold.
They took a ladder to the floor.
The stench was powerful. They picked their way past Earthpeace corpses and rotting fish to the solid-metal cage. When he nudged the door open, Remo wasn't sure if he should be relieved or even more concerned.
The cage was empty. Just a few handfuls of hay tossed on the rusting floor.
"Looks like someone else has him," Remo commented, looking up from the empty cage.
Chiun didn't respond. Bent at the waist, he was examining the cage door. Remo was about to ask him what he was looking at when he was distracted by a sound behind them.
A cough. Wet and feeble.
Turning from both Chiun and the cage, he trained his senses on the field of Earthpeace dead, quickly isolating a single, thready heartbeat. Hurrying over, Remo found one of the men near the base of the tuna pile still clinging to life.
Lying in Remo's shadow, Bright Sunshiny Ralph's lip twitched. His eyes fluttered beneath ashen lids. Blood gurgled from a sticky wound in his abdomen.
Remo stooped next to the dying Earthpeacer. "Who did this?" Remo pressed.
Sunshiny's eyes rolled open. They were distant, unfocused.
"Murderers," he gasped. Fresh pain made him wince.
"I gathered," Remo said, with arid urgency. "Who? Who's the murderer?"
Sunshiny sniffed blood. "Us," he wheezed. "All these fish. Our ocean brothers. We murdered them in cold blood." His eyes grew teary. "And even worse, I participated in dolphinicide. I killed Flipper," he wailed.
His life signs were ebbing.
"Who shot you?" Remo insisted.
"Oh. Nossur Aruch," Sunshiny wheezed. "His PIO soldiers." He was fading fast. A final thought seemed to come to him. "Are there dolphins in heaven?" he asked.
Remo nodded tightly. "Three meals a day," he replied.
Sunshiny Ralph carried the look of horror that blossomed on his face over to the afterlife.
Remo left the body, returning to Chiun's side. "Looks like Nossur Aruch's our party crasher," Remo commented to the Master of Sinanju.
"I heard," Chiun replied. He had completed his examination of the cage. His wrinkled face was gathered into a frowning mass.
Remo knew the old man's expression could bode no good.
"Okay, what's the latest bad news?" he asked. "The man imprisoned in this cage has been attempting to escape." He extended a long nail to the side of the door near Remo.
Following Chiun's finger, Remo felt his stomach clench. There were fresh silvery scratch marks all around the lock. Someone had been trying to pick it. The heavy hinges bore similar marks, as if the prisoner had tried to pry the fused bolt. Dumbfounded, Remo stared at the scratches.
"They cracked him over the head," he insisted. "And doped him up."
"He is stronger than his enemies suspected," the Master of Sinanju replied gravely. "He has recovere
d."
As Remo stared at the empty cage, a creeping realization slowly replaced the numbness of discovery.
The kidnapped President had been taken hostage by yet another group, this one more radical than the first. And the veil of safety afforded them by unconsciousness had been lifted. When he spoke, Remo's voice echoed hollow off the faraway walls. "I better make that call to Smith."
Chapter 23
The former President of the United States had to admit it. The past couple days had sure been a mixed blessing. That was perhaps too genial a thought for a man who was bouncing in the back of a terrorist truck along some pothole-filled Lebanese road.
They'd dropped him to the floor, which was coated with a thin film of desert sand. Something cool and metallic pressed against his right cheek.
All around was joyful shouting.
The President was a prize. A spoil of war. Something to be waved over their heads like a captured flag.
As the whoops of joy fill the old President's ears, there came another, displeased shout. A sharp burst of angry Arabic. Afterward, the men grew silent.
The President was grateful to whoever had admonished the jubilant soldiers. Their screaming could get on a fella's nerves.
The truck continued to bounce along the road. A turn? Were they heading up another street?
It didn't really matter. While the President knew the country he was in, even before the onset of Alzheimer's he'd been fuzzy on the geography of the country's interior.
Opening his eyes a sliver, he could just make out a pair of boots. Beyond them, the gaps in a dark burlap flap revealed a sun-drenched yet barren desert landscape.
Careful not to move his head, he strained to see with his peripheral vision.
The object that pressed against his face was silver. A stainless-steel casing as smooth as glass. The coolness was dissipating in the transfer of heat from his flesh.
He knew what the object was.
Thinking he was still unconscious, his Earthpeace captors had talked freely about it during his captivity aboard the Radiant Grappler.
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