On the floor, a terrified Bryce Babcock felt a small puddle of warmth pool at his crotch.
When the shooting stopped as abruptly as it had started, Babcock didn't even notice. The furious shriek of gunfire still echoed in his ears.
Outside, more tires squealed, then faded in the distance.
Nossur Aruch scampered to his feet.
"Lousy teenagers!" he yelled. Bounding across the floor, he stuck his head out the window. "Why are you not in school!" he shouted after the rapidly speeding car.
He had to duck back inside to avoid another spray of automatic-weapons fire.
Muttering Arab curses, he stepped over the prone secretary of the interior and returned to the neutrino bomb.
Climbing unsteadily to his knees, Babcock blinked dust from his eyes. "What was that?" he panted. Concrete powder formed a clumpy paste near his damp zipper.
"That?" the terrorist said dismissively, as if nothing had happened. "My poor building suffers for the peace I have made with Israel. Or perhaps it is the Internet or music lyrics that causes them to act out. With kids, who knows?"
Expression dull, Babcock looked at the front wall. Many more holes now marred its surfaces. One of the windows had nearly been blown from its casing. It seemed ready to topple into the room.
He turned woodenly back to Aruch.
"May I go now?" Babcock asked numbly.
"Quiet," the terrorist snapped. He looked to the Los Alamos scientist. "You. Explain to me how this device works. Is it nuclear?"
Ree Hop Doe glanced quickly at Bryce Babcock. Gulping audibly, he turned back to Nossur Aruch. "You pay, we talk," he said, licking his lips. "Money order or cash. No personar check, prease." Very nearby, he heard the click of a bolt.
Out of the corner of his eye, Doe saw the hollow end of a rifle barrel aimed at his temple. Far down at the other end of the weapon was Fatang's eager young face.
The hope that he'd be able to hire even halfway decent legal representation for his espionage trial evaporated for the treasonous Dr. Ree Hop Doe.
"Yes, it nucrear," he admitted, shoulders slumping.
"This one said that it could blow up a city," Aruch said, nodding to Babcock. "Could it destroy Tel Aviv?"
Doe shook his head. "Inner brast zone onry extend about two mires," the scientist answered.
Aruch's stubbly face grew fierce. "Bah! Not good enough," he snapped. "What of the fallout?"
"That be much greater," Doe replied. "Test moder not clear, but incrusive range of two hundred mire possibre. Maybe more. From here could go far as Turkey and Saudi Arabia. Definitery Iraq and Syria."
"It would kill people that far away?" Aruch asked.
"No, no, no," Doe insisted. "For human to die, they need be in brast zone. But moder show bomb could break down the quadruple bond between adjacent atoms in transition metal compound far away as Pakistan." Sweating, he smiled hopefully.
Doe had obviously lost Nossur Aruch somewhere during his explanation. The PIO leader turned to Babcock.
"What is this nonsense?" he demanded.
"That's the whole point of the neutrino bomb," the interior secretary explained. There was pleading in his eyes. "It was built to render metal inoperative, not kill people. It's a weapon of peace."
Aruch shook his head. "There is no such thing," he spit. "A weapon has but a single purpose."
"Not this one," Babcock argued.
Aruch caressed the stainless-steel bomb casing with one stubby hand. "We will see," he said cryptically. "You will arm it. Now," he commanded Doe.
This time, there was no talk of bank checks. Dr. Doe stepped obediently over to the bomb. The PIO leader watched in distrust as the scientist popped the side panel. A row of user-friendly buttons and an LED panel were visible beneath.
It took less time than programming a VCR. Once the bomb was armed, Doe glanced at Aruch. "What time I set for?" he asked.
Aruch's eyes danced. "How far is the border to Israel?" he shouted over his shoulder to his waiting soldiers.
"Thirty minutes by land," Fatang replied sharply. "Set it for one hour," Aruch ordered.
Doe did as he was told. The time now entered, he clicked the steel panel shut. A red digital timer counted down the time to detonation-59:47 ... 59:46...59:45...
As the seconds ticked down, a thin trickle of drool appeared at Nossur Aruch's lip. Delighted eyes flashed to the two men who had brought him his prize.
"Who knows how to disarm it?" the terrorist asked.
"Onry me," Dr. Ree Hop Doe answered.
Both Babcock and Doe were shocked by the ensuing gunshot. Only when Dr. Doe fell away-hands clutching at the crimson stain that was already seeping across his white shirt-front-did Babcock see the gun in Aruch's hand.
As Doe dropped, gulping, to the floor, the terrorist slipped the weapon back into his black leather hip holster.
"Put it in the truck," Aruch commanded. Fatang and another soldier strode forward and collected the neutrino bomb. Stepping over Doe's lifeless body, they carted the bomb out the door. "Come," the terrorist said to the still stunned Bryce Babcock. "Let us usher in peace together." He extended a hand to the open door.
Babcock took an uncertain step. "What about him?" he asked, nodding dumbly to the sleeping President.
When Aruch glanced at the former chief executive, a wicked smile split his prickly stubble. "We will save that one for later. Some of the men you mentioned earlier would pay a handsome price for him, don't you think?"
Cackling, Nossur Aruch left the room.
Bryce Babcock didn't know what else to do. His feet lead weights, he stepped past the former President. He trailed the PIO leader out into the baking light of the Lebanese day.
AFTER THE DOOR clicked shut, the President waited for the engine sounds to fade into the distance before opening his eyes.
When he was certain they were gone, he climbed unsteadily to his feet.
Bones creaked with age and muscles protested the sudden movement after so many hours of inactivity. Head woozy from the blood rush, he had to rest for a moment, propping a big hand against the desk. His leathery face was flushed.
They were taking the bomb to Israel. He'd have to follow. Would have to try to stop them.
But he was old now. Just the simple effort to stand had seemed a great challenge.
His head began to clear. No time.
Hobbling, the President made his way to the door. He opened it a crack, peering outside.
Clear.
Opening the door wider, he slipped outside. Quiet for a moment.
All at once, a shout in Arabic. A single gunshot. Intense silence.
A second gunshot.
Followed by the whispering sigh of the desert wind. And nothing more.
Chapter 26
Remo stole a rusty old Buick LeSabre from the roadside in Tyre. The owner of the restaurant where he'd placed his call to Smith had given them directions to the offices of the Lebanese PIO branch. He spit on the floor as he did so.
The four side windows of the big blue American car were open wide as they bounced their way down the rutted road.
In the passenger's seat, Chiun hummed a merry Korean tune. For the first time in days, Remo didn't get the impression he was faking it. This time, it seemed like the real deal.
"Smith does not want you to ice the President, Little Father," Remo insisted as he drove.
Chiun was breathing dry desert air and basking in the brilliant sunlight shining through the filthy windshield.
"You are young," the Master of Sinanju said, patting Remo's hand paternally. "When you have seen as many winters as I, you will know better how to judge the mind of an emperor." He stroked his wisp of beard pensively. "How do you think Smith feels about public scourging?"
"Look, Chiun," Remo said reasonably, "even if he does want you to kill the President which he absolutely does not-how would it change your life one jot?"
"If Smith finally ascends to the throne of America, I will be at his side," the Mast
er of Sinanju replied. "At long last, I may finally cease skulking in the shadows of anonymity where I have languished lo these many years and step out into the glorious light."
"And this couldn't possibly be motivated in part because you missed your fifteen minutes of fame when your movie tanked," Remo commented dryly.
"It did not tank, O crass one. It was not even released." He tipped his head. "Although now that you mention it, the notoriety I receive as official presidential assassin could boost rentals."
"Do you even get a cut?" Remo asked.
"No," Chiun admitted. "But I would. As a boon from President Smith for my many years of faithful service."
"Well, don't say I didn't warn you, Little Father," Remo said. "The best you can hope for is to bump off the guy who held the job two Presidents ago."
As they drove along the potholed road, a serious expression wrinkled Chiun's aged face. "He was the old one, was he not?" he asked.
"He was older than the other ones we've worked for."
Chiun folded his hands in his lap. "I liked him," he said, nodding. "He had the bearing of a true leader."
"Does 'leader' translate to 'despot' in this context?" Remo asked. "'Cause I don't think so."
"No," Chiun said. "While despots and tyrants provide sustenance for the babies of Sinanju, and so are much coveted as clients, only a handful have been great men. Many men lead, Remo, but few of them are leaders."
A particularly deep rut threw the front of the car to one side. Remo bounced the right rear tire through the furrow. The Buick rolled down, flew through and launched up out of the hole, landing in a cloud of dust. Undamaged, the sturdy old car soared down the road.
"Smith is certain the Emptying Basin technique has reversed?" Chiun asked, referring to the Sinanju term for the type of selective amnesia they employed.
"According to Smith, he remembers everything he was supposed to forget. Just like that conspiracy-theory movie director we dealt with a few years back."
"Hmm," Chiun mused. "This has happened before."
Curious, Remo pulled his eyes away from the flat road. Signs of life had begun to spring up alongside the highway. Rough vegetation signified a nearby source of water. Trees sprouted in the distance. "There were others?" he asked, surprised.
"Not others," Chiun said, perturbed. "We are the most feared house of assassins on Earth, not some family of blundering nincompoops. There was only one other."
"What undid it, surgery or a smack on the head?" Remo asked. These were the only two techniques he knew of that had thus far reversed the Emptying Basin.
The old man's reply surprised him.
"It was love," Chiun intoned somberly.
The Master of Sinanju sounded so serious when he spoke the words that Remo resisted the urge to crack wise.
"Have you never wondered, Remo, why Smith's desire for secrecy extends to the assassination of all who learn of his silly organization-friend and foe alike?"
Remo frowned. "Not really," he admitted. "He's always had a hard-on for security. I figured that was all."
Chiun shook his head. "When first I entered into his employ and learned of his paranoia, I told Smith of the Emptying Basin technique. He was pleased to know that it was possible to make someone forget about his existence rather than eliminate them. However, when he asked if it was possible for the Emptying Basin to come undone, I responded truthfully.
One time, many years ago, it did. Although there was only this single instance, Smith decided that the risk was too great for his precious secrecy. This is why, Remo, we only use the amnesia technique on your retiring Presidents and no others."
"I didn't know that." Remo nodded thoughtfully. "I guess from Smitty's viewpoint, it makes sense, too. It'd sure as hell raise more than a few eyebrows if every President who leaves office up and drops dead on January 21. So who's the one it stopped working on?"
"It happened in rather recent times," Chiun began, "in what inferior Western dating would call the thirteenth century. You know of the Mamelukes?"
Remo looked sheepish. "Big dog in the funny papers?" he ventured.
"I only wish I could be certain you were joking," Chiun said, eyes hooded. His voice took on the cadence of instruction. "The Mamelukes were a powerful aristocracy of landowners who ruled throughout the Muslim world for seven hundred years. Their influence was felt in India and Persia, as well as other nations, though to a lesser degree. But nowhere was their strength felt more than in Egypt.
"Now, the Mamelukes originally descended from slave stock. Their ancestors had been plucked from the ranks of non-Arab slaves to serve in the households of Muslim rulers and soldiers. But it did not take long for their masters to grow fat and lazy. The Mamelukes soon subverted power from their owners, seizing control for themselves."
"Good for them." Remo nodded.
"And for us," Chiun agreed. "To consolidate their power, the former slaves imported more military slaves."
"Wait a minute," Remo said. "The slaves had slaves?"
"It was customary and quite proper at the time."
"It's also repulsive," Remo said.
"I agree," the Master of Sinanju replied.
He glanced around, as if someone running at sixty miles per hour beside the speeding car might hear what he was about to say. When he again spoke, his voice was conspiratorial.
"Slavery is not a good thing, Remo."
"I know that, Little Father," Remo said dryly. "The only specimens in all the human race worthy of slaves are Masters of Sinanju, and we no longer keep them."
"I don't agree with that," Remo said, shaking his head firmly. "I don't think we're any better than anyone else just 'cause of all the stuff we can do."
Chiun gave him a baleful look. "I agree that you do not think. I will ignore the other nonsense." Eyes flat, the old Korean looked back out at the dusty desert road. He resumed his tale.
"The influence of the Mamelukes grew as time went on. Eventually, their power became so great that they were able to afford the services of Sinanju.
"Now the Master at that time was named Suo-Lok. Traveled he from the sunny shores of Sinanju to the Egyptian seat of power of the Mamelukes in Cairo. From this ancient city did these sons of slaves wield influence from Syria to Arabia, from Libya to Sudan in far-off Africa. A mighty empire had they built, these slaves, and powerful they were, but they did not see trouble on the horizon."
"Another slave uprising?" Remo asked hopefully.
Chiun shook his head. "Mongols," he intoned. "Although this was after the time of the mighty Genghis, the Mongol hordes were still a feared enemy to much of the known world. Word had come to the Mamelukes that forces of Kublai Khan intended to invade Syria."
"Wait a minute," Remo interrupted. "We worked for the Mongols. Wouldn't it have been a conflict of interest for Suo-Lok to hire out to the other side?"
Chiun shrugged. "Contracts expire. Emperors pass to dust. It is the way of things."
"Okay," Remo said, nodding, "so we double-dealt the Mongols."
The Master of Sinanju forged ahead. "The Mamelukes were always fighting amongst themselves. Though it is thought that they eagerly united when threatened by an outside enemy, this is not so. However, the sultan who hired Suo-Lok, as well as the neighboring sultans, feared so greatly for their kingdoms that they grudgingly put aside their differences to repel the invaders. But unity alone does not a victory make. Only with Suo-Lok's aid were the Mameluke horsemen adequately trained to fend off the army of attacking Mongols."
"Where's the whole Sinanju amnesia thing figure into all this?" Remo asked, feeling they'd gone far afield.
"I am coming to that, impatient one," Chiun droned. "The sultan was so pleased with the Master of Sinanju's training of the Mameluke horsemen that he did hire him to the full-time position of royal assassin. While occupying this post, Suo-Lok did befriend the son of the sultan.
"Now, the sultan's son was a vile and cunning creature whose eyes were firmly set on the throne of
his regal father. Many nights he did plot against the one whose seed did give him life. Always in the company of a servile concubine."
"Uh-oh. I smell a femme fatale," Remo said.
"You are correct," Chiun agreed. "One day, after he had failed to compliment her hair or give her a bauble to commemorate a particular date or smiled when he should have frowned-who knows what motivates women?-this young wench turned against her prince, fleeing to his father to report his treachery. Fearing for his own life, the prince did beg the Master of Sinanju to stop the girl before she could inform the sultan, thus sealing the prince's fate. However, he pleaded that she not be killed, for the faithless harlot was a favorite of his whom he loved deeply."
"Sounds like a job for selective amnesia," Remo said, growing intrigued. "Did he do it?"
Chiun nodded. "As a personal favor to his friend, the treacherous prince, Suo-Lok did intercept the consort and perform on her the technique of the Emptying Basin."
"Suo-Lok gave the guy a freebie?" Remo asked, surprised.
"Of course not." Chiun scowled, as if Remo were an idiot. "He was paid handsomely by the prince."
"Whew," Remo exhaled. "My universe nearly collapsed. I thought for a minute a Master of Sinanju had opted for friendship over cold hard cash."
"I implore the gods that such a thing does not happen in my lifetime," Chiun intoned. "In any event, Suo-Lok had created a dilemma for himself. He was already under contract to the father when he was hired by the son. To provide service to an enemy of the crown while in service to that crown-even if it was a prince of the realm-not only had the appearance of impropriety, but it was bad business."
"So what happened?"
"The hussy lived in blissful ignorance until one day she was kicked in the head by an ass. Memory returned to her and she did report the false heart of the prince to his father. Enraged, the sultan slew his son at once. Afterward, Master Suo-Lok was discharged from the Mameluke's service with only partial payment-this for subcontracting to the prince."
"So I was right," Remo challenged. "It was a smack on the head that brought back her memory."
"Essentially," Chiun admitted.
"So why'd you tell me it wasn't?"
"You might not have listened otherwise," Chiun sniffed, "and thus missed a riveting tale. We have arrived."
The Last Monarch td-120 Page 16