White Water td-106

by Warren Murphy

  "What's the Canadian Coast Guard doing?"

  "At the moment, nothing. I suspect they will let the fishing fleets fight it out."

  "Why?"

  "Our Coast Guard can beat theirs. But in a fight between commercial fishermen, it could go either way. Also this gives both sides maneuvering room for a ceasefire or diplomatic solution."

  Remo grunted.

  "Remo, this conflict is spreading to other waters," Smith said.

  "Like the Gulf of Mexico?"

  "Farther. You recall the Falklands War in '82?"

  "Yeah. The British and the Argentinians were fighting over a bunch of islands down in the South Atlantic."

  "Not just islands, but valuable fishing territories. It is toothfish season down there, and the two nations have been at odds over fishing rights in the South Atlantic. The Argentinians resist having to pay the British for licenses to fish in waters they see as theirs. Citing the UN Secretary-General's calls to free the seas, Argentinian fishing boats are fishing freely. The British are sending the destroyer Northumberland to the scene. It looks like a repeat of the Falklands crisis."

  "Does it matter to us?"

  "There is more. Tensions between Turkey and Greece over the two disputed islets in the Aegean have flared up again."

  "I thought that was settled."

  "So did the International Court of Justice at the Hague. There is more. Russia and Japan are squabbling over the South Kurile islands, and in the Pacific, Korea and Japan are renewing their feud over the Dok-to Islands."

  "Never heard of them."

  "They are a handful of rocks projecting from the sea. Too small for more than standing on, but enough to fight over."

  "Has everyone gone crazy?" Remo exploded. He was shushed by other passengers, including Chiun.

  "Certain governments see opportunities, and they will grab them if the lid is not put back on. Remo, the Secretary-General of the UN is becoming an international troublemaker."

  "Who do you want talked to first, the fisheries minister or old Anwar-Anwar?"

  "I want international tensions cooled as quickly as possible."

  "Trust me. It's in the bag. After the way I've been treated, there's nothing more I'd rather do than strangle a Canadian."

  "Do not get carried away. The object of this mission is to defuse the situation."

  On the ground Remo's passport got him through customs. But not before he got a good talking-to.

  "While in this country you must observe certain rules of decorum," a stern customs Mountie recited.

  "No problem," said Remo in a bored voice.

  "Do not spit on the walkways, scratch yourself in a place not normally discovered, and when spoken to, reply in the language in which you are addressed."

  "You are bilingual, aren't you?" a second Mountie inquired.

  "Sure. I speak English and Korean."

  "I will take your word on the latter," the Mountie said frostily. "But in the former you are seriously deficient."

  "Thanks," said Remo. "Is your red suit at the cleaner's today?"

  "The red serge is strictly ceremonial," the first Mountie said stiffly.

  "Really? I didn't know that."

  "Tell your damn friends," both Mounties called after him.

  In the lobby Remo met the Master of Sinanju, who was wearing a placid expression.

  "Have any trouble?" Remo asked.

  "I was well treated."

  "You must have used your Korean passport."

  "Of course. I would not wish to be mistaken for a fish-stealing pharisee."

  "Cut it out."

  They grabbed a cab, and the driver accepted them on the proviso that they pay in advance, which Remo did because strangling this cabdriver would only mean having to find another who might be even more insufferable.

  Other than the bilingual French-English signs and the profusion of green copper roofs on Parliament Hill, Ottawa might have been any American city. On the way into the city, Remo noticed the only thing that was unusual.

  "Check it out, Chiun. The squirrels are black."

  Chiun spied a squirrel sitting on a snowy branch of an oak.

  "I have never seen a more sinister rodent. No doubt he is a fish hoarder."

  "Doubt it. Squirrels are strictly nuts. Like Canadians."

  Chiun peered out his window at the snow-covered buildings that marched by. As they got closer to the heart of the city, it looked more and more European, like a theme park of stone and green copper roofs.

  "Ottumwa lies fat under its snows. Fat and easily sacked," intoned Chiun.

  "It's Ottawa, not Ottumwa, and we're not in the sacking business," said Remo.

  The cab let them off in front of the Chateau Laurier, and Remo handed the driver twenty dollars for a fifteen-dollar fare.

  "Thank you," said the driver, pocketing the bill.

  "Hold up. What about my change?" Remo demanded.

  "What about my tip?"

  "I like to tip from my change."

  "Your change is my tip," the driver countered.

  "Normally I'm the judge of that."

  "Normally you tip American taxi drivers. You are in Canada, and we like to take our gratuity this way, owing to the muddled manner in which Americans confuse U.S. and Canadian dollars."

  "I'm not confused."

  "Very well."

  Back came a handful of coins.

  "What are these?" asked Remo, staring at the one gold and two silver coins.

  "Coins. They constitute your change."

  "I want bills."

  "They are legal tender, out of which I expect a generous tip."

  "Here's a tip," said Remo. "Don't tick off a paying fare."

  And Remo took the silver coins between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. He performed a double squeeze, and the coins went scrunk. Remo returned them in the form of silver Tootsie Roll bits.

  "What is this?" demanded the cabbie.

  "Four bucks' worth of warning," said Remo, getting out.

  The driver started to protest, but the rear passenger door slammed shut in a way that shook the car on its springs. It bounced so badly that the driver got out, thinking it was an earthquake.

  By that time the two peculiar passengers had vanished into the hotel.

  INSIDE, REMO DECIDED on the direct approach.

  Walking up to the front desk, he asked a supercilious-looking desk clerk, "We understand the Secretary-General of the UN is staying here."

  The clerk looked up, frowned at Remo's casual, out-of-season dress and sneered, "You understand imperfectly."

  "Oh, but I beg to differ," said Remo, adopting a similar tone.

  "Sir, you are mistaken."

  Remo was about to take the clerk by the tail of his tie, the better to yank him out of his polished shoes and equally polished attitude, when the Master of Sinanju squeaked, "Remo, behold!"

  Remo turned.

  A stone-faced man of sprightly sixty years floated past, wearing a gardenia in his lapel and trailing a vaguely effette after-shave scent. He went through the revolving door and stepped into a waiting car.

  Remo turned to the desk clerk, saying, "Caught you fibbing."

  "You are mistaken. That was an untruth."

  Remo gave the man's reservation terminal a friendly pat, knowing from past experience that the screen display would turn to an unreadable electronic jigsaw puzzle. From the horrified look that came over the man's face, it did exactly that.

  The car was pulling away when Remo and Chiun reached the street.

  As it happened, the cab that had brought them to the hotel was still bouncing on its springs, the cabbie looking on with vaguely fearful eyes.

  Beside it a rainbow-striped white car with a blue horseman symbol on its rear fender was pulling up. A man in a crisp uniform stepped out.

  "If you don't mind, we're going to borrow your cab," Remo said, brushing past the man and taking the wheel.

  "I mind very much," the man said.
/>   So the Master of Sinanju seized him and flung him into the back seat, there to join him.

  "I won't stand for being kidnapped," the driver demanded as the cab left the curb. "This is Ottawa. And this happens to be an official RCMP vehicle, not a taxicab."

  "My mistake," said Remo. "How do you feel about riding in the trunk?"

  "In that case, I will do my best to persevere," the Mountie said.

  Remo fell in behind the car carrying the UN Secretary-General. They could see the back of the man's iron gray head through the back window. He was primping like an old maid.

  The two cars moved through Ottawa traffic, leaving the historical heart of the city and entering a neighborhood where old snow lay in the gutters, dirty and unplowed.

  "This is not a good area," the Mountie warned.

  "What is wrong with it?" Chiun probed.

  "The snow is dirty."

  "Is it dangerous?"

  The Mountie scoffed. "This is Canada. We do not have violence here."

  "That's about to change," Remo growled.

  "Are you gentlemen assassins?"

  "No," said Remo.

  "Yes," said Chiun in an overlapping voice.

  "Well, which is it?" the Mountie asked in subdued horror.

  "We're assassins, but we're on vacation," Remo told him. "We're not here to waste anyone."

  "Then why are you following that vehicle?"

  "You take it, Little Father," Remo said to Chiun.

  "To see where it goes," answered the Master of Sinanju.

  The cab carrying the UN Secretary-General took them to what looked to have once been an electrical substation or power-generating plant on the fringes of the Canadian capital. It was a grimy brick box, and over the main door was a faded sign that at one time said Ottawa Electric, but now said, Otta a Tric. A single red light bulb made the front door smolder.

  The taxi pulled up before it, and the UN Secretary-General stepped out and paid the fare with a stiff bow. Adjusting his tie, he walked up to the main entrance and smoothed his waistcoat before pressing the doorbell.

  The door opened inward, and he vanished inside.

  "We're going to stop here," said Remo, "but we may need the car later."

  "I do not object," said the cowering Mountie. "Simply call dispatch when you are ready."

  "We'd rather you wait."

  "In that case, kindly turn off the engine."

  "No problem," said Remo, who left the engine off and the Mountie curled up in the locked trunk while he and Chiun went to the building entrance.

  Remo looked around. "Looks like the kind of place where a UN official would meet up with a Canadian minister when they don't want witnesses."

  "Possibly," said Chiun.

  "This should be a piece of cake."

  "Do not count your salmon before they spawn," warned the Master of Sinanju darkly.

  "What could happen? We're in Canada. Even the Mounties don't put up a fight."

  Chapter 31

  Canadian Fisheries Minister Gil Houghton practically floated off the Air Canada air-stairs and bounced into his waiting Bentley.

  He sent the gleaming silver vehicle spinning into Ottawa's sedate traffic. His foot pressed the accelerator with too much eagerness, and he found himself speeding. It was something he never did. Speed.

  He sped now. Just this once. His official license plates would purchase him indulgence from the traffic police.

  His drive to the Temple of Kali was a whirl of inchoate thoughts. Gil Houghton hoped Mistress Kali would find time for him before the meeting. If not, after. Either would suit him.

  The building looked dark when he pulled up before it twenty minutes later. But then, it always looked dark. Only the red light bulb burning in its cage over the entrance door gave any hint that the old generating station was not deserted.

  Parking on a side street, he walked briskly and officiously to that ruby light. The bell vibrated at his touch, and he was buzzed in.

  In the anteroom with its erotic statuary he declined to doff his clothes. Better not. What if the UN Secretary-General were present? It was true that Mistress Kali's rules were severe and inflexible. One didn't enter her presence except in the state one came into the world.

  But this was different. He was not here as a supplicant, but as the minister of fisheries and oceans.

  And if he erred, well, he wouldn't mind a taste of the whip as a reward for his roguish incorrigibility.

  Presenting himself before the mirrored door, he raised his voice. "Permission to enter the awful presence."

  "Enter," a cold-as-steel voice snapped.

  She sounded delightfully impatient, Gil Houghton thought, stepping forward.

  The doors rolled apart, and he froze.

  Mistress Kali stood, hands on hips, arms akimbo, her domino-masked face lowered so that her changeable eyes regarded him with an emerald green blazing up-from-under glare.

  Then they were like blue diamonds, icy and fiery, and they made the pit of his stomach clench.

  "I trust I am not late for the meeting," he remarked.

  "You are early."

  "Good."

  "I despise earliness."

  Houghton swallowed. His tongue turned to dry rubber.

  "I-I can come back if you'd rather."

  At that moment he noticed the long-stemmed scarlet rose tucked into the loop of chain draping her lyrelike hips. With a quick gesture she plucked it into the air.

  Turning so that her body showed in full profile, the uplifted breasts and the stunning ice-princess profile, she lifted the rose to the light. Red mouth compressing, she began snapping off the thorns one by one.

  "Approach," she invited.

  Cautiously he stepped forward. Her nimble fingers snapped off thorn after thorn. They dropped to the black glassy floor with dry tiny sounds like cat claws clicking on porcelain.

  "Unzip!" she commanded.

  "Whatever for?"

  "Obey!" Mistress Kali snapped.

  Slowly, because his heart was pounding, he drew down his trouser's zipper as Mistress Kali stripped the stem of its thorns. When the last was on the floor, he stood there tumescent and quivering.

  "Whatever are you-?"

  "What was it you said the other day?" she said thinly.

  "That you never touch me."

  "What else?"

  "That we never do anything new anymore," he admitted, his voice a bleat.

  "So you want to try something new, do you?" she asked in an arch voice. She wasn't looking at him. He felt almost beneath her notice. His quivering member stiffened further.

  "I do," he said, bowing his head, "very much."

  "Very much what!"

  "Very much, Mistress Kali. I want to try something new very much, Mistress Kali," he said hastily.

  A faint smile touched her scarlet lips. From somewhere about her person she palmed a long vial of massage lotion. She snapped the cap with her blacknailed thumb and dipped the stem to its full length. A faint fishy scent came to his nose. Cod-liver oil. His favorite. He tingled down to his curled-in-anticipation toes.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Something new," she said, drawing the stripped stem from the bottle. It dripped viscously.

  He licked his lips. "Really?"

  Her voice dropped several degrees. "Yes, really."

  And whirling, she took his member in one hand and with the other inserted the lubricated rose stem deep into his urethra, jerking it in and out, in and out until he screamed in the exquisite pain and pleasure of a sensation he had never in his wildest imaginings imagined.

  The pain brought him to his knees. He knelt there, gasping and clutching himself, a fresh spill like fish milk and dark red raspberry juice forming under his agony.

  Her voice cut through his agony like a steel needle. "Never again complain that I won't try anything new ...."

  Chapter 32

  United Nations Secretary-General Anwar Anwar-Sadat stepped through the buzzi
ng door into an anteroom that was surprisingly sumptuous.

  The walls were some pink-veined marble that brought to mind the delicate flesh of a concubine. At least that was how his romantic eyes perceived the cold marble.

  There were statuary. A black-skinned woman with more than her natural provision of arms. They were held in an attitude that was both provocative and inviting.

  Kali, of course. The Hindu goddess of death. How appropriate for a woman whose cyber-pseudonym was Mistress Kali. The eyes of the statue looked down upon him, two blind blanks.

  He noticed that her proportions were generous to the point of ripeness. He took this as a promising sign. Anwar Anwar-Sadat liked his women on the voluptuous side.

  On the other side of the door, another statue. This one not of basalt, but porphyry. He did not recognize the god depicted but decided it could only be Shiva, consort of Kali. Shiva clutched in his four arms various devices both arcane and doubtful of purpose.

  Clearing his throat, he raised his voice. "Hello?" "Do you desire to enter into the presence of Mistress Kali?" a very firm voice returned.

  "I do. Are you she?"

  "Silence!" the voice cracked out.

  In spite of himself and his position in the world, Anwar Anwar-Sadat felt a cool hush descend over his soul. "Allow me to gaze upon you," he asked.

  The voice was coming from the mirrored area between the two statues. It was at once evident that these were mirrored doors. He was being studied. Assuming a rakish pose, he allowed this.

  "Anwar Anwar-Sadat, are you brave enough to enter into the domain of Kali?"

  "I am," he said in a voice that cracked with anticipation.

  "Very well. Steel yourself."

  "I am steeled."

  "For those who enter into my terrible presence are forevermore changed."

  For a dark moment Anwar Anwar-Sadat quailed inwardly. He did not wish to be changed. He only wished to meet this creature who had so bewitched him sight unseen, voice unheard, until this pregnant hour.

  He swallowed. And then the doors parted.

  Mistress Kali was all that he had imagined, Anwar Anwar-Sadat saw at once.

  She was tall and statuesque and as blond as sunlight on pure gold. Her features were classic, ethereal yet chiseled. The domino mask of golden silk framing her Nile green eyes added a touch of mystery that was perfection itself.