Her body was a black flame, and as she shifted her weight from one generous hip to the other, it shimmered. Leather. She wore leather. He had not expected leather.
His eyes followed the shimmer to pick out the enchanting details. The silver chains, the vampiric black nails and ivory skull set in her navel like a barbaric ornament.
She held a whip in one hand. The other clutched a dog's leash.
Anwar-Sadat's eyes followed the leash to the floor and his heart jumped quick and hot in his chest.
On the floor at her side crouched a man on all fours. He was naked except for a spiky dog collar banding his throat. He clutched a scarlet rose between his teeth like an obedient dog holding a bone. It dripped crimson droplets on the floor.
His eyes were on the floor. Mistress Kali gave the leash a sharp tug, and he raised his head.
"Allow me to present the minister of fisheries and oceans, Gilbert Houghton," said Mistress Kali in a voice that mocked the two dignitaries.
"Er, pleased," gulped Anwar Anwar-Sadat.
Through the clenched rose, the Canadian official growled low in his throat.
This was not going as expected ....
Chapter 33
At Folcroft, Harold Smith was watching the global conflict unfold.
"This is unbelievable," he said to himself. "It is as if the entire seafaring community has descended into a feeding frenzy."
In the North Atlantic the renegade U.S. fishing fleet had retreated to a closed fishery called the Flemish Cap, where they were taking Canadian cod and yellowtail in a feeding frenzy that defied fishing regulations of both nations. Coast Guard cutters were moving to rendezvous with them in an effort to persuade them to abandon Canadian fishing waters.
In the Pacific the U.S. destroyer Arkham was prowling the waters between Alaska and Washington in search of the Canadian submarine Yellow-knife/Couteaujaune before it could surface in the midst of American salmon-fishing craft.
Meanwhile Canadian coastal-defense vessels were trying to collect transit taxes and taking small-arms fire from disgruntled U.S. salmon fishermen.
From Ottawa there was silence both official and unofficial. But from Quebec emanated semiofficial rumors that in the U.S.-Canadian fishing war, Quebec intended to side with Washington.
And so Harold Smith saw the first seeds of Canadian civil war. The choosing of sides.
Already in the U.S. media, old memories were being dredged up. The depredations of one French and Indian war. The Deerfield raids. Louisbourg. How during the War of 1812, Canadian and British forces had burned the White House to the ground.
In Oregon a paramilitary force called the Unconstituted Oregon Militia had slipped across the Fortyfifth Parallel and hung three Mounties from fir trees and called for the repeal of the treaty that had given much of the original Oregon territory to Canada.
Along the Vermont-Canadian border, tensions were running extremely high. It appeared there was a library that straddled the border in a town that existed half in Canada and half in the U.S. Hotheads on both sides of the border had begun to lay concertina wire straight down the middle of the humanities reference aisle, and the library was being hotly contested, chiefly with thrown encyclopedias. It was only a matter of time before the first shot was fired.
In Lake Champlain a long-simmering controversy over the spread of a thumbnail-sized mollusk, the zebra mussel, from U.S. waters into Canadian territory was flaring up again.
Tiger-striped Canadian air-force F-16s were patrolling the Alcan Highway, which had been sealed off at Alaska's border with Canada. All U.S. traffic was being turned back. Alaska had been cut off from the continental U.S. except by air.
From Parliament Hill came threats of withdrawal from NORAD and other mutually beneficial treaties.
On Capitol Hill the provisions of the Treaty of Ghent, which ended the War of 1812, were examined for loopholes and unfinished business.
In the meantime the President of the United States and his advisers were making the Sunday-morning talk-show circuit trying to placate all sides and cool the growing war fever.
Smith knew that open warfare was but hours away. If it erupted and Quebec sided with Washington, a rift deeper than any would develop. And U.S.Canadian relations would be poisoned for a century to come.
And all because Man needed more and more fish to live.
Chapter 34
Remo rang the bell. His supersensitive fingers sensed the electric current so he knew it was wired up.
There was no answering buzzer.
Remo rang it again.
"You know," he said to Chiun while they waited, "in the old days a red light like this meant a house of ill repute."
"All houses are of ill repute. Besides our own," Chiun intoned.
"You have a point there," said Remo, leaning on the bell. It was an old push bell, a small black nub in a rusty brass bell.
Whoever was inside refused to buzz them in.
"Guess we do this the hard way. Wanna split up or go in together?"
"We will go in together, for what danger would a house of such ill repute have for two fish-eating Masters of Sinanju such as we?"
"Good point," said Remo, stepping back to lift one Italian loafer. The fine leather gleamed under the lurid light for a moment. Remo kicked once, hard.
The door was painted steel, but it caved in as if it were tin. The panel bent in the middle from the kick, but actually gave at the hinges.
Remo jumped in and caught the thick slab of steel before it hit the floor. Pivoting, he directed the downward impetus to one side and set the door in one corner. He gave it a spin. It twirled in place like a square top, wobbled then gyrated as if possessing a waking mind, and leaned itself obediently against one wall, making no more sound than a basket settling.
"Pretty slick, huh?"
"Hush," said Chiun, lifting a quelling hand.
Remo listened. Under his feet he sensed a vibration. It was familiar. Vaguely electric, but not electric in the man-made sense. It was the electricity of something living.
He looked down. Chiun was regarding the floor at their feet.
It was black. Not ebony black or obsidian black, but a shiny black that was like a mirror. The floor looked as if it were possible to see through it. Their eyes narrowed.
"I never saw a floor like this," Remo muttered.
"Nor I," said Chiun.
"It's like I should be able to see through it, but I can't somehow."
"It is black. One cannot look through something that is so black."
"So why do I think I can?" Remo pressed.
"I do not know, but I feel the same way as you, Remo."
From under their feet a sudden sound came unbidden. A gurgle, followed by a noisy splash. Other smaller splashes sounded.
"Sounds like a sewer pipe down there," Remo said.
"If that is so," said Chiun, "in the sewer dwell living things."
"Not our problem. Let's go where this takes us."
They advanced in the dim back-glow of the red entrance light.
The walls were marble, but broken by a mirrored section. The mirror shone of quicksilver.
And on either side two shadowy statues stood sentinel.
Chiun's quick intake of breath made Remo freeze in place. "What is it?" he hissed.
"Behold."
"Behold what?" said Remo, peering behind the statues for hiding enemies.
"The figures on either side of the door, Remo."
"I see them. Statues. So what?"
"How many arms does the statue on the right possess, my son?"
Remo's eyes dispelled the clotting shadows. "Four."
"And the statue on the left?"
"Four."
"They are no mere statues, but Shiva and Kali, the Red One and the Black One."
"Big deal. Two statues."
"Remo, why are they here in pagan Canada?"
"Decoration." And Remo advanced.
With a flutter of silken skirts,
Chiun got in his way. Two hands came up and pressed themselves into Remo's chest. The Master of Sinanju's hazel eyes were pleading. "I do not like this. Why would such Eastern gods guard this Western place?"
"They look pretty naked. Maybe this is a cathouse."
"Remo, you may remain here. I will go in. Do not follow."
"Cut it out, Chiun."
"What if she is here?"
"She who?"
"Do not trifle with me, Remo Williams."
Remo sighed. His mind went back to other times.
He couldn't recall the year, but it had started with a statue of the Hindu goddess Kali, patron demon of the cult of Thugee, who strangled travelers for their money. When airline passengers started popping up throttled by yellow silk scarves, Harold Smith had sent Chiun and Remo to look into it. They found more than they'd bargained for. The modernday Thugs were controlled by an ancient statue that held the power to exert an evil influence upon its followers and upon Remo, who was, according to Sinanju legend, the dead white tiger destined to be the avatar of Shiva on Earth.
Remo had shattered the statue supposed to be the vessel of Kali's evil spirit, but the spirit later returned in another form. This time as a four-armed call girl who had lured Remo into the cauldron that had been the Gulf War. He was alone then. Chiun hadn't been there to guide him. Somehow, using yellow silk strangling scarves as a symbol of the U.S. hostages in the Middle East, Kali had ignited the Gulf War.
Something terrible had happened to Remo then. He had no memory of it. Later Chiun claimed Kali had broken Remo's neck and caused Shiva to possess his body to keep it animated. Somehow Chiun had defeated Kali, cast out Shiva and reclaimed Remo as his son in Sinanju. All Remo remembered was waking up with a weird bump the size of a pigeon egg in the middle of his forehead that had to be surgically removed. Chiun claimed it was Shiva's third eye. Remo called it the goose egg that wouldn't go away.
Remo shook off the disturbing memories. "Look," he told Chiun. "That statue was wrecked. If Kali's spirit were anywhere around here, I'd smell that sex scent of hers. I'd sense something."
"Perhaps..."
"I don't. So that means they're just statues. Watch."
And deftly slipping around the Master of Sinanju, Remo floated up to the towering Kali statue.
Reaching up, he took a wrist and snapped it. The hand broke off with a splintery snap. Remo tossed it over his shoulder. It struck the glassy black floor with a clattery clunk. With a casual upward slap Remo shattered the fingers of another hand. A downward slap defingered another.
A stamp of his foot powdered the hand that fell at his feet.
Finally, with a tight fist, he cracked the statue at the exposed belly. The torso wobbled, then toppled forward.
Remo caught it, half turned and let fly.
The top of the statue went zinging out the open door to land in the street, and bounced apart into a dozen pieces of various sizes.
Remo faced Chiun. "See? No evil Kali statue. This is just some goofball cathouse or something."
Chiun padded up to the Shiva statue and looked into its austere countenance. "I detect a faint resemblance," he said, thin of voice.
"Yeah. It has two eyes, one nose and a mouth with thirty-two teeth. Same as me. That's where the resemblance begins and ends."
"There are things you do not remember," Chiun warned.
"If I don't, it's probably for good reasons," returned Remo.
"Shiva has possessed your corporeal body before."
"If you say so..."
"Several times."
"Fine. I channel Shiva on my off days. I don't feel an off day coming on."
"The last time, he promised me that he would claim you, his avatar, when the time was ripe, and not before."
"Let me know if that day ever comes," said Remo. "Now do you want to go first or should I?"
Chiun regarded Remo thinly. "You are the brave one. You may go first."
"Since when are you afraid?" asked Remo, genuinely surprised.
"When I saw those two statues in this very room," returned Chiun, his wrinkled visage darkening with shadows.
"Fine. Try not inhale too much of my dust ...."
And turning, Remo faced the mirrored double door and smacked it with one palm.
It shattered into a thousand fragments that hung in space for a long breath until the pieces recognized that they no longer belonged to a whole. Then they fell like a metallic rain.
ANWAR ANWAR-SADAT LOOKED down at the fisheries minister of Canada, Gilbert Houghton.
The man spit out his bloody rose. His hello was grudging.
"I-I-" Anwar-Sadat swallowed "-I thought we-" he cleared his throat "-I mean-"
"You thought that you were the only one upon whom I bestow the favor of my wrath?" Mistress Kali said in a metallic voice.
"That is one way to put it," Anwar-Sadat said. He averted his eyes from the lurid spectacle of the fisheries minister. This was not Anwar-Sadat's scene. Not his scene at all. What had he walked into? he wondered.
"I thought it was time my two puppets met."
"I am not your puppet," Anwar Anwar-Sadat insisted.
Gilbert Houghton spit out a sticky tendril of blood and said, "But I am. Am I your only puppet, Mistress?"
"Of course not," Mistress Kali sneered.
"But I am your most important puppet."
"You are my most useful puppet," said Mistress Kali.
The fisheries minister smiled sickly. He beamed.
Then Mistress Kali's Nile green eyes fell on Anwar Anwar-Sadat's stone features.
"Until this hour," she added coldly. "Kneel, Man who would be Pharaoh."
Anwar-Sadat stiffened his spine. "I will not. I am a UN diplomat."
"And I am the woman who baited her hook with your miserable penis and reeled you in like a fish. Kneel or be flayed!"
"You would not dare."
"Kiss my feet and I will spare your hide of a splitting."
"Resist," Gilbert Houghton hissed.
"Should I?"
"Yes. I want to hear the crack of the whip on your recalcitrant ass. It will make me hard as a bone."
On reconsideration, Anwar Anwar-Sadat said, "I will kneel."
And lifting his trouser legs so the knees did not bag, he got down on one knee, like a knight before his queen.
"Both knees," Mistress Kali insisted.
"Very well." The second knee fell to the floor.
"Now prostrate yourself before my magnificence."
"Prostrate? Do you mean-?"
A gloved hand reached down, seized his hair and pushed his head down violently.
Anwar Anwar-Sadat's forehead banged the floor. A spiked heel pressed into the back of his neck, then withdrew.
A very pointed toe slipped under his downcast face.
"Kiss it and be mine."
Anwar Anwar-Sadat hesitated. But only for a moment. The stiletto heel returned into his neck vertebrae, and he planted his dry lips to the black vinyl. A peck. He hoped there were no hidden cameras.
The heel came off his neck.
With a tug of her leash, Mistress Kali brought the fisheries minister closer. They faced one another, two dogs at the heel of their mistress.
"This one," she said, giving the leash a headjerking tug, "is ambitious. He seeks to be prime minister. He believes that he can accomplish this by strutting his balls on the global stage and facing down the United States while blaming Quebec for the conflict we engineered."
"Is this true? Is this your plan?" Anwar-Sadat demanded.
"It would have worked, but someone sunk my sub," Gilbert Houghton said dolefully.
"It is a very intriguing plan," Anwar Anwar-Sadat admitted.
"Thank you," said Gilbert Houghton. "But I must kindly ask you to stay away from my mistress."
"She is my mistress."
"You think a slavish peck on her boot will make her yours? I have tasted her lash. I have licked her in places you will never see. Have you?"
"I hope not to," Anwar Anwar-Sadat said truthfully.
And he felt the boot heel press into his neck again.
"Now, this one," Mistress Kali said, "seeks global power." Her voice dripped with scorn and contempt. "He has failed to bring the world into his orbit, so now he seeks control of the seas as a way to control nations."
"It was your idea," Anwar-Sadat reminded. "This control of the sea."
"Interesting concept," said Gilbert Houghton.
"I have not yet begun."
Mistress Kali interrupted. "Both schemes are mine. Now they are one. You have both worked my will in the world. Now you will work together."
"I will consider this," said Anwar Anwar-Sadat. "Now, about our dinner engagement..."
"I will dine upon the hams of your rump if you fail to achieve my goals," Mistress Kali spit.
"What exactly are your goals?" Anwar Anwar-Sadat asked.
"To plunge the world into the Red Abyss."
"I am not familiar with the Red Abyss, is it near the Black Hole of Calcutta?"
The answer never came. There came a sound like shattering glass, followed by the gritty settling of a particles.
It froze time. Anwar Anwar-Sadat started to look up, but his gaze never reached his mistress's masked face. With a savage gesture she kicked Anwar-Sadat and the fisheries minister aside and stepped past them, snarling, "Avert your eyes, supplicants."
Like a black snake uncoiling, her whip slithered to the floor. She snapped it up and demanded in a harsh, shrill voice, "Who is this who invades my domain?"
A squeaky voice returned, "Who is this who demands such answers of us?"
"I am Mistress Kali."
"If you are Mistress Kali," returned the squeaky voice, "then you will recognize my companion, who is sometimes called Shiva the Destroyer."
Hearing that interesting comment, Anwar Anwar-Sadat couldn't help but peek. He turned his head.
Chapter 35
Lieutenant Sandy Heckman had interdiction patrol. They were calling her the heroine of the Battle of Sable Island Banks. There was talk of a promotion.
Now she was in the waters west of the Grand Banks' infamous Nose trying to protect U.S. fishermen as they plundered cod from Canadian waters.
Not that there would be any stopping them.
It would have been simple in the past. Show up in force and seize their vessels. But these fishermen had tasted combat. They had defeated the Canadian Coast Guard. They would not be denied. They wanted to fish, so the orders from Cape Cod were to let them fish. It was, politically speaking, a way to pressure Ottawa into capitulating.
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