His frightened eyes searched for Remo.
“Oh, you want something?” said Remo. “Oh, I see. More starch in the collar. Okay.” He took a can of spray starch and sprayed it over the redheaded man’s face.
“And listen, we give a one-cent rebate for every hanger you bring back. Don’t forget now.”
The man tried to cried out, but no sound came, and then there was only the sound of the door closing softly. The man, terrified now, lay hoping for unconsciousness and praying that he would die quickly. Or be saved. His wish was to be granted.
There was another sound and the door opened. Pressed down, sandwiched in the ironing board, he tried to turn his head toward the door but he could not see.
And then an oily Oriental voice spoke to him.
“Silence,” the voice said.
He heard the sound of the wire coat hanger being released, and then blessed relief as the heated top of the ironing table was lifted. And then the blackjack was removed from his mouth.
And then the Oriental voice was asking him questions, about what he had done and why, and what Clogg and Baraka were up to. He answered them all honestly, and finally the voice said, “That is enough.”
The red haired man started to straighten up, mumbling through his broken mouth, “What is your name? Mr. Clogg will want to reward you.”
“My name is Nuihc,” came the voice. “But no reward is necessary.” And then there was pressure that stopped the red-haired man from getting up, and then he felt the blackjack come down again on his face, hard this time, and then everything went black, all black, and he saw, heard, felt nothing anymore because he was dead.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CLAYTON CLOGG HAD THE ENTIRE fourth floor of the Lobynian Arms, but he was nowhere on the floor. However, large portions of his retinue who were there were only too glad to tell Remo where Clogg had gone, if he would only stop.
He stopped long enough for one man to gasp that Clogg had gone with two cars full of Oxonoco “special personnel” to a point on the Lobynian coastline facing one of the small offshore islands. There had been a small Oxonoco camp there, before all the gas supplies had been nationalized.
Remo then stopped with another man long enough for that man to procure a map and to show Remo where the Oxonoco camp was, two driving hours out of Dapoli. The map was easy to read. Out of Dapoli led three roads. One went to the coast to the Oxonoco camp, another went inland to the main oil depot, and the third went deep through the desert to the Mountains of Hercules. Maps in America showed golf courses; this map showed oases. There was only one near the Oxonoco camp.
It was after midnight when Remo left. Clogg had a forty-five minute head start. The desert had not yet surrendered its day-baked heat, and the narrow road seemed to steam as Remo drove along it in the Ford which yet another of Clogg’s retinue had graciously offered to lend him—if he would only stop.
Remo had wondered enough whether Clogg or Baraka had been Nuihc’s henchman. He would take care of Clogg and Chiun would take care of Baraka. The scientists’ killings would end; with Adras back on the throne, the flow of oil to America would resume. And then there would only be Nuihc left. But he was in the future. Clogg was now.
Remo began to feel a slight breeze blowing up and he realized he was nearing the coastline. He turned off his lights and continued to drive in the darkness. Up ahead he saw the bulky shapes of two limousines. He turned off his motor, pressed in the clutch, and let his car roll to a stop behind the limousines.
Remo got out of the car and stopped at each of the two black Cadillacs, reaching in under their dashboards and pulling out handfuls of wire. The cars would be of no use unless Clogg had brought electrical engineers with him as well as oil people. And what the hell were “special personnel” for Oxonoco he wondered.
Noiselessly, Remo moved toward the breeze and heard the sound of the Mediterranean lapping softly on sand. Ahead he saw shapes. He insinuated himself into the darkness and moved into the group. One moment he was not there, the next moment he was and had always been there.
Clogg was talking, pointing out to the sea.
“How far is the island?”
“Only three hundred yards,” came a voice near Remo’s right.
“We could put that pipeline in, under water, in not more than a week,” Clogg said. “But we have to wait for that greasy mule-skinner to make up his mind. Be ready to move as soon as you hear from me.”
“Suppose he says no?” asked a voice across from Remo.
“He won’t. Did you ever see one of these animals who could resist cash?” There were chuckles all around. “And if he gets sticky,” Clogg added, “well, you men have had some experience in that area. It might just be time for Lobynia to have a new lord high commandant,” he said contemptuously.
Clogg turned and looked back toward the road. “I wonder where Red is. He should have been here by now.”
The man at Remo’s right laughed. “He’s got this thing about black twiff. He may be taking his time.”
“Killing her with kindness,” said another.
Then they all laughed and began to walk back toward the two limousines, Remo melting along with them, first seeming to be in one small group, then in another. When they reached the cars, a man called: “Hey, there’s another car there. Whose is that?”
Remo backed off a step from the group. “That’s mine,” he said coldly.
“And who are you?” The voice was Clogg’s.
“A man with a star,” Remo said. “You can trust that car belongs to the man who wears a star.”
The crowd of men moved closer to Remo. One got too close. He oomphed and fell, almost as if for no reason at all. So fast had Remo’s hand moved that no one else had seen it.
“I can be very friendly,” said Remo.
Clogg recognized the voice. “What is it you want, Mr. Goldberg?”
“Nothing much,” said Remo. “Just you.”
“Men, start the cars,” said Clogg. He backed off toward one of the limousines. The man Remo had put to the ground did not stir, not even when Remo reached in under his light jacket and withdrew his revolver.
Remo moved into his own car.
“Hey, these cars won’t start.” Remo heard voices. He started his Ford and backed it away thirty feet before stopping it. A light pinkish patch appeared in the eastern sky.
“How will we get back? The sun’s coming up.”
Remo called out. “Easy. You walk.”
Clogg protested. The men protested. One man protested so much that he came up to Remo with a gun in his hand. He hit the ground before the gun did.
Remo still held the gun in his hand. He turned on the Ford’s headlights and fired a shot into the air over the men’s heads. “All right. Everybody drop their guns.”
He watched and counted, as the men, blinded by the high beams, complied. Then with another shot into the air, Remo herded them back along the road to Dapoli, Remo behind them driving in first gear, slowly, but fast enough so the men had to walk briskly to avoid being run down.
The sun lingered before making up its mind to rise, then jumped to its act with passion and soon was beating down. The heat shimmered from the sand, the black macadam road absorbing most of the heat and hurting the feet of the men.
Clogg began to lag behind the young men, and twice Remo bumped him with the car. The second time Clogg stumbled but caught himself and almost trotted to get some distance in front of Remo.
“What is it you want?” he called over his shoulder.
“To see you dead.”
“How long are we going to walk?”
“Until you die from the heat.”
“We could overpower you, you know.”
“Try it,” said Remo.
The men marching ahead heard Clogg. They knew that only a few hours exposure to the merciless Lobynian sun could weaken a man to the point of death. Fighting was better than giving up. They turned and split into two groups, all eight of them m
oving toward the car, circling it now.
Remo ignored them and looked toward the left, searching for something.
“Look, men,” he called. “Water.” He pointed to the left.
The men turned and saw the trees of the oasis that had been marked on Remo’s map. They forgot everything else and began to run through the sand toward the trees.
Remo put the car into second and drove through the soft sand, skirting the men. He turned off the engine and was standing beside the car waiting for them when they arrived.
There was, behind him a pool of crystal water, shaded from the sun by an overhang of palm trees, surrounded by a ring of bushes.
The men saw the water. They saw Remo, too, but ignored him and plunged through the almost knee-deep sand toward the oasis.
“Hold it, men,” yelled out Remo. “We just can’t have everybody filling up every which way.”
“Why not?” one yelled. “There’s plenty of water.”
“Yes,” said Remo holding the gun in front of him. “But we’ve got to have even distribution. We’re going to take all this water and ship it to England.”
“Why?” gasped one of the men, panic and confusion fighting for control of his face.
“Because you never can tell when the water shortage is going to hit England.”
“Screw you, I’m getting water,” one man said and plunged forward.
He was moving past Remo when he was felled by a hand to the throat. His falling body kicked up light puffs of silvery dust and then he did not move.
“All right, men,” called Remo. “Now let’s do this right. Everybody get in line.”
The men sullenly complied.
“Now you’ve got to wait your turn,” said Remo. “Straighten that line out.”
The line formed, Clogg in front, and started to move forward.
“Hold it,” called Remo. “We can’t have any chaos here. It’s got to be orderly. Wait your turn.”
“It is my turn. I’m first,” protested Clogg.
“Oh, no,” said Remo. “There’s a bird drinking over there. And there’s a monkey waiting. You’ve got to wait. Stay where you are.”
Remo hopped up onto the hot hood of the Ford and waited.
“And don’t forget. There’s a one-spoon limit No more.”
The men just stared at him.
“That’s right,” Remo said. “One spoon. We’ve got to have enough for our regular customers.”
The bird on the far side of the oasis flew up into one of the trees,
“Can I go now?” said Clogg.
“Wait a minute,” Remo said. “This is an even numbered day. Are you odd or even?”
“Even,” gasped Clogg.
“Sorry,” said Remo. “I don’t believe you. You all look like odd numbers to me.”
The men snarled and surged forward.
“That’s it,” Remo said. “Closing down for the day.” He hopped off the car and stood before them with his gun. Even though they were frantic, they declined to challenge his weapon.
“Everybody to the car,” he said.
The men looked at him, then trudged toward the open convertible. They piled in and watched Remo, half-fearing, half-hoping, and in a flash of hands, Remo put them all to sleep, still alive.
He slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine and drove out away from the oasis, toward the limitless sands that stretched away forever on Remo’s map, unbroken by so much as a single tree.
As he drove, Remo found a wrench in the glove compartment and reached down to wedge it between the gas pedal and the firewall. It stuck tightly and the motor began to race. Remo threw in the clutch and let the car coast to a stop, then shifted into first gear, grinding the gears past the racing engine.
He let the clutch out slowly and the car powered forward. He estimated that there was an hour’s gas left in the car, even in first gear. The men would be out in two hours at least.
Remo waited until the car was moving nicely, tracking straight across the flat straight sand, then he stood up on the seat and jumped out of the convertible. He watched the car continue forward, picking up speed, carrying its unconscious cargo. They would come to when the car had run out of gas. And they would die in the desert.
Remo watched the car leave, then threw it a salute. So they would die. What did they expect?
“You expect more from an American,” he mumbled. “And you get it.”
Remo turned back toward Dapoli and started out in a fast trot to the capital city. It was a good day for a run; he had not been getting enough exercise lately.
He saw one car on the way back to the city, but it was on the far road leading from the Mountains of Hercules and he ignored it. He didn’t feel like riding anyway.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
REMO AND CLOGG’S PARTY had not been the only people on the desert in the pre-dawn darkness.
Colonel Baraka had awakened in his bed with a vague feeling of fear. He glanced around and saw Nuihc standing next to his bed, looking down at him. The small night-light that burned in the room cut Nuihc’s soft yellow face into harsh angles of black, and he looked evil and angry.
“Up, wog,” said Nuihc.
Without bothering to protest, Baraka rose and dressed, then followed Nuihc wordlessly out of the palace to the back, where they entered a limousine. Baraka got behind the wheel and Nuihc directed him out into the desert on the most southerly road, leading through miles and miles of desert toward the Mountains of Hercules rising in the background.
Baraka spoke to Nuihc several times, but he got no answer, and finally he stopped trying to make conversation.
They were an hour out of Dapoli when Nuihc finally spoke.
“This will do,” he said.
Baraka looked at him, and Nuihc snarled, “Stop the car, wog.”
Baraka stopped the limousine in the middle of the road, turned off the key and waited.
“I should have known better than to expect honesty from a swineherd,” Nuihc said.
Baraka only looked at him. Nuihc was staring out the windshield at the Mountains of Hercules far in the distance.
“I offered you protection from the death forecast for you in the legend and you repaid me with treachery.”
“But…”
“Silence, wog. It is right that you know my thoughts. I offered you this protection because I wanted, for my own reasons, to dispose of the men who would come to this land to remove you. It was to entrap them that I eliminated those oil scientists in the United States; it was to bring them here that I instituted the oil embargo. It was to throw them off balance that I had you ignore their messages and their warnings. All this was set up by my plan against the day when I would strike them. It was necessary to that plan to keep them here.”
“Why?” asked Baraka, a military man considering a military problem. “You know who they are? Why not just eliminate them?”
“Because, wog, I want them to think. They know I am here. I want them to wonder a bit. When will he appear? When will he strike? It is not the attack that is the pleasure. It is the attenuation of the suspense before the attack.”
“So?” said Baraka.
“So, wog, you and your treachery have conspired to rob me of my pleasure.”
“No, Nuihc, no,” said Baraka earnestly.
“Do not lie to me.” Nuihc still looked straight through the windshield, biting off his words crisply, teeth clenched. “You agreed to a private deal with Clogg, the oil man, to divert Lobynian oil to his company, for eventual use in the United States.”
Baraka thought to protest, then stopped. There was no point in branding the truth a lie. Somehow Nuihc knew.
“But what does it matter? The embargo to America remains.”
“Fool,” Nuihc hissed, and for the first time his eyes sparkled with anger. “If I, secluded in the palace, can learn of this plan, how long do you think it will be before the American government learns of it?”
He turned to look at Barak
a. “Do not say ‘but,’ wog. Even for you, it should be simple. Once the government learns that oil will again flow to their country, they will be satisfied, even if the oil flow is by secret means. They will be careful to do nothing to upset the agreement between you and your perverted friend. They will call back the two men I seek. And all my plans will have gone for naught.”
Nuihc squinted at Baraka. “Do you see what you have almost done?” He did not wait for an answer. “Out of the car, wog,” he said.
Baraka opened the door of the car, but as he scrambled out he took a pistol from a small concealed pocket next to the driver’s seat. He had no doubt that Nuihc planned to kill him. He would get Nuihc as soon as he got out the other door. He turned to look over the roof of the car toward the other door.
The door opened. He waited for Nuihc’s head to appear. And then Nuihc was at his side. He had come out through the open driver’s door. His hand flashed, invisible in the darkness, and the pistol dropped out of Baraka’s hand, thudding softly in the sand.
“Fool,” said Nuihc. “Do you think I trust a goatherd?”
“What are you going to do?” asked Baraka.
“Kill you, of course.”
“But you can’t. The legend says that I need fear only an assassin from the East who comes from the West.”
“Fool,” said Nuihc, and this time his mouth creased in a thin-lipped smile. “I, too, fulfill that prophecy. The blood of the East flows in my assassin’s veins. And I came to you from the West. Remember me to Allah.”
And there was one slow lazy movement of one hand, and Baraka dropped, dead without a chance to scream or moan or even feel pain, his heart reduced to mush under the protective shielding of his breastbone which had been shattered to powdered chips by Nuihc’s hand.
Nuihc did not even look at the body.
He reentered the car and began the drive back to Dapoli. He must move against Chiun and Remo now. His mind concentrated deeply on how he would do it as he drove, so he paid only scant passing attention to a man he saw in the far distance, running along a parallel roadway toward the town of Dapoli.
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