He looked around the room. “Now let’s see where Nemeroff is.”
He walked toward the head of the table and turned a body over with his toe, then looked up, annoyed. “Chiun, is he over there?”
“No,” Chiun said.
“Maggie. You got him by you?”
She forced herself to look at the bodies that littered the floor around her. No Nemeroff. She shook her head.
“He escaped, Chiun. He got away,” Remo said.
“If you had been more a participant and less an observer, perhaps that might have been prevented,” Chiun said.
“There were only thirty, Chiun. I wanted to leave them for you, so I could see what you’re going to do with the bodies. Now where the hell did he go?”
There was a hard whirring sound overhead.
“The roof,” Remo said. “The helicopters. He’s up there.” He looked around for panels, for stairways. He saw nothing. He looked up. A helicopter was settling down on the roof, its blades cutting swaths of darkness in the room as they revolved above the glass dome.
“How the hell do we get up there?” Remo asked.
Chiun answered.
First he was on the floor, then on the table, and then he was hurtling through the air, toward the dome, and he hit into it feet first. It crashed. He turned his body in air, grabbed a cross bar with his hands and pulled himself through the opening in the shattered glass.
Some old man, Remo thought.
He followed, springing onto the table and jumping up for a handhold on the cross bar. He hoisted himself through the break in the glass, calling over his shoulder, “Stay there, Maggie.”
Then he was on the roof, alongside Chiun. But they were too late for Nemeroff. His red helicopter was already off the roof, and then it dipped its nose and sped off toward the south toward Mozambigree, toward the island nation of Scambia.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
NEMEROFF’S SECOND HELICOPTER WAS taking off at the other end of the roof as Remo and Chiun raced toward it. They reached it just as it started to speed up its rotor, and with dives, they grabbed the right wheel struts.
Above them, the engine roared and lugged, and tried to lift. But their weight unbalanced the craft. It lifted and dropped; lifted again and dropped.
Above their heads, the helicopter window opened. The co-pilot made his first and last mistake. He reached out, and tried to throw a punch at Chiun. Chiun reached up with a toe, then the co-pilot was coming through the window. He hit the stone covered roof and lay in a personal heap.
Remo moved up the struts and slid in through the window. A moment later, the pilot came out the same window. Seconds later, the craft sat down heavily on its haunches and the rotor stopped as Remo cut the engines.
The door opened and Remo jumped out onto the roof. His eyes joined Chiun’s in looking forward to the horizon toward which the red helicopter of Baron Nemeroff was speeding.
“Must we pursue?” Chiun said.
“Yes.”
“Can you fly this craft?”
“No,” Remo said. “Can you?”
“No. But if I were a white man I would be able to use a white man’s tools.”
They heard behind them the sound of a motor and they turned. As they watched, a section of roof lifted up and then a small screened elevator rose onto their level. In it was Maggie.
As she stepped out, she said: “He had a secret door. I found it. Where is he?”
Remo pointed to the helicopter, now far away in the distance.
“Well, why don’t we,follow him?”
“I can’t fly this damn thing.”
“Get in,” she said. “I can.”
“I always knew there was something about you limey women that I liked,” Remo said.
He hopped up into the plane. Maggie clambered up on her side and Chiun slid in alongside Remo, sitting between and behind Maggie and Remo, watching.
“How does this thing fly?” he asked, as Maggie started the engines and they kicked on with a whooshing sound.
He sounded worried.
“C’mon, Chiun, you never saw a helicopter before?” Remo asked.
“I have seen many of them. But I have never been in one and therefore did not examine the problem closely. How does this thing fly without wings?”
“Faith,” Remo said. “Blind faith holds it up.”
“If body gas from passengers with eating problems would hold it up, we would have no trouble,” Chiun said.
Then the craft was off the roof, hovering, and expertly Maggie worked the stick, dipping its nose. Then with a powerful swish, it began moving forward, climbing, gaining speed and altitude, following on the trail of Baron Nemeroff.
“Why must we chase him?” Chiun said. “Why don’t we just land somewhere and call Smith?”
“Because if we don’t stop him, he’ll go through with his plan anyway to assassinate the President. We’ve got to stop that.”
“Why must we always get involved with other people’s problems?” Chiun said. “I think we should sit down somewhere and calmly consider the prospects.”
“Chiun, be quiet,” Remo said. “You’re here now and we’re flying to Scambia. We’ll be there in just a few minutes so don’t worry about it.” And to Maggie, he said: “You’re pretty good at this. Her Majesty teaches you agents everything.”
“Not at all,” she shouted over the roar of the blades. “Private lessons.”
“Thank heavens for resourceful Englishwomen,” Remo said.
“Amen,” she said.
“Amen,” Chiun said. “Yes. Amen. But keep praying.”
Slowly they began to gain on the red helicopter ahead of them. It had been a small dot in the sky, but now the dot was growing bigger, imperceptibly if one watched it steadily, but clearly visible if one looked only sporadically. They were gaining.
“Keep up the good work, Maggie,” Remo said. “When we go back to the hotel, I’ll do you an extra good turn.”
“Sorry, Yank,” she said. “I’m in mourning for P.J. Kenny, the only man I ever loved.”
“May he rot in peace,” Remo said. “The only time I’ve ever beaten my own time.” But he was glad he would not again enjoy Maggie. With his identity had come back his disciplines. Sex was one of them.
Both planes ate up the distance to Scambia but Remo’s craft took bigger bites. It was only a minute behind Nemeroff now and up ahead they saw the island of Scambia, down in the cool blue waters of Mozambique. Nemeroff’s helicopter began to lose altitude. Maggie followed suit.
They were over Scambia now, a drab little island, its monotonous landscape relieved only by nature with rocks and not by man with buildings. Ahead, they could see the only large building on the island, a blue stone structure, surrounded by mazes of gardens and pools. Nemeroff’s helicopter was heading down for it. They could see it touch down on the grounds. Two. No, three men scurried from it, and began running.
Maggie increased her speed, barreling the helicopter down, and she touched down alongside the other craft only forty-five seconds after it had landed.
“Good show,” Remo said. “Pip, pip and all that. If you Britishers weren’t frigid, I think I could love you.” A glance showed that Nemeroff’s helicopter was empty. “Chiun,” Remo said. “Get in and protect the president. The vice president is going to try to kill him. Maggie and I will go for the gold, to stop Nemeroff from getting it.”
Before he finished speaking, Chiun was out on the grassy field, moving toward the front of the palace.
There, two uniformed guards stood at attention, their eyes carefully watching the helicopters, watching the people who had climbed from the two aircraft, now watching this old Oriental come skittering across the deep green grass at them. They had been given orders to let no one into the palace. Extreme security precautions, Vice President Asiphar himself had just told them.
Then Chiun was in front of them. They were moving to block him with their rifles and then he was not there. One guard turned to
the other and said: “What happened to that old man?”
“I don’t know,” the other guard said. “Did you hear someone say ‘excuse me’?”
“No, it couldn’t be,” said the first guard, and they watched again across the field as Remo and the girl headed for the east wing of the palace.
There was another guard inside on the first floor of the palace’s central wing. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see an old Oriental standing there. “The president. Where is he?” Chiun asked.
“What are you doing here?” the guard asked, which was the wrong thing to ask. A hand grabbed his waist, and ringers like knives poked their ways into clusters of nerves; the pain was agonizing.
“Fool. Where is your president?”
“At the head of the stairs,” the man managed to gasp through his pain, and then he lapsed into unconsciousness.
Chiun glided up the stairs, his feet seeming not to move under the heavy robe. There were no guards outside the heavy double doors that obviously led to the president’s office. Chiun pushed open the doors and stepped inside.
Across the room, President Dashiti worked at his desk, and he looked up as Chiun entered his field of vision. For a moment he was startled, then he said: “Forgive my staring. One is not always surprised at one’s desk by Orientals in robes.”
“In this world,” Chiun said, “one should be surprised at nothing.”
“True enough,” the president said, his hand straying toward the signal button on his desk, to call the guards to escort this old lunatic out.
Chiun wagged a finger at him, naughty-naughty.
“I beg your indulgence, Mr. President. Men are coming to assassinate you.”
Yes. Obviously a lunatic. But how did he get past the guards outside?
“I must ask you to leave,” Dashiti said.
“Ask all you wish,” Chiun said. “But I will stay and save you, even though you do not wish saving.”
The President’s finger moved closer to the alarm button.
Down the hall, Asiphar spoke to two men who stood in his small office.
“It is time,” he said, “the baron has arrived.” He turned from his window and looked at the men, both tall and European-looking.
“I have removed the guards. Just walk into his office and shoot him. I will follow at the sound of the shots and will confirm your story that others shot him and you attempted to stop them.”
The two men smiled, the knowing smile of one professional to another.
“Now, go quickly. The guards may soon return.”
The two men nodded and went out into the hall. Quickly they walked to the president’s door. Asiphar stood in the doorway of his own office, watched them push back the heavy door and enter Dashiti’s inner sanctum. Now to wait for the shots. Oh, yes. He would help them get away. Right to their final resting place. When he heard the shots, he would race into Dashiti’s office. And what else could a loyal vice president do, except kill the men who had killed his president? What better way to gain for himself public support and approval?
He waited, and as the door closed behind the two assassins, he lifted the safety on his pistol.
Baron Isaac Nemeroff had not entered the castle. Instead, he had run to the outside wall of the east wing, where the sewer crew had been working for the last month.
The sewer foreman saw Nemeroff racing toward him across the open field in front of the palace and snapped to attention.
“Come,” Nemeroff said, “we must proceed quickly.”
The supervisor jumped down into the deep sewer trench that ran for fifty feet parallel to the east wall of the palace. Workers scattered to move out of the way as Nemeroff followed.
The supervisor pointed. At right angles from the trench, heading straight toward the palace wall was a tunnel, tall enough for a man to move through, while standing up. It stopped at the palace wall. The supervisor flashed a light at the wall. Nemeroff could see the crew’s handiwork. During the last four weeks, they had quietly drilled into and removed the mortar holding the stones of the wall together.
“All it takes now,” the supervisor said, “is a jolt with a jackhammer. The whole wall will open up.”
“Then do it,” Nemeroff said. “Timing is all, now.” He waved to one of the men to back their truck to the edge of the trench. In minutes, Asiphar would be President. The president of a country without a dime; the world’s pauper. There would be no other game in town, except Nemeroff.
The supervisor grabbed a jackhammer and went into the dark tunnel. After a moment, there came the terrific thump, thump, thump, so fast it was not a series of separate sounds but flooded the small tunnel with overpowering noise.
Then it stopped. Nemeroff heard the thump of stones falling onto a stone floor and rolling to a halt.
The supervisor came out of the dark to the trench-end of the tunnel where Nemeroff waited.
“It is done,” he said.
Nemeroff brushed by him and went to the wall of the palace treasury room. The stones had been splintered and cracked. Some had fallen out. He pressed a hand against another stone. It fell easily, thumping on the floor of the dark room inside. Nemeroff began to push the stones free from the wall; they came loose like children’s styrofoam building blocks.
He pushed and pulled stones away until he had made a hole big enough to step through easily, then clambered inside.
It was a small room, perhaps only twenty feet square, but it was dark and it took Nemeroff’s sun-squinted eyes moments to adjust to the darkness. Gradually, the room came into focus. At the far end was a heavy steel door, which he knew was electrified and on the other side of which stood a squad of guards.
And on pallets, all around the outside walls of the room, were stacked gold bullion, bar after bar, one hundred million dollars worth, the total wealth of the nation of Scambia.
Nemeroff giggled. Asiphar was in for a surprise. Talk about a president’s hundred days. There would be Asiphar’s hundred minutes. He would become president and the country would instantly become bankrupt. So? What was wrong with that? It happened to all African countries eventually. Nemeroff was just speeding up the process.
And soon — despite that Remo Williams and that Oriental and that woman — despite all them, the crime families of the world would have new leaders and they would listen when Nemeroff spoke. Scambia would still be under crime’s flag.
And someday, the Russians and the Americans might want missile bases here. What if they were willing to pour the wealth of their lands into this godforsaken island? This room could be filled with gold again and again, and again and again Nemeroff could drain it.
He turned and called to his men. “Set up a line,” he said. “Begin to pass out these bars. You, get in there and start,” he called to the supervisor.
Still trailing the jackhammer behind him, the man came into the small treasury room —into its darkness—and then it was dark no longer. Suddenly the overhead lights glared and glinted sharply off the gold, bathing the room almost in sunlight. Nemeroff blinked sharply, squeezing his eyelids together. When he opened them, at the end of the room, sitting on a stack of bullion, was the British woman and the man he had known as P.J. Kenny.
· · ·
The two gunmen entered the presidential office. The president’s blue leather chair was turned away from them, facing the window. It rocked gently back and forth.
Both men held guns in their hands and one raised his, but the second man raised a hand in caution. Not at this distance. Wait.
They walked softly across the heavily-padded carpet to the President’s desk.
They smiled at each other. A breeze. Walk up to him, one from each side. Two bullets in the head. No sweat.
They drew near the presidential chair. Their guns came up. The chair slowly swung around and smiling at them, looking from face to face, was not the President, but the wizened parchment face of an ancient Oriental.
In the corridor Asiphar waited. Then he he
ard two shots.
He unsnapped his holster and ran toward the President’s office.
Inside the door, he stopped. The two gunmen stood alongside the President’s chair, but their bodies were contorted and twisted. In the chair sat an aged Oriental in blue flowing robes, who looked at Asiphar as if he recognized him. He raised his hands toward Asiphar across the room, and as he released the two gunmen, they fell to the floor softly.
The old Oriental stood up. His eyes burned into Asiphar’s. The vice president looked at the two dead men on the floor, first in horror, then in puzzlement. He looked up again at the old man, as if he would find an answer in the Oriental’s face.
He reached for his pistol.
The old man said, “They missed,” and then he was over the top of the desk, in the air, coming toward Asiphar, and the last words Asiphar heard in the world were: “But the Master of Sinanju does not miss.”
He never got his gun from his holster. His heavy body hit the carpeted floor with no more sound than suet falling on a mattress.
From inside a closet door stepped President Dashiti. He looked at the two dead gunmen. At dead Asiphar. And then at Chiun.
“How may I repay you?” he said softly.
“By giving me some method of transportation home besides a helicopter.”
Far away, as if from miles away, came the sound of tiny cracks. Chiun heard them; recognized them as shots. Wordlessly, he was gone from the President’s office.
· · ·
“Get him!” Nemeroff shouted. He stood aside and men poured through the tunnel into the treasury room.
Remo sat unconcernedly on the gold bars, humming.
Three men—four, then five—poured into the small room. They stood, waiting, as their supervisor, holding the jackhammer under his arm as if it were a rifle, advanced toward Remo and Maggie, his lips twisted in a thin smile.
Remo waited, then reached up a hand and flipped the switch, plunging the room into darkness again.
Summit Chase Page 14
