Working the controls that governed the pan-and-scan function of the video cameras, Pedro set them for wider coverage.
The camera showed nothing at first. Not even the guards. It was as if they had vanished. Then Pedro realized a flaw in the system. The cameras pointed straight out. They were not set to scan the sky or the ground. The ground was where his six guards must be. There was nothing in the sky, because the roof-mounted parabolic mikes hadn't picked up helicopter blades and the sun roof was wide enough to reveal parachutists or hot-air balloons.
Pedro Ramirez has everything covered. But still he sweated. He had lots of enemies.
The oak-tree camera caught a momentary glimpse of something. He adjusted the controls, sending the camera in reverse. When it framed the man in black T-shirt and pants, he froze the gear.
Pedro leaned closer to the color monitor. The intruder was as lean as a two-by-four. He had deep-set dark eyes and high cheekbones. He was walking through the mine field so quietly that Pedro thought the mike system was broken, except that it clearly picked up the sound of a squirrel-dropping hitting a leaf. Pedro relaxed a little when he realized the man was alone. What kind of fool would send one man to kill him? He shrugged. Probably the same kind of fool who would go.
Grinning a little, Pedro Ramirez watched the man. He was walking around the mine field in a twisting path. The idiot. Better to run through in a straight line, if one hoped to avoid the mines.
They were beautiful mines, too. They had been deployed during the Vietnam war specifically to decimate small units. The unique design actually did no physical damage to the man stepping on the mine. It was those who surrounded him who were riddled with shrapnel. Usually the man on the mine was so psychologically devastated that he had to be removed from combat. Tactically, that meant no survivors.
Pedro watched as the man tramped through the grass. What were those things he carried? Pedro wondered, noticing what looked like bags. Perhaps filled with hand grenades, he thought. Well, he would not worry about hand grenades until the man got through the mine field, which of course he would not. After all, if an army couldn't penetrate that field, what could one man do? Especially one who kept stopping to test the ground with his feet. A stupid amateur.
Remo stomped again. He hit the area where, according to the map, a mine should be. Nothing happened.
"It's always something!" he said, annoyed. He trird moving to the left. He stomped the grass. Nothing. He moved to the right, and felt, under his gum-soled shoes, the light depression that was the result of rain tamping down the loose earth that had been redeposited over the buried mine. He pressed firmly. He was rewarded with the warning click that would have frozen his blood back in his Vietnam days. Today he grinned.
The explosion sent dirt, rocks, and fire spraying outward. "There," Remo said, lifting one bundle of human heads and talking to them politely. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" The heads didn't reply. But Remo noticed that the eye of one deceased guard had popped open again. His hands were full and he couldn't shut it. Remo pressed on, searching out more mines.
Pedro Ramirez jumped in his cushioned chair. He was learning that antipersonnel mines designed to destroy and demoralize small units were not equal to every task. The idiot was going out of his way to set off every mine in the field. As soon as he stepped on one, he went on to another. The explosions didn't seem to faze him at all-and it was a miracle that the concussion didn't trigger one of the grenades in those bags.
The realization of those potential weapons made Pedro Ramirez think that it would not be long until the man was knocking at his front door.
It was time to go to the defense of last resort. Not even a man who walked with impunity through a mine field could overcome Big Bonsalmo, who stood gleaming by the fieldstone fireplace.
Remo came up on the side of the log cabin, which generated its own electricity, was supplied by a private well, possessed no telephone lines, and technically did not exist. Except that there it stood.
Remo set the heads down on the grass and dug out the cigarette lighter. Lifting up one head, he applied the lighter's flame to the thick oily hair. It caught instantly. Remo let it burn a little, and then flung it toward a window.
The smoked glass shattered on impact.
Remo set two more of the heads on fire and ran around to the back. He tossed one head in an upper window and the other in a lower window. The other heads, blazing like torches, shattered strategic windows on the other side. Remo saved the sixth head for last. He carefully closed its stubborn baleful eyes and, setting it alight, gave it an overhand toss to the roof.
Pedro Ramirez did not fear the smoke. His eyes were shielded and he breathed pure oxygen through a breathing aparatus. He did not fear the grenades that he knew had smashed the windows, although it was taking an awfully long time for them to detonate. The fire bothered him not at all, although it was rapidly spreading. He started for the front door. When he moved, he clanked.
But when the sun roof broke into glittering shards, his heart quailed. The glass bounced harmlessly off and about him. But the thing that landed at his feet was another matter.
It was Santander. His hair was a ball of flame and as it ate into the darkening flesh of his face, one eye twitched open.
Remo watched until the smoke billowed out of every window and chink in the cabin and then walked up to the door, happy to have free hands once again.
He knocked politely. And waited.
Metallic sounds greeted his ears and he wondered for a moment if Upstairs had slipped up. There had been no mention of a midget tank in the briefing.
The door suddenly slapped open and Remo looked up. Remo was tall-about six feet high-but the thing that greeted him was taller by a solid two feet.
It was silvery-gray and plated like an armadillo. It stood on thick legs that ended in clubby feet. The arms hung crooked, like those of an overmuscled gorilla. The head was a box with round glass eyes and a black rubber appendage like an elephant's trunk. The breathing sounds it made resembled those of a hospital respiration machine. "Do your worst!" the thing said hollowly.
"I beg your pardon?" Remo said politely.
"I said do your worst. I'm not afraid of you!"
"Let's take this from the top, shall we?" Remo said. "I'm here to see Pedro Ramirez, millionaire playboy a chief distributor of crack in the western hemisphere. Could you tell him I'm here, Tobor? Or do robots relay messages?"
"Idiot. I'm Pedro Ramirez."
"You?"
"You're here to kill me, no?"
"Actually, I come bearing options," Remo started to say.
"But I can't be killed," said Pedro Ramirez, smashing a mittenlike gauntlet against his thickly plated chest. It made a bell sound. "Not as long as I'm wearing this. It's titanium plate. Stronger than steel. Over it is bullet-proof Kelvar with a Teflon base. Bullets bounce off. Grenades are nothing to me. I'm impervious to poison gas, fire ... you got it, I spit upon it."
"Actually, I was hoping you'd just surrender to the authorities. The government wants to make an example of you."
"You'll never take Pedro Ramirez alive."
"I'll go with option B if I have to," Remo said, shrugging.
"Just try," boomed Pedro Ramirez. "Go ahead, see if anything works. Why don't you try shooting?"
"Shooting?" Remo asked vaguely.
"Yeah, don't tell me the little cockroach forgot his gun."
"Actually," Remo said, patting his pockets, "I'm not sure if I thought to bring a gun. I was really hoping you'd just surrender, especially after I went to all that trouble with your guards. You did notice that."
"Yeah. So what?"
"I thought it would convince you of the error of resistance," Remo said, continuing to pat his pockets. "Guess not," he added weakly.
Out of his back pocket Remo pulled a folded slip of paper. He glanced at it and tossed it away.
"What was that?" Ramirez asked.
"Nothing much. Just the layout of your mine
field."
"How did you get hold of that?"
"Satellite surveillance," Remo said. "My superior monitored the entire construction of this place."
"Oh," said Pedro Ramirez, who knew the U.S. government wanted him, but didn't know they wanted him quite tkat badly.
"I can't seem to find it," Remo was saying.
"Too bad," said Pedro Ramirez. "Why don't you just go away?"
"Ah," Remo said suddenly. "Here it is." Out of his right pants pocket he brought out his fist. He held it in front of him as if about to throw a punch. His arm was bent at the elbow.
"That's your fist," Ramirez pointed out.
"Keep your scales on," Remo said. "I haven't cocked it yet." Remo pulled back the thumb of his fist. He made a little click of a sound with his tongue, and his index finger popped out like a gun barrel.
"There," Remo said with a satisfied smile. "Now-last chance. Put your hands up."
Pedro Ramirez did not put his hands up. He spread his arms. "Go ahead, cockroach. Shoot! Shoot!" he howled. Remo shrugged. He dropped his thumb like a falling hammer and said, "Bang!"
Pedro Ramirez guffawed inside his protective square helmet. His eyes closed with laughter. He didn't see the index finger, pointing at him, move for the center of his chest. He wouldn't have seen it move even if his eyes had been open. For the finger was coming for him at supersonic speed.
The coroner's official verdict was that Pedro Ramirez died of hydrostatic shock. Because Pedro Ramirez was at the top of the FBI's Most Wanted list, he was forced to explain hydrostatic shock to a flock of reporters at the FBI news conference.
"Hydrostatic shock, gentlemen," the coroner said carefully, "is a phenomenon wherein the human body is subjected to a noninvasive impact so great that it results in a chain reaction of internal stress which quite literally disrupts the body cells. This man's mitochondria were destroyed. The result was instantaneous death. We see such a phenomenon when the wearer of a bullet-proof vest is struck by a bullet of sufficiently large caliber-a .357 Magnum round for example-where even though there is no penetration of the protective garment, the impact is as lethal as if penetration was achieved. "
One reporter wanted to know what kind of bullet-proof vest Pedro Ramirez wore.
The coroner replied that it was not a vest, but an armored body suit.
Another reporter asked the question that the coroner feared.
"What caliber was the murder weapon?"
"That I am unable to answer at this time," he admitted. "No shell fragments were found at the scene, but the size of the dent in the suit's chest is consistent with a .38 slug."
The coroner was relieved that the logical follow-up question-how could a mere .38 slug cause hydrostatic shock?-was drowned out by a journalist asking him to speculate on which of Pedro Ramirez's many enemies had finally gotten to the drug kingpin.
When the news conference finally ended, the coroner went back to his lab and sat down to put the finishing touches on the official death report. He decided to simply state the details as they existed, and not try to explain how a .38 slug had wrought such havoc-especially when no corresponding slug could be found and the impact point bore a strange indentation.
The coroner lifted the plate to the light. It was bent. And the impact point was unmistakable. Also unmistakable were the tiny rills at the impact site. He couldn't get over how much like the ridges of a man's fingerprints they were. There was even a little slice of a line above the ridges that corresponded to the edge of a fingernail.
But what kind of fingernail could score a Kelvar-Teflon-titanium sandwich?
No kind, he decided. His final report would simply not mention those imponderable details. Some lines of inquiry were better off not pursued.
Chapter 3
Remo slammed the door behind him and announced, "I'm home."
A peculiar odor greeted his sensitive nostrils.
"You are just in time," a squeaky voice called from the kitchen. Remo followed the odor. It smelled vaguely familiar. It was a food odor, that much was certain, but for the twenty years that he had been a disciple of the art of Sinanju, he had learned to shut out what used to be tantalizing smells. His olfactory organs now only responded to the Sinanju version of the five basic food groups-rice, fish, duck, nuts, and berries.
"Sit," said Chiun over his shoulder as he hunched over the gas stove. The Master of Sinanju, who was barely as tall as the stove, stood on a footstool. He wore a thin white kimono with shortened sleeves appropriate for cooking with fire.
The table was set for two. Remo sat.
"What's cooking?" he asked, sniffing the hauntingly-familiar aroma.
"A celebration dinner."
"Great. But what is it'?"
"A surprise," squeaked Chiun.
"Close your eyes." Remo did as he was told. He even folded his hands. He waited. He sensed rather than heard Chiun's sandaled feet slither in his direction. Something hot was poured into the great celadon bowl that dominated the center of the table. Remo sniffed harder. He felt his stomach juices stir as they had not in many years.
The opposite chair scraped back and the Master of Sinanju spoke up.
"You may open your eyes, my son."
Remo did. The wise eyes of the Master of Sinanju looked at him with crinkled amusernent. Merriment lay in their hazel depths. They dominated a face that was the color of aged ivory, making the myriad of wrinkles look somehow akin to youth and not age. Twin puffs of wispy white hair decorated the hollows over his small ears. A fragile beard was stirred by the steam coming from the great bowl. Such was the countenance of Chiun, latest Master of Sinanju, heir to the longest and most celebrated line of assassins in history, and Rerno's trainer and adopted father.
"This is a great day for us," he said softly.
"Amen," said Remo. "But what's this? Duck soup?"
"No duck today. Nor fish. And rice we will do without. For this is a day of celebration. I have waited long for this golden hour. "
"Great. But what is it? It smells great."
"Patience," intoned Chiun, raising a long-nailed finger. The nail was pointed and slightly curved. "Perfection is fleeting. Do not hurry the moment."
"Tell my mouth. I'm practically drooling. What is this stuff?"
"Egg-lemon soup," whispered Chiun. His voice was reverent.
"Egg-lemon?" Remo said, staring at the steaming bowl.
"Reserved for full Masters only. Oh, this is a glorious day. "
"Egg-lemon soup." Remo looked into the steam as if the *..s,cies were parting to reveal their innermost secrets for his eyes alone.
"Savor this moment, Remo."
"I'm savoring. I'm savoring," Rerno said. It had been over twenty years since he had come to Sinanju, the sun source of the martial arts. Twenty years since he had learned the skills that made its practitioners the most feared warriors in history. Twenty years since he had eaten his last steak. Twenty years since sugar, coffee, processed foods, and alcohol were forbidden to him. Twenty years since his body had been made one with the universe, until his diet had shrunk to rice, duck, and fish, with the occasional organically grown vegetable thrown in for vitamin content. And twenty years since his tongue had touched an unfamiliar food.
"Ah," said Chiun. "I see it in your eyes."
"Steam?"
"No, a twinkle. Egg-lemon soup always brings a twinkle to the eye."
Remo did not reply. He only stared. A new food. A new taste sensation. He had to keep swallowing because his mouth juices were erupting like a liquid volcano. His hands reached for a spoon, but something inside him made him hesitate. A new food. Maybe after this there would be no more new foods. Chiun was right. This was a moment to savor.
"Have you-nothing to say?" Chiun inquired at length.
"I'm speechless," Remo said sincerely. "Really, Chiun, this is wonderful. Egg-lemon soup."
"From an ancient Korean recipe."
"This is great. How very thoughtful, Little Father. And only l
ast week you were harping on me to let my fingernails grow long like yours."
"Speak not of trivial quarrels on this auspicious morning," Chiun said magnanimously.
"Sorry," Remo said sheepishly. His eyes were not on Chiun, but on the bowl. It still steamed. But he could see the broth now. It was yellowish-white. And in it tiny dark specks floated. The sight filled his eyes to brimming as the aroma filled his nostrils. Remo felt almost as if he were going to cry with the sheer joy of discovery.
"Egg-lemon soup," he said under his breath. And it was a prayer.
"I will let you pour," Chiun said suddenly, clapping his hands.
"Gladly," Remo said, bolting from his seat. He scooped up the large bowl and ladled out the heated broth, filling first Chiun's bowl and then his own. He replaced the bowl and sat again. He stared into his own bowl. His hands, holding the ladle and a spoon, almost trembled.
"You may go first."
Remo hesitated. Then, dropping the ladle, he dug in. He brought the first hot spoonful to his mouth. He hesitated again. Chiun's eyes were eager as they watched him, his wise old face beaming with pride. This was a sacred moment.
Remo blew on the spoon to cool the broth. He took his first spoonful. It seared his tongue like acid.
"Hooo!" he said, swallowing.
"Good?"
"Strong."
"It has been a long time since your tongue has tasted such nectar. I recommend small sips."
"Okay," said Reano. The second spoonful was pungent. It slid down his throat with all the fire of a shot of good Kentucky bourbon. The third taste was merely sharp. Remo found himself able to take larger doses. He drank up the bowl greedily, not even noticing that Chiun had not even tasted his own.
"More?" asked Chiun. Remo nodded.
"I am glad you like it," Chiun remarked as he refilled Remo's bowl. Only then did he sample his own bowl. He sipped from the spoon lightly, showing none of the strong reaction that had come with Remo's first flavorful sips.
Coin of the Realm td-77 Page 3
