by Bob Finley
"Do you think so?" Jambou said very quietly, his rapier eyes never leaving Marc's. A hypnotic undercurrent of fanaticism lurked there.
Marc watched him for a moment, finally nodding. "Yeah..." he said, easing further back into the chair, "...either that, or you're crazy."
"NoNoNo..." Jambou wagged a finger at him, "...not crazy. But...it won't hurt if the rest of the world thinks I am." Again, the cold smile. A confident smile.
Justin looked around and gave a short, derisive laugh. "And is this," he spread his hands, "your... ‘kingdom’, Your Majesty?"
Still smiling, Jambou replied, "Yes, as a matter of fact, it is."
Justin just looked at him.
"You see, Captain," Jambou leaned forward again, "historically, to establish a country, it's always been necessary first to conquer the people who already live there, and then to give them enough of what it takes to make them happy so they'll not only allow you to rule them, but will want you to rule them."
"And, if they don't want you to rule them?" Marc argued.
"Then, it's necessary to convince them that it's in their best interest."
"And how do you do that?"
"By making sure they understand that the price they pay for being ruled is trivial when compared to the catastrophic price they pay for refusal."
"Catastrophic?"
Jambou sat slowly back in his chair. "Perhaps a... poor choice of words," he said slyly.
"So what does this place have to do with anything?" Marc persisted.
"Let's say it's the path of least resistance."
Justin shrugged and spread his hands.
"Come, Captain, you're smarter than that. ‘This place’, as you called it, is in international waters. It belongs to no one."
"So there are no ‘people’ to conquer...the ‘path of least resistance’," Justin added.
Jambou inclined his head in salute. "Exactly. Only fish, and they don't care."
"So who are your ‘subjects’?"
"Why, all the countries of the world who ship anything into or out of the Mediterranean Sea."
Justin leaned forward, thinking hard. He shook his head. "What?" he said, confused.
Jambou seemed amused. "Under international maritime law, as a newly-formed country, I will establish a two hundred mile limit out to sea in any direction from my borders. I will, of course, allow international traffic across my borders, but I must, naturally, charge a tax on goods passing through my country."
Justin's eyes widened. "Wait a minute," he said. "Wait a minute. Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
Jambou merely raised an eyebrow and waited.
"You're gonna turn this aborted island into a glorified toll booth, call it a ‘country’, claim international borders, international maritime limits, and try to extort so-called ‘taxes’ from the whole world doing business in the Mediterranean?!" He looked incredulously at the calm figure in the chair.
"You do have a way with words, Captain," Jambou observed mildly.
"You are crazy."
"Some will say. But...in the end...they'll pay."
"That's a lot of traffic...merchant shipping, military fleets, fisheries, passenger and cruise ships, private yachts...all paying a toll to cross ‘your country’." Jambou merely nodded. Justin discovered he was sitting on the edge of his chair. He sat back. And forced himself to step back from this absurd story and think about it. There had to be more to it than this. If he really thought he could get away with it, there had to be some muscle somewhere.
"So, what makes you think they'll pay? What makes you think they won't come in here and run a couple o' torpedoes up your blowhole?"
"That comes under the heading of ‘convincing them that it's in their best interest’ to pay."
"And why would it be ‘in their best interest’?"
"Because, as I said before, the price they pay in taxes would be inconsequential to the staggering price they would pay for refusal."
"And that price would be...?"
"Ah. Now we're back to the good stuff." He smiled indulgently.
"Cut the superior attitude and say whatcha got to say," Justin shot back.
Jambou took his hands from the chair arms, put them in his lap, and delicately entwined his fingers. His face hardened but his voice came softly.
"Alright. What I have to say is simple: in major cities all over the world...London, New York, San Francisco, Tokyo, Paris, Hong Kong, Bonn...I have planted nuclear devices of a sufficient size to render those cities uninhabitable. They are small, impossible to locate, and...I've saved the best 'til last...they're engineered to explode by telephone." He smiled. "You might say I can ‘reach out and’..."
"Yeah," Marc replied. He thought it over. "I don't believe you," he said finally. "Nuclear bombs aren't that easy to build. Fissionable material doesn't come easy. And you don't buy them by the dozen at your local discount store. If you had that kind of money, which nobody does."
Jambou's smile widened, a fact that didn't go unnoticed. "You'd be surprised."
"By what?"
"By the technological advances that have been made in miniaturization. By how many truly brilliant scientists were left stranded when the USSR collapsed and the United States downsized the space program. By how much fissionable material got ‘lost' after Russia's breakup. And by how readily certain...shall we say, ‘fringe’...political extremist groups turn loose of their money...huge sums of money... when they think they're financing a major terrorist operation." He paused, waiting for a response.
"So, you're gonna blow up the world, huh? Another two-bit hijacker on a suicide mission."
"Not at all, Captain Justin. Not at all. I didn't spend a fortune and the past five years of my life to end it now. You see, I'm not a political activist. I'm not an avowed terrorist on a holy mission. I'm not for or against anything or anybody...except myself. My needs are simple...money and power. And that's where you come in, Captain. You're going to help me get both."
"Oh, yeah? And what makes you think I'm gonna help you?"
"Ahhh, Captain. You disappoint me. I've just told you that I care for no one but myself. Didn't I? Doesn't that also tell you that your life, and the lives of those people...those innocent people...you and I brought here mean nothing to me? Nothing. Except to help me get what I want."
"So, unless I do what you want...go on television and tell everybody what a great guy you are...you're gonna kill us all? Is that it?"
Jambou pulled a sad face and gave an elaborate shrug.
"Why me?" Justin demanded.
"Why you, indeed. You're too modest, Captain. Your face is known all over the world. You're admired and respected. You're one of the ‘good guys’. If you say it's so, people will believe it. You have...what's the word?...credibility."
Justin thought that over. Unfortunately, the logic was there. Assuming you believed he would...and could...do what he claimed.
"What if it had been the U. S. Navy that showed up on your doorstep instead of me?" he countered.
"Then, during negotiations, I would have allowed someone else of equal credibility to examine the merchandise."
"Merchandise? What merchandise?" Marc asked, confused.
It was Jambou's turn to look confused.
"Why, the bomb, of course. Did I forget to mention that? I just happen to have had one left over. It's just like the others. I think it will quite convince anyone who examines it that I'm not bluffing."
"Here?" Justin pointed at the floor between his feet. "You have a nuclear bomb here?" he said, his voice rising.
"Certainly. How else would anyone believe me? And what better way to keep the dogs at bay than to let them know that if anyone should decide to ‘storm the palace’, as it were, it would become a firestorm?"
"You have a nuclear bomb...here?" Justin repeated.
"Don't worry, Captain. It's perfectly safe. As long as I'm alive."
Justin's eyes widened. "What do you mean, ‘as long as you're
alive’?"
"Merely a little life insurance policy I took out on myself. Leo monitors my heartbeat by radio frequency. If my heart should stop beating, Leo makes a series of encoded international telephone calls, and five minutes later, cities all over the world...including where you're sitting...disappear."
"But...so do you!"
Jambou smiled a little smile. "'C'est la vie'. Or, the lack of it. Right? What's that other little saying? ‘Misery loves company’. I'll certainly have a lot of it." He threw back his head and laughed.
Marc just stared at him. "Nutty as a fruitcake," he thought.
"Who's ‘Leo’," he finally thought to ask.
"Ah. Leo. He's my watchdog cum valet. Makes sure I'm not...disturbed." He saw the blank look on Marc Justin's face and chuckled. "Leo is what I call my computerized security system. Voice activated. A thousand verbal commands. He's very...useful...in dealing with the staff. And, as you already know, he rather jealously guards my life. And, speaking of ‘life’, I need to get on with mine. It's..." he tugged his sleeve up and glanced at his watch, "...almost eight p. m. and I still have some details I must attend to so everything will be ready for the broadcast tomorrow. You may rejoin your friends, look around, have dinner. And get some rest. We do want you to be fresh and alert tomorrow, don't we?" The lights illuminating his face flicked off and Jambou returned to the semi-darkness he seemed to favor. "We'll meet again in the morning, say, about nine?" When Justin hesitated, he said with obvious finality, "Good evening, Captain Justin."
Marc retraced his steps. The doors opened for him and closed behind him, Jambou's subtle way of letting him know that he was being watched. The elevator ride down was uneventful and gave him a chance to try to put into perspective what he'd seen so far. It didn't prepare him for what was coming next. Kim, Frank and Janese met him as the elevator lurched to a stop. The grim looks on their faces told him the storm was about to get worse.
Chapter 30
He pulled the elevator cage door closed behind him and turned to face the group.
"I am sorry," he said, "the penthouse tour is closed for the night, but will re-open in the morning at nine sharp."
"No, thank you," Janese Cramerton said. She wrapped her arms tightly about herself and glanced upward. "That's the last place I want to go."
"Oh?" Marc wondered at her response. He glanced at Kim, who gave a small, dark shake of his head in warning. Marc knew to wait.
"We've been looking around," Kim said quietly. "It isn't good."
"Um," Marc acknowledged. "This place got a kitchen?"
"Yeah," Frank Sheppard answered, "they don't eat high on the hog here, but they don't go hungry. Mostly Nuke City."
"Ya'll eaten?" Marc included all three in his question.
"Nope. Been busy."
"Let's go get a bite and you can fill me in," Marc got them moving. Frank took the lead, heading off toward the mess hall.
"By the way," Kim said conversationally, "I was able to find out the price on that item you were asking about."
Justin glanced at him. Kim didn't return the look, but kept walking.
"Yeah? What was it?"
"Nineteen eighty-four."
It took Marc a several seconds to make the connection. 1984. Orwell. Big brother is watching. He looked discretely around for the cameras but, of course, didn't see them.
"Thanks. 'Preciate it...been to see Yoko lately?"
"She's not receiving visitors these days." Kim glanced darkly toward the armed guard at the quay where the VIKING lay.
"Figured," Marc commented. "Run into anybody here we know?" he asked, as they began climbing a long, curving set of steps cut into the stone.
Kim's face brightened. "Doctor Layton," he answered.
Marc looked at him. "How is he?" he asked pointedly.
Kim rocked his head from side to side. "You know that old wizard. He's tough."
Justin smiled. "Tough," he reflected. "Yeah, he is that."
Kim glanced at his watch. "He's probably in his quarters by now. We can stop by and see him before we go to the galley, if you'd like."
Marc stopped at the top of the stairs. He looked back at the cavern floor below them and at his ship, gleaming dully where it was warped to the makeshift dock. He looked at the tunnel entrance.
"Do I want to go in there?" he asked.
"You ain't seen nothin', yet," Kim answered. Frank and Janese had already disappeared down the passageway. They followed.
"Couple of things you need to know about," Kim said in voice that was barely audible, glancing watchfully from side to side as they walked.
"Yeah?"
"One of the MARS’s crew...Terry Bryson...”
"Yeah?"
"He's dead. Murdered."
Justin slowed and looked at Kim. "How? Are you sure?"
"I found a not-too-smart, but talkative gofer on the staff. He says Bryson tried to tamper with the computer here and ‘Leo’ electrocuted him."
"Leo?! " Marc stopped walking, searching his memory. "That's what Jambou called his security system. "Said Leo's ‘helpful in dealing with the staff’. I thought he meant the system kept surveillance on his goons."
"Jam-bou. Huh!" Kim's lip curled. "VOO-doo would be more like it! The so-called ‘staff’ here's almost as much prisoners as we are. They think he's some kind of African witchdoctor. Mostly they do their jobs and try to keep out of sight."
"Electrocuted?"
"Yeah." He fingered the I. D. button he was wearing. "Your guards tell you not to lose this?"
Marc nodded.
"Well, they ain't kiddin'. This is all that keeps you alive."
Marc sub-consciously felt for his. "What do you mean?"
Kim took him by the elbow and they resumed walking. He leaned closer.
"Leo...everybody calls the security system ‘Leo’...Leo tracks these I. D. tags, apparently by radio frequency. Everyone has a different frequency, and they've all been programmed into Leo according to who's wearing what. The system also monitors infra-red...heat-seeking...and any warm body that isn't wearing one of these is an automatic target."
"A target?! " Justin exclaimed.
"Um hm. Leo hits the victim with umpteen-thousand volts of electricity. Instant dead."
"Why...what was his name?... Bryson?"
"Apparently, he thought he knew enough to disarm Leo. But the system's a lot more sophisticated than he thought. A lot more. That's the really scary part..."
"Scary, how?"
"It seems Leo's not only programmed to execute anybody wandering around without an I. D. tag...it can also be told to cancel authorization on a tag."
"Cancel...you mean, to ignore the electronic signal from the tag?"
Kim nodded.
"Which is the same as the person not wearing one?"
Kim nodded again. Marc thought that over.
"No wonder everybody's scared of Jambou...from his castle in the sky, he can kill anybody he wants to with just a few keystrokes."
"Yeah," Kim mused. "You gotta hope you don't get on his bad side...or that he doesn't need you anymore."
"Cold-blooded sucker, isn't he?"
"There's more," Kim dropped his voice another notch. They paused at the side entrance to the crews' quarters.
"Great. What else?"
"Scuttlebutt is that after the construction crew he hired to build this place finished, he paid them off...in diamonds! And then the ship they left on mysteriously blew up and sank. No survivors, of course. And, guess what else?"
"He switched. The payoff was in phony diamonds."
Kim frowned at him. "How'd you know that?"
"You said ‘guess’."
"So?"
"It's logical. Anybody who values human life so little is going to look out for number one, first and always."
"I hate it when you do that."
"I know. This where Bill is?"
"Yeah," Kim growled. But as he walked away down the corridor leading to Dodge City, he s
aid over his shoulder, "There is one other thing, though. And this little jewel's going to surprise even you."
Justin smiled and followed.
Chapter 31
Doctor William Stuart Layton, B.S., M.S., M.A.T., Ph.D. and assorted other titles, was emerging from one of the rooms in Dodge City when Marcus Justin and Kim Matsumoto entered the brightly-lit chamber. Barely five-ten, an ounce of fat that dared hesitate on his wiry frame would have instantly vaporized in his sixty-seven year old, non-stop metabolic furnace. Meticulously cropped salt-and-pepper beard and a quick, gentle smile disarmed and gave a false sense of security to those who had yet to experience his sharp wit and love of devious practical jokes.
"Marcus!" he called enthusiastically when he spotted Justin. He briskly covered the distance between them, grabbed the younger man's hands in both of his, and shook it vigorously. "How've you been?" he asked cheerfully. Justin looked him over closely.
"Better than you have," he answered. "How are they treating you?"
"Oh, fine, fine. No complaints. Sorry you've been dragged into this mess. Kim's told me about your adventures. I can't believe you brought that beautiful ship of yours in through that tunnel."
"No, neither can I," Marc agreed.
The door opened again behind Dr. Layton and a young man wearing jeans, a denim shirt, and rimless glasses popped out. He casually crossed over to stand beside the bearded scientist.
"Oh, Marcus," Dr. Layton turned to include the new arrival, "I'd like you to meet the young fella I've been working with. Cy, this is Marcus Justin. You've already met Kim. Marcus, this is Cy Wojecki, our resident electronics whiz."
Marc's mouth fell open and he stared dumbly at the man. He turned to Kim who was smiling smugly. Then he looked back at Bill Layton, who grinned wolfishly and said, "Gotcha!"
Justin shook his head. "I don't understand."
"Of course you don't," Layton said, still smiling.
"If this is Cy Wojecki, who's...?"
"Ross Breton. Jambou's flunky." Kim answered. "He was run in as a ringer for Cy when Cy, Bill and Terry were abducted from MARS. To make sure we followed the script. Everything Breton said and did was an act, but they were pretty sure we wouldn't break radio silence to check on him. He was the civilian research assistant on the MARS project who correlated the data that was sent back from MARS, so he knew their schedule and enough about the research to pass as Cy Wojecki. GS-5 civil-service research assistants don’t make a lot of money, so he was a prime target when it came to selling out. They just brought him aboard MARS when they arrived to kidnap the crew."
