"I will not treat with any emissary who consorted with the infidel shahs. Do not allow them to enter this country. "
"I am afraid it is too late. They are in Tehran. I do not know how. The ways of Sinanju are most mysterious. But they have sent word that they will be here within the hour and they expect an audience."
"And who are they to make demands of us?" asked the Grand Ayatollah.
The general paused, his expression dumbfounded. Although no Master of Sinanju had set foot in Iran in generations, some years ago the latest Master of Sinanju had done a kindness for the last shah. Sinanju could not be denied.
"They," the general said at last, as if it explained everything, "are Sinanju."
And in the distance, the melting ice of the Elburz Mountains cracked like a thunderclap.
The Master of Sinanju strolled down the center of Lalehzar Street. His carriage was straight. His face lifted proudly.
"See how the crowds part for us here?" Chiun said loftily. "The past service rendered by my ancestors has not been forgotten. "
"No offense, Little father," Remo said, "but I think it was those two Revolutionary Guards you dismembered back there that did the trick."
"Hoodlums," said Chiun. "Ruffians. Obviously uneducated, for they did not recognize me by sight."
"The border guards were the same way. Every checkpoint from here to Pakistan was full of them. Between the two of us, they're going to have to start a new recruitment drive to replenish the ranks. If you ask me, no one bothered to tell them about Sinanju's contributions to Persian culture."
"The rulers will be different. They will greet us with flowers and songs from the old days. Then we will lay Smith's cause before them and this matter will be swiftly settled. Perhaps we will offer as an added incentive to rid this worthy land of these uneducated ruffians."
"I think you'll have to depopulate Iran if you want to do that," said Remo, looking around warily. "And I don't see anything very worthy here. Look at all these destroyed buildings."
"No doubt the new leader is ridding his capital of these unsightly cereal-box buildings. I understand the new leader believes in the old ways."
"Yeah, in stagnation and economic ruin. This place is a dump. And from the looks of things, I'd say Iraq had more to do with the urban renewal than Iran."
"Iraq, too, was once a worthy place. Perhaps we shall visit it next. Ah," cooed Chiun. noticing a sidewalk vendor. "A melon seller. Come, come, Remo, I have waited all my life to break a good Persian melon with you."
"Should we?"
"We have plenty of time before the Sluggard's ship arrives, and our business with the Persian rulers will be swiftly completed."
Chiun floated over to the melon seller's stall. The rough-skinned melons were piled in old crates on the sidewalk. Chiun examined several of them critically, sometimes shaking them close to his ear.
"Find a good one?" Remo asked patiently.
"These are not ripe. It may be earlier in the season than I thought. Ah, here is a choice one. Pay the man, Remo."
Remo forked over an American twenty-dollar bill. He was not given change.
The Master of Sinanju grasped the melon in both hands. His long-nailed thumbs sank into the skin like hypodermics.
"Better not drop it," Remo cautioned. "That's a twenty-dollar melon."
Chiun separated his hands. With a soft splitting sound, the melon fell into exact halves into his hands. He offered Remo one.
Remo looked at the exposed yellow meat.
"It's all mushy inside," he complained.
"Spoiled." Chiun looked. And saw that it was so. Angrily he took the melon back to the proprietor. Remo watched as a heated exchange in Farsi ensued. It ended with Chiun going through all the melons, splitting them in half, and dropping them in the gutter, where they splashed in their overripeness. The melon seller was screaming and tearing at his hair.
When Chiun returned to Remo's side, he said, "Recover your money. He has no good melons."
"Must be a ripoff artist," Remo said, not bothering to go after his twenty dollars. It was out of Smith's pocket anyway.
They walked until they came to a pistachio vendor. Chiun's sullen face lit up.
"The pistachios look good," he said brightly. But when he examined the tall paper bags filled to the brim, he saw that they were small, wizened nuts, not the fat green ones his ancestors had described.
His face darkening, Chiun resumed his stride.
"This place has fallen upon evil days," he muttered. "The melons are bad and the pistachios are not worth the trouble it took to harvest them. What could have happened?"
"They happened," said Remo, jerking a thumb at a pair of passing white-turbaned mullahs. They stalked down the street in their camel-hair cloaks like buzzards with folded wings.
At the Iranian Parliament building, General Mefki greeted the Master of Sinanju with a proper bow. Not a full bow, but a respectful one, Chiun noted.
"We will see your leader now," Chiun told him.
"A thousand pardons," returned the general, his face shiny with sweat. "But the Grand Ayatollah has declined to see you. I have tried to reason with him, but-"
The general's words stopped at the sight of the change in the Master of Sinanju's face. It was stormy, the eyes afire.
"I've seen that expression before," Remo said in English. "I'd drag your High Ayatollah out by the beard if I were you."
"Come with me," said the general, who suddenly feared a firing squad less than he did the fire in the tiny Korean's eyes.
The Grand Ayatollah looked up sharply from his prayer rug on the floor. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the pair whom the general had escorted into his private chamber of meditation.
"In the name of Allah the Compassionate, the Merciful," he mumbled.
"What is this he mutters?" Chiun asked.
"The Ayatollah is very pious," said General Mefki. "He asks for Allah's guidance at the beginning of all meetings."
"He'd better pray this one goes right," Remo said. The general looked at him as if suddenly placing the accent. "American?" he asked.
"Yes," said Remo.
"No," said Chiun. "He is Sinanju. He used to be American. "
"But you work for America now?"
This exchange obviously puzzled the Grand Ayatollah, who did not speak English. He asked a question of the general.
Chiun answered it, in perfect Farsi.
"I am Chiun, reigning Master of Sinanju. My ancestors were once proud to have served the Peacock Throne." The Grand Ayatollah took a sip of his tea. He spat at Chiun's feet in a gesture of contempt. In Farsi he intoned, "The shah was a wounded serpent, as were all who came before him. If you served his ilk, that makes you a serpent's lackey."
Chiun's face trembled, and Remo wondered if he should get between Chiun and the Grand Ayatollah. Then he recalled Smith's instructions.
"Remember, Smith wants us to avoid a war here," he whispered.
Chiun hesitated. His face went flat.
"I come as an emissary of the United States," Chiun said quietly, evenly. And he was surprised to see the Ayatollah's face betray a flicker of fear.
"He fears America, not Sinanju," Chiun whispered to Remo.
"Obviously he doesn't know Sinanju from Shinola," Remo whispered back. "Keep that in mind."
"A force of American renegades has set sail for these shores," Chiun went on. "These people are hosts of a man named Sluggard. It is not the wish of the American emperor that these forces inflict harm upon Persia. Nor is it America's wish that these Americans, except possibly their leader, come to harm here. Allow us to arrest our renegades; and the one who has caused you so much trouble, Sluggard, will be turned over to you."
"Hey, I don't think that's a good idea, Chiun," Remo complained when he got the translation. "Sluggard may be bad, but he's still an American. I can't see turning him over to these turban-winders."
"Hush," said Chiun. He turned to the Grand Ayatollah. "Does the Imam
agree?"
The Grand Ayatollah said nothing. He took another sip of tea. This time he swallowed it.
General Mefki spoke up then.
"I believe I can assure you that our forces will not engage these Americans, if the House of Sinanju will turn them away."
"Done," said Chiun.
"I will not speak for the Pasdaran," said the Grand Ayatollah at last. "They will do what they will do. It is in Allah's hands."
Chiun's brow furrowed.
"What does that mean?" Remo asked General Mefki after he had translated.
"It is their way of avoiding responsibility," he replied. "The clerics can no longer control the Revolutionary Guards they have inflicted upon this country, but they dare not admit it."
"Tell him," Remo said, gesturing toward the Grand Ayatollah, "that if his Guards cross us, we will crush their bones to powder."
General Mefki translated Remo's words.
The Grand Ayatollah's face betrayed true fear then. And Chiun was so shocked he said nothing.
Finally the Grand Ayatollah began muttering inaudibly.
"We will sink the American fleet in the Gulf. We will punish the Great Satan, here and on its very shores."
"He's bluffing," General Mefki explained in English. "They are all like that, revenge-crazed. He is old and helpless and knows it. The mullahs have broken the back of this once-proud nation and it is only a matter of time before the people rise up against them. Let me suggest we end this audience and that you go do what you must. You have my pledge of noninterference. It is all you can hope for here."
Chiun, his face unhappy, strode up to the Grand Ayatollah and, standing almost in his face, bowed low over the man's samovar and piles of cakes.
"May Allah maintain your shadow," he said, and he straightened. "We go now to accomplish our mission." The Grand Ayatollah waved him away with a feeble gesture.
Outside, on the Parliament steps, Remo asked Chiun, "Why did you bow to that old fart?"
"It was a gesture of respect."
"You respected him?"
Chiun shrugged. "Only long enough to spit into his tea. "
And while Remo was laughing, Chiun turned to General Mefki.
"I seek a carpet merchant named Masood. Do you know of such a man?"
"Yes. Two streets north, and on the right. But do you not have to reach the landing place of these renegades?"
"There is time," said Chiun. "Come, Remo."
As they walked past the blue-tiled mosques, the wailing of the muezzin calling the faithful to afternoon prayers filling the dusty air, Remo ventured, "I know what's next. "
"Oh?"
"Yep. We're going after the nail. You figure if we present it to the Crusaders, it'll take the wind out of their sails. They won't have any reason to fight."
"Yes, that too."
"Too?"
"After I show you the proper way to purchase a Persian carpet," said Chiun.
The Master of Sinanju strode into the store of the rug merchant Masood Attai.
"I have many rugs, as you can see," Masood Attai said, welcoming them.
"I wish to show my son the proper way to buy a fine carpet," said Chiun. "Observe, Remo." He went over to a stack of rugs nearly three feet tall.
"To detect a rotted warp, you do like so," he said. Taking a corner in both hands, he jerked suddenly. The nap went snap-pop!
"I get it," Remo said. "That sound means it's solid. Right?"
"This warp is rotted!" exclaimed Chiun, flaring at the rug merchant.'
"You pulled too hard," Masood Attai shot back. "Try this," he said, pulling down a prayer rug hanging on the wall. "This is a fine one," he said, holding it up with difficulty, for it was heavy.
Chiun took it as if it were a mere handkerchief. He examined the nap carefully. He spat on the nap and sniffed the spot.
"Bleached," he said distastefully.
"All moderns are bleached," Masood returned. Chiun let the rug drop to the floor.
"I do not wish to buy a donkey bag, but a fine Persian carpet. Show me your best."
"Ah," said Masood Attai. He went through a curtain in the rear of the shop and returned lugging a heavy blue rug.
"It is a Ladik. It is very fine. Note the repeating tulips. And for you, only five thousand rials," said Masood Attai as he spread it upon the floor.
While Chiun knelt to examine it, Remo's eyes searched the shop. He saw the picture of the Ayatollah Khomeini, draped in black. A heavy nail head gleamed dully above it. The portrait hung by a line of frayed string.
Remo's attention drifted back to the Master of Sinanju. Chiun was clucking as he examined the rug's coloring. "Is this your best?" he asked. "The colors are dull. The rug looks ... dead."
Masood Attai clapped his old hands. "You are truly a master! I should have recognized this from the start. This is my best rug, but like all moderns, it is woven of tabachi, slaughterhouse wool. You are correct that it lacks life. Truly you know rugs. You buy?"
"No!" spat Chiun, rising.
"There is no finer rug woven in this century than that one. What you seek, you must seek from a private collector or a museum. Not from one such as I."
"I am insulted."
"I am sorry. The times have changed."
"You can atone for your insult," suggested Chiun.
"How?"
"That nail. I wish to own it."
Masood Attai looked at the nail suspending the Ayatollah Khomeini's portrait. He spread his hands helplessly.
"I cannot. For I have no other nail. They are scarce now. "
"I promise to replace it with a nail you will never lose."
Masood Attai considered. Finally he said, "Done." And the Master of Sinanju went over to the portrait and lifted it off the nail. He extracted the nail with two delicate fingers. The wooden wall screeched as the nail came out. He tossed the nail to Remo, who caught it with both hands.
Then the Master of Sinanju set the portrait in its proper place with one hand and sent the forefinger of the other hand between the portrait's eyes.
When he withdrew it, the portrait hung perfectly.
Masood Attai screeched. He howled. He swore before Allah that this was a desecration.
"Next time, do not try to sell me a rug with a rotted warp," Chiun called back.
Out on the street, Remo said, "I guess things aren't like they were in the old days."
"I should have known it," Chiun said. "The Moslems have ruined this place."
"I thought Persia was always a Moslem land."
"No. The Arabs ruined it when they took over, bringing their ridiculous religion with them. In truth, Sinanju stopped working for Persia after the great conversion. It is sad. It will pain me to write of this experience in my scrolls."
"Not as much as this will pain you," Remo said slowly. He held up the nail. "Look."
Chiun took the heavy nail. It was almost a spike. It was rusty and dirt-encrusted, but along one flat side of the nail was worn lettering.
It read: Made in Japan.
Chapter 24
Reverend-General Eldon Sluggard descended into the bowels of the Seaworthy Gargantuan to address his mighty host. They had passed through the Strait of Hormuz, soon, he hoped, to be rechristened the Strait of Griselda after that other ball-buster, his ex-wife.
Sluggard's heart pounded as he entered the long cargo area. Where viscous brown crude usually sloshed, phalanxes of soldiers in cross-embroidered tunics stood waiting. They were ready. Eldon Sluggard could see it in their feverish eyes.
Reverend-General Sluggard was ready too. He wore two pistols strapped, cowboy style, on his hips. An M16 hung from his shoulder. There were throwing daggers in each boot. And of course his Civil-War-vintage saber, which he was getting used to wearing. He hadn't tripped over it in almost an hour. The sword would be his last line of defense. If it looked like he was going to be captured, he was going to set it hilt-down in the sand and belly-flop onto it. Anything so those ragheads didn't take him
alive.
"Ten-hut!" he shouted.
The Paladins of the Lord came to attention. And Reverend-General Sluggard grinned expansively. His grin was as false as a gold tooth, but he knew if he didn't keep them pumped up the mullahs would have him for dinner.
"We are in the Gulf. The Pershing Gulf," he barked.
"Named after that famous American, General John 'Blackjack' Pershing."
"Hallelujah!" they exulted. "Are we ready to fight?"
"For God and glory!" their voices echoed.
They were nearly six thousand strong. They were young, irrational, and ignorant, but best of all they had an objective. The Holy Nail. Nothing could stand against them.
"We hit the beach in speedboats," said Reverend-General Sluggard. "That way we take 'em by surprise. We establish a beachhead, dig in, and start capturing the oil fields. When we've choked off their economy, we storm our way to Tehran. And the Holy Nail!"
"Hallelujah!"
"The nail is our true objective. All of you remember that the relic of our dear savior's Passion is holding up a picture of the Ayatollah-may he burn in hell."
"Burn!" cried the Hosts of the Lord. Although he had repeated it a dozen times or more, they still broke out in angry indignation every time he reminded them of the nail's fate.
All during the voyage, the Reverend-General had kept churning their emotions. He had told them about what the mullahs were going to do to their Christian family members if they got their way. He told them the story of the original Crusades. They hissed at the story of the First Crusade, which captured, but failed to hold on to Jerusalem. They cheered the story of the successful Third Crusade. They wept and vowed revenge when he told them of the Children's crusade of 1212, when European children sailed into the Holy Land and were captured and made slaves of the heathen.
By the time he had gotten to the Eighth Crusade, they were whipped into a passionate fury. And then he promised them that this would be the Last Crusade. After this, the scourge of the evil Moslems would be eradicated from the world.
"In another minute Ah'm gonna lead you all up on deck. You know what happens next."
The Final Crusade td-76 Page 17
