Warren Murphy - Troubled Waters

How important, he wondered for the tenth time, were the prisoners, really?

Important enough to Emperor Smith, Chiun decided. He would be upset. As would Remo-and the bigmouthed boy would never let the subject rest. He would go on and on for weeks. Chiun would be in misery. He sighed mentally. He would have to wait. But the waiting wouldn't be wasted time.

"Your captain wants a special feast," Chiun said, making his voice higher and slightly squeaky.

"Our cap'n?" parroted the goon behind the crusty eye patch.

"As I said." Chiun could be obsequious when circumstances called for it, though it would never cease to gall him. "I require some spices."

"We got salt," said the pirate, swinging at the single wooden shelf in the cooking sty. "And we got pepper."

"Not enough," Chiun replied, gesturing toward the forest that surrounded the encampment. "I must go and look for other things."

"Like hell," the pirate snarled. "Nobody tole me nothin' 'bout you leavin' camp. Forget about it, Slant-eyes."

This time, Chiun imagined reaching deep inside the pirate's chest and ripping out the withered lump of gristle that sufficed him for a heart. Perhaps, on second thought, it would be more instructive to crack open his skull and examine the tiny husk of his brain.

Both prospects made Chiun smile, an uncharacteristic expression on his ancient face, but the pirate didn't know him well enough to realize that death was near.

"I cannot argue with such evident intelligence," he said. "No doubt, you will explain to Captain Kidd why his instructions for the wedding feast have been ignored. He will, of course, be sympathetic to your reasoning."

"You tellin' me the cap' n ordered this?"

"His excellency's order is for me to fix the ultimate gourmet repast. I have little to work with. Producing a special feast from this miserable larder will demand, at the very least, some distinctive seasonings."

The pirate tried to wrap his mind around Chiun's statement, which had an awful lot of long words in it, then snorted. "Where in hell you think you're livin', Chinaman? These ain't the goddamn spice islands, for Neptune's sake!"

"I have some knowledge of these things," Chiun replied. "There is no doubt the jungle, there, will yield surprises for the palate."

Chiun's watchdog glared at the forest with his one eye, finally turning back to face the Master Emeritus of Sinanju. "I don't like the jungle," he declared.

"By all means, then, stay here," Chiun offered. "After all, how can I run away?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" The pirate sneered. "Get me in trouble with the cap'n, jus' so you can go off playin' in the woods. No way you're gettin' off that easy, Slant-eyes."

"I will be most happy for your company," Chiun suggested, smiling pleasantly.

The gruff guard actually found himself amused by the tiny Chink codger, who had to be off his rocker. The old fart'd been prisoner here just a day and here he was happy as a clam.

The pirate might have thought differently if he saw the picture in Chiun's head-a vision of the pirate with his head cranked backward on his shoulders. "How long's this supposed to take?"

"Not long," Chiun replied. "The sooner I can find what I am looking for, the sooner we come back."

"I dunno how you think you're gonna find a goddamn thing out there," the pirate groused.

"Jungles are much the same," Chiun informed his captor. "I have every confidence."

"Le's get a friggin' move on, then!" the one-eyed pirate growled. "I wanna get back here and stick to business."

"As you say," Chiun replied. "Your wish is my command."

CARLOS RAMIREZ WAS A CITY boy at heart, though he had spent his first half-dozen years in the Colombian back country, where he observed the coca trade firsthand. He felt at home with solid ground beneath his feet, and while he owned two yachts himself, employing them for floating orgies on occasion, he was never perfectly at ease once they left the dock behind.

Ramirez didn't get seasick, exactly, but he always felt as if the deep water beneath his keel was in control, somehow, and he despised the feeling, as he hated anything that made him feel inadequate.

That afternoon, Ramirez had two boats to think about. He was aboard the Macarena, a sixty-foot luxury craft he had legally purchased in Miami two years earlier, allowing his then-mistress to name it. Iliana said it was "my favorite song from when I was a kid!" This from a girl still three months shy of being able to vote legally in her native Florida. But she was certainly grown-up enough to perform her duties as Ramirez's concubine.

A role without much job security, as Iliana learned about by the time she celebrated her eighteenth and final birthday. While Iliana was no more, the Macarena served Ramirez well enough. This day he shared the craft with Fabian Guzman, three crewmen and four soldiers. The second vessel was the Scorpion, a forty-foot speed launch with another two dozen shooters aboard.

"Carlos?"

Ramirez turned away from the port rail and found Guzman beside him, full lips curved into a frown. "Still worrying?" Ramirez asked.

Guzman rolled his massive shoulders in a lazy shrug. "This business with the pirates," he replied. "I keep thinking you would be safer back at home."

"But for how long?" Ramirez asked. "If there was any doubt in Medellin or Cartagena that I had the capability to deal with locos such as these, how long before I find my enemies attacking me on every side?"

"If you fear treachery, Carlos-"

Ramirez leaned in close to Guzman, with their noses almost touching. "I fear nothing, Fabian! Repeat it!"

"You fear nothing. Si, I understand, Carlos. Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive, my friend. A mere slip of the tongue."

"As for these soldiers, though..."

"I want them in reserve, as I've explained," Ramirez said. "There is no reason to believe that Kidd is planning to betray us. Should he entertain such suicidal notions, though, we will have force enough on hand to deal with him."

"Three dozen guns, Carlos, if you include the two of us."

"Are you not still a soldier, Fabian?" Ramirez enjoyed the darkening of Guzman's countenance, the way his spine stiffened at the thinly veiled insult.

"You know I am," his second in command replied, "but they outnumber us two to one, at least."

"They are as children," said Ramirez. "They are locos, Fabian. You said as much yourself."

"Locos who aren't afraid to kill," Guzman replied. "They've proved that much. I simply do not trust them, Carlos."

"A wise decision," said Ramirez. "Trust is difficult to earn among the best of friends. The best of families have traitors in their ranks, as you know well. Strangers like these..."

He made a vague, dismissive gesture with one hand and turned back toward the rail. The deck shifted beneath his feet, Ramirez stretching out one hand to grip the rail and keep himself from wobbling where he stood. Behind him, Guzman stood with his feet well apart, arms crossed over his chest.

A backward glance showed him the Scorpion a hundred yards or so behind the Macarena, keeping pace. Most of the gunners were belowdecks, as he had commanded. The Scorpion wouldn't be putting into harbor when they reached the pirate stronghold-not unless and until Ramirez felt he needed reinforcements on the scene. If Kidd or one of his subordinates had any questions about the second vessel, Carlos meant to answer that he needed crewmen for the new boat he was buying from the pirates. It was all they had to know, unless Ramirez had some reason to believe that there was treachery afoot. In which case...

Carlos wished that he could have his soldiers check their guns again, but logic told him that wouldn't be necessary. They were all professionals and would have seen to their equipment well before they went aboard the yacht. If there was one thing that his soldiers knew about, it was preparing for a fight.