Warren Murphy: Troubled Waters

"Bring us back on course for Ile de Mort," Ramirez ordered.

"We're still going, Carlos?" Guzman sounded dubious.

"Indeed we are, amigo. If I'm right, the captain won't expect us now."

"We take him by surprise," said Guzman, smiling now.

"We take him by surprise," Ramirez echoed. "Now, full speed ahead!"

Chapter 17

The root Chiun had discovered on his quick tour of the jungle wasn't precisely what he sought, but it would do. He had sliced it and diced it-with a knife, since using his fingernails might have been considered unusual-and sprinkled it into the simmering pot.

Pirates were drifting in from their appointed duties, some of them already having changed from their grubby clothing into more colorful garb. Chiun had yet to see one of them bathe, nor was he looking forward to the sorry spectacle. In fact, from the effluvium that wafted off their unwashed bodies, Chiun didn't imagine that he would be dwelling on the island long enough to glimpse such a unique event. Nor, he surmised, would anybody else.

His stew was almost ready, its aroma spreading through the camp. From the reaction of prospective diners, several of them passing by and peering down into the pot, he knew that it would do the trick. There might not be enough to go around, but even if he only reached two-thirds of his opponents, it would be sufficient.

The potion was indeed mere window dressing for his master plan. Chiun had no fear of his "captors," needed no tricks to defeat them singly or en masse, but it amused him to distract them from the woman while he made his move. The root he had selected was fast-acting, and should bring results within fifteen or twenty minutes after it had been consumed. The camp would be a great deal more malodorous once his surprise kicked in, but Chiun reckoned there would be little time to savor the result--or suffer through it, as the case might be-before he had to make his move.

It had been ordered that the feasting should precede the wedding ceremony. That was fine with Chiun; in fact, it suited him no end. He knew the hasty ritual would have no standing anywhere beyond the pirate stronghold, but it pleased him to consider frustrating the would-be king's design.

There had been no time for him to discuss his plan with Stacy Armitage, but that didn't concern Chiun. White women had a way of letting their emotions run away with them in crisis situations, and he understood that redheads were the worst of all in that regard. Brunettes were more sedate, if only by a matter of degree, while blondes were often too disorganized and witless to perceive real danger.

Chiun had learned that much from television, studying his favorite soap operas, where men and women acted in accordance with their roles in white society.

He wouldn't wait on Stacy, then, or trust her with the details of his plan. If she was not in a position to assist him, neither would she be a stumbling block when he began to smite their enemies.

In general, the Master Emeritus of Sinanju favored subtle killing, the ideal assassination having been defined as one in which no third party suspected assassination, but he also recognized that there were times when subtlety fell short of the desired result.

Times such as this.

Chiun watched the pirates lining up with plates and bowls in hand. The first man in the line was one of those who had repeatedly described him as Chinese. Chiun smiled and ladled out a double portion of his special gumbo to the unwashed buccaneer.

"Smell's durn good, Chinaman," the buccaneer said.

"You will velly tasty, you bet," Chiun answered. In his head he added, You be velly dead velly soon, ignorant white man.

And he meant it.

"WE'RE ALMOST THERE," said Ethan Humphrey, pointing with a hand that trembled now, despite his effort to control himself.

The island loomed in front of them, two smaller lumps of jungle-shrouded rock flanking it on either side. The center of attention, christened Ile de Mort, according to his skipper, was a mile long, give or take, with rugged peaks along its spine. Only the crags were naked stone; the rest was clotted jungle growth from mountain slopes down to a reeking mangrove swamp at water's edge.

"The anchorage is on the northern side," Humphrey explained. "We'll need another half hour to get there."

"I see an inlet there." Remo pointed toward the mouth of what appeared to be a brackish stream, amid the looming mangroves. It was wide enough for Humphrey's boat to pass. The water course might narrow inland, but he didn't care, as long as they could pull the cabin cruiser out of sight from any stray patrol boats that might happen by.

"You can't be serious," the ex-professor said.

"Not up to it?" He cracked a mirthless smile. "No sweat, Professor. I'll just take her in myself."

"You will not, sir!" His voice was stern, but Humphrey clearly realized that he could not stop Remo from seizing control of the boat if he was so inclined.

"Do they post lookouts?" Remo asked, as Humphrey nosed the boat toward shore.

"It's possible," said Humphrey, "though I've never asked. Myself, I think they trust in isolation here."

Humphrey drew back on the throttle as they neared the inlet. Remo's nostrils flared at the smell of rotting vegetation from the swamp, a stench primeval from the dawn of time.

The mangroves closed around them, branches drooping low, scraping the canopy above the flying bridge. Daylight was fading fast, but it was even darker in among the trees, a sudden twilight.

They had already moved some fifty yards inland when the cabin cruiser's hull struck something with a scrape and a shudder, groaning underfoot. Humphrey immediately throttled down and let the engine idle, turning to Remo with a worried frown.

"We can't go any farther," he insisted. "This is madness."

"Listen, Professor, you've got a bunch of friends who say 'yar' and wear puffy shirts. Nothing I do can ever be considered 'madness' by comparison. We'll take the skiff."

"If it's all the same to you," Humphrey replied, "I'll just wait here."

"It's not the same to me," said Remo. "I still need a guide. You're it. Let's go."

"I've never come this way," the old man said. "We may get lost."

"Then we'll get lost together," Remo told him.

"But-"

"Let's put it this way. I don't mind leaving you behind. Look how many other guys I left behind on this little three-hour tour."

Now Humphrey got the point and grimaced, starting down the ladder from the flying bridge. The skiff was stowed astern, a smallish aluminum rowboat with paddles for two. Remo untied it, dropped it overboard and hopped down from the transom, holding it steady while Humphrey came aboard.

In front of them, some twenty yards ahead, the stream forked at a clump of cypress, smaller brackish channels splitting off in a rough Y shape. For all Remo knew, they might join up again beyond the wall of trees, but he wasn't prepared to risk it.

"So, which way?" he asked of his reluctant guide.

"From where we are, it should be westward." To the right, then, if the old man wasn't lying to him, stalling in an effort to protect his friends.

"Be sure," said Remo.

"As I said, I've never tried to reach the camp from this direction. There's a possibility-"

"Be sure," Remo repeated. "I don't have the time or patience for mistakes. You're still expendable."

The old man thought about it for another moment, biting on his lower lip, then nodded. "Westward," he said again.

THE DRESS THAT STACY WORE wasn't a bad fit, pinned beneath the arms to take it in, floor-length blue satin, just a trifle loose around the hips. She thought about the woman who had worn it first, wondered what had become of her and how Kidd's pirates had obtained the formal gown. On second thought, she didn't want to know.