Warren Murphy - Air Raid

Amanda was hauling her luggage straps back up over her shoulders and cursing under her breath as the two Masters of Sinanju headed over to the long, flat building.

The big hangar door was rolled open wide. When they paused near the corrugated steel wall, they sensed no one inside.

"I smell oil," Remo said. "Not more than normal, though."

Chiun was peering in at the shadowed ceiling of the hangar. "There are none of those devices for spraying acid," he observed. His hands sought refuge in the voluminous sleeves of his kimono.

Remo glanced across the tarmac. Amanda was halfway toward them, lugging her heavy bags.

"Let's hope it just doesn't mean there's a whole new surprise inside," Remo muttered.

Without another word, the two men slipped around the wall of the hangar and disappeared inside.

FROM THE MACAPA airport security shed, Herr Hahn watched the two Masters of Sinanju duck inside the hangar.

He was sweating and panting as he sat in his chair. It wasn't fear, but exertion. He almost hadn't gotten here before them. Even now his own private jet was cooling down on the other side of the airport.

He was himself again. Back in full control.

Oh, there was a moment or two back in Geneva when he had allowed fear to take control from reason. But even that had been exciting in a bizarre way.

Other men in his profession had walked that uncertain path before-between success and failure, life and death. Possibly even Benson Dilkes himself, although Herr Hahn had his doubts about that. Since Hahn had known only success, his failure back in Switzerland had given him a certain twisted thrill. But that was gone now.

These two celebrated assassins had become the challenge of a lifetime. Herr Hahn would meet that challenge with greater caution than he had ever exercised before. And in the end, the victory would be savored as none other.

Hahn wasn't sure what they were able to sense. He knew to his marrow that they'd felt his binoculars trained on them back in Geneva. Did whatever sense they possessed extend to electronic surveillance equipment?

He had no way of knowing if they'd noticed the heat-sensing equipment at Hubert St. Clair's chalet and had simply chosen to ignore it. If so, with luck, they might do the same thing here.

There were only a few cameras at the small airport. Two at the main terminal, the rest positioned around the private hangars. Herr Hahn chose not to focus all cameras on the two men. Rather, he let the devices pan back and forth in their normal automated cycles.

He saw them deplane, then missed them for a full minute as the woman got her luggage. The cameras rotated, and he caught just a glimpse of them on their way into the hangar.

The woman was alone. She was heading in the direction of the Masters of Sinanju, but right at this one moment she was completely vulnerable.

How easy it would be to slip out of the security shed unseen. A single bullet would put an end to her. Just as it had to the dead security officer who lay on his back on the floor near Herr Hahn's briefcase.

But a gunshot would bring the two men running. This wasn't about the simple way out. This was all about tactics and victory. And maybe just maybe-one last single moment of delicious fear before Herr Hahn achieved the greatest triumph in his professional career.

DENSE JUNGLE FOLIAGE around the back and sides cooled the hangar by ten degrees. Alert now to the unexpected, Remo and Chiun made their cautious way around the CCS jet.

The door behind the cockpit was down, the attached stairs almost welcoming them inside.

"If it's a trap, I'm not getting anything from it," Remo said cautiously.

The Master of Sinanju's face was impassive. "I sense no danger, either," he admitted.

"Good," Remo said. "If it starts shaking us like a paint mixer or launches us into space, we can both take equal blame."

"Very well," Chiun agreed. "But if something goes wrong, the Sacred Scrolls will show your equal blame to be greater than mine." He nudged Remo up the stairs at the point of a long nail.

The recycled air inside the jet had grown foul the instant it was exposed to Macapa air. Remo noted another smell lingering along with the stale air. It was the same odor they'd picked up back in Switzerland.

"I smell German," Remo said. "Think it's our guy?"

The Master of Sinanju nodded. "It is too weak for whoever it is to have flown here on board this craft. The German who boarded this plane did so long after it landed."

Remo nodded. "Thought so," he said. "He must have gotten here ahead of us."

They stepped more cautiously as they continued deeper into the plane.

There was a conference area halfway down the jet. A big map of the Amazon had been left unfolded on a low table. Remo saw that a large circle had been made in blue ink around an area of jungle miles inland.

"Well, they don't think very highly of us," Remo complained. "Why didn't they draw a bunch of arrows and write 'This is not a trap' at the bottom?"

Disgusted, he tried folding the map. It was like those from the gas station. He could never fold them back up right, either.

"Chiun?" he asked after his third try.

Frowning with his entire face, the old Korean snatched the map from Remo's hands. It folded quickly before vanishing up a wide kimono sleeve. He twirled away in a flurry of robes.

There was nothing else for them inside. When they went back into the hangar, Remo popped the door to the cargo hold. A vague whiff of ammonia told them where the seeds had been stored. The hold was empty.

"We know for sure where he brought them now," Remo said. "They just better be at that hotel, because I don't feel like schlepping off into the jungle."

He was interrupted by Amanda Lifton, who chose that moment to stick her head in through the main hangar door.

"Remo, Chiun, come quick!" she cried. "Hurry!" Fearing the worst as she ducked back outside, the two Sinanju Masters flew for the door. When they emerged into the sunlight, they found Amanda standing a few yards from the hangar, surrounded by her pastel pink luggage. She was staring across the tarmac, a look of near rapturous bliss on her sweating face.

A new private jet had landed and taxied to a stop. People milled around the plane.

"You're not going to believe it," Amanda said. "I just saw him." She was craning her neck for a better look.

"Who?" Remo asked. "St. Clair?" He looked hopefully at the small crowd.

He didn't see the head of the CCS. All attention seemed to be focused around the thin, balding man in sunglasses who had just stepped into view.

When she saw the man reappear, Amanda grabbed Remo by the arm. Her digging nails pressed white finger marks in his skin.

"Geez, lady, lay off," Remo snarled.

A single tap on the back of her wrist and her hand sprang back open. Amanda hardly noticed.

"Don't you recognize Prick?" she asked.

Remo turned to the Master of Sinanju. "Did she just insult me again?" he said, assuming this was some new slang phrase he'd missed.

"Do not look at me," the old Korean said. "English when practiced by the modern British is confusing enough. I have long given up trying to keep track of whatever it is you Americans do to vulgarize it.

"Prick is a world-famous singer," Amanda explained. "You must have heard of him."

Remo looked back over at the new arrival, eyes narrowing. The man in the sunglasses wore an opennecked shirt and a pair of torn jeans. Remo realized that he had indeed seen him before.

"Oh, yeah," he said, nodding. "He's the one and only loudmouth in the music business who's always spouting off about something or other like he's the world's freaking nanny. Good thing there's not more like him or no one would ever take music stars seriously."

A pair of loincloth-wearing natives stepped down from the plane. They carried spears, blowguns and copies of Rolling Stone with their pictures on the cover. Remo recognized them from the Primeval Society benefit concert in New York.