Warren Murphy: The Last Monarch

"I guess we don't really need it anymore anyway," Remo commented. "It's pretty obvious we won't be bringing the neutrino bomb back with us."

"What of the emperor-in-exile?" Chiun asked.

"Yeah, the President," Remo said, exhaling. "He was going after Aruch. If we're lucky, we'll find both of them together. Assuming we can scrape up transportation."

"Ye of little faith," Chiun replied, eyebrow arched. He nodded down the road.

When Remo turned, he saw that a group of men on camelback was riding in from the north. They had seen the cloud and survived the terrifying gust of wind and were now coming to investigate the cause of the strange phenomenon.

When Remo turned back to Chiun, he was shaking his head.

"I am not riding one of those things," he said emphatically.

"We haven't a choice," Chiun insisted.

"They could probably give Ronaldman's wig lice lessons," Remo groused. "And I thought thanks to Master Na-Kup that you didn't like Mountain Monsters or Hill Humps or whatever the hell the Sinanju scrolls call camels."

"Hush," Chiun admonished. "I am about to negotiate with bedouins-the most crafty and avaricious hagglers in the world-and I do not need your constantly flapping lips as a distraction."

"Yeah? Well, I hope you have a plan," Remo muttered.

"Of course I do," Chiun sniffed.

The old Korean waited patiently for the men to arrive. Remo stood beside him, tapping his foot on the road.

There were nine of them, all dressed in traditional robes and kaffiyehs. They slowed their beasts near the pair of strange pedestrians.

Faces dark as a desert night, their suspicious eyes peered out over sand-coated veils.

"Greetings!" the Master of Sinanju called up to the Arabs. "My son and I require two of these fine animals. Remo, pay the nice men."

"Some plan," Remo griped. Grunting, he dug in his pocket, removing a wad of bills.

Apparently, the bedouins didn't have a problem with American currency. Remo peeled off several hundred dollars, handing the bills to the eager men.

Two camels were separated from the rest. The Master of Sinanju scampered quickly onto the hump of the larger beast.

"Try not to crash this, Lead-Footed One," Chiun announced to Remo. With a twist of the reins and a kick of his heels, the camel began to trot down the road.

"I'll crash you," Remo grumbled. Grabbing a fistful of fur, he pulled himself up onto the hump. Grinding his heels into the animal's sides, he sent his camel after that of the Master of Sinanju.

Chapter 31

Though the media liked to think he had slept straight through his eight years in office-save, of course, the single time he managed to pad, yawning, down to the Oval Office to approve a secret arms deal to a fundamentalist Islamic nation-the former President of the United States had been as attentive as his post would allow. As luck would have it, he remembered from White House briefings that the main office of the Palestine Independence Organization was in Hebron. Problem was, it was miles away across hostile terrain.

A stolen robe and headdress had gained him anonymity after his harrowing escape from his PIO captors in Lebanon. The features that peeked out around his veil had not brought unwanted attention. His dark tan and weathered skin were common enough for men in this part of the world.

A stolen jeep and dumb luck helped him slip across the border from Lebanon into Israel. His biggest problem came once he was inside the Jewish State.

His jeep ran out of gas. Carrying his disguise in a lumpy bundle beneath one arm, he was forced to continue on foot. He hadn't gone far before he was spotted by a border patrol.

Fortunately, in another lifetime, the President had been a bit of a thespian. His acting skills had come in handy when he was being questioned by the soldier.

The former President claimed to be an American tourist who was visiting Israel with his wife. He said he had become separated from the rest of his bus tour.

The soldier was very young. So young, he failed to recognize the old man standing before him. After admonishing the tourist for his carelessness, the soldier drove him back to within a few miles of the disputed West Bank where the President claimed his tour bus was scheduled to arrive any minute. After the soldier had gone, the President donned his Arab disguise once more and headed into the West Bank.

As he made his way through the busy streets, the former President caught a few curious glances from passersby.

In his robe, with head and face covered, he was dressed rather formally for the disputed zone. Most Arabs in the area were comfortable wearing a simple open shirt and slacks. However, in spite of the interest some might have had, they left the President alone.

Aruch's office...Aruch's office...

He wasn't quite sure where to go. For some reason, he seemed to think it was on the south side of Hebron.

The buildings were all at least three stories tall and set directly on the roads. They lent a feeling of intense claustrophobia to the narrow streets.

The President pushed himself forward. He felt the strain of labor burning in his lungs. His heart pounded. Muscles ached from effort.

He was exhausted. Ten years before, this would have been a grueling test of endurance. But at his age and after all he had recently been through, it was nearly too much for him.

It was a struggle to move on.

But he had to. Nossur Aruch had the neutrino bomb. The PIO leader had to be stopped.

As he trudged on, puffing ragged breaths through his sweat-and-saliva-soaked veil, the President thought ruefully how much easier it would have been for him fifteen years ago.

Back then, all he would have had to do was pick up the red phone in the White House. Smith would have answered, and within minutes his men would be deployed. Aruch, Babcock and the neutrino bomb all would have been stopped.

But he could not live in the past.

Smith's men were doubtless looking for him. The President himself had seen to that. But they might not know where he had ended up. They could still be wandering around the California hospital. No, the President was here, now. The only man who knew what was going on. The only man who could make a difference in time.

Panting, trying to run. More a hobble. A rumble in the distance. Thunder?

The buildings around him seemed to shimmer. For a moment, it looked as if they might flicker away altogether, fading into the desert, joining the dust of countless civilizations that had squatted for a brief time beneath the same heartless sun, only to be absorbed by the sand.

Wind followed. Strong, but not fierce. Kicking up great clouds of dust in the narrow passageway between the tightly lined buildings.

The dust began to settle moments later. Even before it had, the President knew he was too late. Tiny battered cars stopped dead on the street around him. Their drivers could not get them to start again.

Shouts from buildings. Confusion. Fear. Panic.

The anarchy would come quickly. He was too late. There was nothing more he could do here. The President turned, hurrying back the way he had come. He would get back to Israel. To safety. Aruch hadn't brought the bomb to Hebron. The wind had been to the President's back. He had planted it somewhere closer to the border with Lebanon.

After forty-five minutes of running back and forth in this squalid city, he was growing dizzy from his exertions. The frustration of failure piled atop the strain of effort.

An old man. He never should have tried. Never should have taken the risk.

Even as he thought the words, he knew they were wrong. They were foreign to him. Not what he expected from himself.

He had tried. He had failed, but he had tried. Sweating profusely. The chaos in the streets growing around him with each tortured step. Gangs grabbing strangers. Fearful shouts. Sudden bursts of anger. Somewhere nearby was a cheering mob.