Warren Murphy: The Last Monarch

Aruch hurried down the stone steps.

Another metal door was at the bottom-a necessary precaution just in case his family found the heavy lead trapdoor above. A key hung in perpetuity around his neck. Aruch stuck it in the lock, saying a quick prayer to Allah that the neutrino wave hadn't somehow damaged the bolt.

With a satisfying click, the door rattled open. Aruch exhaled relief.

The lead construction of the upper door had shielded down below. And if things in the stairwell worked, that meant everything beyond did, as well. Including his radio. His conduit to the outside world. The thing that would make him king of all the Mideast.

Heart pounding a thrilling chorus in his ears, Nossur Aruch pushed open the door that led to his great destiny. With a devilish smile, he slipped inside the dimly lit chamber.

IF REMO WAS NOT POSSESSED Of the ability to unerringly judge direction by attuning himself to the gravitational force of the Earth, he would have been convinced they were riding in circles.

Every inch of desert they passed since riding across the Jordan looked exactly the same.

They were stopped now. Their horses whinnied, kicking up clouds of dust.

The sun had fled. The world around them had taken on shades of pale blue. Above them, the burning stars were close enough to touch off spot fires in the desert sand.

A cold night wind blew across their backs, sending up minicyclones of dust in the vast tracts of empty space before them.

As Remo and their PIO guide sat waiting on their mounts, the Master of Sinanju walked a few yards ahead. He was bent at the waist, staring thoughtfully at the ground.

"This sand is shifting so much you can't tell anything," Remo called to him. His horse gave an angry snort.

Chiun did not respond.

"It'd help if you knew where we were going," Remo accused the PIO soldier.

The Palestinian shook his head in apology. "I am from Hebron. I do not know the desert."

When Remo again looked to the Master of Sinanju, Chiun was kicking lightly at the sand. Puffs of dust swirled away from the toes of his sandals.

Turning back to the PIO man, Remo shook his head. "You're a sorry excuse for a guide, you know that?" he said. "Hit the road. But leave the horse."

He nodded to a second, riderless mount next to the Palestinian's.

The man eagerly unlooped the reins from his saddle, handing them over. Before Remo could change his mind, the soldier gave the ribs of his own horse a sharp kick. The animal began to beat a hasty retreat back toward Israel.

As the PIO soldier rode off in one direction, the Master of Sinanju came padding back from the other.

"Any luck?" Remo asked.

"They rode this way several hours ago," Chiun said as he pulled himself up into his saddle.

"How many?"

"It is difficult to tell. The tracks have degraded. Perhaps twenty-five score." His wrinkled face was troubled.

"Old Nosehair has pulled together quite a little army for himself," Remo said with a thin frown. "Whatever he's got planned, I say we nip it in the bud."

There was no disagreement from the Master of Sinanju. Nudging their horses with their heels, they rode off side by side into the silvery desert night.

THE STATICKY VOICE on the radio spoke English, but with a distinctly Russian accent.

"It will be our delight to aid the Palestinian people in this time of difficulty," the Russian colonel said.

"How soon?" Nossur Aruch asked furtively into the radio microphone. For some reason, he felt compelled to whisper.

It was cold in his bunker. He shivered in his artificial cavern far beneath the sand.

"The Pa-Roosski is off the coast of Lebanon now. We can airdrop you a shipment within four hours."

"What of the Americans?"

The Russian's smile was nearly visible across the empty miles that separated them.

"Their Sixth Fleet is drifting helpless at sea," the colonel said. "Some of their vessels have run aground. They are of no consequence to either of us."

Relieved that his one concern had been allayed, Aruch gave the Russian his coordinates in the Jordanian desert.

"Several packages will be arriving at your location shortly," the colonel said. "I know that you will use their contents wisely. Russia intends to enjoy a long and mutually beneficial relationship with the Palestinian people and their president. Good night, sir." With that, the Russian was gone.

The deal was struck. Just like that.

Aruch slipped the receiver into the hook on the side of the large square box.

He had not even had to offer the former American President as payment. Money wasn't necessary now. The Russians only wanted to establish a new client state. Their first in years.

For Nossur Aruch, it was all too good to be true. He would get his guns and he would receive payment. After all, the ex-President was of no use to him. He would auction off the old one to the highest bidder.

Aruch lifted the phone once more. With a single, stubby digit, he began dialing the long code that would connect him to Tripoli.

Chapter 35

Remo heard the dull hum of the plane engine before the Master of Sinanju. It was coming from the north. Chiun's ears pricked up a microsecond after his pupil's. As they rode through the desert, they turned their faces to the sound.

The fat shape of a low-flying transport plane appeared as a dark shadow above the desert expanse. It was a Russian Antonov An-26 Curl. A popular light tactical transport craft. The drone of its twin turboprops grew to an earthshaking bellow as the plane roared over the desert only a few miles from where Remo and Chiun were following Aruch's tracks. Falling in line far ahead of them, the aircraft began to track the same course as the two Masters of Sinanju.

"I think it's safe to assume they're not delivering copies of your movie to the Assam Blockbuster," Remo said tightly.

The Master of Sinanju didn't reply. His narrowed eyes were trained on the Antonov's distant shuddering tail.

Desert wind pelting their faces with grains of fine sand, they raced after the plane.

EXCITEMENT HAD PREVENTED Nossur Aruch from sleeping. Although night was nearly gone, the PIO leader was still wide awake when the growing thunder that was the Russian plane reached his thrilled ears.

He leaped eagerly to his feet, racing through the tent flaps and out into the patchy green island of the oasis.

Most of his army was still awake. Men sat around open fires at the edge of the oasis. A corral for the horses had been roped off in the adjacent desert. Near it, Bryce Babcock sat glumly. Beside him, sleeping lightly, was the former President of the United States.

Although Babcock was free, the President was not. The ex-chief executive's wrists had been lashed together.

Aruch's army had heard the plane, as well. They rose expectantly to their feet, eagerly following their leader into the desert just beyond the edge of the oasis.

Along the horizon, predawn streaks had begun to bleed into the smothering veil of night. The massive shape of the Antonov-visible as a gray shadow against what remained of midnight's twinkling alabaster stars-was like some great primordial bird. Running lights off, the plane flew in low. It seemed to drag daylight in its wake as it closed the distance between them. The Antonov bellowed over their heads, its great belly clearly visible to five hundred upturned Arab faces.

Aruch saw the cavernous black opening of the rear ramp just up the fuselage from the huge tail section.

When the Russian plane had cleared the far side of the oasis, something big and blockish slipped from the blackness of the open ramp.

The huge shipping crate tumbled through the air only a few seconds before a perfect white mushroom shape blossomed behind it. The parachute snagged eddies in the chill air, slowing the descent of the massive crate. The box hit sand a few seconds later, and the nylon chute collapsed, spent.