Warren Murphy: Prophet Of Doom

"Irrelevant," Kaspar repeated with a wave of his hand. "We must prepare."

"For what?"

"The force the Pythia spoke of. This Sinanju. It is an ancient power that can destroy everything we've worked for."

"So what is it?" Esther asked testily.

Mark Kaspar closed his eyes. His face assumed a wary cast. His voice grew doleful and full of portents.

"It is here."

Chapter Eight

Remo had contacted Harold Smith before leaving Thermopolis, and the CURE director's orders had been explicit: they were not, under any circumstances, to enter Ranch Ragnarok while Moss Monroe remained on the premises.

"What if he stays there a week?" Remo complained.

"You will wait."

"Great," Remo said sarcastically. "Smitty, the local paper is reporting there was a kid kidnapped in town last night. Maybe Chiun and I could take a look into that while we're waiting." "That is not our business." "You're all heart, Smitty," Remo groused. "You will proceed to the ranch," Smith instructed, "where you will await Monroe's departure." As it turned out, they didn't have to wait long. Remo had barely turned off the rural asphalt route onto the wide dirt path that wound through the woods to Ranch Ragnarok when Moss Monroe's limousine burst into view over a rise in the rutted, dusty path.

The limo became airborne for a split second before it bounced roughly back to earth. The driver momentarily lost control and nearly broadsided Remo's rented

86

Jeep before he skidded out onto the mangy strip of state tar in a cloud of dust that obscured the entire vehicle.

But only for a second.

As if yanked by a giant rubber band, Moss Monroe's limo launched from beneath the cloud cover and rocketed back toward Thermopolis. Smoking rubber strips burned up the road nearly a quarter mile behind America's premier political outsider.

"That man departs in haste," Chiun intoned, the sides of his mouth a network of wrinkles.

"He probably remembered the deadline for filing papers to run for king of Rwanda," Remo suggested.

They ditched their Jeep and ducked into the dense woods that closed in on either side of the narrow dirt access road. There were various cameras and motion-detection devices hidden in the trees and along the forest floor, but the two men avoided the electronic devices with ease, sensing their vibrations and magnetic fields instinctively. Sinanju made them at one with the universe and honed their awareness of all its combined forces.

It was not long before they found a path. Nearly imperceptible indentations marked it.

"Foot patrols?" Remo asked Chiun.

The Master of Sinanju nodded. "They have passed five times so far today," he said, noting barely visible heel marks and freshly snapped twigs.

Remo cocked an ear. "Sounds like they're going for six."

His sensitive ears had picked up the sounds of heavy breathing and of awkward, stumbling men progressing from the direction of the ranch.

87

Chiun nodded and slipped wordlessly into the woods beside the path.

There were still times when his teacher's skills amazed Remo. Here was Chiun, a century old and dressed in a kimono—the garish yellowness of which made him resemble a ripe, ambulatory banana—vanishing in an evergreen forest with the utterness of a scrap of ignited magician's flash paper.

Remo had little time to appreciate the artfulness of the move. As the patrol closed in, he also faded into the patchy shadow of the forest, his black T-shirt and chinos becoming part of their warp and woof.

He met up with Chiun a few feet off the beaten path.

"Why did you hesitate?" Chiun demanded in a squeaky whisper.

"I was just thinking...." Remo said, smiling knowingly at Chiun.

When Chiun detected the softness in Remo's voice, his features became less harsh. ' 'Please, Remo, refrain from thought when we are on a mission. I would not want the smoke issuing from out your ears to give away our position of vantage."

He raised a bony finger to his lips to stifle Remo's inevitable retort. "Silence. They come."

There were four of them—all dressed in Army-surplus cammies. They carried AR-15 rifles balanced across their shoulders like yokes for carrying water buckets. According to Remo's highly trained senses, an unusual and difficult posture.

Every man on the path—and especially the leader—seemed anxious to brandish the weapons before him. And although he didn't completely

88

understand why, Remo was certain that was exactly what they ordinarily did.

These men were used to carrying their weapons in their hands. So why weren't they?

It was clear that none of them ever had any serious military training, and it became more clear with every stumbling misstep that they were as out of place in the woods as lost Rockettes. They lumbered up the path, wheezing with every uncertain footfall.

From the way they were peering into the overgrown brush as they moved along, it was apparent they were in search mode.

Whatever it was they were after didn't matter. If they were disciples of Esther Clear-Seer, they were expendable.

"I'll take the right," Remo whispered. He shot a glance to Chiun, but the Master of Sinanju was already gone. Remo caught a glimpse of yellow silk as Chiun glided between a pair of giant, pitted evergreen trunks.

"And why don't you take the left?" he suggested to the unhearing wind.

Remo slipped silently right.

The patrol was clumsy. They had probably made this same circuit through the woods hundreds of times, but not one of them seemed comfortable in the forest environment. Remo noticed a tree root that had been worn smooth from countless stubbed toes. He pictured booted feet tripping over that same root a dozen times in the same week, surprised that it was still there.

Amateurs.

As the group advanced, Remo circled around before them, at times keeping pace, other times moving a few steps ahead. He knew Chiun would be mirroring his

89

own moves on the soldiers' opposite flank. There was no hurry.

All at once the group came to a halt.

Remo froze. What were they up to?

The men fell to discussing something among themselves.

"This is the spot?" the leader asked. "You sure?"

"I counted it off," offered one of the others with a nod. "It's 334 paces."

The leader stepped away from the other three and stared into the depths of the forest, nearly at the spot where Remo stood.

The leader shot a glance back at his men. "You're positive?"

The other soldier nodded.

Enough was enough. Remo's curiosity was piqued, but not so much so that he'd stand in the middle of the woods until moss sprouted out his north side. He moved an inch.

The lead soldier spoke up. "Hello?" His voice echoed uncertainly in the forest.

Remo remained frozen, his breathing keying down to minimal cycles of respiration.

The Ragnarok soldiers searched the silent evergreens with nervous eyes.

"This is the foretold spot?" the leader said, turning to his men once again.

"And the right time," stressed the second man.

"Maybe they're not here," someone else suggested.

In the thicket Remo focused his senses beyond the soldiers. A few yards into the woods on the opposite side of the path, he could hear the sound of Chiun's breathing—inaudible to anyone's ears but his own.

90

The Master of Sinanju had stopped beneath the lazily swaying bows of an evergreen. Remo could tell by his shallow intake of air that Chiun was pondering the strangeness of their situation.

It looked like the soldiers were expecting someone. Intruders. Infiltrators. But other than he and Chiun, there was no one around. And there was no way they had been detected. Even something as impalpable as an infrared beam would have been felt by either Remo or the Master of Sinanju if they had interrupted the beam with their stealthy bodies.