Warren Murphy: Angry White Mailmen

"I want ail Americans to know that, while we can­not accept this threat at face value, neither do we dis­miss it out of hand. That would be unwise. We have no hard intelligence confirming the existence of any so- called Islamic bomb. But I have ordered our early- warning missile-defense systems on the highest state of alert possible as a precaution."

Then the President stalked off to give the order, hoping he was in time to do exactly that.

Harold Smith was hackingthrough the original FBI reports of the arrest of the Deaf Mullah in the Abu al-Kalbin Mosque in Jersey City in the after­math of the failed terror spree of three years ago when his computer alerted him of incoming mission-critical intelligence.

A fax intercept popped up at the touch of a key.

Smith read the Messengers of Muhammad warning of a nuclear missile called the Fist of Allah, and in one reading reached a firm conclusion.

There was no such missile, unless it was a war- surplus Scud. And for a short-range Scud missile to reach the continental U.S., it would have to be

launched from either Canada or Mexico, neither prospect very likely.

As for the Islamic bomb, it was also doubtful. M.O.M., most of its messengers of terror in FBI custody, was attempting to ratchet up the level of fear and anxiety among the American populace. Whether it worked or not depended upon how the media treated the story.

Smith went back to the FBI computer files, his gray

face frowning. The Deaf Mullah was in federal prison,

yet his followers were making no attempts to liberate him.

There had to be an explanation.

And Harold Smith was determined to find it.

Chapter33

The clerk at the car-rental agency in the Toledo air­port proudly informed Remo Williams that his car was equipped with the latest satellite navigational system for his convenience.

"Just give me directions," said Remo.

"The Groundstar system will get you to your des­tination without fail or the rental is free," the clerk chirped.

"I like directions. They save me time and trouble and keep me from breaking things," said Remo, snapping in half with his thumb the pen he'd just used to sign the rental agreement. A squirt of ink speckled the clerk's white shirtfront.

Taking the hint, the clerk opened his mouth to of­fer clear directions when the Master of Sinanju piped up.

"I will be the navigator."

"You can't handle a navigational computer," Remo said quickly.

"A child could do it," the clerk insisted.

"You stay out of this," Remo snapped.

"I will navigate," Chiun repeated. "I have watched Smith work his oracle machine. It is very simple."

Remo rolled his eyes and hoped for the best.

Twenty minutes laterthey were on the banks of the Maumee River, south of Lake Erie, and Remo was saying, "We're lost."

"We are not lost," said Chiun, tapping the com­puter screen with his jade nail protector. "See? This is the strange lake."

"Lake Erie is not green," said Remo. "And the state of Ohio is not blue."

"The color does not matter. This is Lake Erie, and this red spot is us. For it moves when we do."

"So where are we?" asked Remo with more pa­tience than he felt.

"In a place called Havana."

"Havana, Cuba?"

"It only says 'Havana.'"

Remo looked at the screen. "That green 'lake' is the island of Cuba, Little Father. We are not anywhere near it."

"These machines do not lie."

"We'll ask at the next gas station," growled Remo.

"You would take the word of a smelly purveyor of chemicals to that of the Master of Sinanju?" Chiun asked indignantly.

"I'd like to wrap this up. According to the radio, militia crazies are trying to lynch letter carriers in Montana and Arizona. People are locking their doors when they see a mailman. They're grounding com­mercial flights everywhere because the mail goes by plane and nobody wants to lose a 747 to a letter bomb. Not to mention the fact that the mail has ground to a dead halt because postal employees everywhere are all singing 'The Serotonin Song.'"

"It is good when lowly messengers enjoy their toil."

On the Ohio Turnpike, a bus came barreling up on them at a high rate of speed, and Remo looked into his rearview mirror.

He did a double take. "Chiun. Look behind us."

Chiun turned in his seat. "I see an angry bus."

"Look at the guy inside," Remo suggested.

"I see a red-haired Egyptian."

"I mean the other guy. Tell me that isn't Joe Cam­el."

"That is not Joe Camel. But it is. Who could mis­take that nose?"

"What the hell is he doing driving a bus out here?" asked Remo.

"He is trying to ran us off the road, of course."

In a moment he nearly did.

The bus bore down like a silver juggernaut, horn blaring. Remo eased back on the gas, hoping to slow the bus down.

"He is not slowing. He is speeding up," warned Chiun.

Then the bus surged ahead, intent upon knocking them out of its path.

Remo cut to the shoulder of the road, bounced and came to a jolting stop. The rear tires spun in soft soil. Remo got out, cursing as the exhaust of the speeding bus filled the air.

Reaching under the rear bumper, Remo suddenly straightened. The car's rear end came out of the ditch, and Remo walked it over to hard asphalt, making it look easy. It was not a feat of strength so much as one of absolute physical harmony. Sinanju enabled one to harness one's mind and body so fully that any super­human capability was within Remo's reach, no mat­ter how extreme.

Getting behind the wheel, he heard the Master of Sinanju give the good news.

"We are back in Ohio. The computer has assured me of this. If we follow the yellow line, we will reach our destination."

"Count on us reaching our destination by follow­ing the big silver bus," growled Remo, throwing the car into gear.

Matt Brophy, FBI swattactical commander, was confident he had the al-Bahlawan Mosque secured against invasion or egress. His black-clad forces had mustered a ring of Light Armored Vehicles around the gleaming mosque, whose opalescent dome changed hue as the sun climbed the Ohio sky.

No one in their right mind would try to get into the mosque now. Not with it surrounded by heavily armed FBI agents.

To get in was to be trapped.

And those trapped inside were not coming out. Not that Brophy was calling for that. He wasn't calling for anything. He was standing pat, as instructed. The last place he wanted to land was before an angry Con­gress. Or in a locked room with the attorney general of the United States, who, it was said, could break a man's back with a hard, steely glare, not to mention bust his career all to pieces.

Prepared for any contingency from within, the last thing Brophy expected was a hurtling bus from with­out.

The bus came roaring up the Ohio Turnpike and then down onto Route 75. Then it screamed onto the mosque access road.

Brophy took one look, and his heart stopped beat­ing.

"Incoming bus!" someone yelled.

"Anybody see any markings? Postal ser­vice. .. anything?" Brophy demanded.

No one did.

"How about explosives?"

"No," a countersniper called after consulting his scope.

"Could it be a bus bomb?" someone asked.

The thought alone was enough to freeze the blood.

And there was no time to think it through.

So, when the bus roared straight at them, Matt Brophy ordered the blocking FBI armored vehicles to pull apart which they did in the nick of time.

The bus roared through the impenetrable FBI cor­don and lumbered up to a big portal. It went through the door, breaking it down like so much old cake frosting. One slim minaret listed alarmingly. The other only quivered.

The bus did not explode.

That was the good news.