Warren Murphy: White Water

Once in Maine, Remo began to relax. Maybe it was the fact that trees outnumbered people in Maine. It wasn't that Remo didn't like people. It was that he had to be particular about whom he associated with. Since he was a sanctioned assassin for a supersecret government agency, this was important. It wasn't that Remo had a cover to protect. He had once been Remo Williams, a Newark cop, until his existence had been erased. Now he was just Remo, last name optional. According to his truck driver's license, he was Remo Burton. But that was just in case he was pulled over. He lived simply, did no work except take on missions and tried to lead an ordinary life within those narrow constraints.

For many years, it had been simple. Remo had no social life to speak of. But now he was dating again. Really dating. The way normal people normally did. And it was an education.

For one thing, Remo had to relearn that women liked to know a lot about their dates. Otherwise there were no more dates.

They particularly wanted to know what their date did for a living.

Normally all Remo had to do was pull out a fake identity card and he was whoever the card said he was. That was fine for missions. But what about a second date? Or a third? He was stuck being Remo Bogart, FBI special agent. Or Remo MacIlwraith, with the Massachusetts State Police.

Then there were the dietary differences. On one memorable date he sat across a restaurant table from a woman who calmly poured milk into her iced tea, explaining that the milk bound the cancer-causing tannins, then confessed to having been a former substance abuser.

"What substance?" Remo had asked guardedly.

"Sugar."

Remo's feeling of relief lasted only as long as it took to wonder what kind of person could turn common table sugar into a abusable substance.

When she started salting her iced tea, Remo decided there would be no second date.

Then there were the ones who were pretending to be single when they weren't. After a while Remo learned to ask Smith for a husband sweep via computer. Two times out of three, a husband would pop up on Smith's monitor. Once, thanks to Harold Smith's diligence, Remo discovered he was dating a female bigamist.

It was all very discouraging.

"Where are all the sane single women?" Remo had shouted into the phone one disappointing day.

"Married," said Smith over the wire.

"Avoiding you," said Chiun calmly from the next room.

And everybody, but everybody, wanted to go to bed on the first date. There was no chase involved. Remo liked the chase. Instead, he was the chasee. It was a problem he'd had for years. Women reacted to him the way cats react to catnip. One sniff and they were rolling on their backs, purring.

The way things were going, Remo felt he was going to have to retire from dating again.

But first he had to get the eighteen-wheeler he picked up in the Lawrence, Massachusetts truck stop to Lubec, Maine, located at the easternmost point of the U.S. according to the map. It was tucked up there on the Bay of Fundy, under New Brunswick.

Why he had to drive the freaking truck all the way up to Lubec still eluded Remo. He hadn't figured out how to double clutch yet. He had gotten on the cab CB and hailed various truckers who came into view.

They patiently explained it to him, but every time Remo tried, he managed to miss a step and found himself crawling along in first gear.

Finally Remo decided to speed shift through the sixteen or so gears and let the transmission watch out for itself. He had a run to make.

JUST SOUTH OF ELLSWORTH, barreling along in eleventh gear, Remo ran out of luck. He was ramming it through the gears, and the transmission soon began grinding like a coffee machine trying to turn lugnuts into espresso.

"Uh-oh," he muttered.

The eighteen-wheeler slipped into the low-ratio gears, and Remo urged it along with all his strength, which was considerable.

In third gear he crawled along another two miles while traffic blared and veered around him. Then he pulled over.

From the soft shoulder of I-95, Remo called Dr. Harold W. Smith, the director of CURE, the agency he worked for.

"Bad news. I lost the transmission."

Smith said, "It is imperative that you make the drop zone."

"This is a drop?" Remo said.

"The Ingo Pungo is due in three hours."

"Is that a ship?"

"Yes."

"I'm meeting a ship?"

"Yes," Smith repeated.

"Ingo Pungo sounds Korean," said Remo. "Why am I meeting a Korean ship?"

"It is connected to the last contract I negotiated with the Master of Sinanju," explained Smith.

"Oh, yeah? Usually you ship the yearly gold tribute to the village by submarine. Why is a Korean ship coming here?"

"That is not as important as your making the drop zone on schedule. Can you get to Lubec?"

"Probably. But don't I need a semi?"

"Make the drop point. I will arrange for another truck."

"Okay." Then Remo had a thought and he groaned. "I hope Chiun isn't bringing a bunch of his relatives to come live with us."

But Harold Smith had already terminated the call.

Abandoning the truck, Remo used his thumb. No one offered him a ride, so he waited until the next eighteen-wheeler came barreling down the highway.

Climbing atop the cab of his own semi, Remo crouched there, waiting. His eyes tracked the approaching rig. He calculated instinctively-and not by numbers-variables such as speed, wind velocity and timing.

When the semi roared past, emitting diesel exhaust, Remo launched himself from his crouch; landed on the semi with his arms and legs spread and became a human suction cup.

Slipstream tried to tear him off, but his body adhered to the stainless-steel top as if Super Glued there.

Squeezing his eyes shut to protect them, Remo climbed down the blind side of the truck and slipped under the chassis where the spare tire sat flat in a tubular rack. There was enough room for Remo to stretch out if he deflated the tire. Which he proceeded to do with kneading motions of his long thin fingers.

There Remo sat like a frog on an inner tube on a pond, protected from view, wind and discovery.

He just hoped the truck was going where he was going.

EVENTUALLY, THE TRUCK pulled into a truck stop; and the driver got out to chow down in a diner. Remo slipped from his perch and called Harold Smith from a pay phone.

"How are we doing?" he asked.

"You have an hour," returned Smith.

"I'm in Machias."

"Hire a cab. Have the driver drop you off a quarter mile from the zone. Walk the rest of the way. You will find a power boat moored to a blue buoy."

"Power boat?"

"Take the boat fifteen nautical miles due east."

"You might as well say fifteen furlongs. I don't know nautical miles from kilometers."

"Rendezvous with the Ingo Pungo. Tell them to hold their position until you have secured a new truck. Then return to shore and find the truck."

"Okay, got it. So what's this all about?"

"It is all about punctuality," said Harold Smith. "Now hurry."

"Damn that Smith!" said Remo, hanging up.

He was walking back to the highway when the truck driver caught his eye. A tall, rangy blonde with a pleasant but lined face, she was on the scruffy side in torn jeans and flannels. But Remo decided she had an honest face. He needed someone like that now.

She beat him to the punch.

"You look like a guy who could use a lift," she said.

Remo said, "I need to get to Lubec fast."

"I'm running a load of sea urchin to the cannery there. I could use the company."

Remo climbed aboard. He watched as the woman double clutched the big rig onto the highway and laid down rubber for Lubec, hoping to pick up a few pointers.

"Name's Ethel."

"Remo."

"What's your business in Lubec?" Ethel asked.