Warren Murphy: Cold Warrior

"I will have a tape made," Smith said quickly. "He will have missed nothing."

"And just as you called," Remo added, "he was on his way out the door to assassinate Castro."

"I was not!" Chiun called from the other room.

"Remo," Smith hissed. "Do not let Chiun provoke that lunatic. Our highest priority is to keep the lid on an explosive situation."

"I can't make any guarantees," Remo said slowly.

"Those who are without gainful employment are unpredictable," Chiun called out. "The homeless are without hope, and where there is no hope, passions run high."

"What is he saying?" Smith asked harshly.

"Tell you what, Smitty," Remo said. "Maybe you should talk to Chiun. Get this contract knot unraveled."

"There is no time," Smith said, his voice rippling with concern.

"I will perform no service without certain considerations being met," Chiun announced.

"Tell him I'll meet them," Smith said quickly.

"I thought you were too broke," Remo asked.

"Remo, I will meet them. Now tell him!"

"No need," said Remo, handing the phone to the Master of Sinanju, who had suddenly appeared in the doorway. Chiun took it and listened quietly, the receiver pressed so tightly to his ear that Remo heard nothing of Smith's end of the conversation other than an intermittent lemony buzz.

At length the Master of Sinanju said, "Remo and I will do what we can." Then he handed the phone to Remo, saying, "You will receive the instructions. I must finish my meal."

Remo clapped the receiver to his ear. "Okay, Smitty. Nice move. Shoot."

"We are in the dark," Smith said urgently. "There is no time for stealth or finesse. You must start in the Cuban community of Little Havana. Go there immediately. Turn the place upside down if you must. Find out who sponsored this Bay of Pigs incursion and put a stop to any further activity."

"Sounds simple enough," said Remo. "Any name in particular I should start with?"

"Yes. Dr. Osvaldo Revuelta, reputed leader of Ultima Hora."

"Ultima what?"

"Ultima Hora. It is Spanish for 'Eleventh Hour.' Revuelta is a wealthy Cuban expatriate who is suspected of financing Ultima Hora, a group of Cuban mercenaries bent upon retaking the island. It is believed that Revuelta's ultimate goal is to establish himself as the first democratic President of Cuba."

"Sounds like he's on our side," Remo said.

"Not if his activities put the U.S. and Cuba on a collision course," Smith said, flat-voiced.

"What's the big deal? We can take those Caribbean losers in an afternoon. Remember Grenada? The Cuban troops ran for their lives."

"Remo, you know the situation in Russia. It is extremely delicate. There is a mood to return to the Soviet model. Our government and theirs have a tacit understanding: Hands off Havana. If we embarrass the former Red Army, they may agitate to intervene. War fuels depressed economies, as you know."

"I still don't like it," Remo said, face and voice bitter.

"Nor do I. But we live in a changing world, and we must adapt. Castro can't stay in power forever. But he can cause great harm if he seizes upon this incident as a way to rally his people behind his crumbling regime."

"Okay, Chiun and I are on the way."

"Report as necessary."

Remo hung up and sauntered back into the kitchen. There, the Master of Sinanju was patting his tiny mouth with a linen napkin. On the plate under his bearded chin lay the bodily remains-largely spine-of a trout.

"You ate my trout!" Remo shouted.

"The duck was greasy," Chiun said.

"But you knew that!"

"I did not know how greasy. Besides, the trout would have been cold by the time you returned to it, and both of our dinners would have been ruined. Why should two suffer when the wisdom of one can prevent this?"

Remo picked up a bamboo chopstick and poked at the duck. The crackling brown skin broke. No steam leaked out. He could see by the gelatinous state of the orange sauce that the meal was stone-cold.

"I wasn't in the mood for duck," he complained. "And I'm sure not in the mood for cold duck in congealed orange sauce."

The Master of Sinanju stood up and shook back into place his black silk kimono sleeves, which had been folded high over his bony elbows.

"Fasting is good for a Master of Sinanju-especially one who is about to embark on an important assignment," he said sagely.

"Oh, yeah? Then why didn't you fast?"

"Because," cackled the Master of Sinanju, "I was faster than you. Heh heh. I was faster, therefore I had no need to fast. Heh heh heh."

Chapter 6

Dr. Osvaldo Revuelta considered himself a soldier of the Americas.

He was proud. He was brave. He was a Cuban through and through. There was nothing he would not do to restore his beleaguered nation to its former glory.

When the ragtag guerilleros of the Sierra Maestra began their campaign, he had laid down the shining tools of his lucrative La Plata gynecological practice, absolved himself of his Hippocratic Oath, and taken up arms against them.

It was a terrible day when Fidel rode through the streets of Havana. Dr. Revuelta had gotten on the first Cubana plane to Miami. He had seen how the crowds were with Fidel.

He had thought it would be a temporary thing. But the years had rolled on, slow and terrible. And when he'd realized there would be no soon return to Havana, Dr. Revuelta decided to fight the Fidelistas from a distance.

His first act was to shoot at a Bulgarian tanker. He used a bazooka purchased on the black market. The bazooka rocket punched a neat hole through the bow of the Bulgar ship, which sailed stubbornly on. The government of Bulgaria had protested to the United States.

The FBI came knocking at his door, since Dr. Revuelta had taken to boasting about his act of retaliation to his compatriots in the watering holes of Little Havana.

"Yes, I did shoot the Bulgar bastardos with my bazooka," he admitted forthrightly. "What of it? They are the allies of our great enemy, Fidel." And he spat at the feet of the two unblinking FBI men.

"You'll have to come with us," one said with a toneless politeness.

"Jou have use for me, perhaps?" Revuelta said eagerly. "I will gladly lead the charge up San Juan Hill, eh?"

"I'm sorry, Dr. Revuelta. You are under arrest."

"Por que? Why? I have done nothing illegal."

"You fired a bazooka at a ship of foreign registry while standing on U.S. soil. A clear violation of the Neutrality Act."

"Hah! Jou are wrong! I was in my cabin cruiser. She is a speedy yob, that ship. I call her What a Country! Is true, no?"

The FBI men did not laugh. They barely moved. And they continued to insist that Revuelta was under arrest.

Dr. Revuelta went with them. He answered their tiresome questions truthfully, and when he saw that-amazement of amazements-they were taking this matter very seriously, he pretended to break down.

"I am anguished with shame," he said mournfully. "Jou are correct. I have done a terrible thing, and now my friends are about to commit a worse act of heinousness."

The chief FBI interrogator became very interested indeed. "What act?" he had asked.

"My compatriots. Fellow exiles. They are placing bombs in ships down at the docks."

"Which ships?"

"I will take jou there." He dabbed at his dark eyes. "I am so remorseful."

A drab sedan whisked them to the docks. As they got out, Dr. Revuelta lifted his manacled hands and brought them down on the chief interrogator's crewcut head. The man had crumpled like a trenchcoat crammed with potatoes. The driver was harder to conquer. Dr. Revuelta had to punch and kick him many times, and still he did not lose consciousness.

As the man lay stunned, Dr. Revuelta rushed along the docks, trying to unlock the handcuffs with the tiny key he had rummaged from the first man's pockets.