Warren Murphy: The Final Crusade

"A Crusade?" Remo asked. "For what?"

"Nail."

"Must be a hell of a nail," Remo put in.

"From ... the Cross. Sluggard said ... nail from Crucifixion. Iranians have it. A rug seller uses it to hold up ... picture of Ayatollah. Sluggard said it was ... monstrous blasphemy. Our task was to ... liberate nail. "

"A nail?" Remo repeated, puzzled.

"Whites have launched their holy wars over lesser trifles," Chiun said disdainfully.

"The Holy Nail," Lamar Booe said, his words stronger now. "I carried the banner. We were going to sweep over them, shouting hosannas, until we reached Tehran. Nothing could stop us. We were the Knights of the Lord. "

"Who is this carpet seller?" demanded Chiun.

"Masood . . . something."

"When did this happen?" Remo asked. "Weeks-weeks ago. Seems like years." And under his breath, Lamar Booe of Sapulpa, Oklahoma, began to chant.

"Marq bar Sluggard! Marq bar Sluggard!" Suddenly the light in Lamar Booe's eyes flared up in pain. Then it died like a dwindling star.

"He's gone," Remo said, closing the boy's eyes with his fingers. He turned to Chiun. "All this over a nail," he said, looking at the bodies scattered about the quadrangle of the Eldon Sluggard World Ministries.

"No," said Chiun. "It is never over the things they claim. The nail is merely the excuse. This Sluggard wants more."

"Such as?"

"In the old Crusades, they marched on Jerusalem, claiming that it was a holy place being defiled by Moslems. But in truth, they lusted after the wealth of the lands surrounding Jerusalem. Calling it holy was a way to manipulate the gullible. Like this boy. Like such as you who do not outgrow their childhood superstitions."

"We can argue religion later. What do we do now?"

"We follow this Sluggard. It is time to wring some truth from his oily lips."

Remo looked over toward the Wilmington River. "He's long gone."

"I see a small boat. We will take that. Eventually we will come upon his ship. When we do, we will find the place of his camp."

They found the Mary Magdalene docked nearly ten miles downriver. It was deserted. Remo sent the speedboat up onto the muddy riverbank, not bothering to tie it up. They jumped off and followed a gravel path into a moss-draped forest. In a clearing, they found it.

But the Christian Campground was deserted.

"They took off awfully quick. But in what?" Remo looked at the dirt. There were no conspicuous vehicle tracks. Certainly not enough to cart away the thousands of teenage volunteers that had been shipped here.

Chiun pointed out the imprints of many footsteps. They followed them back to the river.

Out on the water there was little traffic. A sloop tacked into the wind. A trawler crossed its wake. Out on the Atlantic a huge black ship moved slowly. Its long low lines and tall white superstructure told Remo that it was an oil tanker. He dismissed it from consideration.

"Now what?" he asked Chiun.

"We go to Persia. Where Smith should have sent us in the first place."

"You think that's where they went?"

"There is no question. Look around you. What do you see?"

"Looks like boot camp. Those long buildings are barracks. That's an obstacle course. Probably a firing range somewhere too."

"Let us find a telephone. I must call Smith."

"You? I thought you were mad at him."

"Mad enough to tell him I told him so," Chiun said firmly.

"Told him what?"

"I spoke with Smith the other day, when I first suspected the true nature of Sluggard's Crusade. Smith dismissed my theory. Now we have proof."

"Oh, really?" Remo said skeptically. "You knew it all along? I'll have to hear that from Smith himself, if you don't mind."

"Then follow me, O ye of little faith," said Chiun, leading the way.

The long low buildings were indeed barracks. They were filled with empty rumpled cots. But no telephones. Another building housed target-shooting stations. Cardboard cutouts of Middle Eastern terrorists and mullahs in white turbans stood in long rows. They were riddled. The walls behind them were riddled. Even the ceiling was punctured by bullet holes.

Walking through the obstacle course, Remo remarked, "Reminds me of Camp Pendleton."

One building proved to be a headquarters. In a map-covered office, Remo found a telephone. He put in a call to Smith.

"Smitty? Remo. Yeah, it's been a few days. We've been busy. But we got results. You might find them hard to accept, but here it is. Ready for this? Sluggard's launching a Crusade. Yeah, that kind of a Crusade. It's over a nail, believe it or not. Supposed to be from the Crucifixion."

Remo found Chiun tugging on his wrist. "What? Hold it a sec, Smith. What is it?" Remo asked Chiun.

"Ask him if he believes me now."

"Right. Smitty, did Chiun brief you on this before? Oh, he did." Remo turned to Chiun. "You were right, Little Father. I apologize for not believing you."

"Does Smith apologize? That is what I wish to know."

"Smith, Chiun wants to know if you're going to apologize for not believing him."

Remo listened. Finally he told Chiun, "Yes, he apologizes."

"Not good enough. I want it in writing."

"Later," Remo said, waving Chiun off. "We have to deal with this situation first. "

Swiftly Remo related the events of the day, the attack on Sluggard's headquarters, and the departure from the Christian Campground of several thousand hotheaded teenage volunteers.

Remo finished with a growled, "They disappeared into thin air."

"They did not," Chiun put in. "They were on the big boat. "

"What big boat?" Remo wanted to know.

"The big black boat. I saw you watching it."

"The oil tanker? Impossible."

"You are very confident for a person who has just apologized far his earlier lack of faith in my awesome powers of deduction."

Remo sighed. "Chiun says they got away on an oil tanker. Feed that to your computers, Smitty."

At Folcroft Sanitarium, Harold W. Smith called up his computer. It was preposterous. The very idea of a modern Crusade against Iran. But Remo had described the so-called Christian Campground. And it fit reports Smith had been tracking of other parents whose children never returned from Sluggard's Christian retreat. "Did you get the name of the ship?" he asked into the phone.

"Afraid not," said Remo.

"Yes," came Chiun's squeaky voice.

"What is it?" Smith asked.

Chiun's voice came thinly. "The Seaworthy Gargantuan."

"Thank you," Smith said as he began inputting the name. Remo passed along Smith's thanks. Chiun's huffy reply was inaudible.

Smith read the file aloud when it came up. "The Seaworthy Gargantuan is owned by the Mammoth Oil and Shale Recovery Corporation of McAllen, Texas. They're big. Or they were before the Texas oil collapse. Hmmmm. What is this?" he muttered. A flag light was blinking. Smith hit a key.

Up came a file on a ship registered to the same firm, the Seawise Behemoth.

"Listen to this, Remo," Smith said excitedly. "The Seaworthy Gargantuan is a sister ship to the tanker that was seized by the Iranians over a week ago, the Seawise Behemoth. According to my sources, the Iranians claim it was on some kind of espionage mission and they are holding it until they get reparations. We assumed it was another of their strange political games, but I'm beginning to see a pattern, aren't you? Remo? Remo?"

"What?" Remo said. "Sorry, Smith. I was looking at this wall map."

"Please pay attention. This is important."

"So is this. You ever hear of the Pershing Gulf?"

"Persian. Look closer."

"I am and I see the Pershing Gulf. And next to it the Kingdom of Sluggard. Where Iraq should be is Victorialand. And I think Eldon Island is what normal people call Kharg Island, where the Iranians ship out a lot of their oil."