Warren Murphy: The Final Crusade

"Yes. Two streets north, and on the right. But do you not have to reach the landing place of these renegades?"

"There is time," said Chiun. "Come, Remo."

As they walked past the blue-tiled mosques, the wailing of the muezzin calling the faithful to afternoon prayers filling the dusty air, Remo ventured, "I know what's next. "

"Oh?"

"Yep. We're going after the nail. You figure if we present it to the Crusaders, it'll take the wind out of their sails. They won't have any reason to fight."

"Yes, that too."

"Too?"

"After I show you the proper way to purchase a Persian carpet," said Chiun.

The Master of Sinanju strode into the store of the rug merchant Masood Attai.

"I have many rugs, as you can see," Masood Attai said, welcoming them.

"I wish to show my son the proper way to buy a fine carpet," said Chiun. "Observe, Remo." He went over to a stack of rugs nearly three feet tall.

"To detect a rotted warp, you do like so," he said. Taking a corner in both hands, he jerked suddenly. The nap went snap-pop!

"I get it," Remo said. "That sound means it's solid. Right?"

"This warp is rotted!" exclaimed Chiun, flaring at the rug merchant.'

"You pulled too hard," Masood Attai shot back. "Try this," he said, pulling down a prayer rug hanging on the wall. "This is a fine one," he said, holding it up with difficulty, for it was heavy.

Chiun took it as if it were a mere handkerchief. He examined the nap carefully. He spat on the nap and sniffed the spot.

"Bleached," he said distastefully.

"All moderns are bleached," Masood returned. Chiun let the rug drop to the floor.

"I do not wish to buy a donkey bag, but a fine Persian carpet. Show me your best."

"Ah," said Masood Attai. He went through a curtain in the rear of the shop and returned lugging a heavy blue rug.

"It is a Ladik. It is very fine. Note the repeating tulips. And for you, only five thousand rials," said Masood Attai as he spread it upon the floor.

While Chiun knelt to examine it, Remo's eyes searched the shop. He saw the picture of the Ayatollah Khomeini, draped in black. A heavy nail head gleamed dully above it. The portrait hung by a line of frayed string.

Remo's attention drifted back to the Master of Sinanju. Chiun was clucking as he examined the rug's coloring. "Is this your best?" he asked. "The colors are dull. The rug looks ... dead."

Masood Attai clapped his old hands. "You are truly a master! I should have recognized this from the start. This is my best rug, but like all moderns, it is woven of tabachi, slaughterhouse wool. You are correct that it lacks life. Truly you know rugs. You buy?"

"No!" spat Chiun, rising.

"There is no finer rug woven in this century than that one. What you seek, you must seek from a private collector or a museum. Not from one such as I."

"I am insulted."

"I am sorry. The times have changed."

"You can atone for your insult," suggested Chiun.

"How?"

"That nail. I wish to own it."

Masood Attai looked at the nail suspending the Ayatollah Khomeini's portrait. He spread his hands helplessly.

"I cannot. For I have no other nail. They are scarce now. "

"I promise to replace it with a nail you will never lose."

Masood Attai considered. Finally he said, "Done." And the Master of Sinanju went over to the portrait and lifted it off the nail. He extracted the nail with two delicate fingers. The wooden wall screeched as the nail came out. He tossed the nail to Remo, who caught it with both hands.

Then the Master of Sinanju set the portrait in its proper place with one hand and sent the forefinger of the other hand between the portrait's eyes.

When he withdrew it, the portrait hung perfectly.

Masood Attai screeched. He howled. He swore before Allah that this was a desecration.

"Next time, do not try to sell me a rug with a rotted warp," Chiun called back.

Out on the street, Remo said, "I guess things aren't like they were in the old days."

"I should have known it," Chiun said. "The Moslems have ruined this place."

"I thought Persia was always a Moslem land."

"No. The Arabs ruined it when they took over, bringing their ridiculous religion with them. In truth, Sinanju stopped working for Persia after the great conversion. It is sad. It will pain me to write of this experience in my scrolls."

"Not as much as this will pain you," Remo said slowly. He held up the nail. "Look."

Chiun took the heavy nail. It was almost a spike. It was rusty and dirt-encrusted, but along one flat side of the nail was worn lettering.

It read: Made in Japan.

Chapter 24

Reverend-General Eldon Sluggard descended into the bowels of the Seaworthy Gargantuan to address his mighty host. They had passed through the Strait of Hormuz, soon, he hoped, to be rechristened the Strait of Griselda after that other ball-buster, his ex-wife.

Sluggard's heart pounded as he entered the long cargo area. Where viscous brown crude usually sloshed, phalanxes of soldiers in cross-embroidered tunics stood waiting. They were ready. Eldon Sluggard could see it in their feverish eyes.

Reverend-General Sluggard was ready too. He wore two pistols strapped, cowboy style, on his hips. An M16 hung from his shoulder. There were throwing daggers in each boot. And of course his Civil-War-vintage saber, which he was getting used to wearing. He hadn't tripped over it in almost an hour. The sword would be his last line of defense. If it looked like he was going to be captured, he was going to set it hilt-down in the sand and belly-flop onto it. Anything so those ragheads didn't take him alive.

"Ten-hut!" he shouted.

The Paladins of the Lord came to attention. And Reverend-General Sluggard grinned expansively. His grin was as false as a gold tooth, but he knew if he didn't keep them pumped up the mullahs would have him for dinner.

"We are in the Gulf. The Pershing Gulf," he barked.

"Named after that famous American, General John 'Blackjack' Pershing."

"Hallelujah!" they exulted. "Are we ready to fight?"

"For God and glory!" their voices echoed.

They were nearly six thousand strong. They were young, irrational, and ignorant, but best of all they had an objective. The Holy Nail. Nothing could stand against them.

"We hit the beach in speedboats," said Reverend-General Sluggard. "That way we take 'em by surprise. We establish a beachhead, dig in, and start capturing the oil fields. When we've choked off their economy, we storm our way to Tehran. And the Holy Nail!"

"Hallelujah!"

"The nail is our true objective. All of you remember that the relic of our dear savior's Passion is holding up a picture of the Ayatollah-may he burn in hell."

"Burn!" cried the Hosts of the Lord. Although he had repeated it a dozen times or more, they still broke out in angry indignation every time he reminded them of the nail's fate.

All during the voyage, the Reverend-General had kept churning their emotions. He had told them about what the mullahs were going to do to their Christian family members if they got their way. He told them the story of the original Crusades. They hissed at the story of the First Crusade, which captured, but failed to hold on to Jerusalem. They cheered the story of the successful Third Crusade. They wept and vowed revenge when he told them of the Children's crusade of 1212, when European children sailed into the Holy Land and were captured and made slaves of the heathen.

By the time he had gotten to the Eighth Crusade, they were whipped into a passionate fury. And then he promised them that this would be the Last Crusade. After this, the scourge of the evil Moslems would be eradicated from the world.

"In another minute Ah'm gonna lead you all up on deck. You know what happens next."