Warren Murphy: Killing Time

The F-16 was going to be a ride and a half for them. Well, what the hell, the pilot thought. Let them have their thrill. It'll probably be the high point of their entire boring, ordinary lives.

Civilians, he thought, nodding off for a quick nap. They'll never know what real excitement is. He felt sorry for them.

Chapter Seventeen

Felix Foxx lit a slim cheroot in the anteroom to the Prince's Chamber in the Great Palace of Anatola in Zadnia. Prince Anatole had built the palace and named it, like his country's capital city, after himseif. During the corrupt and pagan days of Anatole's reign before Ruomid Halaffa and a handful of treasonous soldiers deposed him in the name of justice and de­cency, the Prince's Chamber had been shamefully misused as a playpen, where Anatole and his confi­dantes carried on affairs of state through orgies of drinking and gambling and wenching with a bevy of girls imported from the deserts of the south.

Halaffa heaped scorn on the playboy prince for his wanton ways. After Anatole's execution, when the prince's bloodied head was impaled atop a minaret tower for all to see and despise, Halaffa announced the roster of sweeping changes he would bring to Zadnia. One of the main points of his stirring speech that day was that never again would the urgent mat­ters of state be discussed in an atmosphere as besot-ten and sinful as the notorious Prince's Chamber.

He fulfilled his promise. During Halaffa's own orgies of drinking and gambling and wenching, absolutely no

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affairs of state were discussed. Discussion of affairs of state were limited to Monday morning between 10:00 and 10:30 A.M., immediately following the morning executions and just before the palace's mid-morning hashish break.

Foxx tipped the ash off the cheroot onto the floor, where it joined the mound of butts already deposited at his feet. Behind him, the gilded double doors lead­ing to the Prince's Chamber reverberated with rau­cous shouting and singing and the high screams of Halaffa's concubines.

"But it's important," Foxx had told the guard at the gate, who had received instructions to send away any­one who didn't bring a bottle. "It's an affair of state."

"Come back Monday," the guard said in a nasal singsong. "Affairs of state between ten, ten-thirty."

"It's an emergency."

"Emergencies between one, one-thirty," said the guard, sounding like an Eastern bagpipe.

"This could mean world disaster," Foxx said in des­peration.

"World disasters between three, three-thirty."

Foxx was frantic. "Look, I've got to see him. Aren't there any circumstances where Halaffa would see me before ten o'clock Monday morning?"

"Only super-duper emergency-casualty-world-destruction priority come before Monday morning, ten o'clock," the guard said.

"Fine. I'll take that."

"Monday morning, nine-thirty," the guard said.

At last Foxx managed, with the help of a fifty-dollar bill, to persuade the guard to escort him to the ante­room. That was six hours ago. Since then, Foxx's agi­tation had blossomed into the beginnings of a nervous breakdown. His hands trembled. He saw spots in front

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of his eyes. His mouth was dry. With every swallow the membranes of his throat stuck together like two pieces of Scotch tape.

it was blown! The whole beautiful, foolproof cover of Shangri-la had been discovered and somehow infil­trated by some lunatic in a tee-shirt. The man named Remo had gotten as far as the Team itself. Of course, the Team would have made short work of the thin young man and his ancient Oriental partner, but it was the principle: They knew. After almost thirty years, someone knew about the Team. And if they knew, who else might know?

It was time to go underground, to hole up in Zadnia for a year, until things blew over. He'd brought enough procaine in his plane to last him as long as it was nec­essary to hide out. Of course, the Team didn't have enough to get them through the next week, but he couid form a new Team. It would take work, but it was possible. As for the fools at Shangri-la, there would al­ways be more people with money, willing to trade their millions for Foxx's fountain of youth. The guests at the house in Pennsylvania were dead by now, anyway. He couldn't afford to waste time, worrying about them.

The double doors opened a crack, filling the ante­room with noise and the scent of stale smoke and whiskey fumes. Halaffa stood inside the doors, his back to Foxx, laughing and shouting in Arabic to the others in the Prince's Chamber. He was still laughing when he stepped into the anteroom.

"Your Highness," Foxx said, bowing on his knees before Halaffa. Halaffa's smile broke off and was re­placed by a scowl.

"What do you want that is important enough to dis­turb me from the responsibilities of high office?" he bellowed.

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"I seek asylum, Magnificence," Foxx squeaked. "There is a madman who has learned of our plans. He pursued me to the secret lair of my soldiers. He knows all. Perhaps he has communicated with others. The plan has been ruined. I come to you now to ask, not for payment for the three assassinations already per­formed perfectly, but only for a place where I may hide from the authorities of my pig-governed country until we have disappeared from the minds of those capital­ist buffoons."

"I beg your pardon?" Halaffa asked.

"They're onto us. We have to-"

"Us? We?" Halaffa roared. "Your idiot plan goes up in smoke, and you dare to implicate me, Halaffa himself?"

"But it was your pla-"

"You are stupid enough to get caught performing treacherous acts against your country, and you expect me to grant you asylum?"

"Well, I only thought-"

"Where are your soldiers?"

"They're at my base, sir, your Highness, sir."

"You left them?"

"Well, this man was after me, sir, quite an extraordi­nary man, really. He hung out of a window-"

"You are a bigger ass than I thought. By Allah, you must be the biggest, roundest, reddest ass in the world! Are you mad? Do you think I would give even one moment's consideration to a man who would de­sert his own soldiers, while he flees to safety?"

"Actually, it wasn't quite that dramatic," Foxx tried to explain.

"Would I trust for one second a man who, without hesitation, would expose me and my country in a scheme that would cast us as villains the world over?"

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"Oh, I think it'll all blow over in a few weeks-"

"Guard!" Halaffa screamed. "Take this vermin away. Place him before the firing squad at dawn tom­orrow."

"The firing squad?" Foxx wriggled vainly to free himself from the iron grip of the two giants on either side of him. "But, Your Excellency . . . Your Worship ... I have worked for you."

"You have failed."

"Prison, then," Foxx shouted frantically. "I'll take prison. You can't murder me just for making one mis­take, can you?"

"No," Halaffa said thoughtfully. "Guards, halt." The giants stopped in their tracks. Halaffa rubbed his chin, deliberating. At last he said, "You are right, Dr. Foxx. I cannot in good conscience have you executed for abandoning your mission. After all, I am a fair man. A merciful man. A man who treads in the steps of Allah to bring peace and prosperity to Zadnia."

"Thank God," Foxx whispered. He fell to his knees. "Praise be to you for a thousand years, Your Perfect-ness."

"So it is my decision that you shall not be shot to­morrow morning for making a mistake."

"Your Splendidness, Your Divinity ..."

"You will be shot for interrupting my festivities this evening. Good-bye."

"No! No!" Foxx screamed as the burly guards led him down the filthy stone stairwell into the dungeon, where rats picked clean the bones of those who had preceded him to the courtyard in which he would stand tomorrow.