Warren Murphy - Ship Of Death

"And it was your idea not to tell me to what depths the once-proud Peacock throne had fallen. Persia was a great land with great rulers. This Iran that you call it, well, why did you not tell me about it? Why did you not tell me how backward it was? Why did you not tell me that they have no daytime dramas? That they have little television at all?"

"Because how the hell was I supposed to know?" asked Remo testily.

"Because it is one of the things you are supposed to know," said Chiun. "Why do you think I let you hang around with me? Because your eating habits fill me with love and respect? Because your big-nosed features are as a dew-fresh morning rose to me?"

"My nose isn't big," said Remo.

"You are an American. All Americans have big noses," Chiun said.

"And all Koreans look alike."

"That is not bad when the alike we all look is a beautiful alike. You should have known about Persia going bad."

"I don't do that kind of work. Smitty always did that kind of work."

"Do not go blaming your inadequacies on the poor, maligned Emperor Smith whom you betrayed by fleeing from his service," said Chiun.

"Oh. So now it's the poor maligned Emperor Smith. Taking his place alongside Herod as one of the great martyrs of history, huh? How about 'that lunatic' Smith that you've been carping about for years? Huh? How about that?"

"I never should have listened to you, Remo," Chiun said, his face and voice dripping hurt, his arms slowly folding in front of his seated body as a signal that this conversation was ending. "I never should have turned my back on the Emperor in charge of keeping the Constitution safe, just because of your greed. My ancestors will judge me harshly for this."

"No one'll ever know. Just doctor the Sinanju records the way you always do."

"Enough," Chiun said. "Have you not heaped upon one aged man enough abuse for one day? Have you no mercy? The Persians always were heartless. How quickly you have become one of them."

Remo stomped toward the door, his salt-stiffened clothes creaking as he moved. He paused at the door.

"Little Father," he said.

Chiun did not answer.

"Little Father."

Chiun turned angry hazel eyes toward him.

"Little Father, I have something to say to you," Remo said, lowering his voice, sounding sad.

Chiun nodded. "Penitent, you may speak."

"Blow it out your ears," Remo said, "and rub it in your hair." He skipped quickly out the door.

They were supposed to be looking. They were supposed to be on the alert. But the two guards who prowled the corridor in front of the Libyan mission's offices and apartments did not notice the hard-line set to Remo's mouth. Nor did they see that his eyes were so glowering dark that they seemed almost all pupil.

Instead they noticed only a thin Westerner wearing splotchy-looking clothing walking down the corridor, talking aloud to himself,

"I'm getting tired of being everybody's fall guy," Remo said. "You hear that?" he yelled. "I'm tired, you hear? First Smitty. Then Chiun. Smitty blames me for leaving and it's Chiun's fault. Chiun blames me for leaving and it's still his fault. Everybody blames me. Who do I get to blame? Huh? Who do I get to shovel the blame off on?"

The two Libyan guards moved in front of Remo as he ambled down the corridor, head down, feeling the soft rug give under his water-soaked loafers.

"Hold it," said the larger one. He wore a pinstriped black suit, a black shirt and white tie. His hair was greased back and black. His skin was swarthy. He put an arm out and a big right hand on Remo's shoulder.

Remo looked up at the man, a full four inches bigger than he was,

The man let go a barrage of words in Arabic.

"Talk English, stupid. I'm not one of your goddamn rag merchants," Remo said.

The big guard smiled. "I asked what you were doing in this corridor, little man with large mouth. This corridor is off limits after 8 P.M."

Remo smiled. It was not a nice smile. "Just going for a walk," he said.

The other man moved up alongside the first. He wore the same costume, individualized by black-and-white wing-tip shoes.

"He is an American," the second man said.

The large guard smiled. He squeezed with the hand he had placed on Remo's shoulder.

"Oh, an American. Is that true? Are you a Fascist, racist, imperialist dog?"

"No," said Remo. "I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy, born on the Fourth of July, with the Stars and Stripes forever."

"I think we hold this one for questioning in the morning," said the big Libyan guard.

He squeezed even harder with his right hand, but failed to noticed that Remo gave no sign of feeling the pressure.

"How are things in Libya?" Remo said. "Your brave skyjackers kill any babies this week?"

"That is enough, swine," the second guard said. "Take him, Mahmoud. We will lock him in one of the interrogation rooms."

"Yes, Mahmoud," Remo said. "Take me. Do you know I've been walking these corridors for fifteen minutes, pissed, really pissed, just looking for somebody to take it out on? Do you know what a favor you're doing me?"

Mahmoud looked at the smaller Libyan and shrugged. The American might be deranged.

"Do you know what I'm going to do to you, Mahmoud?" Remo asked. "What's your name?" he suddenly asked the second man.

"Ahmed."

"That's right. All you wogs are named Mahmoud or Ahmed."

"For your insolence," Ahmed said, "I will take charge of your interrogation myself."

Both guards now had pistols out from the shoulder holsters that lay inside their heavily padded suit jackets.

"Let's go," Mahmoud said. He removed his right hand from Remo's shoulder and, with his left hand, poked his gun barrel into Remo's stomach.

"What a gift you two are," said Remo. "A real pair of winners. You know what you can do with that gun?"

"I can fire it," Mahmoud said. His thumb cocked the hammer of the gun. His left index finger felt the hard cold metal of the trigger under the ridges of his fingertip. And then the gun was in the American's hands.

"And now you, Ahmed," said Remo.

Ahmed jumped back a step and tried to fire at Remo. Remo removed both the pistol and Ahmed's trigger finger with one move of the side of his right hand.

He held both guns in front of him, then juggled them in the air in his right hand. Ahmed's index finger bounced down, onto Remo's palm and Remo dumped it onto the carpeted floor.

Ahmed looked at the four fingers of his hand, then up at Remo, then back at his hand. He opened his mouth to scream, but he found his mouth filled with gun butts.

"You be quiet for a while, Ahmed," said Remo. "First Mahmoud."

The big Libyan was on Remo then from behind, both hands stretching out for the thin American's neck.

Remo spun as Mahmoud closed on him, and drove two fingers into the bodyguard's wrists. Mahmoud felt his hands freeze in position, the fingers splayed wide as if he were holding an imaginary basketball, getting ready for an underhand foul shot.

He tried to close his hands but they would not move. He tried to drop them to his sides, hut they were locked in place. He saw his hands for the first time in his life, really saw them, big hands with deep furrows in the skin and callouses alongside the fingers. Ugly hands, but workingman's hands. Mahmoud's work was killing.

But he wanted no more killing; he wanted nothing to do with this crazy American. He backed away and Remo pushed him down into a sitting position on the floor next to Ahmed.

Remo stared down at the two men as if surveying the south forty, looking for the best place to erect a barn.

He leaned over and removed the two guns from Ahmed's mouth.

"That's better," Remo said. "Now you two don't like Americans very much, and that's not right."

Mahmond's head shook vigorously from side to side; Ahmed said, "No, no, no, no, no."