Warren Murphy - Ship Of Death

Remo watched Helena's face soften. She glanced up and caught Remo's eyes, looked cold, and turned back to Skouratis, a half head shorter than she. She blinded him with a smile and kissed his forehead.

"And someone said gallantry was dead," she said.

"Someone who never met you," answered Skouratis. "Come, Telly, let us go."

And, clearly the leader, Skouratis moved away from the helicopter platform with Helena on his arm and Thebos, looking as wilted as his clothing looked fresh, following them.

The news of Skouratis' arrival had swept the ship and the main deck was filled now with thousands of persons who pressed in on Skouratis and Thebos as they tried to make their way to the large auditorium for the evening's party.

Remo backed up a step to make room for them. He felt as if he had backed into a building. He pressed back harder. Nothing moved. His shoulders hurt.

"Ox," came a voice from behind him.

"Sorry, Chiun," Remo said, without turning.

"Sorry? Because you almost disabled me by crashing into me like a cannon-shot? Just a sorry?"

"My deepest, most profound apologies, Your Excellency, for allowing my unworthy form to so much as touch yours."

"Much better," said China. "Who are these people?"

"That's Thebos and his daughter. They gave the party last night. The little one is Skouratis. He built the ship."

"If you must have anything to do with these people, be careful of that ugly one."

"Why?"

"He would use your eyes for marbles. He is a man to watch carefully."

"And the other one?" asked Remo, nodding to Thebos.

"He would steal your eyes from your head, but only at night, only in a coward's manner. He is a weasel, the other is a lion."

"Remo. Master of Sinanju."

Smith stood alongside them. He carried his roll of maps under his arm.

"Hiya, Smitty," said Remo. "Find any secrets?"

"I'm working on it. And Chiun. How are you? How do you like your new clients?"

Chiun looked uncomfortable. "Actually, they are Remo's clients. It was he who suggested to me that we leave your gracious…"

"Chiun," said Remo.

"I understand," Smith said. "Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that Iran is really pleased with your work so far."

"As well they should be," said Chiun.

"Oh?" said Remo.

"Yes. I bumped into somebody from Iran that I knew a long time ago. We talked about security."

"And?" Remo said.

"And he said that Iran was lucky. They had hired…"

"Hired?" said Chiun, his voice squeaking with outrage.

Smith nodded. "Hired… the two most vicious, sadistic killers-for-money that they had ever seen. Murderers, I think he said. Yes, that was it. Murderers-for-money."

"They called us murderers?" Chiun said.

"Sadistic?" said Remo.

"I have to leave," Smith said. "I truly hope that everything stays well with you." He turned and melted into the crowd still milling about the deck, vanishing like a pebble into pea soup.

"Did you hear," said Remo, "what your sweet Persians think about us?"

"Iranians," said Chiun. "Obviously they are not Persians any longer. Persians knew the difference between assassins and murderers. They knew the difference between hiring people—hiring servants like doctors—and giving an offer to worthy men like those from the House of Sinanju. Oh, no. These friends of yours are no Persians," Chiun said.

"Friends of mine?"

"I no longer want to hear you discuss them," said Chiun. "I am disgusted with this evening's events. I will return to my room."

He moved off and the milling crowd seemed to envelop him, but he cut a path through them like a ripsaw through redwood. He moved through the people like the dorsal fin of a shark cuts water, surrounded by the people but not impeded by them at all.

When Remo reached them, Skouratis, Thebos and Helena had paused at the railing on the main deck to look out toward Thebos' yacht. Remo noticed Skouratis look directly at his small launch, still circling several hundred yards away from Ship of States, and then nod.

Guards escorted the three down the escalator of the ship toward the main auditorium and the crowd swelled in behind them, leaving Remo on deck. He looked out at the Skouratis launch, a dull gray speck out across in the night, across the Atlantic. The boat had stopped circling and was now motoring toward Thebos' yacht. And then, as Remo watched, he saw two small trails of air bubbles, white against the black sea like talcum specks, move slowly away from the launch and head toward the Thebos yacht.

Remo leaned against the elevator entrance until the crowd on deck had thinned out. Something gnawed at the back of his mind. He had sealed off the entrance to the below-ships passageways but there must he other entrances. He reached his hand up and touched the elevator frame over his head. Something. There was something in his mind, something he should know, remember, but he could not find it. All he had was an instinct that it was important that he keep his eyes on Skouratis and Thebos tonight.

The two men and Helena were in the royal box on the auditorium's mezzanine when Remo got there. Three armed guards stood watch at the door.

The Iranian box was too far away to be a good surveillance spot so Remo slipped in through the door leading to the box next to the Thebos' seats.

The auditorium box seats had been laid out around the oval perimeter of the large auditorium in order of importance. The royal box was in the middle of one of the long sides of the arena, hanging from a mezzanine deck with balcony seats above it, and ground-level seats below. Near the royal box were the boxes assigned to other countries by the United Nations General Assembly. These included India, Libya, Cambodia, a handful of African states.

Across the auditorium from the royal box were the boxes assigned to nations considered to be of secondary importance: Russia, China, France, East Germany.

And in the worst boxes, at the far ends of the auditorium, were the lowest-ranked nations: America, Israel, Great Britain, Japan, West Germany.

Remo looked around and decided that the UN had worked out a new equation. A country's importance was in direct relationship to its inability to feed itself.

Remo was in the box of the Indian delegation. The Indian ambassador occupied it with two young Western women. They sat in deep plush seats at the front of the railing, both blondes, each wearing low gowns that bared a pneumatic wealth of cleavage, while the ambassador poured champagne for them into crystal goblets.

He turned as he heard the door close and Remo came down the steps and sat in a straight-backed chair from which he could see across the three-foot-high wall separating India's box from the Skouratis-Thebos box seats.

"I beg your pardon," the ambassador said.

"It's all right," Remo said. "You won't be in my way."

The Indian smiled at the two women, a smile that apologized for the intrusion and promised quick resolution of this petty minor problem.

"I don't think you understand. This is a private party."

"Now, look, Mahatma," Remo said, quietly, "I'm here and I'm staying here. Now drink your champagne that somebody else paid for and play with your women that somebody else paid for and watch the party that somebody else is paying for. But leave me alone. Interrupt me again and that's something you will wind up paying for."

Remo's dark eyes narrowed as he looked at the ambassador, wearing a Nehru jacket and short knee-length trousers and silk stockings and slippers. The ambassador met his stare, then turned to the two women. Both of them had looked at Remo and were still looking at him.

"Oh, let him stay," said one.

"Yes. He won't be any bother," the second blonde said.

"If you insist," the ambassador said. "The women say you may stay."