“Slang. He lusted for you.”
“Probably. But not I for him. I only have hots for you,” she said.
“Thank you,” Remo said. “It beats the hell out of love every time.”
She stepped up and hugged him. “You will be careful with this other man you wait for?”
“Don’t worry. You’ll remember what I told you?”
“Yes. I do not understand it, and I do not believe it, but I will do it.”
“Just do it,” Remo said. They walked together to the doorway of the Emir’s room.
Chiun was leaning over the thin and bony ruler who was speaking.
“Since I will die in any case, I would rather have been murdered than find out that Pakir, my friend, had plotted against me.”
Chiun’s face tightened with anger. “That is stupid,” he said.
The Emir looked shocked.
“What?”
“Stupid, stupid,” said Chiun. “You are giving to others and their actions the power of life and death over you. But if a man is to be a man, he must rule not only a country, but the circumstances of his life and the conditions of his death.”
The Emir obviously thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “There should be no lament for traitors,” he said.
“Are you all right, my brother?” Sarra asked as she entered the room.
“Just tired,” the Emir said.
“Rest,” she said. “I will sit with you.”
“And he will be about his majesty’s work,” Chiun said.
From the doorway, Remo called to Sarra. “You know what to do?”
“Yes,” she said. “I do not understand, but I will do it.”
And even as Chiun and Remo were going down the stairs toward their waiting boat, Princess Sarra busied herself in the Emir’s room, lighting candles. Candles taken from all over the house. She lit them on the dresser and near the windows and on the small end tables and desk and on the mantle.
As their boat powered away from the main dock, and turned behind the small island, Remo saw the flickering of candles in the Emir’s room, and smiled to himself. Elmo Wimpler might have a device that could short-circuit lightbulbs, but it would take a lot of concentrated puffs of air to blow out all those candles. And while he was doing it, he would be just another little man in a black suit, and Princess Sarra, with Pakir’s revolver, would blow him into pieces.
The Emir was safe.
As their boat moved quietly, slowly toward the dark silhouette against the dark, nighttime sky, Remo said to Chiun, “You are really fond of him, aren’t you?”
“He was the holder of a great throne,” Chiun said. “He has been replaced by jackals who have neither his courage nor his character. They will, in the sacred name of ‘the people,’ exalt mediocrity, stupidity, and brutality. I would have a monarchy every time.”
“Why?” Remo asked. “Monarchies can be mediocre, stupid, and brutal too.”
“But if they are, they can be changed with the disposal of one man. Because of this, the best monarchs know that they must rule with intelligence and compassion. This man was one of the best. The poor people of his nation will soon know how much of a man he was. Shhhhh. We approach.”
Remo cut the engines. The boat continued drifting toward the larger boat, anchored some 40 yards ahead of them.
Elmo Wimpler had only taken a little while to decide with what weapon to replace his confiscated skull-crusher.
A knife.
An invisible knife which would, however, produce very visible blood.
He had treated three different knives with his paint, and fashioned a belt with large loops so he could wear them all on his waist. He would, when he had the time, practice throwing them. It would make him even more deadly, working in the dark, and without the telltale flash of flame that would give away his position if he used a gun.
He buckled his belt. It was time.
Time to ice an Emir.
He walked toward the front of the boat. And then he heard it.
A voice.
It was the American.
“Anybody home?” it called. “Ready or not, here we come.”
They had felt themselves drift into the boat, but up close, without the boat outlined black against the sky, they could not see it. He and Chiun climbed out of their small boat, going up the side of Wimpler’s craft, finding handholds and toeholds where none could be seen.
He couldn’t believe his eyes. Climbing over the side of the boat, stepping onto the deck, were those two from the park. The American and the Oriental. They had found him.
Elmo Wimpler shrank back into the shadows, crouching down in a corner of the rear deck. He couldn’t let them interfere. Not now. Not when he was so close.
He waited until they were both on deck. Then quietly he drew one of his knives. They began to walk about the boat when he noticed something.
Their feet made no sound as they walked.
But normal men should have made sounds as they walked around a wooden deck. Were they… something more than normal?
He put the thought out of his mind. He had no time. He had to get rid of them and get on to the Emir.
He stood up and took a step toward the American. And both men turned in his direction as if they had heard him.
He had made no sound. How had they known?
The Oriental pointed directly at him and said: “There?”
How could they know?
“It’s all over, Elmo,” the tall one said. “It’s all over. Back to Wimpville for you.”
No. No. Not now. Not ever.
He threw the invisible knife through the darkness of the night at the tall man, and the Oriental pushed the white man out of the way. Elmo watched as the knife struck the Oriental in the chest—hilt first.
Damn.
“A knife,” the Oriental said. He saw the tall one nod. Elmo pulled another knife from his belt. Holding it in front of him, he charged the tall white man.
He didn’t see the man’s hand move, but something struck his wrist. The knife flew from his hand and over the side.
He rolled back away from the man and pulled his last knife from his belt. He stood perfectly still. If he did not move, they would have to come to him. And he was still the Shadow, the man who terrified other men, the man with the power of life and death over others.
“He’s standing still, Chiun,” the American said.
“He is right there,” the old man said, pointing directly at Wimpler. “He has another knife.”
“A piece of cake,” Remo said.
Elmo tightened his grip on the knife and licked his lips. The Oriental moved closer to him on one side, the white man on the other.
Now. Within easy reach.
Wimpler swung the knife with all his power, aiming for the old man’s skinny throat. But suddenly the old man wasn’t there anymore.
“You can stop moving,” said the Oriental into the blackness. “But you cannot stop breathing, and we can always find you.”
Blinded with anger and frustration, Elmo swung at the robed man with his knife again, feeling even more fury as he sharply expelled his air before the thrust.
The Oriental easily avoided the knife.
Then the tall one was behind him. Wimpler looked from one to the other, one to the other. He swung the invisible knife wildly around him. But his breath came in loud puffs and the men avoided the knife slashes. It couldn’t be. The greatest invention of all time was being nullified by his own goddamned breathing.
He threw the knife at the white man. It missed as the tall man ducked and clattered harmlessly against the side of the boat.
He couldn’t let himself be caught. He couldn’t. They would ruin it all. Make him visible. Make him a nothing again.
He couldn’t stand that.
Elmo Wimpler stood up straight and bolted to the rear railing of the boat.
“Chiun, the rail.”
Wimpler jumped off.