There was a television monitor on the launch and men were looking at the televised image of the party from the great stadium and auditorium. An image of a diplomat came on. Walker recognized him.
"He's going to spill his drink," said Walker, pointing to the screen. His voice sounded thick and far away.
"What did you say?" someone asked.
"That man's going to spill his drink. It's amazing he even got out of bed this morning."
Faces moved closer to the screen to watch. The large tuxedoed diplomat with a row of medals over his chest, bowed stiffly. He held a glass of champagne and raised a toast, all over his medals.
There was laughter on the launch and Oscar Walker felt good that he had been able to bring some humor into everyone's life,
"When will he have sex?" someone asked, laughing.
Oscar Walker floated in his daze of booze and pills but he knew the answer.
"Two days from now he'll want to pork a bloody orange rind. He'll wake up like a goat," said Oscar Walker. He slumped into his chair. Then there was another voice. It was Number One's voice. Oscar Walker forced his eyelids open. Number One was sitting in the throne-like chair facing the small table.
"Love Number One," Oscar Walker mumbled.
"And the Iranian security team. This Remo and Chiun. When do we even the score with them?" Number One asked. His voice was steely and chill.
"Remo and Chiun?" asked Oscar Walker with a boozy smile.
"Yes," said Number One. "When can we move against them?"
"Not on the best day you ever lived," said Oscar Walker before he passed out. They were the last words he ever said because, even though he came to, he found it impossible to talk under the Atlantic, as the heavy chains around his ankles pulled him slowly down to the bottom of the ocean. He felt sorry about not being able to speak. He had wanted to hear his voice say, one last time, "Love Number One."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Demosthenes Skouratis was already sailing under full power toward the Ship of States when the first newspaper stories arrived.
They came across on a facsimile machine mounted in the largest cabin on the yacht, the one Skouratis used as his floating office. The machine was hooked up to Skouratis' offices in national capitals around the world and around the clock, and whenever a new edition of a newspaper came off the press, facsimiles of the front page and financial pages were radioed to Skouratis wherever he might be.
The first night-time editions reported that Aristotle Thebos was sponsoring a two-day celebration for Ship of States and its builder, Skouratis. Each story carried the same quotations. Thebos regretted that Mr. Skouratis had not shown up for the first night's party, but no, he did not believe that Skouratis felt the Ship of States was unsafe and had, therefore, refused to set foot on it. Skouratis was never afraid to set foot on any of his other ships and so Thebos would never believe that of the great shipbuilder, Skouratis. Perhaps Skouratis would attend the second evening's celebration.
From New York, from London, from Paris, the news stories were basically the same: Thebos, implying by denying it that Ship of States was unsafe and that Skouratis was afraid to set foot on the giant vessel.
Skouratis had read the stories carefully. As surely as if he had Skouratis on a string, Thebos was dragging him toward the giant United Nations ship.
"Child sticker," Skouratis swore in Greek, then crumpled the front pages and reached to drop them into a wastepaper shredder basket. But he remembered that all of them were filed each day and he carefully smoothed out the sheets and placed them in the file basket on his desk.
Then he lit a long Cuban cigar and looked through the windows at the soft rolling swell of the Atlantic outside the Tina. And he smiled.
The first round of the page-one battle had gone to Thebos. But Skouratis would see how Thebos liked it in the game in a few more days, when he was on the receiving end.
But that was still a day or two off.
Right now, Skouratis was on his way to a party, and at full speed. He looked at his watch. The first night's party was still underway.
No matter. He would be present for the second night's festivities.
CHAPTER NINE
There had not been a better party since closing night aboard the Titanic.
A female foreign minister from one of the African countries, who had been selected for vaginal muscle control by a national leader who had himself been chosen for genital heft, was the admitted star of the proceedings when she ensconced herself in a stadium broom closet and offered to take on all comers for five dollars each. American.
There was a long line in front of the closet, which created a terrible problem for the French ambassador who wanted to wait in that line, but didn't want to abandon the line that was queued up to receive souvenir key chains made of pure gold and inscribed with the name of Demosthenes Skouratis by his fellow shipbuilder, Aristotle Thebos.
The Frenchman solved the problem with typical Gallic savoir faire: get the gold, the broad could wait.
Besides, judging from the grunts from the closet, she seemed to be ready for a long evening.
Aristotle Thebos looked down from the velvet-lined royal box overlooking the gigantic arena and watched the Indian delegation wrapping sandwiches in handkerchiefs and stuffing them into the pockets of their ill-fitting clothes.
"There they are," he said aloud. "The leaders of the world. Doesn't it make you feel better to know that they are responsible for keeping the world safe?"
Helena smiled softly. "The power of the world, Father, is right where it always is. In the hands of those who are qualified to use it. Thank the Lord."
Below them, United Nations delegates scurried about, from caviar to cognac, from souvenir to slot, congratulating themselves on their foresight in moving their headquarters away from a city where prying journalists seemed to think they had some kind of obligation and right to report on what other people did.
Two fistfights broke out. Three Asian diplomats who had been engaged in a contest to determine who could chugalug the most Courvoisier from beer mugs were passed out in a corner.
Thebos looked around the auditorium.
"The only thing that spoils my pleasure is that the shoeshine boy is not here tonight."
"He will not come at all, Father," Helena said.
"Oh, no. He will be here. After he reads the press, he will be here." He smiled, a brilliant smile of long, white even teeth that illuminated his face and made it seem even tanner than it wag. "If he has seen early editions of the press, he is already on his way. But he is for tomorrow. For now, I am going back to the yacht. The older one gets, the more quickly one tires of watching the clowns at a circus."
"I, too, Father."
Their bodyguards led the way as they left the royal box, forming around them a wall of mean muscle and surly bone.
Then, somehow, Remo was behind the bodyguards and walking alongside Helena.
"Where you going?" he asked.
"I thought you didn't like me," she said.
"I don't. But you've seen the alternatives." He nodded back over his shoulder toward the banquet hall, which was beginning to resemble a Roman arena after a riot.
"Hey, You. Move out of there," one of the bodyguards yelled, then came toward Remo, hands outstretched.
"Go away," Remo said. "Can't you see I'm talking to the lady?"
The guard put his hands on Remo's shoulders. Remo slapped them away. The guard tried to raise his hands again but they would not lift.
"What is all this?" Remo asked the girl. "Why do you rate all these gorillas?"
"Who is this person?" Thebos asked Helena.
"Me first," Remo said. "I asked my question first. You wait."