Slowly they began to gain on the red helicopter ahead of them. It had been a small dot in the sky, but now the dot was growing bigger, imperceptibly if one watched it steadily, but clearly visible if one looked only sporadically. They were gaining.
"Keep up the good work, Maggie," Remo said. "When we go back to the hotel, I'll do you an extra good turn."
"Sorry, Yank," she said. "I'm in mourning for PJ Kenny, the only man I ever loved."
"May he rot in peace," Remo said. "The only time I've ever beaten my own time." But he was glad he would not again enjoy Maggie. With his identity had come back his disciplines. Sex was one of them.
Both planes ate up the distance to Scambia but Remo's craft took bigger bites. It was only a minute behind Nemeroff now and up ahead they saw the island of Scambia, down in the cool blue waters of Mozambique. Nemeroff's helicopter began to lose altitude. Maggie followed suit.
They were over Scambia now, a drab little island, its monotonous landscape relieved only by nature with rocks and not by man with buildings. Ahead, they could see the only large building on the island, a blue stone structure, surrounded by mazes of gardens and pools. Nemeroff's helicopter was heading down for it. They could see it touch down on the grounds. Two. No, three men scurried from it, and began running.
Maggie increased her speed, barrelling the helicopter down, and she touched down alongside the other craft only forty-five seconds after it had landed.
"Good show," Remo said. "Pip, pip and all that. If you Britishers weren't frigid, I think I could love you." A glance showed that Nemeroff's helicopter was empty. "Chiun," Remo said. "Get in and protect the president. The vice president is going to try to kill him. Maggie and I will go for the gold, to stop Nemeroff from getting it."
Before he finished speaking, Chiun was out on the grassy field, moving toward the front of the palace.
There, two uniformed guards stood at attention, their eyes carefully watching the helicopters, watching the people who had climbed from the two aircraft, now watching this old Oriental come skittering across the deep green grass at them. They had been given orders to let no one into the palace. Extreme security precautions, Vice President Asiphar himself had just told them.
Then Chiun was in front of them. They were moving to block him with their rifles and then he was not there. One guard turned to the other and said: "What happened to that old man?"
"I don't know," the other guard said. "Did you hear someone say 'excuse me'?"
"No, it couldn't be," said the first guard, and they watched again across the field as Remo and the girl headed for the east wing of the palace.
There was another guard inside on the first floor of the palace's central wing. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see an old Oriental standing there. "The president. Where is he?" Chiun asked.
"What are you doing here?" the guard asked, which was the wrong thing to ask. A hand grabbed his waist, and ringers like knives poked their ways into clusters of nerves; the pain was agonizing.
"Fool. Where is your president?"
"At the head of the stairs," the man managed to gasp through his pain, and then he lapsed into unconsciousness.
Chiun glided up the stairs, his feet seeming not to move under the heavy robe. There were no guards outside the heavy double doors that obviously led to the president's office. Chiun pushed open the doors and stepped inside.
Across the room, President Dashiti worked at his desk, and he looked up as Chiun entered his field of vision. For a moment he was startled, then he said: "Forgive my staring. One is not always surprised at one's desk by Oriental's in robes."
"In this world," Chiun said, "one should be surprised at nothing."
"True enough," the president said, his hand straying toward the signal button on his desk, to call the guards to escort this old lunatic out.
Chiun wagged a finger at him, naughty-naughty.
"I beg your indulgence, Mr. President. Men are coming to assassinate you."
Yes. Obviously a lunatic. But how did he get past the guards outside?
"I must ask you to leave," Dashiti said.
"Ask all you wish," Chiun said. "But I will stay and save you, even though you do not wish saving."
The President's finger moved closer to the alarm button.
Down the hall, Asiphar spoke to two men who stood in his small office.
"It is time," he said, "the baron has arrived." He turned from his window and looked at the men, both tall and European-looking.
"I have removed the guards. Just walk into his office and shoot him. I will follow at the sound of the shots and will confirm your story that others shot him and you attempted to stop them."
The two men smiled, the knowing smile of one professional to another.
"Now, go quickly. The guards may soon return."
The two men nodded and went out into the hall. Quickly they walked to the president's door. Asiphar stood in the doorway of his own office, watched them push back the heavy door and enter Dashiti's inner sanctum. Now to wait for the shots. Oh, yes. He would help them get away. Right to their final resting place. When he heard the shots, he would race into Dashiti's office. And what else could a loyal vice president do, except kill the men who had killed his president? What better way to gain for himself public support and approval?
He waited, and as the door closed behind the two assassins, he lifted the safety on his pistol.
Baron Isaac Nemeroff had not entered the castle. Instead, he had run to the outside wall of the east wing, where the sewer crew had been working for the last month.
The sewer foreman saw Nemeroff racing toward him across the open field in front of the palace and snapped to attention.
"Come," Nemeroff said, "we must proceed quickly."
The supervisor jumped down into the deep sewer trench that ran for fifty feet parallel to the east wall of the palace. Workers scattered to move out of the way as Nemeroff followed.
The supervisor pointed. At right angles from the trench, heading straight toward the palace wall was a tunnel, tall enough for a man to move through, while standing up. It stopped at the palace wall. The supervisor flashed a light at the wall. Nemeroff could see the crew's handiwork. During the last four weeks, they had quietly drilled into and removed the mortar holding the stones of the wall together.
"All it takes now," the supervisor said, "is a jolt with a jackhammer. The whole wall will open up."
"Then do it," Nemeroff said. "Timing is all, now." He waved to one of the men to back their truck to the edge of the trench. In minutes, Asiphar would be President. The president of a country without a dime; the world's pauper. There would be no other game in town, except Nemeroff.
The supervisor grabbed a jackhammer and went into the dark tunnel. After a moment, there came the terrific thump, thump, thump, so fast it was not a series of separate sounds but flooded the small tunnel with overpowering noise.
Then it stopped. Nemeroff heard the thump of stones falling onto a stone floor and rolling to a halt.
The supervisor came out of the dark to the trench-end of the tunnel where Nemeroff waited.
"It is done," he said.
Nemeroff brushed by him and went to the wall of the palace treasury room. The stones had been splintered and cracked. Some had fallen out. He pressed a hand against another stone. It fell easily, thumping on the floor of the dark room inside. Nemeroff began to push the stones free from the wall; they came loose like children's styrofoam building blocks.
He pushed and pulled stones away until he had made a hole big enough to step through easily, then clambered inside.
It was a small room, perhaps only twenty feet square, but it was dark and it took Nemeroff's sun-squinted eyes moments to adjust to the darkness. Gradually, the room came into focus. At the far end was a heavy steel door, which he knew was electrified and on the other side of which stood a squad of guards.