Aruch frowned as he quickly scanned the paper. He groaned before he'd even finished.
"Yahrak Kiddisak man rabba-k," he cursed softly.
"Is something wrong, sir?" Fatang asked. Aruch glared up at the young man, a sour expression on his face.
"Things could not be better," he spit sarcastically. He crushed the paper in his hand, dropping it to the clutter on his desk. "I am to meet with the American secretary of the interior tomorrow morning."
"The Americans?" the guard asked. He seemed disgusted at the very prospect.
"Not the Americans. An American. The fool contacted me several weeks ago. He said something about a secret mission that only I would appreciate. The man is irredeemably stupid. He is what is called an environmental activist."
"Ah, I have heard of these." The soldier nodded. "Is it not their desire to have men live in caves like beasts?"
"That is true," Anuch said. "And I am told this Bryce Babcock is one of the worst. In settling their West many years ago, the Americans slaughtered every last wolf in an area known as Yellowstone Park. Babcock actually had wolves flown in from Canada and set them loose in the preserve. This is a spot where families vacation, mind you, Fatang." The young soldier was incredulous.
"Were the people not outraged?" he asked, stunned.
"Americans are apathetic," Aruch explained with a wave of his hand. "As long as it is not their child that is mauled, they do not care."
Fatang shook his head in disbelief. "Americans will forever remain a mystery to me, sir."
Aruch nodded. "To me, as well. But I must deal with them, for such is the life of a diplomat." As he spoke the contemptuous word, he cast a longing eye beyond the soldier at the shadowy contours of his precious Bloodhound. His eyes grew watery as he studied the tangle of vines painted on the plastic sheet that concealed his balcony missile.
The truth was, he didn't really care what Babcock had to say. The meeting was just another in a long line of pointless summits he had attended since renouncing the use of terror.
"More of the same," he muttered, thinking of the following day's meeting with Bryce Babcock. "The fool mentioned something about ushering in a new era of peace. The Palestinian people are doubtless about to be asked to capitulate once more."
Fatang smirked. "The Americans still believe that Muslim and Jew can live together in harmony." Aruch tore his eyes away from his beloved missile.
"They can," he said softly. "As long as the Muslim stands above the ground and the Jew lies below it."
The former terrorist rose to his feet. Shuffling wearily on his black boots, he headed out the office door.
He didn't cast a backward glance at his cherished Nobel missile. The thought that it would never be launched against Jerusalem brought him far too much pain.
Chapter 20
The plane touched down at the airport that had been constructed on the mile-and-a-half-long sandy isthmus that separated the crown colony of Gibraltar from the Spanish mainland.
The complaints had started the instant the pilot announced that they were being rerouted. They had continued unabated throughout the flight and were still going strong even as the passenger jet taxied to a stop in the shadow of the great limestone mass that was the Rock of Gibraltar.
Before the plane had stopped, Remo and Chiun rose from their seats. They waded through an ankledeep pile of unopened peanut packets on their way down the aisle. At the front, Remo's flight attendant was just opening the door when they arrived.
"Oh, now you're up." She pouted as the ramp was rolled to the side of the plane. "I tried to wake you a bunch of times."
"Peanuts make me sleepy," Remo explained.
The woman's eyes widened. "You said they put you in the mood," she accused angrily.
"Yes." Remo nodded. "The mood for sleeping. But if it's any consolation, I dreamed only of you."
"Fat lot of good that did me," she snapped. She practically shoved him onto the ramp.
The air outside was cooler than Remo expected. The airport extended out into the Bay of Gibraltar. A stiff wind blew in across the bay, causing the wisps of hair above the Master of Sinanju's ears to twirl madly around his bald scalp.
"Smitty was gonna call," Remo said as he and Chiun descended the ramp.
"I do not even see a telephone," the old Korean commented. The tarmac was deserted. A few buildings speckled the distance in the direction of the Rock.
"Guess we walk till we find one." Remo shrugged.
They struck off together toward the control tower. "He could have at least had a car waiting," Remo said as they strolled across the windswept field.
"Add it to the list of insults heaped upon us by our current employer," Chiun replied. "A true monarch would have arranged for proper transportation."
"A while back you were saying you liked working for Smith," Remo said.
"Bite your tongue," Chiun retorted. "I merely said I work for Smith, not some temporary occupant of the Eagle Throne. The madman provides the stability of a paycheck. That is all. In spite of our association with the lunatic Smith, a true king is always preferable to any alternative."
"Not for me, Little Father," Remo said. "I kind of think Smitty's okay."
Chiun struck a bony fist against his own chest. "Go ahead, Remo," he insisted. "Stab the knife farther into your poor, poor father's heart."
Remo was surprised to detect the shadowy flicker of a light undertone. Barely perceptible. He didn't have time to press it.
He'd been aware of the great mechanical cry of a helicopter almost since they'd deplaned. The aircraft was sweeping toward Gibraltar from the harbor. Remo had assumed it was part of some routine British naval operation, until the helicopter slowed to a hover above their heads.
"You order a chopper?" he asked the Master of Sinanju over the roaring wind of the downdraft. As displaced air swirled around them, the bluishgreen Westland Naval Lynx settled on three fat wheels to the tarmac before them. The main rotor didn't stop its chopping whir as the side door slid open.
A British Royal Navy officer stuck his head out. "Gentlemen, I've been sent to collect you!" he shouted.
Remo glanced at the Master of Sinanju. The old Korean's face was blandly curious.
"I don't think so," Remo called back to the RN officer.
The man shook his head firmly. "Your Aunt Mildred sent us," he yelled over the wind.
Remo recognized it as one of Smith's code names.
"He came through after all," Remo commented to Chiun. "This make him a true monarch?"
"Not at all," the Master of Sinanju replied. "And in spite of that, he is still head and shoulders above any mere President." Hiking up his kimono skirts, he scurried inside the belly of the Lynx, slapping away the offered hand of the British officer.
Remo climbed in behind him.
The door slid shut. A moment later, the helicopter was pulling up into the sky, screaming a metallic protest.
Nose dipping, it soared away from the airport, flying over the small isthmus and out across the brilliant blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea.
"OUTBREAK OF PEACE." In death, Remo's Earthpeace contact had provided Harold W. Smith with the posthumous clue that had finally revealed the frightening power in the hands of the environmental group.
Smith had ignored the enigmatic phrase for much of the past two days, but with the Radiant Grappler located and Remo and Chiun's plane rerouted to intercept it, he had finally found time to investigate its possible meaning.
The time spent researching Earthpeace while the CIA was locating the missing boat had yielded much information.
Earthpeace had been founded in the late 1960s by a group of Canadian environmentalists whose credo was confrontation. The group was active in its approach, whether it was blocking fishing boats, stopping Eskimos from hunting seals or blowing the whistle on companies for illegal ocean dumping.