"He claimed to be an Army General," the commander of the Atlantic Fleet had said. This was the admiral to whom the officers of the Second Fleet in the western Atlantic and the Sixth Fleet in the Mediterranean were answerable. "But he sounded like a spook to me."
"CIA?" Admiral Harris had asked, annoyed.
"Probably. But don't quote me on that, Jason. Whoever he is, he's got top security clearance. He arranged the thing with the British before he even contacted me."
"You mean they're already on their way?"
"They should be on your radar by now." Harris checked. They were.
"Do I have any say in this?" he snarled. "Not if you want to keep your command."
Admiral Harris had grown fond of the commanding view from his bridge. He decided to hunker down and take whatever came his way.
On the carrier's flight deck, Harris began to regret his accommodating nature the minute he got a load of the pair who jumped down from the helicopter.
One was a skinny white guy dressed casually in a white T-shirt and Chinos. His pants flapped wildly in the gale-force wind of the chopper's downdraft.
The other passenger looked like a soft breeze should have tossed him into the sea. He was a hundred if he was a day and wore a flaming orange brocade kimono.
The pair of them headed straight for Harris as he approached from the opposite direction across the deck.
Behind them, the Lynx was already rising back into the air. The British officer in the chopper barely had a chance to salute before the door slid shut.
The helicopter was soaring back across the water in the direction of Gibraltar by the time Harris met with the two strangers.
"Welcome aboard, gentlemen." Harris smiled tightly. He stuck out his hand to the arrivals.
The older man lifted his nose and pretended he didn't see the offered hand. When the younger one accepted it, Harris noticed that his wrists were unusually thick, as wide around as fat tomato-sauce cans.
"Mind telling us what the hell we're doing here?" Remo asked.
"Don't you know?" Harris said.
"No," Remo admitted, glancing around. "Except we're supposed to be looking for a boat. From what I can tell, this ain't it."
"I'm not sure of any of the specifics," Admiral Harris admitted, "but I was told to inform you that your mission has become more urgent."
"This isn't like Smith." Remo frowned at Chiun.
The Master of Sinanju had turned his attention to Admiral Harris. "On the contrary," the tiny Asian sniffed. He was examining the admiral's uniform as if its occupant were no more than a department-store mannequin. "He has only become more insane with the passage of time. As far as I am concerned, this is in lunatic character."
"Smith?" Admiral Harris asked Remo. "That'd be General Smith, I presume?"
"That what he's calling himself today?" Remo asked, uninterested. He nodded up to the bridge. "I'd better call him. This tub have a radio?"
It was a supreme effort for the admiral to not lose his temper at the insulting term. Adding to his agitation was the fact that the old man seemed to have taken an abnormally keen interest in Harris's uniform. The Asian's wrinkled face puckered as he examined the admiral's epaulets.
"I'm sorry, sir. No can do," Harris said through clenched teeth to the younger man. "I was given very specific instructions not to let you use any equipment that runs any risk whatsoever of being monitored. Once you're on the ground, you may call." His frown lines deepened. "Though that's odd to me. We've got some of the most sophisticated equipment in the world on board this ship. You're far more likely to run the risk of being heard from a public phone."
Remo waved a dismissive hand. "My boss majored in scrambling with a minor in bugging the hell out of me. Where's the nearest phone booth?"
Before the admiral could reply, Chiun interrupted. "Do not pester the man, Remo," he admonished before turning attention back to the seaman. "What is your station?" Chiun asked pointedly.
"What?" Harris asked.
"What?" Remo asked, as well. "Chiun, we don't have ti-"
"Shush," the Master of Sinanju insisted. "What station do you hold?" he pressed Harris.
The sailor towered over the old man. He looked down at the wizened figure, a strange expression clouding his ruddy face. "I'm an admiral," Harris said, unsure whether to be insulted or confused.
"Ah." Chiun nodded knowingly. "Amir-albahr."
Harris's face registered surprise. The old man's Arabic pronunciation was flawless.
"You know about that?" the admiral asked, an unintentional smile cracking his hard veneer.
"Of course," the Master of Sinanju replied. "Who would not?"
"Well, actually ...most people," Admiral Harris said. "Not many do in this day and age."
Standing between them, Remo frowned. "A mere what?" he asked the Master of Sinanju.
"It means 'prince of the sea,' O ignorant one," Chiun answered with thin impatience. "The leader of the Muslim fleet in these very waters was known by that name eight hundred years ago."
Admiral Harris suddenly found himself warming to his Asian passenger. After all, anyone who knew about amir-al-bahr couldn't be all bad. The young one, however, was still a vulgar landlubber. And seemed to go out of his way to prove it.
"Whoop-de-do," Remo said, twirling a finger in the air.
The admiral ignored him.
"Do you know about admirabilis, sir?" he asked Chiun.
Chiun made a displeased cluck. "The Christian corruption for the purer Arabic," he intoned. "And before you ask," he said to Remo, "they brought back the term during one of their silly Crusades, thinking it was analogous to the Latin word for admirable."
"I wasn't gonna ask," said Remo, who had been about to. "And who gives a crap in a hat?" Harris was finding it easier to ignore the young man.
He was positively beaming at Chiun. "Are you a sailor, sir?" he enthused.
The old man took a deep breath of clean Mediterranean air. "In my long life, I have spent much time on the sea." He nodded.
"Complaining every minute," Remo pointed out.
"You strike me as the nautical type," Harris said to Chiun, his smile interrupted for the briefest of glares at Remo.
Remo had had enough. "Listen, Captain Crunch, unless you want me to strike you as the nautical type, I suggest you get me to a freaking phone."
With great reluctance, Harris turned away from the delightful old man. "Yes, sir," he said icily. "I was told to inform you that your quarry has landed in Lebanon."
"Perfect," Remo groused. "More traveling."
"You need not be concerned," Chiun said. "For we are in the capable hands of Amir-al-bahr." He lowered his head in a slight bow to the Navy man. The wind threw his tufts of hair in crazy directions.
The old seaman smiled warmly. "You flatter me with the title, sir," Admiral Harris said, returning the bow. "But I don't think it's deserved. Why not just call me Jason?"
"Very well, Jason, Prince of the Sea," Chiun replied, a smile cracking his parchment face.
"Where do you stow the barf bags?" Remo asked.
Chapter 21
From the back seat of his bulletproof sedan, Nossur Aruch watched the countryside race past in shades of brown.
The sky above Lebanon was a thin pastel blue. The car's tinted windows made it seem much darker. A rich texture of color foreign to much of the sunbleached Middle East.
The shaded windows-also bulletproof-enabled Aruch to see out while preventing others from seeing in.
It wasn't vanity that put the one-way windows on his car, but survival. With so many people thirsting for his blood, the last thing he wanted was for someone to spot him on one of his infrequent trips to the countryside.
Fanatical Jews wanted him dead.
Fanatical Muslims wanted him dead, too, but only after they'd punished him. Knives, stones and boiling oil always topped the lists. Even after they killed him, the indignities would not end. The reformed terrorist didn't even want to think about what they'd do to his battered old corpse once he was dead.