She saw a smoking M-16 on the other deck. Behind it was a stiff face looking at her down the darkeyed barrel.
She let her hand drop loosely to her side. It hung there shaking. "It's your party. But you know there will be hell to pay," she said in a grating voice like seashells being chewed slowly.
"Be so good as to order your crew into my boat. I will see that your vessel arrives in St. John's safely."
"Well," Sandy muttered as she turned to address her expectant-faced crew, "they can't boot me out of the guard any harder for losing my ship than for sinking a Canadian sub."
Her crew seemed not to share her nonchalance. They looked worried.
The transfer of crew was executed with expert smartness. The gangplank was recovered.
Soon the Canadian fisheries-patrol boat was thundering north to Newfoundland, the Cayuga bringing up the rear.
There was one bright spot. The Canadians served the shivering Cayuga crew paper cups filled with very strong and bone-warming tea.
But then, they were a pretty polite lot. For pirates.
Chapter 25
On the Air Canada flight north, Remo kept asking for water.
"One moment, sir."
"Please wait your turn, sir."
"We're coming to your aisle."
One stewardess actually ignored him outright.
"Isn't this great?" Remo asked Chiun.
"You will never get your water this way."
"Who cares? I can fly in peace now."
"Your breath smells of carrion."
"I only took one bite."
When the meal-service tray finally reached them somewhere over Maine, Remo lifted his rewrapped shark and asked a stewardess if she would zap it in the microwave oven for him.
"Not enough to toast it. Just warm it. I like my shark on the raw side," he said.
"I'm sorry, sir. It is against airline policy to cook a nonregulation meal."
"Please," asked Remo.
The stewardess's voice turned as frosty as her hair. "Sorry. But no. Do you want the chicken or the fish?"
"What kind of fish?" asked Chiun.
"Scrod."
"What is that, exactly?" Remo wondered aloud.
The stewardess looked at Remo as if he was a imbecile. "Scrod is scrod."
"I will have the turbot," said Chin.
The stewardess looked blank. "Turbot?"
And from the sleeve of his kimono, the Master of Sinanju produced a neatly wrapped packet of turbot fillet.
The stewardess took it with a smile and said, "Be happy to, sir."
"How come he gets special service and I don't?" Remo wanted to know.
"Scrod or chicken?" the stewardess asked, ignoring the question.
"Scrod," said Remo, folding his lean arms unhappily.
"I will have scrod, as well, since it is free. But see that my turbot is not too dry," Chiun admonished.
"Of course, sir," the stewardess said smilingly.
The scrod was served with baked potatoes and kernel corn. The potatoes were little bigger than Concord grapes, and the corn was pale and scant. They ignored both and tasted the scrod gingerly, not certain how it was prepared.
"Tastes like cod," said Remo.
"Mine brings to mind haddock," said Chiun.
"Can't be both."
They exchanged bites, which only confirmed each other's contrary opinion.
When the stewardess came back their way, Remo asked her, "How come my scrod is cod and his is haddock?"
"Ask the fish," the stewardess said tartly, without breaking stride.
Chiun fumed. Remo grinned.
"Stewardesses couldn't care less about me," Remo said happily.
"They are in good company. For how will you sire a proper heir to the house if women do not open their willing wombs to your pollen?"
"I'm saving my pollen for the right woman," Remo muttered.
An hour into the flight, the seat phone rang.
"It's not supposed to do that," a stewardess said, her shocked face jerking around.
Remo inserted his credit card into the slot and freed the phone from its receptacle in the seat-back before him.
"What's up, Smitty?"
"Remo, here is the latest. The Cayuga has been taken to the Canadian Coast Guard station at St. John's, Newfoundland. It will be your task to liberate the vessel and its crew."
"Gotcha," said Remo.
When he replaced the phone, the stewardesses were grouped around the seat, and Remo began experiencing an acute attack of deja vu.
"It's not supposed to do that," the first one reiterated.
"It just did," Remo contested.
"But they're not designed for incoming calls."
"Yeah. Only outgoing," another stewardess chimed in.
"There's a reasonable explanation for all this," said Remo.
They looked at him with expectancy on their lipglossed faces.
"Be happy to explain it over dinner after we land," said Remo.
Expressions ranging from disdain to disgust overtook the stewardesses' faces and, without answering, they broke in three directions, returning to their duties.
"Isn't this great?" said Remo.
"Not if one is forced to sit next to you, shark breath."
"At least we know one thing for sure."
"And what is that?"
"Scrod is cod."
"No, it is haddock."
"Cod. It rhymes with scrod. That's why it's called that."
"You were given inferior fish by mistake. I was given true scrod, which is a kind of haddock."
"Remind me to ask Smitty about scrod next time. He's a New Englander. He'll know."
AT THE AIRPORT in St. John's, Remo noticed that the customs officials were members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. They wore brown serge coats instead of the traditional red. Since he was waiting in line, Remo decided to pass the time by asking why.
"You have been watching too much television, Yank," the Mountie said stiffly.
"I hardly watch any," Remo protested.
"Our red uniform is ceremonial."
"I liked the red better," said Remo, trying to be friendly.
"The red is strictly ceremonial."
"I heard you the first time."
"Please spread the word among your fellow Yanks. We are tired of answering this particular question. Here is your passport."
"Thanks," said Remo. "And try Ex-Lax for your problem."
The Mountie shot Remo a withering look from under his big yellow Stetson hat, and together Remo and Chiun went off to rent a car.
The rental clerk was more polite-by about three degrees centigrade.
"You must return the vehicle to this office and to no other office. If you cannot return the vehicle to this office, your deposit is forfeit. And in addition you may incur criminal penalties."
"Hey, I'm only renting a car," Remo protested.
"I am familiar with American television. You people are childish, irresponsible and frighteningly violent."
"Where do I check my Uzi?" Remo asked conversationally.
The clerk blanched, and Remo said, "Only kidding."
"Violence is never funny," the clerk admonished.
"You haven't seen me inflict Whirling Disease on a mammal," Remo said.
The St. John's waterfront smelled of fish, age and boredom. Waterfront shacks were bright red mixed with dull gray. Fishermen puttered around their docked boats. Nets were slowly drying in the cold sunlight. And no one looked happy.
Remo pulled up beside a friendly-looking seaman and asked, "Where's the Coast Guard station?"
"Eh?"
"I said where's the Coast Guard station?"
"Talk slawly," the man said in a strident accent. "Cannat understand you."
"Huh?" asked Remo.
"I cannat understand you, Yank."
"Same here," said Remo. "Coast Guard station. Where?"
The man pointed vaguely. "Yander."
"Where?"
The man leaned in, and Remo received the full force of his fermented breath. It smelled familiar, but Remo put that out of his mind. He had places to go.
"Yander. As the craw flies."