Cold Warrior

"I am proud of it." The President of Cuba lifted an authoritarian finger. "I will rub the Yanquis' noses in their folly at every opportunity."

"Then you must die a thousand deaths!" proclaimed Chiun, starting after the man.

"Hold it, Chiun." Remo warned. "You know what Smith said."

Chiun stopped. His eyes narrowed. "Since I am forbidden to send you to the fate you so richly deserve," he fumed, "I must visit a less suitable punishment than I would like."

And with grim purpose the Master of Sinanju backed the fear-struck President of Cuba up against a wall.

Remo Williams, clutching his wounded hand, was powerless to prevent what happened next.

The screams of the Maximum Leader came in bursts, like those of a misfiring machine gun.

It was such a horrific sight, Remo was forced to turn away.

Off in one corner Dingbat Duck, Gumpy Dog, and the others covered their faces and cowered in fear.

No one noticed that Mongo Mouse had slipped away.

Below deck, Captain Ernest Maus went to an emergency locker and armed himself with a Glock pistol and a big box of Ricky Rabbit fruit drops. He broke open the inner plastic wrapping, and the unleashed scent of almonds floated upward.

He found the main Ultima Hora force trapped in the hold, milling about, their arms hanging numb at their sides. That made it easy to feed them the drops, although some did fight. He shot those ones.

When he had left, all were dead.

In other areas of the ship, such as the staterooms and the gym, many were already unconscious or dead. The Beasley employees willingly accepted their allotment although with sobs and hot tears in their eyes-and succumbed, after first whispering the praises of Uncle Sam.

It was all accomplished in a surprisingly short period of time. When Maus finally doffed his mouse head in exchange for a scuba mask and air tanks, only he remained alive.

He leaned against the gleaming brass rail of the stern and let the heavy tanks carry him over into the polluted water of Havana Harbor.

No one heard the splash. No one saw him make for a puttering ramshackle fishing boat and climb aboard. There was only an old man at the wheel, piloting his craft out into open water.

Maus stopped his heart by thrusting into his back a marlin spike left lying on the deck. He took the wheel and returned the aging craft to its course.

In his brain there lingered a deep distaste for what he had done. But he had executed his orders. He had shielded the mouse. The future would take care of itself.

He was the Beasley Corporation now.

Chapter 30

Two days later, Harold W. Smith was escorting the Master of Sinanju and Remo Williams to the security wing of Folcroft Sanitarium. Smith's footsteps echoed off the well-scrubbed walls. As usual, Remo and Chiun made no sounds as they walked.

"I could see no other viable option," Smith was saying.

"This is a correct attitude," Chiun said with approval.

"It would have been better had the man expired in action. Still, the world need never know he returned from the dead."

"No way was I going to waste him," said Remo.

"Nor I," said Chiun.

"And turning him over to the Cuban authorities wasn't exactly on the menu," Remo added.

They turned a corner.

"Understood," Smith said grimly. He stopped before a heavy door, and they took turns peering through a thick pane of plate glass reinforced by wire mesh.

Inside, a man sat on the edge of a simple cot in his Dingbat Duck pajamas, with a writing tablet balanced on the padded knee of his silver left leg. He wore an ordinary black eye patch over one eye. His right hand ended in a stump. He was using his left to draw on the tablet.

"Cartoons?" Remo asked.

"No. He is storyboarding his escape," Smith said thinly.

"Uh-oh."

"It will not happen," Smith said. "Not with his hydraulic hand removed and his laser eye destroyed."

"Any other tricks?"

"None that the X-rays could find. The pegleg is solid silver. The laser, by the way, is similar to one under Pentagon development. It's designed to immobilize enemy forces by permanently shocking the optic nerve."

"The fiend!" said Chiun indignantly.

"Yeah. I read about it." Remo went to the next room and looked through the screened window panel. This was a rubber-walled room. In one corner a young man with long blond hair sat, rocking in a straightjacket.

"I see you put him next to Purcell," Remo said.

"Pah!" Chiun said in distaste. "Another foulness in human form."

"Getting to be a regular rogue's gallery in here," Remo said, thinking back on what a grave threat Jeremiah Purcell, the Dutchman-the only living person other than Remo and Chiun to have mastered Sinanju-had posed before he had lost his mind.

"Neither the Dutchman nor Beasley will bother us again," said Smith. They moved away from the doors and retraced their steps.

"What's the latest out of Havana?" asked Remo.

"Utter silence," Smith said. "The President is very pleased. The Beasley Adventure has been returned to the corporation without comment. Inasmuch as there seem to have been few survivors among Ultima Hora and the Beasley operatives, the suppression of the truth will be comparatively easy."

"Do not forget that Mongo got away," Chiun sniffed. "After completing his wicked work."

"One anonymous operative should pose no future threat," Smith said. "This chapter would appear to be closed. There has been no further broadcast-jamming from Cuba, and satellite reconnaissance indicates that the Cubans are dismantling their signal-transmission nest, as promised."