Ship Of Death

"I can't tell you," Remo said.

"Why not?"

"It's a state secret. An Iranian state secret," Remo said. "See you, Smitty."

With a spring in his step, Remo turned and walked away, whistling. But by the time he got back to his stateroom, the happiness had dissipated and he went to bed, but did not sleep.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

At high noon, the Ship of States was flanked on hoth sides by sleek white yachts.

Aristotle Thebos, aboard the 212-foot Ulysses, had gotten word of the arrival of Demosthenes Skouratis aboard the 213-foot Tina, and had called a meeting in a belowdecks conference room of all the men who had been working in the secret rooms inside the United Nations ship.

He explained to them very carefully what had to be done, and stressed that correct timing was essential.

Aboard the Tina, Skouratis was preparing to hold a similar meeting with some new crew members. He had been up before daybreak, checking the facsimile machines, reading the front pages of newspapers around the world.

The stories had not changed since the previous night. They all still contained Thebos' muted challenge to Skouratis to come to the United Nations ship.

Skouratis read them and smiled. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, The New York Times and the Washington Post and the London Times and Paris Match, tomorrow they might he carrying a different kind of story. One Skouratis would enjoy.

If there was a tomorrow.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Heavyweight fighters often wait in their dressing rooms hoping to be last in the ring and gain a psychological edge over their opponents by forcing them to wait for their arrival.

Aristotle Thebos knew this and was surprised when the captain's launch left from Skouratis' yacht Tina, which was cruising along on the port side of the Ship of States, and headed for the big United Nations vessel.

He waited until Skonratis' launch was near the docking station near the big ship's waterline before setting off in his own launch toward the UN ship.

The Skouratis launch pulled alongside the platform leading to the ship's outside elevator and waited there a minute for Thebos' launch to arrive. The two launches tied up together at the docking platform, gently bumping in the soft, rolling swell of the Atlantic.

Thebos, immaculate in a white dinner jacket and black satin-trimmed trousers that looked as if they had been painted on him, stepped onto the stern of his launch and leaned over the railing toward Skouratis' launch.

Looking down from the top deck of Ship of States, Remo saw Helena Thebos step out after her father. A half dozen men scurried behind her.

"Demo," Thebos called into the Skouratis boat. There was no answer.

"Demo, my old friend," Thebos repeated. "Come out."

A scruffy sailor stepped onto the stern of the Skouratis launch. He wore a blue-and-white striped shirt with a rip at the shoulder and grease-stained white trousers.

"He ain't here," the sailor said. "Hear me? He ain't here." He moved up close to Thebos, who recoiled as if dirt were catching. "He ain't here," the man said again, then laughed.

He untied his boat's lines and, a moment later, went back into the cabin and sped away from the big sailing city.

As Remo watched, Thebos punched his right fist into his left palm. The Greek nodded once to himself, vigorously, as if he had just become convinced of a point that had been doubtful up till now. Remo saw him whisper something to Helena.

Four hundred yards away from the Ship of States, Remo saw the Skouratis launch cut back on its motors and begin slowly to turn in lazy circles, as if waiting for something.

Down below, Thebos helped Helena out of the launch and onto the elevator platform. He turned and gestured toward the group of men on his launch and seven of them, all carrying attaché cases, followed Thebos and his daughter onto the elevator platform where they were hidden from Remo's view by the curving sides of the giant ship.

There was a pause of ninety seconds and then the elevator started moving up the side of the ship. Remo watched as it came up to his level at the main deck. The doors opened smoothly and Thebos and Helena stepped out alone. They paused in front of the elevator and a crowd of almost a hundred persons, taking the early evening air on the deck, applauded.

Helena saw Remo only a few feet away. Remo waved. Helena turned away in a gesture of rejection.

The empty elevator closed its doors automatically and started back down to wait at midships for the next call from either above or below.

The diplomats on deck continued clapping for Thebos and his daughter, who acknowledged the applause with smiles, nods and waves. Then the clapping stopped as another sound took over, the whirring of helicopter blades buzzing over the big ship. All eyes turned upward and saw a bright yellow helicopter, with the name Tina emblazoned on its underside, hover over the ship, then slowly settle in for a landing on the helicopter pad.

Remo watched Thebos and saw the man's lips tighten in a thin line. Then Remo glanced down and saw Thebos' launch pulling away from Ship of States with only its pilot aboard. Skouratis' launch was still halfway between the UN ship and Thebos' yacht, cutting lazy loops in the water, like a soldier marking time.

The helicopter touched down on the landing platform, the size of Roseland's dance floor, and the engines were cut and the blades slowly whirred themselves to a stop. The crowd on deck advanced toward the chopper. Left behind were Thebos and Helena.

"Don't worry," Remo said to her. "I still like you."

"Begone from me," she snarled. Her voice caught her father's attention and he turned, saw Remo and smiled. "Remo, isn't it?" he said.

"None other," said Remo,

Thebos pulled Helena roughly away and they followed the crowd to the helicopter whose door was opening slowly. And then Skouratis hopped out.

He had won the battle for late arrival and had obviously decided not to fight Thebos in the clothing arena. Skouratis wore a rumpled gray suit, ill-fitting and baggy at the knees, and his hair was wild and shaggy in a thick clump atop his lined face.

He stepped down onto the wood-and-steel landing platform, raised above the deck, and looked around at the crowd below. They cheered.

"Viva Skouratis."

The small dump of a Greek smiled, and the smile broadened as he saw Thebos and Helena approaching the platform.

"Hello Telly," he called out.

"Demosthenes," acknowledged Thebos coldly, stopping at the bottom of the steps with his daughter. "I am glad you could come."

"I wouldn't have missed tonight for the world," Skouratis said. He smiled at Helena and Remo saw the power that emanated from the man. It was a power won not by beauty or by brains or by financial muscle alone. It was a power that glowed from a man who knew who he was and what he was, as if that knowledge gave him an edge over almost everyone he would ever meet.

"Helena," Skouratis said. "You have made the Ship of States the Ship of Beauty. Telly, we will have to rechristen her."

"You will have to, Demosthenes," said Aristotle Thebos. "It is your ship. Yours alone."

Skouratis laughed raucously as Thebos visibly winced. "Today mine," said Skouratis. "Tonight Helena's. Tomorrow? Who knows."

Then, with agility that surprised Remo, he hopped down the small flight of steps and took Helena's arm. "It is the custom of Greek men to dance with other men," he said to her. "But tonight I shall dance only with you because your beauty is immeasurable."

Remo watched Helena's face soften. She glanced up and caught Remo's eyes, looked cold, and turned back to Skouratis, a half head shorter than she. She blinded him with a smile and kissed his forehead.

"And someone said gallantry was dead," she said.

"Someone who never met you," answered Skouratis. "Come, Telly, let us go."

And, clearly the leader, Skouratis moved away from the helicopter platform with Helena on his arm and Thebos, looking as wilted as his clothing looked fresh, following them.

The news of Skouratis' arrival had swept the ship and the main deck was filled now with thousands of persons who pressed in on Skouratis and Thebos as they tried to make their way to the large auditorium for the evening's party.

Remo backed up a step to make room for them. He felt as if he had backed into a building. He pressed back harder. Nothing moved. His shoulders hurt.

"Ox," came a voice from behind him.

"Sorry, Chiun," Remo said, without turning.

"Sorry? Because you almost disabled me by crashing into me like a cannon-shot? Just a sorry?"

"My deepest, most profound apologies, Your Excellency, for allowing my unworthy form to so much as touch yours."

"Much better," said China. "Who are these people?"

"That's Thebos and his daughter. They gave the party last night. The little one is Skouratis. He built the ship."

"If you must have anything to do with these people, be careful of that ugly one."

"Why?"

"He would use your eyes for marbles. He is a man to watch carefully."

"And the other one?" asked Remo, nodding to Thebos.

"He would steal your eyes from your head, but only at night, only in a coward's manner. He is a weasel, the other is a lion."

"Remo. Master of Sinanju."

Smith stood alongside them. He carried his roll of maps under his arm.

"Hiya, Smitty," said Remo. "Find any secrets?"

"I'm working on it. And Chiun. How are you? How do you like your new clients?"

Chiun looked uncomfortable. "Actually, they are Remo's clients. It was he who suggested to me that we leave your gracious…"

"Chiun," said Remo.

"I understand," Smith said. "Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that Iran is really pleased with your work so far."

"As well they should be," said Chiun.

"Oh?" said Remo.

"Yes. I bumped into somebody from Iran that I knew a long time ago. We talked about security."

"And?" Remo said.

"And he said that Iran was lucky. They had hired…"

"Hired?" said Chiun, his voice squeaking with outrage.

Smith nodded. "Hired… the two most vicious, sadistic killers-for-money that they had ever seen. Murderers, I think he said. Yes, that was it. Murderers-for-money."

"They called us murderers?" Chiun said.

"Sadistic?" said Remo.

"I have to leave," Smith said. "I truly hope that everything stays well with you." He turned and melted into the crowd still milling about the deck, vanishing like a pebble into pea soup.

"Did you hear," said Remo, "what your sweet Persians think about us?"

"Iranians," said Chiun. "Obviously they are not Persians any longer. Persians knew the difference between assassins and murderers. They knew the difference between hiring people—hiring servants like doctors—and giving an offer to worthy men like those from the House of Sinanju. Oh, no. These friends of yours are no Persians," Chiun said.

"Friends of mine?"

"I no longer want to hear you discuss them," said Chiun. "I am disgusted with this evening's events. I will return to my room."

He moved off and the milling crowd seemed to envelop him, but he cut a path through them like a ripsaw through redwood. He moved through the people like the dorsal fin of a shark cuts water, surrounded by the people but not impeded by them at all.

When Remo reached them, Skouratis, Thebos and Helena had paused at the railing on the main deck to look out toward Thebos' yacht. Remo noticed Skouratis look directly at his small launch, still circling several hundred yards away from Ship of States, and then nod.

Guards escorted the three down the escalator of the ship toward the main auditorium and the crowd swelled in behind them, leaving Remo on deck. He looked out at the Skouratis launch, a dull gray speck out across in the night, across the Atlantic. The boat had stopped circling and was now motoring toward Thebos' yacht. And then, as Remo watched, he saw two small trails of air bubbles, white against the black sea like talcum specks, move slowly away from the launch and head toward the Thebos yacht.

Remo leaned against the elevator entrance until the crowd on deck had thinned out. Something gnawed at the back of his mind. He had sealed off the entrance to the below-ships passageways but there must he other entrances. He reached his hand up and touched the elevator frame over his head. Something. There was something in his mind, something he should know, remember, but he could not find it. All he had was an instinct that it was important that he keep his eyes on Skouratis and Thebos tonight.

The two men and Helena were in the royal box on the auditorium's mezzanine when Remo got there. Three armed guards stood watch at the door.

The Iranian box was too far away to be a good surveillance spot so Remo slipped in through the door leading to the box next to the Thebos' seats.

The auditorium box seats had been laid out around the oval perimeter of the large auditorium in order of importance. The royal box was in the middle of one of the long sides of the arena, hanging from a mezzanine deck with balcony seats above it, and ground-level seats below. Near the royal box were the boxes assigned to other countries by the United Nations General Assembly. These included India, Libya, Cambodia, a handful of African states.

Across the auditorium from the royal box were the boxes assigned to nations considered to be of secondary importance: Russia, China, France, East Germany.

And in the worst boxes, at the far ends of the auditorium, were the lowest-ranked nations: America, Israel, Great Britain, Japan, West Germany.

Remo looked around and decided that the UN had worked out a new equation. A country's importance was in direct relationship to its inability to feed itself.

Remo was in the box of the Indian delegation. The Indian ambassador occupied it with two young Western women. They sat in deep plush seats at the front of the railing, both blondes, each wearing low gowns that bared a pneumatic wealth of cleavage, while the ambassador poured champagne for them into crystal goblets.

He turned as he heard the door close and Remo came down the steps and sat in a straight-backed chair from which he could see across the three-foot-high wall separating India's box from the Skouratis-Thebos box seats.

"I beg your pardon," the ambassador said.

"It's all right," Remo said. "You won't be in my way."

The Indian smiled at the two women, a smile that apologized for the intrusion and promised quick resolution of this petty minor problem.

"I don't think you understand. This is a private party."

"Now, look, Mahatma," Remo said, quietly, "I'm here and I'm staying here. Now drink your champagne that somebody else paid for and play with your women that somebody else paid for and watch the party that somebody else is paying for. But leave me alone. Interrupt me again and that's something you will wind up paying for."

Remo's dark eyes narrowed as he looked at the ambassador, wearing a Nehru jacket and short knee-length trousers and silk stockings and slippers. The ambassador met his stare, then turned to the two women. Both of them had looked at Remo and were still looking at him.

"Oh, let him stay," said one.

"Yes. He won't be any bother," the second blonde said.

"If you insist," the ambassador said. "The women say you may stay."

"How lucky for you," said Remo. He leaned over the railing atop the low wall and tugged on Helena's sleeve. She was sitting on the right side of the box, Skouratis sandwiched between her and her father in purple-velvet chairs. She turned and her face soured when she saw Remo.

"You do not know where you are not wanted, do you?" she said.

"Yes, I do," said Remo. "I'm not wanted here. Gunga Din just told me but, against his better judgment, invited me to be his guest for the evening. As long as we're going to be neighbors, I thought we might as well be friends, you and I."

"Go away, American." Helena turned in the chair, her back firmly toward Remo, and put her left fingertips on Skouratis' neck. The swarthy Greek looked up at her and smiled. He leaned close and whispered to her and she laughed. Thebos meanwhile was leaning over the railing, signaling to people on the auditorium floor below.

The crowd hushed as an amplified drum roll reverberated through the auditorium. People settled back into their seats. Remo stood up to look down into the pit of the arena, where he saw five men, dressed in gladiatorial costumes, move out onto the floor. Some carried swords; others spears and nets. Thebos was restaging the Roman games.

Four of the gladiators were white. The fifth was a black man, a huge black man whose muscles had been oiled and who glistened under the high-intensity overhead lights. As the men moved around the arena, a tremendous roar of awe and approval greeted the black warrior.

Remo glanced at Thebos who was sitting back in his velvet chair, his face displaying a satisfied smile. Around the balcony, ambassadors and their guests in VIP box seats moved forward in their armchairs to lean over the rails and watch the combat below. The crowd in the lower seats roared its approval. The five gladiators moved around the arena in a line until they were below Thebos' box, and then they pointed their weapons toward him in a salute. Remo saw Thebos nod to the gladiators. Skouratis, his arm around Helena's shoulders, moved his chair forward. Helena glanced back to see if Remo was watching. When she saw he was, she moved even closer to Skouratis at the rail.

Thebos had an expression below the smile on his face as he looked out onto the crowd. Remo analyzed it for a moment, then knew it for what it was. It was pity. For the gladiators? The look deepened when the crowd roared again. No, pity for the delegates. The descendant of the glory that was Greece smiled as he acknowledged the delegates' warm reception of his reminder of the brutal and stupid grandeur that was Rome. How appropriate, his face said, that one pack of illiterate ignorant brutes should cheer the memory of another.

Remo agreed. He moved up to the railing, pushing aside the Indian ambassador who huddled there with his two blondes, his hands busy in their laps, watching the action below.

The five gladiators paraded once more around the arena. Then they squared off to battle. Two small white men faced each other. The black giant, holding a spear and net, faced two men, both armed with sword and shield.

The crowd expressed its approval of the black man; they cheered as he paraded before them; roared as he flexed the muscles in his huge back. Silence descended on the crowd, like the dropping of a curtain, as the two white men approached the black man. One feinted with a sword. The black man slipped trying to jump out of the way. He fell backward, hitting his head on the floor with a loud thunk and dropping his spear. One of the two white men danced in lightly and touched the point of his sword to the black man's belly, then looked up for a referee's judgment. The referee nodded, a clean kill.

The crowd booed. The two white men who had faced the black ignored them, and faced off against each other. The black man got up rubbing the back of his head, then turned a slow circle, facing the crowd, his arms raised overhead in a gesture of victory. He was loudly cheered. Remo glanced at Thebos. The Greek was leaning far back in his chair, laughing uproariously, and Remo decided that he was not a nice man. Nice was not shoveling it in the faces of diplomats too stupid to know what it was.

Skouratis was not laughing. He was still talking to Helena, his right hand looped over her shoulder, his left hand on her knee. He whispered easily into her ear.

Remo watched for long minutes. She did not once turn to see if he was looking.

After the gladiators had left the arena, the lights dimmed, and when the giant cake came out, the whole arena stood on tiptoes to see the largest cake ever baked.

The cake was white, like the hull of the Ship of States, on which they were all headed toward Africa. A John Deere tractor hauled it on a flatbed, six times the length of a mobile home. In the program, guests were informed that enough egg whites had been used to keep three American farms working a half year, along with fifteen tons of flour and eighteen hundred pounds of sugar. The cake itself had to be applied over aluminum rigging that held it, otherwise the center of the cake would have been as hard as rock from the pressure of the tons of cake above it.

There were real lights on the superstructure of the pastry ship and each deck had sugar and marzipan coating, the entire production of that sweet from Belgium and Luxembourg.

The cake itself, rumor had it, cost two hundred and twelve thousand dollars to bake. So immense was the model ship that the cake pieces, used like building blocks, could not be baked but had to be air blown into molds. The engineer who designed it got paid twenty-one thousand dollars in commissions, the usual ten-percent architect's fee. It was the size of a double garden apartment in Queens.

An orchestra greeted it with a Greek tune. Only one thing differed in appearance between the giant ship grinding its massive way toward Africa and the sugary model on the arena floor. And this was black letters, each the size of a forty-year-old oak. Besides the lights and the aluminum superstructure, they were the only uneatable things on the cake ship. And when the ship was towed to the center of the floor, imbedded lights in the black-plastic letters flashed on, as if offering a message from the gods in dark space. And the word was: SKOURATIS.

It flashed like lightning in the arena. And from all the loudspeakers came the voice of Aristotle Thebos.

"Skouratis," he said. "Forever let the greatness of this ship bear his name. Demosthenes Skouratis. This party honors Skouratis. This cake honors Skouratis, as does this great ship. Let this ship be forever Skouratis and Skouratis be the ship. From this day forth, the class of this ship shall be known as Skouratis. This vessel, this gift to the world of Demosthenes Skouratis, shall henceforth be known as Ship of States of the Skouratis Class."

Applause rose like the thundering of gravel rolling down into a galvanized-iron valley.

And when Remo again looked at Aristotle Thebos, he was leaned far back in his chair, laughing so hard that tears streamed from his eyes.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"We want Skouratis! We want Skouratis!"

The chant started small, then built up and welled through the vast auditorium until it rattled off the high ceiling and seemed to echo the crashing of the waves outside the safe walls of Ship of States.

The chant started small because it had been started by just two men. They sat in low seats opposite the royal box and all night long Remo had watched them watch Aristotle Thebos. And when the cake came in and Thebos had delivered his speech, Remo saw him signal toward the two men with a motion of his right index finger. As Remo watched, one man left the other and walked quickly to a spot about forty feet away from his seat. And then they started:

"We want Skouratis."

Around them, voices picked up the chant until it was no longer a chanted request, but a roaring demand.

Skouratis looked to Thebos. There was a look of embarrassment on his ruddy, wrinkled face. Thebos nodded and Skouratis stood.

Behind his back, Thebos again gestured to his two men down in the lower seats.

Above the cheers for Skouratis, who stood at the front of the box, waving his arm in greeting to the crowd, came two voices again:

"Down here. Cut the cake! Down here. Cut the cake!"

And it too became a roar. "Down here. Cut the cake!"

With an apology to Helena Thebos, Demosthenes Skouratis waved a reluctant agreement, then turned to walk up the steps leading from the royal box. He paused and gestured to Thebos to accompany him.

Thebos shook his head. "Go," he said. "It is for you, Demo. Go."

As the door opened in the back of the royal box to allow Skouratis to leave, a man with a face like cement leaned inside. Thebos saw him and the man nodded.

Amidst the roar of voices, Thebes whispered to Helena and Remo listened. The secret was focusing the ears the way people focused their eyes. If you could narrow down the angle from which your ears took in sounds, then even a whisper could not be lost in a hubbub of background noise because the background noise was thinned out.

"I knew the shoeshine boy could not resist a birthday cake," Remo heard Thebos say. He saw the Greek look to his daughter for approval, but she was silent.

"You go back to the yacht now," Thebos said. "Then send the launch back for me."

"Father, I want to stay," said Helena.

"I am afraid I do not care what you want to do. You must get back to the yacht. Now. Time is very important."

Helena Thebos looked as if she was going to say something more but changed her mind. Without another word, she stood up, leaned over the railing of the box for a last look at Skouratis who was advancing toward the huge cake, a giant silver knife in his hand, then she walked up the carpeted steps toward the door in the rear of the royal box.

She wasn't going to leave. Remo saw a set in her shoulders, a glint in her eyes, a forward thrust of her chin. She had no intention of being a dutiful daughter and returning to the Thebos yacht.

He got to his feet and followed her out into the passageway. Thebos' guards clustered around her.

"That's not necessary," she spat out. "I can find the way to the deck without you. Stay here."

She pushed through them angrily and stalked off down the corridor. Remo fell into the cluster of guards outside the door to the Thebos box, waiting there, moving in and out through them so no one would notice him or get a fix on who he was, until Helena turned at the end of the passageway.

When Remo saw her again, she was walking down the stairs instead of going up to the deck and to the elevator to the waiting launch.

Helena went down two flights and, with an assurance born of moneyed breeding, pushed her way through clusters of people until she was standing on the level floor of the auditorium, under the overhang of the royal box, hidden from her father's view.

Her eyes were fixed on Skouratis. He looked up from the cake cutting, saw her and smiled, a thick-lipped possessive smile. He waved to her, swinging over his head the giant knife spotted with dots of whipped cream.

Remo came alongside Helena. "I thought he was just a shoeshine boy," he said.

She looked up startled. "It does not concern you."

"Papa's going to be unhappy that you didn't do what he told you."

"I have often made Papa unhappy. I think that after tonight I will make him very unhappy again. Very unhappy."

She kept her eyes on Skouratis and smiled in his direction when their eyes again met.

There was no understanding women, Remo thought. She had hated Skouratis, really hated him. And he was ugly, ugly as a frog. And here she was, mooning and goo-goo eyed, looking at him as if he were the incarnation of Hercules and Achilles together.

"What about last night?" Remo said to her.

"What about it? It meant nothing and you mean nothing. Now will you please leave me alone?"

"Yes. Stop bothering the nice lady," said Chiun from someplace that seemed to be inside Remo's ear. "Things to do on this vessel, always things to do, and I must do them all because you are busy mashing people."

"All right, Chiun. What is it?" Remo said.

"You had better come with me. Your Emperor Smith has been hurt."

"Smitty?"

"Is there any other Emperor Smith that you know?" Chiun asked.

They went through the crowds as if they were not there, Chiun leading the way, Remo moving along with him as if tugged by Chiun's slipstream.

"Where is he?"

"In our room."

"Where did you find him?"

"Hidden in the bowels of the ship."

"The secret passages?"

"If you call them that," Chinn said.

"What were you doing there?"

"I did not choose to watch these animals eat cake tonight. And there are no television dramas, no beautiful stories aboard this ship. And so I thought to find the source of the secret television in our room. Perhaps, I thought, that is where there may be television worth watching. And I found it, a room, hidden in the middle of the ship."

"I know. I've been there. What about Smitty? What happened then?"

"What happened then was terrible," said Chiun.

"Yeah?"

"Terrible."

"Dammit, you already said terrible. What was terrible?"

"What was terrible was that the television was broken. There was this big computer and it had a big television screen on it that tapes are played through. But some lunatic had broken it. Ripped out wires. Broken the screen itself. And the same in another room of television sets. Terrible."

"I know about that. I did it. What about Smith?"

"You did it?"

"Chiun, later we'll talk about television. What about Smith?"

"I found him on the floor in one of those secret rooms. He had been beaten."

"Badly?" asked Remo.

"I would say very badly. It looked as if he had been struck in the head but the striker obviously did not follow through because Smith's head was still intact. There were also marks on his chest and stomach but again the attacker did badly. The skin was not perforated so the force of the blows was inadequate to the task. Yes, I would say he had been beaten very badly."

"Goddammit, Chiun, I'm not interested in a critique of others' styles. I'm interested in Smith. Is he all right?"

"He will live. He is unconscious. I let him remain so because the body needs rest at times like these. I should think you would pay attention when I point out the errors of other people's attacks, since you are so likely to make those same mistakes yourself."

They were outside their room now in the Iranian wing of the ship and Remo slipped past Chiun and into the room where Smith lay, unconscious, on a mat on the floor. Blood trickled down the left side of his face from a head wound. His clothes had been ripped open, either by an attacker or by Chiun, who had been feeling for his iniuries.

Remo knelt alongside him.

"Chiun, you say he'll be all right?"

"I didn't say he would be all right. I said he would live. All right is not nasty, lunatic, penny-pinching, unappreciative."

"Okay, Chiun. Okay." Remo removed Smith's left shoe and pressed his thumbs into the arch of the thin man's foot.

Smith groaned.

"Not too much haste," Chiun cautioned. "Slowly."

Remo relaxed the pressure, then began again. Smith's breathing became quicker and more shallow. From deep blood vessels buried inside the foot, Remo could feel the man's heartbeat quicken, speed up.

Smith opened his eyes. He moved his head to look around the room, then groaned.

"It's okay, Smitty. We're here," Remo said.

"Remo, Remo. You have to hurry," Smith gasped.

"No. Don't hurry. Chiun said to go easy."

"No. Must hurry," Smith gasped. "Ship is being blown up. Set afire."

Remo dropped Smith's foot. It bit the floor with a thud that forced Smith to wince. "What?" Remo said.

"Secret passageways in middle of ship. Heard people planning explosions. They caught me."

"How the hell'd you get in there?" Remo asked, remembering how he had sealed the entrance door.

"Used crowbar to open closed door."

"And they were already inside?"

Smith tried to nod and groaned again. There must be another entrance to the passages, Remo realized.

Smith struggled up to a sitting position. "Remo. Go stop that fire. Thousands die. Thousands die. Thousands."

"Will you be all right?"

"Fine. Go."

Remo dashed past Chiun into the passageway and ran at full speed toward the stairs leading to the upper deck. Chiun was at his side.

"I am proud of you, my son," he said.

"Why?"

"For doing the right thing."

"What right thing?" Remo asked.

"Running away. We will get ourselves upstairs and commandeer a small boat and be far from this evil vessel before anything happens."

"Wrong," said Remo. "We are going to dismantle those bombs."

"Then why are we running away from them? The bombs are hidden below us."

"I'm getting us some help," said Remo.

"Who needs help?"

"Good. I'm glad you said that. Chiun, you go down and start taking apart those bombs. I'll be right there."

"Orders, orders, orders," said Chiun, even as he turned and sped down the stairs toward the belly of the ship.

Remo got to the deck just in time to see Aristotle Thebos step hurriedly onto the elevator, close its door and head down below toward the platform where his power launch waited.

The deck was crowded. The seas were smooth and some of the diplomats and their staff had taken a break from the party and come up to the deck for fresh sea air. They were clustered around the Skouratis helicopter.

Remo looked over the side of the ship. Thebos stepped onto the little dock, next to his launch. There were a half dozen men there, carrying attaché eases, waiting for him. The launch was just tying up.

Where had the men with the attaché cases come from?

Remo had no time to worry about that. He moved through the crowd toward the Skouratis helicopter. The crowds of people had hidden it from view. But close up, Remo could see it had been wrecked. Wires were torn, and the motor had been dismantled. Parts were strewn over the wooden deck. Skouratis and Helena looked up from the deck at the pilot who was inspecting the damage. Skouratis had his arm around Helena's shoulders.

She had disobeyed her father and, unless Remo missed his guess, she planned to disobey him even more and spend the night on Skouratis' yacht.

"Greek," Remo said, moving up alongside them.

Skouratis fixed him with a malevolent squint while asking Helena: "You know this person?"

"Ignore him, dear."

"This ship is going to blow, Greek, and it's your doing," said Remo. "Let's go."

Skouratis tried to signal to his guards in the crowd but his right arm wouldn't move. Remo held the elbow in a pincer between his thumb and middle finger.

"Don't yell, don't signal, just move," Remo said. He shoved Skouratis in front of him as if he were a child's push toy on wheels.

Two guards moved toward them. "Tell them it's all right," Remo said.

"It's all right," Skouratis told the two men who moved aside to let them pass.

"What do you mean this ship is going to blow?" asked Skouratis, as Remo pushed him into a hatchway leading to the steps going below.

"What I mean is, your goons have set their bombs and if it goes, you go."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Skouratis said.

"We'll see."

Below, Remo found the broom-closet door pried open, where Smith had used his crowbar. The rip in the inside steel wall had been enlarged by Chiun and Remo pushed Skouratis through the opening.

In the inside passageway, Skouratis looked around in bewilderment. "What is this?" he said.

"What I don't understand is why you'd want to blow up your own ship?" Remo said.

"Damn you, crazy American. I don't know what you're talking about. What the hell is this place?"

"And you don't know?"

"No, I don't. I never built this. This was oil-storage space. It was never changed over when the ship was remodeled. There should be no corridors here, no rooms."

"There are now," said Remo. "Corridors, rooms, computers, closed-circuit TV. And bombs."

Chiun came down the passageway toward them.

"It is very bad," he said, shaking his head.

"What is?" asked Remo.

"I have found some bombs. I have busted them. There are many more."

"Well, we'll bust them all," said Remo.

"And there is gasoline everywhere. Bottles of gasoline, clothes soaked with it, and radio devices everywhere," said Chiun.

"Thebos," Skouratis spat. "That pimp."

"What's he got to do with it?" asked Remo.

"That's why he's been promoting this ship as mine. He's planning to sink it, and me, too. The Skouratis disaster. That pandering piece of garbage."

He pulled away from Remo who was surprised by the small man's force. Remo took a step toward the ripped wall to head off Skotiratia. But, instead, the Greek stepped farther into the corridor.

"Where are these bombs? This gasoline?" he asked Chiun.

"Down there. Everywhere," said Chiun, gesturing along the corridor with his hand.

Skouratis went down the corridor, running at full speed.

"No pimp in patent-leather pumps will destroy a Skouratis ship," he roared. His voice echoed through the metal-walled passageway as if it were the voice of doom.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Aristotle Thebos stepped hurriedly from the launch onto his yacht Ulysses and took the pair of field glasses that were immediately extended toward his hand.

He leaned over the railing and focused the glasses on Ship of States, moving majestically through the gathering night gloom, dipping, rising, crushing wave and swell under its giant prow.

"How many minutes?" he asked.

One of the six men who clambered onto the yacht from the stern of the launch looked at his wrist-watch.

"Three minutes more," he said.

"And the helicopter will not fly?" asked Thebos. "Are you sure?"

"Not unless they can find a way to fly a helicopter without an engine," the man said.

Thebos laughed and lowered the glasses. He turned to a uniformed officer aboard the yacht.

"Tell Miss Helena to come on deck. It is time she learned that the shipping business is not all polite smiles and whipped-cream cakes."

"Miss Helena, sir?" the man asked.

"Yes."

"Miss Helena has not returned to the yacht. Isn't she with you?" the officer said.

Thebos dropped the field glasses. They bounced on the railing of the yacht, then slipped into the cold Atlantic.

"You mean she's still…"

No one answered. Thebos turned away and watched the United Nations ship. His hands gripped the rail like two vises. Only a few minutes more. No time to return for her. His daughter would die before his eyes.

"Too many of them," Skouratis yelled, ripping wires from a cluster of dynamite sticks. "Too many of them." He straightened up and Iooked around. Throughout all the corridors were explosives and fire bombs, each set with individual timing devices. "We can't get them all."

Remo and Chiun were tearing wires, too.

Chiun said, "Remo, we have obligations to think of. It is time we left here."

"Not yet," Remo said.

"If not now, not ever," Chinn said. "This is none of our affair. We have done the best we could for those Persians who do not have television and who consider assassins to be killers."

"Pipe down and keep tearing wires," Remo said. "We're not doing this for any goddamn Persians."

"For whom, then? No one else has contracted with us for our services."

"I'm doing it for me," said Remo, ripping out a string of orange-coated wire that connected a clock to a half dozen taped-together dynamite sticks. "For America."

"For America?" Chiun asked. "The next thing you will tell me we are giving up our lives for the mad Emperor Smith."

"Right. For Smitty, too. Keep working."

"I will never understand you people," Chiun said.

"At least we don't all look alike."

Skouratis stood up. "No use," he said. "They're going to go and we can't get them all in time. They'll just tear this ship out of the water."

In frustration and anger, he pounded his fists on the steel bulkhead separating the passageway in which they stood from the engine compartments. Tears rolled down the furrows in his cheeks. "That swine. That Greekling swine," he said.

Remo could hear it—the first swish of fire. It started with a muffled thump around a twist in the corridor, and he could not see it, but he smelled instantly the acrid gasoline fumes. Then he saw a twist of smoke curling around the wall and down the corridor toward them.

"My ship! My ship!" Skouratis yelled.

"We'd better go," Remo said.

Skouratis shook his head angrily. "No. I stay. My ship." Tears ran down his cheeks in a steady trickle. "I stay."

"There still may be time for us to get out of here," Remo said.

Another muffled whomp shook the steel walls. Another bomb.

"Come on," said Remo.

"Wait," Skouratis said. "We can drown it. Drown it. Smother the explosions and fires."

"Drown it?"

"If we can get water in here, it'll smother everything," Skouratis said.

"Fill the ship with water, it'll sink," Remo said.

"No. It's all compartments. We can flood this and it'll still be safe." He stopped for a second. "Why bother? We can't get water in here in time."

Chiun cackled a laugh. "In an ocean, there is no shortage of water." Another bomb exploded.

The crackling of flames grew louder. The corridor began to turn gray with smoke.

"Where's a wall that has water outside it?" Remo said.

"Over there," Skouratis said. "But we can't…"

"Yes, we can," said Remo. "Show us."

Skouratis ran down the corridor. He was just a little old man in a rumpled gray suit, but he charged into the mist of smoke like Alexander leading his troops into battle.

He stopped at the curve of the corridor and pointed to the thick steel wall. "There. The ocean is right beyond that. But it's three inches thick."

"Steel is steel," said Remo.

"But people are real," said Chiun.

"You better get going to the door to get out of here," Remo told Skouratis. He looked upward and, high overhead, saw a sliding panel that looked like an elevator door. And he realized what it was. From the small dock at water level to which launches tied up, a panel opened to get into the ship. That was how the terrorists boarded the vessel.

And he remembered the small gang of people who got off Thebos' launch onto the dock, but when the elevator reached the main deck, only Thebos and his daughter were on it. The rest were Thebos' demolitions men and they had gone into this secret part of the ship through the panel, to plant their bombs and fire devices.

Remo nodded. Later he would take care of Thebos.

A bomb exploded behind them. The concussion pushed Remo toward the wall. "Get out of here," he yelled to Skouratis. Alongside Remo, Chiun ran his fingertips over the wall.

"It is just steel," he said confidently. "Now!"

Like pistons, his and Remo's fists thrust forward against the steel wall, hittirig it not in unison, but in a steady sequence of blows, each only milliseconds behind the last blow. The blows went into the core of the metal as vibrations and, as the steel vibrated to each blow, another blow shattered those vibrations and set up different stresses inside the steel. The metal creaked, as if groaning in pain. Remo heard Skouratis' steps moving out of the corridor.

The blows of their hands—left, right, left, right—continued against the wall and, under the press of muscle and bone, the steel turned mushy and brittle and chips of it flew off, and finally Chiun spun on his feet and drove forward with his right fingertips.

His hand bit through the steel as if it were a slice of American white bread and his hand was out into the cold Atlantic, and when he withdrew his hand, green seawater poured in through the hole.

Remo and Chiun each grabbed one side of the rip in the steel and twisted it back, as if it were the top of a sardine can. The water's flow erupted into the compartment with the whoosh of a giant fire hose and the pressure pushed Remo and Chiun back against the far wall.

Chiun said, "We go now."

"Right on, Little Father," said Remo. The two men ran and the flow of water lapped around their ankles as they moved toward the exit. Behind them, around them, they heard the muffled thump of explosions, but then they were through the huge rip in the wall leading to the maintenance closet. With their hands, they pulled the torn metal back to almost close up the hole, then escaped out into the corridor where they again sealed the closet door.

The corridors were filled with people, running in both directions in panic. Diplomats trampled each other, bodyguards fled ignoring their responsibilities to protect anyone else.

"See what happens when you hire cheap help?" Chiun said,

"Let's go up top," Remo said.

On the main deck, they found Demosthenes Skouratis talking to the ship's first officer. He gestured with his finger and, while Skouratis wore no uniform, the first officer understood the voice of command.

"After everybody is out of the central wing, then seal off all bulkheads leading into other sections of the ship."

"That will allow the central wing to fill with water," the officer said.

"That's where we want it kept. The ship will float. Now! Hurry!"

Skouratis saw Remo and Chiun. He was spun around as two diplomats pushed roughly by him, racing toward the lifeboats at the stem of the vessel. Chiun tripped the two men who skidded on their faces.

"I don't know how you succeeded," said Skouratis, "but I owe my ship to you."

The sounds of battle came from the stern of the boat. Men in formal dress, bodyguards in business suits, women in long gowns fought and clawed with each other, trying to struggle into the lifeboats.

"Look at them," Skouratis said. "Like ants, they flee in panic. And they run the world."

"Most men live lives of ants," Chiun said. "The only world they run is the world of ants. Real men run their own lives."

"You are very wise, old man," Skouratis said.

Below their feet, they could feel the muffled thump of more explosions. Remo felt someone at his shoulder and turned to see Smith. The blood on his face had dried in a smear.

"What happened?" Smith said.

"It's all right, Smitty. The ship's safe."

"Good, Remo. Good." His voice trailed off and he began to crumble. Remo caught him in his arms and leaned him in a sitting position against the wall of the deck.

He looked up as a pistol shot resounded, a small pop in the open ocean. At the stern of the boat, the Indian delegate had gotten his hands on a gun and had just shot a Cambodian delegate. He was now ripping a life jacket from the corpse. Two women screamed.

"Just a minute," Remo said to Skouratis. "I gotta go straighten this out."

"How will he do that?" Skouratis asked Chiun, as Remo strolled toward the stern of the ship. "There are many men there."

Chiun shook his head. "No. There are many ants there. There is only one man. That is Remo."

As Skouratis watched, Remo strolled into the swarm of men fighting over life jackets and battling each other for the lifeboats. Skouratis felt as if he were watching a child stack wooden blocks as he saw the seething mob slowly form up into straight lines, and their voices lower.

As Remo came back toward Skouratis and Chiun, there was a sound that washed over the deck from the men at the stern. It was a song. They were singing.

God bless America,

Land that I love…

"I won't ask you how you did that," Skouratis told Remo.

"Just my native charm, I guess."

The first officer joined them. "Everything is secure, Mr. Skouratis."

"Good," the Greek said. "You have done well. You are a good sailor." He pronounced the word with the reverence usually reserved for speaking God's name.

"Thank you, sir." The young officer's face flushed with warmth and pride.

Suddenly, a pair of arms were thrown around Skouratis' neck from behind.

"Oh, Demo. I was so worried." It was Helena. She tried to kiss Skouratis. He turned and pushed her away.

"Your father is a pimp," he said. His voice dripped hatred.

"I am not my father."

"No. But you are a Thebos. And the slime that runs in his veins runs in yours. That pimp tried to destroy this vessel."

"I didn't… I don't…"

She stood there as a supplicant in her white gown, her hands raised gently near her hips, looking for solace but finding none in Skouratis' eyes.

"Another thing," he said coldly. "Tomorrow, in the press of the world, will be a story that will seem to indicate that your father was my secret partner in the building of this ship. I want you to know that is not correct. I engineered that story to embarrass your father. But this is a ship. It was built by a seaman. By me. Skouratis. What could your father have to do with such a thing? Pimps build nothing, except stupid daughters. Begone, piece of filth."

Helena backed away as if his words were blows. Her face went white, then red. "Shoeshine boy," she spat. "My father will crush you like the beggar in the streets you deserve to be. And I will help him. There will be no rest for the Thebos' clan until garbage like you is swept away. Pig."

Skouratis waved his hand at her, as if dismissing a naughty child, too stupid to be punished.

Helena backed away a few more steps, stared at Skooratis hard as if impressing his visage on her memory forever, then walked away without a look back. Her shoulders were straight; her back a ramrod. She was a person with a mission, a mission that would sustain her all her life, because the mission was hatred and when everything else died, hatred still lived.

"You didn't exactly win any points there," Remo told Skouratis.

"It had to be done," the Greek said.

"Of course. It had to be done," Chiun said.

"She hates you, you know," Remo said.

"I want her to. What would life be without a Thebos whose nose I can rub in dung? And there is no joy in it if they are just victims. They must hate me to make my moment even sweeter."

Remo looked over toward the Thebos yacht, barely visible a thousand yards from Ship of States, cruising easily along through the Atlantic.

"I'd think he hates you enough," Remo said, "without your getting the daughter turned against you, too."

Skouratis looked at his watch.

"Too late for him. Too late." The words died out in a tremendous explosion. A thousand yards away, the center of the Thebos yacht erupted in a giant ball of fire.

The force of the blast shot flames skyward and against the flames could be seen bodies flying into the air. Then there was another explosion and the stern of the yacht blew into the air.

Remo saw Helena Thebos move to the rail and scream.

"Too late for Thebos," said Skouratis, smiling slightly. "It is always too late for a pimp."

"How the hell did that happen?" asked Remo. As he watched, the Thebos yacht exploded again. It broke into sections and they dropped into the water like jagged stones.

"Who knows?" said Skouratis with an expressive shrug. "Perhaps all the explosives he had stored on board?"

Then Remo remembered something he had seen earlier: two thin streams of air bubbles leading from the Skouratis launch to Thebos' yacht.

"Or maybe some underwater mines planted by frogmen?" Remo said. He looked at Skouratis carefully.

"One never knows. The sea is a risky mistress," Skouratis said. He turned and looked out at the ocean, which had swallowed up Thebos and his ship.

"Good-bye, pimp and panderer. You were never of the stuff to be a seaman."

Helena Thebos stopped screaming. She shouted at Skouratis. "Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!"

"A pimp's death is not murder. It is garbage removal," Skouratis said coolly.

"Now I know what they mean," said Remo.

"What do they mean?"

"Never turn your back on a Greek," Remo said.

Skouratis laughed, then leaned closer to Remo and said, "I like you and the Oriental gentleman. Would you work for me?"

Cbiun's eyebrows raised and, as Remo started to speak, Chiun tapped him on the shoulder. "Remo. Please leave this to me. I should handle all such negotiations."

"Not this time, Little Father. The last time you did it, you had us working for Persians." He turned to Skouratis.

"Thanks, but; no thanks," Remo said.

"You have a job?" asked Skouratis.

"We have a job," Remo said.

"With whom?" asked Chiun. "Whom do we have a job with? I would like to know of it. This is the first I have heard of it. Who has a job?"

"Ignore him," Remo said. "We have a job." Remo's lips were pressed tight. Skouratis shrugged.

"Just for my own curiosity," he said, "whom do you have a job with?"

Remo pointed down to where Dr. Harold W. Smith slumped unconscious against the deck railing.

"With him."

"Oh," said Chiun. "Remo, you are gross."

"Shhhhh," said Remo.

"If you ever change your mind," Skouratis said, "you need only call on me."

"Thanks," said Remo.

"We will," said Chiun. "We will. We most certainly will."

"Don't count on it," Remo said.