The Final Crusade

"Arrggh!" Chiun said.

"What's that you said, Little Father?" Remo asked.

"I said 'Arrggh!' "

"I thought so," Remo said absently.

"Why don't I show you around the grounds?" Victoria Hoar said suddenly, taking Remo by the hand. "Get you acquainted with the fine work of Eldon Sluggard World Ministries."

"A good thought," said Chiun, taking Victoria Hoar by her free hand. "You may show us both around." Victoria Hoar felt Chiun's hand in hers. It was strong for a hand so frail-looking and thin-boned. She looked down at the shiny head of the tiny Oriental, which was bald but for two white tufts of hair over each ear. Chiun was smiling up at her. He looked like a pleased little elf. But his hands were grinding the complicated bones of her palm against one another. It hurt. Victoria Hoar attempted to disengage her hand, but the little Oriental would not let go.

"Yes, of course. I did mean both of you," she gasped painfully.

Only then did the pressure stop.

When she led them from the room, Victoria was holding no one's hand.

"What's with her?" Remo whispered as they followed Victoria Hoar down the corridor and into the coolness of the late-spring afternoon.

"Fickle," Chiun said. "I would watch that one."

"Funny. She seemed so warm only a minute ago."

"A certain sign of fickleness," said Chiun. He looked around the quadrangle. "We are obviously working for a man who likes to see his name on everything."

Hearing that, Victoria Hoar turned her head. "Reverend Sluggard believes in glorifying God," she said. She adressed her statement to Remo, not Chiun. Remo smiled. She smiled back. Chiun decided this was an appropriate moment to speak up.

"How does putting his name on every building glorify the Supreme Creator?" he asked.

"Reverend Sluggard is God's representative on earth. What glorifies Reverend Sluggard glorifies God."

"Says who?" asked Chiun.

"Hush, Little Father," Remo admonished. "Victoria is explaining."

"Call me Vicki if you wish," she said, impulsively taking Remo's hand once more. Chiun moved to her other side to grasp the other hand. Obviously this white woman was stubborn. But Chiun saw that she had entwined her arm around Rema's and laid her other hand upon his forearm.

"I asked a question," Chiun said huffily. "Who says this man represents the Supreme Creator?"

"Why, Reverend Sluggard does," said Victoria Hoar, as if that explained everything. "He was fasting one day and God spoke to him. God gave him a holy rapture, and told him to build all this."

"Were there any witnesses?"

"No. Why should there be? God's personal representative would never lie, now, would he?"

"I've been thinking about God a lot lately," Remo said.

As they walked, Victoria pointed out that just last month the Reverend Sluggard had raised over a million dollars, which he donated to the starving people of Ethiopia.

"It used to be two million a month, but donations have dropped off. Those bad religious figures," she added conspiratorially.

"What bad religious figures?" Remo asked.

"Well, there's Slim and Jaimie Barker, Moral Robbins-"

"Never heard of them," said Remo.

"Don't you watch television?" Victoria Hoar wanted to know.

"No, not really," Remo said.

"Or read newspapers?"

"I try to keep up with the Sunday funnies," said Remo.

"Good," said Victoria Hoar.

"How long has this Sluggard been donating money to the starving Ethiopians?" Chiun put in suddenly.

"Oh, I don't know. Years."

"More than two?"

"At least three."

"Then why are the Ethiopians still starving? If you gave them over seventy-two million dollars, even Ethiopians could find a way to feed their populace," said Chiun.

"I don't really know," answered Victoria Hoar. "I never thought about it. I guess they breed faster than we can donate money."

"That makes no sense," Chiun said scornfully.

"Sounds about right to me," Remo said brightly. He was looking into Victoria's eyes again. In another minute, Chiun was sure, they would fall onto the grass and begin rutting in front of everyone. The Master of Sinanju looked around. Maybe if he pretended to stumble against something and break it, the spell would be broken. There was a towering cross in the middle of the quadrangle. It looked like gold, but Chiun recognized at a glance that it was only brass polished to a high sheen. Etched in the horizontal bar of the cross was a legend, "Do Unto Others . . ."

"Why is the rest of the quotation missing?" Chiun asked suddenly. He had decided against destroying the cross. Knowing Remo's present sensitivity, he would probably accuse the Master of Sinanju of violating some silly white taboo.

"What?" asked Victoria Hoar, whirling. Her eyes followed Chiun's pointing finger to the cross. "Oh, that. I think they couldn't fit it all in."

"There is plenty of room," said Chiun.

"Reverend Sluggard says it's easier to remember."

"It changes the meaning," said Chiun.

"Is he always like that?" Victoria asked Remo. Remo nodded.

"And this is one of his good days."

"I heard that," snapped Chiun. He hurried to catch up with them. The female was leading Remo to a building marked "World Broadcast Ministries." Chiun understood that had something to do with television. Perhaps this female wanted to copulate with Remo in front of a TV camera for all the world to see. The Master of Sinanju had heard that there were harlots in America who did such things for money. He decided that they were in an evil place and the sooner they were done with this assignment, the better.

Naturally, it was at that moment that Remo chose to say what was on his mind.

"You know, I kind of like it here. It reminds me of when I used to go to Sunday school. The crosses. The cool breezes on the grass. Everything is so clean and pure. I was thinking just the other day that it's been years since I've been to church. Wasn't I, Chiun?"

"I am not privy to your ridiculous thoughts," Chiun grumbled. "Except when you insist on braying them to anyone who will listen."

"A lot of people find inner peace through Reverend Sluggard," Victoria said musically. "He was telling me just the other day that he's had wonderful success with teenage boys. I guess they're drawn to him because he's so filled with the Holy Spirit."

"I guess everyone here prays a lot."

"Are you kidding?" Victoria said dryly. "Reverend Sluggard has me get down on my knees two or three times a day."

"I'd like to hear him preach," Remo said.

"He is a magnificent preacher. Why, he knows the entire Bible by heart. He can open it up to any page, and without glancing at the page more than a second, recite entire passages."

"I knew a nun who could do that. Sister Mary Margaret," Remo said in a wistful voice. "She was a big influence on my life."

"But at the first sign of disappointment, she spurned you," Chiun put in. Remo ignored him.

"Where are those people going?" asked Remo. He pointed to a dome-shaped glass building. Buses were pulling up in front of it.

"That's the Temple of Tribute," Victoria Hoar said. "It's where Reverend Sluggard pays tribute to the Lord and his flock pays tribute to Reverend Sluggard. Each day, after he tapes his daily program, Reverend Sluggard ministers to the faithful. These people come from all over the country to receive Reverend Sluggard's blessing. He heals through faith. I have an idea. Why don't we watch him work? We can finish the tour later."

"Is that all right with you, Little Father?" Remo asked suddenly. "I really want to see this."

The Master of Sinanju hesitated. He would have said no, but Remo had asked, and there was another reason. "Yes, let us all go," Chiun said. "I am curious to see how American religions work. Perhaps I can learn how they so enthrall even those who have been raised above them. "

They melted into the converging groups. The Master of Sinanju noticed that most of the people were old. Many had infirmities. Some walked on crutches. Others were pushed along in wheelchairs. Many joints made tiny sounds of misalignment. Here and there, hearts beat irregularly. Heart disease. It was common in America, he knew. In his home village of Sinanju on the West Korea Bay, it was nearly unheard-of, thanks to a steady diet of fish and rice.

The interior of the Temple of Tribute was a great circular room. The roof was like the inside of a crystal cone. Beams of white pine supported it, and shafts of radiant sunlight kissed the seat sections, which resembled a pie cut into four wedges. And in the center, there sat a raised dais and a podium with a microphone. Every element was either glass or white pine or birchwood.

"Let's sit up front," said Victoria Hoar, leading Remo by the hand. She had to push through the crowd to get to the first row. When she arrived, she blinked.

The Master of Sinanju, who had been behind them, was already seated.

"I saved seats for both of you," he said, beaming. He indicated a seat on his left for Victoria and a seat on his right for Remo. All the other first-row seats were occupied.

Victoria took her seat, fuming. Remo was sniffing the air.

"Incense," he said.

"Sandalwood. A terrible kind," Chiun said, wrinkling his nose.

"I don't know. It kinda reminds me of the incense they used to burn in Saint Andrews. Makes me feel kinda nostalgic."

"Is that another word for 'nauseated'?" asked Chiun. When the room had filled, there was a long pause. Organ music came in through the loudspeakers. And from behind a door curtained in white strode the Reverend Eldon Sluggard. His meaty frame was encased in a white silk suit accented by a canary-yellow tie. He stepped up to the podium to thunderous applause.

Chiun watched carefully. Never had he heard of a priest who was greeted by his faithful followers with applause. Was this some new wrinkle the American whites had added to Christianity? Perhaps there was something to be learned here after all.

"You!" shouted Reverend Eldon Sluggard. The word bounced off the accoustically perfect ceiling panes. The applause stopped dead. The echoes of the word hung in the sandalwood-laden air.

"You! You! And you! You are all sinners before God," yelled Reverend Eldon Sluggard, stabbing a fat finger at the audience.

"You are the dust beneath the feet of the truly righteous.

"You are the dirt that is consumed by the lowly worm.

"You are scum, all of you. All of you!" Reverend Eldon Sluggard's holy righteous voice resounded through the Temple of Tribute.

"Obviously he means those other than his security force," the Master of Sinanju whispered to Remo.

"Hush!" said Remo. "I want to hear this."

"All of you!" shouted Eldon Sluggard. His eyes scourged the first row.

The Master of Sinanju jumped to his feet, "Did you hear that, Remo? He has insulted my awesome personage. For that I will-"

Remo flashed to his feet. "Sit down! You want to ruin everything?"

"But he has insulted me."

"It's just his style. They call it fire and brimstone. It's traditional. "

"I call it base and insulting," said Chiun.

"Please!"

Reluctantly the Master of Sinanju returned to his seat. Reverend Eldon Sluggard continued speaking, his head held high, his voice reverberating. He had not noticed Chiun's outburst.

"You are the maggots in the roadside garbage," Reverend Sluggard went on, "Ah know that. You know it. Admit it. Don't be ashamed. Say it with me, 'Ah am a maggot.' "

"I am a maggot," chorused the crowd.

The Master of Sinanju turned around. A sea of wrinkled, ailing faces held rapt expressions. Their mouths repeated the insane insults of the Reverend Eldon Sluggard.

"That's the bad news," said Reverend Sluggard. "But the good news is that you're no ordinary maggots. No! You're God's maggots."

"Hallelujah!" returned the crowd.

The Master of Sinanju blinked. What manner of madness was this?

"The Lord's holy maggots," howled Reverend Sluggard. "You may be squirmin' in the garbage now, but come judgment Day, you're a-gonna sprout wings and fly. "

"Praise be!"

"But God ain't gonna give you them wings until you've proved your love for him. Until you give tribute to him. Now, Ah know you're in need. Only the needy come to me. Can't pay those bills? Tell you what you do. Instead of scrimpin' a few more weeks to get enough money to pay the rent, give me that money. That's right! Give it to the Reverend Sluggard. Ah'm gonna invest it for you. And what am Ah gonna invest it in? Not in the stock market. Not in CD's. No, Ah'm gonna invest it in God. And God is gonna pay you back, yes sirree. You know that even if you scrape up your rent money, it's only gonna come due next month and you're gonna have to scrimp and save and pinch pennies all over again. But if you have faith, God's gonna give you a return on your investment. And Ah don't mean ten percent. No, Ah mean a thousand percent. You'll never have to scrimp and save again."

"Glory!"

"Now, maybe some of you say, 'Reverend Sluggard, my problem's got nothin' to do with money. Well, good for you, Ah say. Maybe it's health. Maybe you got a bad back or lumbago, or dropsy, or some such ailment. Well, you know that ain't your fault, any more than bein' poor is. It's the work of Satan! Admit it!"

"Amen!"

"Satan's put a curse on you! He's sapped your strength. He's poisoned your blood. Well, Ah got a cure for that too. And it's called faith. What's that, you say? Ah can hear your thoughts. The Lord lets me see into your minds, Ah'm so full of the Holy Spirit tonight. You say you don't have enough faith? Well, you don't have to. Because Ah got the faith. Yea, let mah faith show you the way. Now, later on Ah'm gonna come among you and start layin' hands on some of you. Do you have cancer? Ah'm gonna cure you. Do you have emphysema? Well, get ready to breathe free again!"

"This is the thrilling part," Victoria whispered.

"I've heard of faith healing," said Remo.

"And I have heard of charlatanry," snapped Chiun.

"But first," said Reverend Sluggard, "my acolytes are gonna come among you. They have envelopes. You know what they're for. They have credit-card slips and those little ka-chunka charge machines. Don't worry if you don't know how to work them. That's what my acolytes are here for."

Out of the curtained door came a handful of men and women in white garments. The men wore white suits with white shoes and ties. The women were in demure white dresses. The way the men dressed reminded Remo of his First Communion suit.

They went among the crowd. The women passed out the envelopes at one end of each wedge of seats. The men collected them after they were passed, crammed full of cash, to the other ends. Those who chose to pay by credit card were invited into the aisles, where little folding tables were set up. Credit-card machines went chunka-thunk so regularly, it was as if a million engines were at work at some relentless task.

Chiun's narrow eyes widened. Tribute. This priest was exacting tribute from his followers. He wondered what Remo had to say about this. But when he looked, Remo was watching the Reverend Eldon Sluggard with fascinated eyes.

The Reverend Sluggard was reading from the Bible. "Let me share with you this verse from Last Corinthians," he was saying. " 'He who shares his bounty with me, no matter how poor, will receive my blessin'. He who gives his last shekel to mah followers will receive plenty in return.' Amen."

"Amazing," said Remo. "He only glanced at that page. He must know the entire book by heart."

"Why not?" said Chiun. "He knows every other trick in the book."

"What's that, Little Father?" Remo asked, turning.

"Never mind. I do not converse with the deaf and blind."

When the collection of money stopped, Reverend Sluggard descended from the podium.

"Those wishin' healin', form two lines before me," Reverend Sluggard announced, raising up his many-ringed hands.

Before the words were out of his mouth, there was a surge to the aisle he stood in. Remo saw old women bent nearly double. Men in wheelchairs. People whose eye whites were greenish from diseases of the blood and organs.

A man was being helped by relatives to stand before Reverend Sluggard. His left foot was encased in bandages. He had to hop to reach the spot, his arms resting on the shoulders of two others.

"And what is your ailment, brother?" asked Reverend Sluggard.

"I got gout," the man croaked.

"Gout!" said Reverend Sluggard.

"I can't walk on my left foot. It hurts something fierce. Has for over three years now."

"You know what gout is, brother?" said Reverend Sluggard for all to hear.

"Yes."

"It's another word for Satan. I'll bet the doctor told you he can't cure you."

"That's right, Reverend."

"And you know what? He was right."

Tears of disappointment appeared in the corners of the old man's eyes.

"He can't. But Ah can. And the reason Ah can is that Ah know you can't get rid of the devil with pills or medicines. You get rid of Satan by castin' him out. And you all watch. Ah'm gonna cast out that old devil called gout. "

And placing his hands on the man's thining hair, Reverend Eldon Sluggard raised his voice to the rafters. "Powers of Satan, Ah command you to be gone. Leave this poor old man be. Spirits of Darkness, Ah cast you out!"

The old man winced with each shouted word. "Now," said Reverend Sluggard, stepping back. "Ah say to you, brother, stand free from Satan's shackles. You, on either side, let him go. He don't need your support no more."

The supporting pair let go of the man.

Without support, he was forced to put his weight on his heavily bandaged foot.

"Now, walk toward me."

"I ... I'm afraid."

"Come on, come on. Ah got enough faith for both of us. Walk!"

The old man took a hobbling step. His feet supported him.

"Look," he shouted. "Look, I'm healed. I can walk!"

"Hallelujah!"

"Sure you can walk." Reverend Sluggard grinned. "The devil's been cast out of your foot. Now you know what you gotta do next?"

"Pray!" said the old man.

"No. You go right over to that nice girl in white and you show God how thankful you are. You go and double your contribution."

The old man went obligingly. His step was firm.

"Amazing," said Remo.

"This will go on all day," said Victoria.

"Pah!" spat Chiun in a disgusted voice. He watched the old man walk over to the girl and hand her more money. Then the man went back to his seat. By the time he got to his aisle, Chiun noticed that he was beginning to favor his bandaged foot again.

But no one else noticed. Their eyes were on Reverend Eldon Sluggard. He was curing a little girl of pancreatic cancer. The little girl said she felt better when Reverend Sluggard told her she was cured. Her mother wept for joy. A man with cirrhosis of the liver was next. Reverend Sluggard laid his hand upon the man's abdomen and shouted to the rafters. He pronounced the man cured.

The Master of Sinanju noticed a blind man in one of the lines. He was alone. He was asking to be brought before the Reverend Eldon Sluggard. He wanted to see again. His voice was pleading. Only Chiun noticed him.

Then two of the white-clad acolytes discovered the man and took him by the arms. Quietly but firmly they led him out of line and out of the Temple of Tribute. Even over Reverend Sluggard's shoutings, Chiun heard them promise that they were taking him to Reverend Sluggard, who would cure his vision.

An hour later, when the last person threw away his crutches, the blind man had not returned. Chiun knew why. You could convince anyone he was cured of an inner ailment, or that his feeble limbs were empowered once again-at least as long as his euphoria was maintained-but no one could convince a blind-man that he could see color and shape.

Chiun frowned as he left the Temple of Tribute. Was this what passed for faith in America? he wondered. Was this the faith that Remo clung to despite having had his vision cleared by Sinanju, his senses made whole?

Remo and Victoria joined the Master of Sinanju in the quadrangle. The congregation was returning to the buses. Chiun noticed that one of the persons who had left their wheelchairs behind had to be helped into the waiting bus.

"Wasn't that inspiring?" Victoria said, squeezing Remo's arm.

"You know how I feel?" Remo said. "I feel exactly the way I used to feel when I would come out of confession."

"Stupid?" asked Chiun.

"No. Sort of ... purged."

"Ah. I know that feeling," Chiun remarked.

"You do? I didn't know they had anything like confession in Sinanju."

"We do not. We have something equally efficacious."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Chamber pots."

Chapter 14

The Master of Sinanju wore his concern on his gracious face.

Not that anyone cared. Especially Remo.

A week had passed. Remo was standing in the wings of the studio where Reverend Eldon Sluggard was taping the latest edition of his Get with God program. Chiun did not understand the meaning of the name and had asked Remo to explain it.

"It's slang," Remo had replied. "It means ... to be one with God. These people in the studio audience want to be one with the Lord."

"They wish to die?"

"No, of course not."

"I am confused. Is it not said in Western religions that in order to be one with the Supreme Creator, death must first occur?"

"Well, yes. But some people believe that it's possible to know God spiritually."

"How?"

"I don't know how it works. But the nuns used to talk about it all the time."

"Ah," said Chiun, "the nuns. And you believed them, although they offered no proof to you?"

"This is faith, Chiun. You don't need proof. You need faith."

"In what?"

"In God."

"Have you ever spoken to this being you call God?"

"No. But the nuns told me all about him. Just like Reverend Sluggard is doing now."

"Do you have faith in Reverend Sluggard?"

"Sure," Remo said quickly.

"And why?"

"Because he's the leader of an important movement. He does good for people. He shows them the way to become the best they can be. Everyone says so."

"And if everyone told you he was a false prophet, would you believe that as well?"

"If he's not the man of God everyone says, why would the Iranians single him out for attack? Answer that."

"And that is your proof of this man's holiness?"

"What else could it mean?" Remo demanded.

"It could be that he angered them."

"Sure he has. He's been warning us about the Moslem threat for years. He told me so. Besides, why would Smith send us to protect him? Huh?"

"I see your newfound faith extends also to Smith," Chiun said quietly. "It is unfortunate." And while Remo's attention remained on the Reverend Sluggard, the Master of Sinanju departed in silence. He repaired to the quarters that had been set aside for them. The quarters were in the great boat that Eldon Sluggard used for his living place. It was explained that Remo and Chiun had to stay close to Reverend Sluggard at all times to protect him from the godless Moslems.

Chiun had replied that the Moslems were not godless. Otherwise they would not be Moslems. Victoria Hoar had countered that Moslems believed in the wrong God.

Chiun had started to ask her how she knew there was a right God, when he realized the stupidity of his own question. There was only one Supreme Creator. Only the name by which different peoples addressed him differed. And over that, non-Koreans had made war throughout history.

Chiun entered his stateroom and went to the telephone device. Ordinarily he despised the machines. They always rang when he was watching something particularly enlightened, and the calls were usually for Remo. Normally, Remo handled all telephonic work, but this was one conversation that the Master of Sinanju did not want Remo to be privy to.

Chiun picked up the receiver and pressed O for Operator. The operator came on the line and Chiun said, "I wish to speak with Harold Smith."

"What city, please?" the operator asked politely.

"It is the city named after one of your breads."

"Bread?"

"Yes, in the province of New York."

"City or state?"

"Is there a difference?" demanded the Master of Sinanju impatiently. "It is the one where Harold Smith resides." Why was it that these whites insisted on giving the same name to entirely different places? Usually names stolen from other countries. Once he had noticed a Cairo, Illinois, and a Carthage, New York, on a map. There were also a Paris, Texas, and a Troy, Ohio. Chiun once awoke from a particularly terrible nightmare in which the mothers of his village were forced to once again drown their starving babies as they did in the old times, because ignorant modern kings had been sending their emissaries to negotiate with the Master of Sinanju, Utah.

"New York City is in New York State," said the operator.

"Then it is in New York State because New York City is south of this place, which is called Folcroft."

"I don't have a listing for a Folcroft, New York," said the operator.

"I did not say the town was called Folcroft, stupid woman," Chiun snapped. "I said it was one of your bread names. Folcroft is the building."

"There is no need to shout, sir," the operator said indignantly.

"I am waiting."

"I have a listing for a Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York. Is that what you want?"

"Of course. What other Folcrofts are there? Never mind," Chiun said quickly, realizing that he might have to listen to a twelve-hour recitation of all the other American Folcrofts. "I wish to speak with Harold Smith."

"And your name?"

"I am under cover and forbidden to identify myself."

"Er, one moment."

After a few seconds, a telephone ringing greeted Chiun's eager ears. The dry voice of Dr. Harold W. Smith, known in the Book of Sinanju variously as Smith the First, Smith the Generous, Smith the Frugal, and Mad Harold, said, "Hello?"

"I have a collect call for Harold Smith."

"From whom?" Smith asked suspiciously. "The gentleman refuses to identify himself."

"I do not accept collect calls from strangers," Smith snapped.

"It is not strangers, it is I," said Chiun suddenly.

"Please, sir," the operator said. "You are not permitted to talk to the other party unless he agrees to accept the call."

"I will accept," Smith said quickly. "Go ahead, Master of ... er, Master."

The operator got off the line and Chiun launched into his complaint.

"Emperor Smith, we have a problem."

"Yes?" Smith's voice was tight.

"It is Remo. I fear he will be unable to accomplish this assignment."

"Is he injured?"

"Yes, mentally injured. He is suffering greatly. He talks of incense and vestal virgins he knew in his earlier life, and there is a new woman who has him in her thrall. "

"I'm afraid Remo's romantic predilections are not sufficient to pull him off this assignment."

"He is being poisoned by this place. I fear that if he remains any longer, he will go over to the enemy."

"What enemy?"

"Reverend Sluggard."

"I have no information indicating that Sluggard is anything but a target of Iranian fundamentalists. What makes you say he is the enemy?"

"Anyone who speaks honeyed words that draw Remo away from the path of Sinanju is the enemy."

"I see. Are you saying that Remo is experiencing a religious conversion of some type?"

"I would not call it that. I would call it a reversion. It is all he talks about now. Faith and sin and other trivia."

"I'm sorry, Master Chiun. I agree with you that if Remo is experiencing a religious reawakening, that could cause problems for us, but right now this assignment must be carried out. Have you learned anything?"

"Yes. It was during this priest's television program. He is launching a Crusade."

"So?"

"A Crusade," repeated Chiun. "Do you not know your history?"

"Of course I do," Smith said peevishly, the insult in his voice for once matching Chiun's. He was proud of his straight-A pluses in history that started in the fifth grade and continued, an unbroken testament to Smith's studiousness and lack of a normal social life, all the way up to his graduation from Dartmouth College.

"Are you not concerned?"

"I think you misunderstand," said Smith reasonably. "Sluggard is not talking about a crusade in the sense of the old incursions into the Holy Land, but a crusade for funds."

"I have seen how he tricks people out of money, too. But I heard the words he spoke. He spoke of a holy war. "

"Many of these television ministers solicit money in different ways. And regardless of how questionable Sluggard's methods may be, our concern is not that, but in any activities that might have attracted the attention of the Iranian hierarchy."

"Then send Remo and me to Iran. We are known there. We will talk to their caliph. We will find your answers, and negotiate an excellent treaty. But in this place, we will learn nothing and perhaps lose our Remo."

"I'm sorry, master Chiun. Relations with the Iranians are very sensitive at this moment. We can't be seen doing business with them and we don't dare stir them up any more than they have been. Do your best at this end. Good-bye."

The Master of Sinanju slammed down the receiver. Of course it cracked. Why did they insist upon making these aggravating instruments out of plastic and not iron? Iron did not shatter under normal use.

At his Folcroft office, Dr. Harold W. Smith frowned as he returned to his computer. He was worried about the situation. It was unusual for Chiun to contact him. No doubt his concern for Remo was well-intentioned, even well-placed, but time was of the essence.

Already Smith was reading the signs of a new wave of terrorist activities.

In Boston a private security agency whose uniformed employees were composed of Lebanese engineering students was showing a sudden surge of activity having nothing to do with its billabie clients. Smith alerted the Boston branch of the FBI.

In Beirut, members of the Iranian-backed Hezbollah militia were filtering out of the city to transit points, presumably bound for the West. Smith alerted U.S. immigration.

And in Iran, the Iranian Parliament was calling for severe punishment against U.S. aggressions. Iran was always calling for the U.S. to be punished for imagined aggressions. It was a day-to-day activity designed to keep their Revolution alive. Smith called up the details. It was usually the same. Imaginary nonsense promulgated for domestic consumption.

What Smith found was the usual hysteria and threats. Iran claimed a U.S. invasion force had attempted to enter the country. They claimed as proof a number of bodies of American mercenaries, and they had taken hostage a U.S. oil tanker, the Seawise Behemoth, which had been used to smuggle in the invading force. Smith's computers informed him that there were no traceable links between the oil company that owned the tanker and Sluggard's organization.

There were daily demonstrations in the streets of Tehran in which the alleged instigator of the attack, Reverend Eldon Sluggard, was burned in effigy on a wooden cross.

Smith almost laughed aloud. The idea of a television preacher launching a military strike into the Middle East in cooperation with an oil company was too bizarre even for Iranian propaganda.

One item showing up on his computer search did get Harold Smith's attention.

A Sapulpa, Oklahoma, couple, Don and Bessie Booe, was filing a suit against the Reverend Eldon Sluggard. They claimed that their son, Lamar, had gone on a retreat to Sluggard's Christian Campground and disappeared.

According to Sluggard's people, Lamar Booe had left the retreat after only a week, citing his lack of faith. The Booes countered that claim by producing letters from their son, purportedly written more than a month after Sluggard's people claimed he had left the Christian Campground, as proof of their story.

Although it seemed to be merely a case of a young man who perhaps couldn't face his parents after failing to live up to their expectations, Smith called up all available data from the news-media file. At this point, anything unusual pertaining to Reverend Eldon Sluggard and his ministry could not be overlooked, no matter how inconsequential.

Chapter 15

The red light winked out and Reverend Eldon Sluggard collapsed into a plush chair. The overhead spotlights were killing him. The cameramen began pulling their now-inactive equipment away from the set.

"El, I have to tell you," the director said effusively, "that was your best show ever. You were positively inspired."

"Thanks," said the Reverend Eldon Sluggard as he wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow. After changing handkerchiefs twice, he saw that the cloth was still coming away sopping. He was thinking that for once he wasn't positively inspired. He was negatively inspired. If he didn't pull in enough recruits to make a difference, his head was going to end up on a post in Persiaor whatever it was called now. "Now, do me a favor? Clear out all these technical people and get me Victoria Hoar."

"Check."

While Reverend Sluggard waited, someone came up behind him.

"I just wanted to tell you," a voice said while Reverend Sluggard jumped a foot into the air with fright, "what an inspiring sermon that was."

"Whoee! Don't you sneak up on me like that again!" said the Reverend Sluggard when he recognized his bodyguard.

"Sorry!" Remo said in a sheepish voice.

" 'S all right. Ah get really wound up after one of these things. "

"I was wondering if you could explain something to me."

"What's that?"

"You were talking about repentance earlier. When I was a kid, we'd go to confession, the priest blessed us, and we had to say a few 'Hail Marys,' a couple of 'Our Fathers,' and an 'Act of Contrition.' But how does it work here?"

"Got sins hanging heavy on your soul?"

"Well," Remo admitted, "it's been a while."

"Do you feel sorry for them, son?" asked Reverend Sluggard, his voice sinking into an oily unctuousness.

"Yeah. "

"And you want the good Lord to forgive you?"

"Do you think he would?"

"How much money you got on you?"

"Money?" Remo said vaguely. He dug into his wallet. "I don't know," he said as he started to count out the contents. "Maybe-"

"That's enough," said Eldon Sluggard, snatching the money away. "You're forgiven."

"I am?" Remo asked blankly.

"Ah said so, didn't Ah?"

"But it doesn't seem ... I mean it. . ."

"Son, when you used to tell the priest about how sinful you were, how long did it take you to go right on doing what you were ashamed to tell the priest you were doing in the first place?"

"Oh, a couple of days. A week at most."

"And you know why?"

"No."

"Because all the priest asked of you was to say a few prayers. Prayers are easy, son. Prayers are cheap. Any sinner can pray. But money, that's different. Do you for one godly minute think that if every sinner had to fork over his grocery money when he confessed to sin, he'd be so quick to keep right on sinnin'?"

"No..." Remo said slowly.

"No! That's right! No, he would not. He'd waver. He'd think twice, and then thrice. Because money is substantial. Money is important. Everyone knows it. Don't you think God knows it too? That's why he sent you here."

"Actually, it was someone else's idea," Remo put in.

"Someone who was inspired by the Holy Spirit!" Remo's brow gathered in thought. He tried to imagine Dr. Harold W. Smith motivated by the Holy Spirit. The image wouldn't come. Maybe he wasn't imagining hard enough.

"The Holy Spirit brought you here. And you know why?" Before Remo could open his mouth, Reverend Eldon Sluggard answered his own question. "Because he knew you needed saving and that the starving people of Ethiopia needed this money. This is God's money now. It's gonna be put to good use. And so are you. Tell you what. Ah'm gonna confer with one of mah advisers about how best to get this money to Ethiopia. Why don't you check on security?"

"I had another question," Remo started to say.

"Time enough for that later. Now, off with you. We gotta keep this house of the Lord inviolate from the heathen. "

Reluctantly Remo left the studio. Reverend Eldon Sluggard watched him go.

"That boy may be fast with his hands," Reverend Eldon Sluggard muttered, "but he won't win no contests for mental brilliance."

When Victoria Hoar found Reverend Sluggard, he was counting Remo's money.

"How are the new security people working out?" she asked.

"Ah may not have to pay the tall one. He fell for the old cash-for-forgiveness hustle. But that ain't why Ah called you. We got another problem."

"What's that?"

"My legal staff says we're being sued. Over one of those recruits. His parents say they ain't heard from him."

"I thought you had your staff writing letters home for all of them to cover their disappearance."

"Ah did. This is the one what went pacifist on me during the last phase of training. He had seen too much, so we convinced him that if he carried the banner of the Crusade, he wouldn't have to carry a weapon. but Ah guess he wrote home that he was quittin' before we got his mind turned around. Now his folks are yellin' and carryin' on that their son has been kidnapped or some fool thing."

"This could get serious when the relatives of the other recruits hear of this."

"Ah hadn't counted on them all dyin'," Reverend Eldon Sluggard complained. "What was wrong with them? They had the best weapons money could buy. The best trainin'. And most of all, they had motivation. They should have torn through them ragheads like a pack of buzz saws."

"The next Crusade will have to be better-trained and better-equipped. "

"And better-motivated," added Reverend Sluggard. "It's mah sacred ass."

"I have an idea how to do that."

"Yeah? Lemme hear."

"At a more opportune time. We have better things to do. "

"Amen. While we're alone," Reverend Sluggard suggested, breaking out into a Cheshire grin, "how about a little unholy communion?"

"Not now. I want to check on the new security people. They could be a problem."

"Ah noticed you been eyeing the tall one."

"Of course. If he's drooling over me, he won't see the obvious. "

"Good point. But one thing Ah still ain't figured out: who are they? How can they do all that weird stuff they do?"

"I don't know. But I think the technique they used on the old security chief was created by the ninjas."

"Which sect are they? Ah don't pay too much attention to cults."

"The ninjas were Japanese espionage agents. They possessed remarkable stealth and killing tactics."

"That would make the old man a Japanese. But not the white one. He ain't no more Japanese than my daddy. "

"Who knows? But I'll find out. As long as Remo believes in your ministry, and my smile, we can control him. "

"Amen, sister."

Chapter 16

Rashid Shiraz had no problem with Customs at Montreal International Airport. His passport was in order. It identified him as Barsoom Basti, a Turk. No one from Lebanon to Ankara would mistake Rashid for a Turk, but in the West they clumped all dusky-skinned people into one racial lump they called Arabs. The guard stamped his passport automatically.

This was the crucial moment. He had gone first, in case the American made a mess of it. He could still run. And in Montreal, which was fast becoming the Vienna of the modern espionage world, there were many people and many places that would provide Rashid Shiraz with safe haven.

Lamar Booe offered his passport. It too was false. It identified him as an Englishman. If Lamar spoke softly, his twangy American accent would not betray him.

Lamar answered the questions in a dull monosyllabic tone and Rashid nodded. It was working. The man was so broken that he would do whatever Rashid asked-even without prompting.

The passport was stamped with a bang and Lamar joined Rashid. They walked from the airport and took a cab to a certain hotel. Within an hour, two Iranians were knocking at the door.

"Is this the dog?" asked one in a hard voice.

"Yes. Pitiful, is he not?"

"Yes," said the Iranian. He turned his attention back to Rashid. "We have a car waiting for you. Driving across the border will be easy. The guards look for drugs and contraband. Be certain you have no weapons with you. You will pass easily. The others are grouping at the rendezvous point."

"You have a map to the place of this false kafif Sluggard?"

"Ari. Here. And American money. More than you will need. Also there is a picture. You will need it if you are to locate him personally. He often moves with an entourage."

"I may not need it," said Rashid Shiraz.

"Your task is to abduct him and bring him to us. If this is impossible, you may kill him so long as you do it painfully."

"I know this. But this one will see that I am brought before Sluggard."

"How do you know he will not betray you?"

"Because he hates Sluggard more than we do," said Rashid Shiraz. And to prove his point, he extracted the photograph of the Reverend Eldon Sluggard from the folder and, after glancing at it briefly, placed it in Lamar Booe's empty, trembling hands.

"Is this the devil who betrayed you?" Rashid demanded.

"Aaahh!" said Lamar Booe, squeezing the photograph into a crumpled shape. Then, making little mewling sounds of pain, he tore the photograph first into big pieces, then into small pieces. He stopped only when the remaining pieces were so small his fingers could not grip them for further destruction.

His lips moved. The words were barely audible. Lamar Booe was whispering "Marg bar Sluggard" over and over in poor Farsi.

Chapter 17

Remo put his head in through the half-open door. "Have you seen Victoria?" he asked.

"Too often," Chiun replied sourly.

"The same to you. If you do see her, tell her I'm looking for her."

"Why?" asked Chiun. He was seated on a tatami mat in his stateroom aboard the Reverend Eldon Sluggard's yacht, the Mary Magdalene. He was boiling water in a brass bowl suspended over a tiny wood stove. It was his personal rice-making set, used when the Master was not in civilization. It had arrived within the green-gold lacquered trunk only a few hours ago, shipped by Harold Smith from Folcroft Sanitarium to a series of relay points and finally to the Eldon Sluggard World Ministries.

"Because I asked you," Remo said quietly. His tone was not peevish, nor was it demanding. It was, if anything, troubled.

"That is not the why," said Chiun, spooning brown rice grains out of a glazed celadon container in the shape of a bear. "The why is why do you want to see her? Not the other why."

"Because I do."

"I see. And has it anything to do with the troubled tone I detect in your voice?"

"How do you know I'm troubled?"

"Because you are. It is self-evident."

"Yeah?" Remo shifted on his feet. "Well, I thought she could explain something to me."

Chiun turned suddenly, a wooden ladle of rice poised over the happily bubbling water.

"Oh? Do you think that woman can explain what troubles you better than I?"

Remo hesitated. "Yeah, I guess. Probably. It's about Reverend Sluggard. And she's his personal adviser, after all."

"I can tell you all you need to know about this priest. "

Remo was half in and half out of the door. He thought a moment and entered the stateroom, closing the door behind him. Chiun pretended to examine the boiling rice closely so that Remo did not behold the slight tug of satisfaction pulling at his lips. He let the final grains of rice mix with the others.

"I am having rice. Will you have some?"

"I'm not hungry," Remo said, joining him on the floor.

Listening to Remo's voice, Chiun added two more ladles full. Enough for Remo.

"So," Chiun said, lifting his face. "What is it that troubles you now?"

"I just had a talk with Reverend Sluggard. I asked him about receiving forgiveness for my sins."

"Ah. That."

"And you know what he did? He took all my money and said I was forgiven."

"Why does that surprise you, Remo? Reverend Sluggard takes everyone's money. For a holy man, he acts like the hated tax collectors the Romans once set upon the Jews and the Christians."

"He puts it to good use. You saw all the people he healed."

"Pah! An old game. A conjurer shouts loudly, causing the heart to beat faster, the pulse to quicken, the mind to concentrate. Or he speaks soothing words that inspire belief in the self. Or he does both. I have seen it many times in many lands. Sluggard does both. And fools believe that they are healed."

"I saw lame people walk. Others get up from wheelchairs. "

"I saw the same. The truth is, those people healed themselves."

"What's the difference? They're healed, aren't they?"

"The difference is that their healing will last only as long as their hearts beat fast and their minds are filled with that belief. I saw some of them falter as they returned to their seats. No one else was watching because their minds were on the healer, not the healed."

"If you say you saw it, you saw it," Remo muttered defensively.

"So speaks Remo Williams, the stubborn."

"When Reverend Sluggard told me that God forgave my sins because I gave him all my money, it made sense. It even reminded me of some of your lessons."

"Mine? How so?"

"I don't know. It was the way he explained it, I guess. It started off as one thing and ended up as another. The point he made was that if I was simply forgiven, I wouldn't learn. But if I paid a price, I would learn not to commit the same sins again."

"That is sound reasoning. So why are you troubled? You have paid your tax to this man and he has promised you a blessing in return. What could be more equitable?"

"Well, I don't feel the same way as when I was a kid leaving confession. You know, cleansed."

"Ah, then you question this man?"

"Not exactly. This isn't the Catholic way. It's different. Maybe I'm not supposed to feel the same way as I did then."

"I think there may be enough rice for you," said Chiun, tending to the boiling pot. "If I take less, that is."

"No, thanks," said Remo, shaking his head.

"Do you remember the first time I taught you to overcome heights?"

Remo considered. "I remember the first time you tried. "

"That is it."

Remo's face clouded over. "You took me out into these woods where you had miles of logs laid end to end. You made me put on a blindfold and pretend the logs were over a ravine. I climbed on and started walking. "

"It was not hard."

"No, not until you told me to take off the blindfold and I found myself standing on a log that was suspended between two ciiffs. "

"You did not fall."

"I could have!"

"You did not fall when you walked along the first twenty logs. Why would you fall from the twenty-first, just because it was not as close to the ground as you imagined it to be?"

"That's not the point. I could have."

"The point is that you did not."

"So what's the point of reliving it now?" demanded Remo. The old anger was rising in his voice. Chiun found it reassuring, although disrespectful.

"Do you remember, only weeks later, when I again asked you to do something for me?"

"No. "

"I asked you to run through a burning room."

"Yeah. It's coming back. You opened the door and there were flames coming from different spots on the floor. Little flames. Tiny ones."

"And I told you to run as if the entire room was ablaze. To run with your eyes shut and your breath held tightly within you."

"And when I was halfway through the little fires, the room exploded in a ball of hell. Christ, Chiun, how could you?"

Chiun shrugged. "A simple mechanical contrivance. The floor contained gas jets. Smith installed them when I insisted that he build me a room for that purpose. I merely turned a wheel."

"I could have been incinerated," Remo growled. "But you were not. And so you learned that flame is no more to be feared than water if you keep moving and do not inhale. But that is not the point of this discussion either."

"And just what is the friggin' point?" Remo snarled.

"The point is that even though I had tricked you with the logs, you trusted me with the room of fire."

"I was stupid. Sue me."

"Most stupid," Chiun corrected. "Gullible."

"Okay, gullible."

"Hopelessly gullible. Magnificently gullible. Invincibly gullible. Implacably-"

"Okay, okay. You made your point. So what?"

"You still do not understand what I am saying?"

"No!" Remo fumed.

"I have always liked that quality about you."

"That I don't understand half your lessons?"

"No, that you are gullible. A less-gullible man would have run away the day of the logs. A less-gullible man would have refused to enter the room of tiny fires. A less-gullible man would learn to question my assurances and perhaps think for himself. At that stage in your Sinanju training, thinking would have been dangerous, possibly fatal. Fortunately, you did not think. You obeyed. You believed. You acted. And so you lived."

Remo lifted a forefinger and made circles in the air. "Whooppee shit," he said.

Chiun sighed. "I have trained your body but neglected your mind. I thought you would learn to think. You have not. You continue to be gullible, gullible and trusting."

"You just said it saved my life."

"Indeed. But I do not wish you to be gullible and trusting in all things forever."

"Yeah? So what?"

"And another thing I have neglected. Your religious training."

"I had fantastic religious training."

"If you took to Sinanju the way you took to your religious training, we would not be here now. You would be somewhere swilling beer and eating cow meat. And you would be fat. Grossly fat."

"Says you," said Remo. But he swallowed as if hungry. Chiun wondered if it was the memory of the burned patties of dung Americans called hamburgers or the aroma of fresh rice coming to a boil. Chiun could not tell.

"Normally a Korean child is taught about the Supreme Creator before his fourth birthday. With you, you had already seen over twenty summers and were fixed in your beliefs, even if you no longer embraced them. "

"I don't think you've ever told me about the Korean religious system."

"Because it would only confuse you. In Sinanju, we do not teach our young the Korean beliefs. Only Sinanju beliefs. "

"So, tell me."

"It is very simple. There is the Supreme Creator, and-"

"What is he called?"

"The Supreme Creator."

"You don't have a name for him? Like Ralph? Or Chong?"

"That is impertinent," said Chiun. "In Sinanju, we do not presume to know his name, so we call him the Supreme Creator, for that is what he is."

"Not even God?"

"Even that is a name. No, we do not call him that. He is the Supreme Creator. He created everything, including the wisest, noblest, most humble, thoughtful, and intelligent creature ever to grace the earth with his tread ..."

Chiun paused before he completed the sentence. "The Korean," Remo and Chiun said in the same breath.

Chiun smiled at Remo's perceptiveness. Remo frowned at Chiun's bigotry.

"I have never told you how the Supreme Creator created the first Korean, have I?"

"No, you just told me that every other race was inferior. I think 'duck droppings' was the term used to describe the white, brown, and black races collectively."

"You had to know that at an early stage in your training. So that you understood the gift that was Sinanju was too good for you. It motivated you."

"It disgusted me."

"I will ignore that remark and continue as if you had not made it. Now, when the Supreme Creator gazed down upon his world, he saw a land of great bounty, of plentiful fruits, of purest water. And he called that good land-"

"Korea," Remo sighed.

Chiun smiled, even if Remo had interrupted him. Remo glowered.

"And seeing that this land was so rich and peaceful," Chiun went on happily, "the Supreme Creator descended upon Korea. And as he walked along, he met a tiger and a bear. And the tiger and the bear beheld the shape of the Supreme Creator's being and asked to be made like him, to stand upright on their hind legs and to use their forepaws for grasping objects. And the Supreme Creator thought on this and said to them: 'If you will go to that cave beyond the next hill and wait for one hundred days, I will consider you worthy of this gift.'

"And so they went. But the cave was dark, and its walls dripped cold water. And so the tiger departed after only a few days. But the bear stayed. And when, at the end of one hundred days, the Supreme Creator came to the cave, he found the bear alone, cold, and wet and waiting for him."

"He turned the bear into a man?"

"No. Into a woman. And seeing that this woman was fair, he mated with her. And they had a son. And that son was Tangun, the first Korean. This was ten thousand years ago, and since then, all time in Korea dates from the first day Tangun walked upright."

"That is a silly story," snapped Remo.

"And I suppose you whites have a more magnificent origin."

"Yeah, we do. Adam and Eve. God created Adam and then he created Eve from Adam's rib. This took place in the Garden of Eden, where there was plenty of food and the sun always shone."

"From a rib? Oh, Remo, you are so funny. At least my story has a basis in plausibility. In my story, the Supreme Creator did not work with spare parts like some greasy-fingered white mechanic."

The Master of Sinanju slapped his bony knees. His hazel eyes twinkled merrily. His frail body shook with glee.

"That isn't the full story," Remo said heatedly. "And then Adam and Eve mated and produced two sons, Cain and Abel. Cain slew Abel."

"Typical," clucked Chiun. "Even with an entire garden to themselves and plenty of food, they could not get along. How white."

"I'm not sure how much of it I actually believe," Remo admitted grudgingly.

"Oh? Is this a dent in the mighty armor of your faith?" demanded Chiun.

"I said I wasn't sure. That's the Bible story. There are scientific theories too."

"If you are going to tell me the monkey story," said Chiun, "I may have to leave the room to spare your white feelings."

"I read an article in a scientific magazine once. These scientists claimed that by analyzing human chromosomes or something they had figured out that all human life on earth could be traced back to one woman who had lived in Africa millions of years ago."

"One woman?"

"One woman."

"All life?" demanded Chiun.

"All life," repeated Remo firmly. "It's been proven. Scientifically."

"They must not have tested any Koreans. Our people are only ten thousand years old. And we did not come from Africa."

"All life," Remo said again.

"And you believed this?"

"Scientifically proven."

"If this is so, how did that woman get there?"

Remo looked doubtful. "The article didn't say," he admitted.

"Did it say how this one woman who came before all others came to be with child?"

"No. It didn't."

"Maybe the Supreme Creator took her rib and then created the first man. You whites are always getting your history backwards."

"That's not funny. And just because they left out a few details doesn't mean they haven't proven their case."

"They left out two important details like that and you accepted all the rest of their nonsense! Remo, you are too much. You will believe anything. Even Reverend Sluggard's chicanery."

"I haven't made up my mind about him. Yet."

"And I have not finished telling you the religious beliefs of Sinanju."

"I'm listening."

"I have told you about the Supreme Creator. He lives in a place called the Void. When Koreans die, they cast off their broken bodies and join him in the void. "

Remo waited. "What else?"

"Else? What else can there be?"

"What about heaven and hell?"

"Silly stories created by unholy holy men to manipulate other men."

"What about sin?"

"That is a priest's word," Chiun spat. "We believe that a man makes mistakes. If they are little mistakes, he will learn from them. If they are big mistakes, he will naturally pay for the consequences of his actions within his lifetime."

"What about forgiveness?"

"The Supreme Creator does not hold grudges."

"What about Jesus?"

"What about Buddha? And Mohammed? And Zoroaster? And Shiva?"

"Don't confuse me with tales of Shiva. I asked about Jesus. "

Chiun shrugged. "A carpenter. A rabble-rouser. We had a contract on him at one time, but something more important came up. By the time my ancestor got around to him, he was already dead."

"I was raised to believe he was the Son of God."

"And Masters of Sinanju are taught to do business with kings, not their princes."

"You've got a cockamamie religious system, you know that?"

"Cockamamie?"

"It's too ...too ..."

"Simple?" asked Chiun.

"Yeah. Too simple."

"Simplicity is perfection, and perfection, simplicity. The Supreme Creator knew what he was doing. Now I see that the rice is ready. Will you have some?"

"Do you have enough?" Remo asked, eyeing the boiling pot hungrily.

"No, but I am willing to sacrifice."

"I don't want to take all your rice," Remo protested.

"It is a small sacrifice."

Remo hesitated. Finally he said, "Well, okay. But not too much."

And Chiun smiled to himself. Remo had forgotten the white woman with the lascivious mouth. It was as it was written in the Book of Sinanju: "A female is but a female, but rice is a meal." He had once shared that mighty insight with Remo, but Remo had claimed it was a corruption of a white saying having to do with smoking tobacco weeds, another filthy white habit.

Chapter 18

They came from all over America. By bus and bicycle, by jet, and on foot.

From Maine, from Texas, from California, even from faraway Alaska. Their hair was short and it hung to their shoulder blades. They wore ties and cufflinks and earrings and spiked collars. Some carried expensive luggage in both hands and others only pocket change. They were young and naive, yet hard beyond their years. They were polite and profane. But the one thing they all had in common was that they cried for blood. Moslem blood.

"It's a mob!" cried Reverend Eldon Sluggard, watching them pour through the gates of the Eldon Sluggard World Ministries from the wheelhouse of his luxury yacht.

"No." Victoria Hoar smiled. "It's an army. Our army."

"Where are we going to put 'em all?" Eldon Sluggard moaned. "How are we gonna feed 'em all. You got any idea how much teenagers eat? This is the sixth day of this. Ah never imagined this kind of response."

"We'll find room," Victoria said. She consulted a clipboard containing sheafs of paper. "According to my figures, we're getting a seventy-percent sign-up rate. That's after we weed out the party-seekers with psychological-evaluation tests."

"Are you sure that seventy percent is solid? Ah don't want any more chicken-livered ones like that Booe boy. "

"We've improved the tests since the first Crusade. If these numbers hold up, we'll be up to division strength inside of a week."

"Well," said Eldon Sluggard, watching his security people work the crowd, "Ah hope we don't go broke feeding 'em before we ship 'em out."

Out by the gates, Eldon Sluggard's uniformed security people, under the watchful eyes of Remo and Chiun, were frisking the incoming recruits, confiscating bottles of liquor and, in some cases, firearms. A guard took a twelve-gauge shotgun from one blond boy, and the boy protested. He reached for his weapon. Chiun suddenly appeared behind him and the boy went as stiff as a post and keeled over. He was carried off, still stiff. The crowd settled down.

"Our new security boys sure know how to work a crowd. But on mah life, Ah can't figure them out."

"Neither can I. But as long as they do their job and don't get snoopy, I can handle their being here."

"They got another game. Ah can feel it."

"They're not with the government. They don't feel right for FBI plants."

"Ah don't like the old one. He's too smart. Remo is just a mark as far as Ah'm concerned, but the old one makes me damn nervous."

"Uh-huh," Victoria Hoar said absently as she consulted her clipboard again. "They're incredibly good and they're here to protect you. What have you to be afraid of?"

"The devil," said Reverend Eldon Sluggard worriedly. Victoria Hoar looked up suddenly. Her eyebrows inched together. "What did you say?"

"The devil. Ah'm afraid of the devil, and not ashamed to admit it either."

"I thought you were above that superstitious drivel."

"Ah am. Ah don't believe in God. But the devil is different. Ah've had nightmares about him. Ah can feel his hairy hands clutching at mah poor throat sometimes. When Ah wake up, Ah can see him grinnin' at me in the dark. Ah can't see his face, just those white teeth floatin' in the air. When Ah blink, they go away."

"Are you serious?" Victoria drank in Sluggard's uneasy expression. "You are serious, aren't you?"

"Sometimes he's tall and green with a short spiky tail. Sometimes he's little and yellow with knowing eyes and long horny claws. Like that old chink."

"Remo says he's Korean."

"He's the devil. Ah had a dream last night. He crawled out from under my bed and sprouted leathery green bat wings. Then he carried me off to hell. Ah woke up sweatin' like a boiled pig, and Ah don't even believe in hell. Ah don't want him near me no more."

Victoria Hoar sighed. "I'll put Remo on you permanently. Chiun can handle everything else. Will that satisfy you?"

"He's Satan!" Reverend Eldon Sluggard repeated.

"Get a grip on yourself. You sound like one of those damned mullahs." Victoria Hoar sighed audibly and returned to her sheets. "We now have sixteen Reverend-Sergeants. They're fully indoctrinated. I think it's safe to take the three oldest and smartest ones and promote them to Reverend-Majors. I'm scheduling a ceremony for tonight at seven."

"Yeah, yeah, good," Reverend Sluggard said distractedly.

"I thought we might rush some of today's recruits through and let them in on the ceremony. Then you can give your little speech."

"Uh-hum. "

"They're so pumped up when they come in that I think we can risk processing them faster than before. Besides, with these numbers, I think we're going to have to move them into the Gulf sooner than we planned, before they cool down."

"Right, right."

"Are you listening?" demanded Victoria Iioar, snapping her fingers in Sluggard's ear.

"I wonder . . ." Reverend Sluggard said.

"Yes?"

"Who would send the devil to bodyguard me?"

"Oh, for God's sake!" Victoria Hoar said, tossing her clipboard onto the plush seats. She turned to the captain. "Would you excuse us, please?"

The captain crept away without a word.

"What are you doin'?" Reverend Eldon Sluggard asked when he realized that nimble fingers were unbuttoning his Bermuda shorts.

"Your brain is full of cobwebs," Victoria said sharply. "I'm going to blow it clean."

"What? Oh!" said Reverend Eldon Sluggard when he felt his underwear descend.

The last of the new volunteers had slipped through the gates and Remo was ordering them closed when he noticed Victoria Hoar approach.

"Hi!" she said, flashing him an open smile. "Been avoiding me?"

"Um, no," Remo said. "I've been busy."

"Well, you're going to be busier. Reverend Sluggard has decided that you're going to be his personal bodyguard from now on."

"What about Chiun? We've been switching off."

"He'll continue with grounds security. But with the volunteers coming in so fast, Reverend Sluggard feels you should be at his side at all times."

"I don't blame him. Some of these kids are pretty rowdy."

"So I noticed," Victoria Hoar said dryly.

"What kind of kids show up at a religious retreat armed and drunk?"

"Reverend Sluggard is reaching out to the troubled youth of our times. It's only natural that we'd get some of the dregs, the junkies, the petty hoodlums. But don't worry. After a few days at our Christian Campground, they'll be marching to the drumbeat of the Lord."

"Where is this campground?" Remo asked. "I noticed you've been busing them out of here every day." Victoria Hoar frowned. Why was Remo asking these questions? His face was not as open as it had been. He seemed more focused.

"It's downriver. Don't worry. You'll get to see it. Reverend Sluggard is giving a talk there tonight."

"I'll be interested in hearing it," Remo said levelly.

"Actually, you may not get the chance," Victoria said quickly. "You'll probably be guarding the building."

"A bodyguard usually guards the body, not the house that houses the body," Remo recited.

"What?"

"One of Chiun's sayings, loosely translated. It means that if I'm to do my job, I should stick close to Reverend Sluggard."

"Good point. But we're more concerned about Iranian assassins, not unruly volunteers."

"Whatever you say. I guess I'd better tell Chiun," Remo said, walking back to the gate, where the Master of Sinanju stood watching the approach road as darkness began to seep into the air like billowing ink from an octopus.

Victoria Hoar watched him go. Since that first day, only a week ago, she had subjected Remo to the daily attention of her flirting sexuality. Much to her surprise, she found herself attracted to Remo. There was something about him, some animal magnetism that was so subtle that Remo himself didn't seem aware of it. She had decided that she would sleep with him. Out of curiosity more than desire. And with luck, she would learn his true purpose, if any.

But suddenly Remo hadn't seemed as interested in her as he had been. It was puzzling. Who was playing whom? she wondered as she strode back to the docked Mary Magdalene.

"Change in plan," Remo told Chiun. "I've been assigned to guard Sluggard."

"And what will I be doing?" Chiun asked tightly.

"You stick with security control."

"That man shows ridiculous judgment, choosing an assistant Master to guard his person. Does he not know who we are?"

"No, and let's keep it that way," Remo said. "Tonight he's giving a speech at that Christian Campground we've been hearing about. I'm supposed to be there."

"It is possible that the answers Smith seeks are to be found there."

"That's what I'm thinking," Remo said seriously.

"And your feelings toward this Sluggard? Are they any clearer?"

"Whoever or whatever he is, the Iranians hate him enough to come gunning for him. That still keeps him in the good-guy column as far as I'm concerned."

"Pah! At least your attitude has improved," Chiun said unhappily. "Perhaps I can find time to accompany you to this Camp of Christians."

"Too risky. Just stick to headquarters. In case there's an attack, we want prisoners for interrogation."

"Done," said Chiun. "And how was your talk with the harlot Victoria?"

"Who?" Remo asked vaguely, his eyes on the wheelhouse of the boat, where Reverend Sluggard was snoring peacefully, his shorts down around his ankles.

The Master of Sinanju allowed himself a secret self-satisfied smile.

Chapter 19

Rashid Shiraz drove across the U.S.-Canada border without incident. In the strangely named city of Burlington, Vermont, he boarded a plane for the more strangely named Savannah, Georgia.

Lamar Booe sat quietly beside him on the flight. He spoke only once, to complain about the food. Rashid heard other passengers complain about the food. He could not understand it. Compared to the food of his native Iran, it was wonderful fare. He even asked for seconds.

By the time he landed in Savannah, Rashid Shiraz had lost his earlier fear about traveling through America. He was not harassed by the men, and the women were beautiful. But he refused to allow himself to become complacent. His was a dangerous mission. Capture would mean terrible things. Although he imagined the prison food would not be bad.

In the Savannah airport terminal, he looked around for the contact he was told would be waiting for him. He was not given a description, but was simply told that he would recognize his contact.

And he did. There was a handsome bearded Iranian in black accosting almost everyone who passed him. He showed them pages from a book of some kind. Was the man a fool? Rashid wondered. Was it possible that he was showing Rashid's picture in an effort to locate him?

Crabbing Lamar Booe by the shoulder, Rashid quickly intercepted the Iranian between accostings.

"Rahe kojast shomaal?" Rashid whispered the agreed-upon code hotly. "Which way is north?"

"Ma baradar has team. Wallahi!" came the countersign. "We are brothers. It is written."

"It is written that you are an idiot!" Rashid hissed back. "Why do you call attention to yourself so?"

"Look," said the contact, displaying his open book. Rashid saw photographs of mullahs executing Iranian citizens. There was a petition calling for the overthrow of the Grand Ayatollah. Many signatures had been collected.

"Who would suspect an antirevolutionary agitator of being a spy?" the man said, smiling. "Come, a car awaits us."

Hours later, Rashid found himself sitting in a bus filled with other Iranians. His contact man, whose name was Majid, drove. The bus had been rented at the suggestion of Lamar Booe, who sat huddled in the back, his eyes burning with hatred with every mile that took them closer to the place of Reverend Sluggard.

"Every day buses like this go to gate of Sluggard," Majid said. "They are filled with rowdy young men."

"Not like these," Rashid grinned wolfishly, waving at the passengers. Every Iranian carried a weapon. Their kaffiyehs were in their pockets.

They pulled up short of the gates. The gates were closed.

"We could ram gate," Majid suggested.

"I have a better idea," said Rashid, drifting back to where Lamar Booe sat.

"You recognize where we are, Cross-Worshipper?" he asked.

Lamar Booe nodded.

"We have come to the time when you repay the benevolent Islamic Republic of Iran for your worthless life. Can you get them to open the gate?"

"Yes," Lamar Booe whispered. He was staring at the floor, his eyes hollow.

"If you do this, you will not be harmed. We guarantee this. We only want to capture this Sluggard." Lamar Booe stood up. He looked Rashid Shiraz straight in the eye.

"Not if I get to him first," he said in a dead voice. His shaking hands gripped an imaginary object tightly. Rashid made a mental note to make certain that Lamar Booe didn't get his hands on Reverend Sluggard's throat. He doubted all the force in the universe could pry them loose.

Chapter 20

Remo Williams was standing guard at the door of Reverend Eldon Sluggard's shipboard quarters when Chiun descended the companionway attired in a simple saffron kimono.

"Problem?" Remo asked.

"I bear glad news for the Sluggard."

"The Reverend Sluggard," Remo corrected. "Calling him the Sluggard is disrespectful."

Chiun shrugged. "Lamar Booe has returned to the Sluggard's flock," he reported.

"Great. Who's he?"

"Do you not remember, Remo? The missing boy. The one whose parents claim that he never returned from this place."

"Oh, right. Reverend Sluggard will be happy to hear it. "

"Then why do you not knock on his door?"

"He asked not to be disturbed. Victoria is there with him. They're having a prayer session. It's been very quiet, but they should be out any minute. We're casting off for the Christian Campground soon."

"I see," said Chiun, pushing Remo aside. He looked into the keyhole of the great door. He did not have to bend very far to see.

"Chiun. That's snooping!"

"Information gathering," Chiun shot back. He moved this way and that, trying to see.

"It's our jobs if you're caught," Remo said in a resigned voice.

When Chiun suddenly withdrew from the keyhole, a look of disgust etched on his wrinkled features, Remo asked, "Had enough?"

"Judge for yourself," Chiun said, stepping aside. Reluctantly Remo looked. He saw Victoria Hoar's back. She was on her knees facing Reverend Sluggard. One meaty hand rested on her head, the other flailed the air. Reverend Sluggard's face was reddening by the second. His eyes were squinched shut as if in pain. "Well?" Chiun demanded after Remo stepped back from the keyhole.

"Well what?" Remo asked. "He's leading her in prayer."

"Who is leading whom is another question," Chiun snapped. "But of one thing I am certain, you are as blind as the Sluggard is disgusting."

"Reverend Sluggard. And I don't know what you're talking about. So why don't you tell them to bring the kid here? I'm sure Reverend Sluggard will want to talk to him when he's done."

"Men like him are never done." And with that cryptic remark, the Master of Sinanju stamped up to the deck.

Minutes later, when Remo heard talking coming from the other side of the door, he decided it was a good time to break the wonderful news to Reverend Sluggard. He knocked loudly.

"What is it?" Reverend Sluggard snarled. "Ah said Ah was not to be disturbed."

"Great news," Remo called back.

There was a flurry of sounds and Reverend Sluggard's face appeared through a crack in the door. His jowly face was flushed, his hair unkempt.

"Did we nuke Ah-ran?"

"No. Lamar Booe's back," Remo said cheerily. "Isn't that wonderful?"

Reverend Eldon Sluggard's face did not register pleasure. At first it registered a kind of dazed blankness. Then, as the name sank in, his blank expression started to come apart. The mouth went slack. The eyes grew wild. His nostrils dilated explosively and Reverend Sluggard's hand on the door edge turned so white his many rings seemed to flush with added color.

"Whaaaa-" he said.

"Lamar Booe. The kid whose parents are suing you. He says it's all a big misunderstanding. He wants to see you."

"Whaaaa-" Reverend Sluggard said again.

"Lamar Booe," Remo said, frowning. "He-"

"Ah know who he is!" Reverend Sluggard snapped. "Don't let him in. Ah don't want to see his cowardly face. Stop him!"

"But Chiun's bringing him aboard."

"What is the problem?" asked Victoria Hoar.

"That Booe boy. He's back!" Sluggard's voice was hoarse.

"Back? How can he be back? He was with the others?"

"Someone's at the gate sayin' he's him."

"I don't get it," Remo said. "I thought you'd be pleased. "

"Tell the captain to cast off now!" Sluggard ordered.

"But-"

"Now!" Reverend Sluggard screamed. "Don't you understand the word 'now' ?"

Frowning, Remo went to the wheelhouse and relayed the order.

Immediately, white-uniformed crewmen began to cast off lines. The great dual diesel engines began to turn. When Remo, his head shaking in confusion, returned to the deck, he saw that Chiun was directing the uniformed guards to open the electrically controlled gates to the Eldon Sluggard World Ministries.

A lone boy walked in. The gate started to close after him. Chiun went to greet the boy, when, suddenly, a bus gunned up the street, executed a sharp veer, and skidding on three wheels, rammed the gate. The gate halves, not fully closed, went flying. One cracked the windshield and bounced away. The other went under the front tires as if swallowed by a voracious maw.

The bus bore down on Lamar Booe. The boy turned. And froze.

Remo, knowing he was too far away to affect what would happen next, looked for Chiun. But Chiun wasn't at the spot he had been. Remo's gaze returned to the bus. He caught sight of a flash of saffron. And Lamar Booe was carried out of the way of the juggernaut of a bus.

"Atta boy, Chiun!" Remo shouted.

The bus plowed into the quadrangle. It snapped the standing cross in two and only then skidded to a halt. The door flew open and dozens of men in kaffiyehs and faded dungarees stormed out of the bus. Their weapons, an assortment of machine pistols and automatic rifles, erupted all at once.

The cacophony of shooting and screaming reminded Remo of Vietnam.

Reverend Sluggard stomped up from below. "What's going on?" he thundered.

Remo opened his mouth to speak, but the sight of Reverend Sluggard stopped him. Reverend Sluggard wore a greenish-gold uniform. Gold braid decorated his epaulets. He wore a pristine white visored cap and a ceremonial sword in a scabbard. His ample chest was decorated with rows of military-style ribbons. But they were unlike any service decorations Remo had ever seen. Reverend Sluggard's chest looked like a circuit board. Remo saw crosses, circles and other arcane designs, including one that at a glance seemed to read "Order of the Wrath of the Lord."

"Reverend Sluggard. . . " Remo said dumbfoundedly.

"Reverend-General Sluggard," he boomed proudly. "When Ah'm in uniform, Ah'm Reverend-General Sluggard, the Lord's fearless right arm. Now, what's goin' on?"

"Iranians," Remo said, pointing.

Reverend-General Eldon Sluggard clutched his sword hilt. "How ... how can you tell?" he croaked.

"See those checkered things over their heads? That makes them Middle Easterners. Probably Iranians."

"Tell them to cast off."

"I did."

"Well, tell 'em to cast off faster. We got to get out of here!" The Lord's fearless right arm looked around frantically. He spied a bullhorn on a deck hook and yanked it to his face.

"Cast off! Cast this tub off! Hurry!" Then he turned his attention to the quadrangle. People were pouring out of the ministry buildings. Staff members. When they saw uniformed guardsmen fall, they retreated. Some of the new recruits stood frozen in uncertainty.

"You, there! Boys!" Reverend-General Sluggard howled. "Take up your swords and smite them shitty Moslems!"

A few of the braver volunteers started forward. They were cut down by a precision stream of fire.

"Let Chiun and me handle this," Remo said, starting over the rail.

"Don't be a fool. They're cannon fodder. And I need you here."

"And Chiun needs my help," Remo said. He hit the dock with no more sound than a paper cup and pelted toward the quadrangle.

Remo came around the corner of the Temple of Tribute, whose glass walls were already shattered from stray rounds, and paused long enough to fix Chiun's position. Chiun was slipping up from the gate. Remo backtracked him with his eyes and saw that the boy, Lamar Booe, was safely in one of the glass gate boxes where Chiun had left him. The boy was pounding to get out. The expression on his face was so frightened it looked to Remo like anger, not fear.

Remo caught Chiun's attention with a wave. He raised two fingers in the old V-for-victory sign. He hoped Chiun would recognize the signal for a double Scarlet Ribbon.

Remo had no time to wait. He began to run. He cut left, then right, not seeking shelter from the rounds that were flying in all directions, sickling leaves from trees and chopping the Spanish moss that decorated the eucalyptus. Remo picked up speed until he was moving in a weaving pattern known to old Masters of Sinanju as the Scarlet Ribbon.

Bullets flew around his head and feet. No one aiming could possibly hit him, Remo knew, because by the time they lined up on him, he was already moving out of target position. His only fear, strangely enough, was from wild ricochets. But as he wove the beginnings of the ribbon, his mind was free of all fear, all doubt. He was at one with the situation.

The ribbon started to gain color when Remo encountered his first opponent. He took him out with a slashing side kick to the testicles. Another terrorist spotted him, and Remo paused a half-step, whirled, and as the man opened fire, came up under the bullet track and slapped his larynx loose. He went down gurgling. The dying man's wild fire caused another terrorist behind Remo to scream in agony. His screams attracted the attention of the other terrorists and Remo became the focus of that attention.

Which was exactly what he wanted.

It was then that the Scarlet Ribbon truly turned scarlet.

Remo moved in and out between his attackers. A thrust here. A flying kick there. He lunged for a man who was frantically pulling an empty clip from a Mac 10. Remo yanked a full clip from the man's belt and jammed it into the man's cloth-covered mouth, spiking him to the side of the bullet-riddled bus.

Others, seeing him pause in mid-action, trained their weapons on him. Triggers were pressed. The crossfire missed Remo, who flashed into action again. It got several terrorists. For that was what the Scarlet Ribbon was designed to do-turn the fury of a large force upon its members with killing result.

Remo resumed his furious running. Halfway through the ribbon, he streaked by the Master of Sinanju. "Sluggard's taken off in a panic," Remo said.

"His kind always does," returned Chiun as he executed a Heron Drop. He flashed into the air, seemed to hang in space like a dandelion seed settling to earth, and while streams of fire converged on the spot where he floated, his sandaled feet, spreading, came down on the heads of two terrorists fighting at close quarters. Two necks collapsed like empty soda cans. Vertebrae shattered audibly. Chiun alighted delicately and moved on.

Rashid Shiraz saw his bullets miss the old Oriental once again. He saw him break two of his fellow Iranians' necks. He sighted on the Oriental again. He missed. He missed again. He reloaded. And in the precious seconds between pulling out the empty clip and snapping in a fresh magazine, three more of his men fell on the grass, their blood staining the ground.

Rashid turned his attention back to the white man. He was bigger. He would be a better target. But when he looked, he saw his men trying to cut the American down. The man zipped between the bullet tracks crazily. It was an insane maneuver because he was not running away from the bullets, but among them. It was as if he were daring the men to shoot at him.

Instead, the men ended up shooting at one another. Witnessing his entire force wilting like roses in the summer heat, Rashid felt his courage run down his legs. He ran for the bus, hoping its tires were not punctured. The bus started. He sent it lumbering around and steered for the gaping gate. One gate half was still caught under the chassis. It sparked and rattled, inhibiting speed.

As Rashid barreled toward the entrance, he saw the stupid American boy, Lamar Booe, in the guard box. He sent a spray of bullets into the box. Lamar went down. There must be no one left to talk.

The bus cracked the fieldstone gatepost going around the corner and Rashid floored the gas.

The bus picked up speed slowly. The chassis rattled against the trapped gate. In his right-side mirror Rashid spotted the white American running after the bus.

"Fool!" he spat. And then he noticed that the Oriental was coming up on the left side. He cursed the trapped gate. It was slowing him down so much that even the old one was gaining on the bus.

Rashid kicked at the gas pedal desperately. The speedometer hovered at fifty. He blinked, At fifty they should not be keeping pace. Yet they were.

Rashid, cursing behind his kaffiyeh, sent the bus skittering around. If he could not outrun them, he would run them down.

The bus slammed around. Its sharp turn sent the gate flying. The tires were free. Rashid pushed the accelerator harder.

The two saw him coming. They stopped, side by side in the middle of the road, as he bore down on them. They did not move. Rashid grinned fiercely. Good. They were paralyzed with fear.

Their faces did not look fearful as they filled the windshield, however. They looked resolute. Even fearless. Rashid could see the whites of their eyes now. There was no mistaking their resoluteness. Were they suicidal?

Rashid had no more time to contemplate it. The bus was upon them. He whipped the tail of his kaffiyeh in front of his face protectively. The impact would certainly shatter the windshield into a million dangerous pieces. He shut his eyes.

But no sound of impact came. Instead, there was a double pop. Rashid wrestled with the suddenly difficult wheel. He shook the kaffiyeh free so he could see. The windshield was intact. And in the rearview mirror he could see, on either side, the two enemies of Islam settling to their feet as if they were coming out of attacking spins.

But what had they been attacking?

When the steering wheel lurched to the right, Rashid experienced understanding. He had a momentary flash, like telepathy, that his front tires had burst. Somehow, he had the wild mental image that the two men had burst them. He could imagine their flying feet doing that somehow. He knew it was impossible, but his mind leapt to that conclusion as if it was the only way it could correlate what was happening to him.

Then the bus lurched off the road onto the soft shoulder and down the riverbank.

Rashid's face kissed the windshield with shattering finality and the brackish taste of the river mud fouled his mouth.

Remo waded into the water, shoved open the folding doors, and looked in.

"Dead," he called back to Chiun.

"So perish the enemies of Sinanju," Chiun said firmly.

"You mean the enemies of Reverend Sluggard," Rerno said, returning to the roadside. "And he was probably the only one who could tell us what's going on."

"Perhaps one of the others lived."

"After a double Scarlet Ribbon? We'll be lucky if their fingerprints survived."

"True," said Chiun. "Although I noticed that during the first stage of the attack, your elbow was bent."

"It was not."

"Slightly."

"No way."

"Just a hair."

"Let's see if the Booe kid is alive," Remo said, annoyed. "I think he might have something to tell us."

"What makes you say that?"

"Reverend-General Sluggard turned white as a sheet when I mentioned that the kid was back. He was scared shitless."

"Reverend-General?"

"He was wearing a uniform, sword, and all the trimmings. "

"Then I was right!" Chiun exclaimed.

"About what?"

"I will tell you after the boy confirms it."

"Why not now so I won't be surprised?"

"You will be surprised in either case. And perhaps then you and Smith will finally learn to heed my wisdom. "

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

Chapter 21

They found Lamar Booe on the floor of the guard box. The floor was a sticky red.

Remo snapped the door off its hinges and knelt over the boy.

"Can you talk, son?" he asked.

The boy's mouth opened. A line of scarlet leaked out of one corner. He gurgled. Remo saw that the ragged hole in his chest bubbled like a little red fountain. He would not live. Remo placed a forefinger over the hole and said gently, "Try."

"Is he dead?" Booe gurgled.

"Yes, we got them all. Were they Iranians?"

"Yes," said Chiun.

"No," Lamar Booe gasped.

"He is clearly delirious," Chiun said. "They were Persians. "

"I meant ... Sluggard," Booe gasped.

"Sluggard? An Iranian?" Remo asked.

"I believe he is trying to learn if the Sluggard is dead. Is that correct, boy?" Chiun asked.

Lamar Booe nodded weakly. His face was drained of color.

"No, he got away," Remo told him.

"Too . . . damn . . . bad. "

"What are you saying?" Remo demanded.

"He ... got me ... into this," Lamar Booe said in a pain-blurred voice.

"This what?"

"Crusade."

"What about his crusade? What does that have to do with anything?" Remo asked.

Lamar Booe shook his head wearily. No words came.

"He means 'crusade' in the old sense. A holy war," Chiun intoned. "Is that not so?"

Lamar Booe nodded. "I went over with ... first wave. We were ... massacred. Iranians. We had no ... chance. They let me come back only ... if I led them to ... Sluggard. Said I'd be set ... free. They lied. Everyone lied. I only wanted . . . something to believe in."

"A Crusade?" Remo asked. "For what?"

"Nail."

"Must be a hell of a nail," Remo put in.

"From ... the Cross. Sluggard said ... nail from Crucifixion. Iranians have it. A rug seller uses it to hold up ... picture of Ayatollah. Sluggard said it was ... monstrous blasphemy. Our task was to ... liberate nail. "

"A nail?" Remo repeated, puzzled.

"Whites have launched their holy wars over lesser trifles," Chiun said disdainfully.

"The Holy Nail," Lamar Booe said, his words stronger now. "I carried the banner. We were going to sweep over them, shouting hosannas, until we reached Tehran. Nothing could stop us. We were the Knights of the Lord. "

"Who is this carpet seller?" demanded Chiun.

"Masood . . . something."

"When did this happen?" Remo asked. "Weeks-weeks ago. Seems like years." And under his breath, Lamar Booe of Sapulpa, Oklahoma, began to chant.

"Marq bar Sluggard! Marq bar Sluggard!" Suddenly the light in Lamar Booe's eyes flared up in pain. Then it died like a dwindling star.

"He's gone," Remo said, closing the boy's eyes with his fingers. He turned to Chiun. "All this over a nail," he said, looking at the bodies scattered about the quadrangle of the Eldon Sluggard World Ministries.

"No," said Chiun. "It is never over the things they claim. The nail is merely the excuse. This Sluggard wants more."

"Such as?"

"In the old Crusades, they marched on Jerusalem, claiming that it was a holy place being defiled by Moslems. But in truth, they lusted after the wealth of the lands surrounding Jerusalem. Calling it holy was a way to manipulate the gullible. Like this boy. Like such as you who do not outgrow their childhood superstitions."

"We can argue religion later. What do we do now?"

"We follow this Sluggard. It is time to wring some truth from his oily lips."

Remo looked over toward the Wilmington River. "He's long gone."

"I see a small boat. We will take that. Eventually we will come upon his ship. When we do, we will find the place of his camp."

They found the Mary Magdalene docked nearly ten miles downriver. It was deserted. Remo sent the speedboat up onto the muddy riverbank, not bothering to tie it up. They jumped off and followed a gravel path into a moss-draped forest. In a clearing, they found it.

But the Christian Campground was deserted.

"They took off awfully quick. But in what?" Remo looked at the dirt. There were no conspicuous vehicle tracks. Certainly not enough to cart away the thousands of teenage volunteers that had been shipped here.

Chiun pointed out the imprints of many footsteps. They followed them back to the river.

Out on the water there was little traffic. A sloop tacked into the wind. A trawler crossed its wake. Out on the Atlantic a huge black ship moved slowly. Its long low lines and tall white superstructure told Remo that it was an oil tanker. He dismissed it from consideration.

"Now what?" he asked Chiun.

"We go to Persia. Where Smith should have sent us in the first place."

"You think that's where they went?"

"There is no question. Look around you. What do you see?"

"Looks like boot camp. Those long buildings are barracks. That's an obstacle course. Probably a firing range somewhere too."

"Let us find a telephone. I must call Smith."

"You? I thought you were mad at him."

"Mad enough to tell him I told him so," Chiun said firmly.

"Told him what?"

"I spoke with Smith the other day, when I first suspected the true nature of Sluggard's Crusade. Smith dismissed my theory. Now we have proof."

"Oh, really?" Remo said skeptically. "You knew it all along? I'll have to hear that from Smith himself, if you don't mind."

"Then follow me, O ye of little faith," said Chiun, leading the way.

The long low buildings were indeed barracks. They were filled with empty rumpled cots. But no telephones. Another building housed target-shooting stations. Cardboard cutouts of Middle Eastern terrorists and mullahs in white turbans stood in long rows. They were riddled. The walls behind them were riddled. Even the ceiling was punctured by bullet holes.

Walking through the obstacle course, Remo remarked, "Reminds me of Camp Pendleton."

One building proved to be a headquarters. In a map-covered office, Remo found a telephone. He put in a call to Smith.

"Smitty? Remo. Yeah, it's been a few days. We've been busy. But we got results. You might find them hard to accept, but here it is. Ready for this? Sluggard's launching a Crusade. Yeah, that kind of a Crusade. It's over a nail, believe it or not. Supposed to be from the Crucifixion."

Remo found Chiun tugging on his wrist. "What? Hold it a sec, Smith. What is it?" Remo asked Chiun.

"Ask him if he believes me now."

"Right. Smitty, did Chiun brief you on this before? Oh, he did." Remo turned to Chiun. "You were right, Little Father. I apologize for not believing you."

"Does Smith apologize? That is what I wish to know."

"Smith, Chiun wants to know if you're going to apologize for not believing him."

Remo listened. Finally he told Chiun, "Yes, he apologizes."

"Not good enough. I want it in writing."

"Later," Remo said, waving Chiun off. "We have to deal with this situation first. "

Swiftly Remo related the events of the day, the attack on Sluggard's headquarters, and the departure from the Christian Campground of several thousand hotheaded teenage volunteers.

Remo finished with a growled, "They disappeared into thin air."

"They did not," Chiun put in. "They were on the big boat. "

"What big boat?" Remo wanted to know.

"The big black boat. I saw you watching it."

"The oil tanker? Impossible."

"You are very confident for a person who has just apologized far his earlier lack of faith in my awesome powers of deduction."

Remo sighed. "Chiun says they got away on an oil tanker. Feed that to your computers, Smitty."

At Folcroft Sanitarium, Harold W. Smith called up his computer. It was preposterous. The very idea of a modern Crusade against Iran. But Remo had described the so-called Christian Campground. And it fit reports Smith had been tracking of other parents whose children never returned from Sluggard's Christian retreat. "Did you get the name of the ship?" he asked into the phone.

"Afraid not," said Remo.

"Yes," came Chiun's squeaky voice.

"What is it?" Smith asked.

Chiun's voice came thinly. "The Seaworthy Gargantuan."

"Thank you," Smith said as he began inputting the name. Remo passed along Smith's thanks. Chiun's huffy reply was inaudible.

Smith read the file aloud when it came up. "The Seaworthy Gargantuan is owned by the Mammoth Oil and Shale Recovery Corporation of McAllen, Texas. They're big. Or they were before the Texas oil collapse. Hmmmm. What is this?" he muttered. A flag light was blinking. Smith hit a key.

Up came a file on a ship registered to the same firm, the Seawise Behemoth.

"Listen to this, Remo," Smith said excitedly. "The Seaworthy Gargantuan is a sister ship to the tanker that was seized by the Iranians over a week ago, the Seawise Behemoth. According to my sources, the Iranians claim it was on some kind of espionage mission and they are holding it until they get reparations. We assumed it was another of their strange political games, but I'm beginning to see a pattern, aren't you? Remo? Remo?"

"What?" Remo said. "Sorry, Smith. I was looking at this wall map."

"Please pay attention. This is important."

"So is this. You ever hear of the Pershing Gulf?"

"Persian. Look closer."

"I am and I see the Pershing Gulf. And next to it the Kingdom of Sluggard. Where Iraq should be is Victorialand. And I think Eldon Island is what normal people call Kharg Island, where the Iranians ship out a lot of their oil."

"My God. Then it's true."

"It's crazy, is what it is," Remo muttered, "I see a lot of red arrows and lines on the coast. They look like lines of attack. This circle must be a beachhead. Could be where they expect to land. It's just up from the Strait of Griselda. Who the hell is Griselda, I wonder?"

"Obviously that is the Strait of Hormuz. I think the best course of action is for you and Chiun to be there to meet them on the beach."

"Why bother?" Remo asked. "The way I see it, we don't have a downside. If the Iranians wipe out Sluggard, all the better. If it goes the other way, I'm not going to cry over a few less Revolutionary Guards."

"Have you forgotten the terrorist attacks that came in the wake of Sluggard's first move-for obviously that is what has triggered this entire crisis. Another attack means more terror for us. And Sluggard's actions are in violation of the Neutrality Act forbidding U.S. citizens from making war on a foreign power. His Crusaders are innocent dupes. Your job, Remo is to prevent Sluggard from attacking Iran and to neutralize his army. Failing that, you are to eliminate Sluggard and somehow convince the Iranians that he is not acting on behalf of the United States, either officially or unofficially."

"Convincing the Iranians will have to be Chiun's department," Remo said reluctantly. "All right, we're on. Got any idea how you're going to get us there?"

"Er, no," Smith admitted hesitantly. "Actually, this could be difficult."

"Well, at least Chiun will be happy. He's getting what he wants."

"And what is that?" Chiun asked distantly.

"Smith says we're going to Iran."

"Persia! Ah, I can taste the tender melons now."

"And I can smell the blood," Remo said. "Any ideas about how to get us there?" he asked Chiun. "Smith says he's stumped."

"Why, it is simple. As Masters of Sinanju, we will use our diplomatic impunity."

Smith, hearing Chiun's words, protested, "But I can't arrange diplomatic immunity for you and Chiun. We're in a state of low-intensity war with Iran."

"Chiun didn't say 'immunity.' He said 'impunity.' "

"What does that mean?" Smith asked.

"It means," Remo returned, "that I wouldn't want to be the Iranian who tries to get in Chiun's way."

Chapter 22

The supertanker Seaworthy Gargantuan plowed the waves under a full moon.

Reverend-General Eldon Sluggard paced the afterdeck. "Where is that bitch?" he raged.

Finally Victoria Hoar came down the deck, her high heels clicking. Her long hair danced behind her like a horse's tail.

"Ah been askin' for you," he said. "Ah been tryin' to talk sense to the captain, but he won't turn this scow around."

"Not possible," Victoria Hoar said simply. "We're on course for Iran."

"Ah-ran!" Reverend-General Sluggard screeched. "Ah ain't goin' to raghead land."

"Yes, you are. It's your job to keep up the morale of your Cross Crusaders."

"Who's Reverend-General around here anyway?"

"You. But this ship is sailing under my orders."

"It is? I thought you said your daddy ran this oil company. Well, Ah want to talk with him."

"You'd need a Ouija board. He died. Heart attack. When they plugged up the best well he ever drilled down in Hidalgo County, Texas, it killed him. I run the company now. "

"Ah smell a setup. You had this tub waiting all along."

"I didn't expect to move this soon, but here we are."

"Ah can't go to Ah-ran. You know what they'll do to me if Ah'm taken prisoner."

"Don't get taken prisoner," Victoria Hoar said.

Reverend-General Eldon Sluggard turned red. "You been playin' me right along, ain't you? Like an old fiddle. "

"More like a saxophone. And you hit every note. Now, let me suggest you start practicing for when you hit the beach."

"When mah Cross Crusaders hit the beach, you mean."

"When they hit the beach under your charge. I didn't want to tell you before this, but remember when I said I'd figured out what had gone wrong the first time? That last Crusade didn't have a truly inspiring leader. This time, it will. You."

"No damn way."

"I'd put that silver-tongued voice of yours to work," Victoria Hoar went on, indifferent to Reverend-General Sluggard's rantings. "Because you're going to be the first to hit the beach, like it or not. And you'd better have a well-motivated force backing you up, or you're going to be out there all alone."

The thought settled onto Reverend-General Sluggard's beefy face.

"If Ah could swim . . ." he said gratingly.

"But you can't," returned Victoria Hoar, turning on her heel and stalking off.

"Bitch," called Reverend-General Eldon Sluggard. And this time he did not say it under his breath.

A mocking laugh floated back to him.

Chapter 23

General Adnan Mefki entered the Grand Ayatollah's private garden, his face set.

The Grand Ayatollah looked up from his raisin-sweetened tea and signed for the general to speak. The soft winds coming down off the Elburz Mountains sent the baskets of red roses rippling, filling the air with their perfumy sweetness.

"I have word that a delegation from the House of Sinanju desires an audience with your holiness."

"I know of no such place," the Grand Ayatollah said distantly.

"Sinanju is a village in North Korea, Imam, the seat of a powerful sect of assassins. They serviced the former shahs and before them, the caliphs of old Persia. I have known of this house all my life. Many believed them extinct."

"I will not treat with any emissary who consorted with the infidel shahs. Do not allow them to enter this country. "

"I am afraid it is too late. They are in Tehran. I do not know how. The ways of Sinanju are most mysterious. But they have sent word that they will be here within the hour and they expect an audience."

"And who are they to make demands of us?" asked the Grand Ayatollah.

The general paused, his expression dumbfounded. Although no Master of Sinanju had set foot in Iran in generations, some years ago the latest Master of Sinanju had done a kindness for the last shah. Sinanju could not be denied.

"They," the general said at last, as if it explained everything, "are Sinanju."

And in the distance, the melting ice of the Elburz Mountains cracked like a thunderclap.

The Master of Sinanju strolled down the center of Lalehzar Street. His carriage was straight. His face lifted proudly.

"See how the crowds part for us here?" Chiun said loftily. "The past service rendered by my ancestors has not been forgotten. "

"No offense, Little father," Remo said, "but I think it was those two Revolutionary Guards you dismembered back there that did the trick."

"Hoodlums," said Chiun. "Ruffians. Obviously uneducated, for they did not recognize me by sight."

"The border guards were the same way. Every checkpoint from here to Pakistan was full of them. Between the two of us, they're going to have to start a new recruitment drive to replenish the ranks. If you ask me, no one bothered to tell them about Sinanju's contributions to Persian culture."

"The rulers will be different. They will greet us with flowers and songs from the old days. Then we will lay Smith's cause before them and this matter will be swiftly settled. Perhaps we will offer as an added incentive to rid this worthy land of these uneducated ruffians."

"I think you'll have to depopulate Iran if you want to do that," said Remo, looking around warily. "And I don't see anything very worthy here. Look at all these destroyed buildings."

"No doubt the new leader is ridding his capital of these unsightly cereal-box buildings. I understand the new leader believes in the old ways."

"Yeah, in stagnation and economic ruin. This place is a dump. And from the looks of things, I'd say Iraq had more to do with the urban renewal than Iran."

"Iraq, too, was once a worthy place. Perhaps we shall visit it next. Ah," cooed Chiun. noticing a sidewalk vendor. "A melon seller. Come, come, Remo, I have waited all my life to break a good Persian melon with you."

"Should we?"

"We have plenty of time before the Sluggard's ship arrives, and our business with the Persian rulers will be swiftly completed."

Chiun floated over to the melon seller's stall. The rough-skinned melons were piled in old crates on the sidewalk. Chiun examined several of them critically, sometimes shaking them close to his ear.

"Find a good one?" Remo asked patiently.

"These are not ripe. It may be earlier in the season than I thought. Ah, here is a choice one. Pay the man, Remo."

Remo forked over an American twenty-dollar bill. He was not given change.

The Master of Sinanju grasped the melon in both hands. His long-nailed thumbs sank into the skin like hypodermics.

"Better not drop it," Remo cautioned. "That's a twenty-dollar melon."

Chiun separated his hands. With a soft splitting sound, the melon fell into exact halves into his hands. He offered Remo one.

Remo looked at the exposed yellow meat.

"It's all mushy inside," he complained.

"Spoiled." Chiun looked. And saw that it was so. Angrily he took the melon back to the proprietor. Remo watched as a heated exchange in Farsi ensued. It ended with Chiun going through all the melons, splitting them in half, and dropping them in the gutter, where they splashed in their overripeness. The melon seller was screaming and tearing at his hair.

When Chiun returned to Remo's side, he said, "Recover your money. He has no good melons."

"Must be a ripoff artist," Remo said, not bothering to go after his twenty dollars. It was out of Smith's pocket anyway.

They walked until they came to a pistachio vendor. Chiun's sullen face lit up.

"The pistachios look good," he said brightly. But when he examined the tall paper bags filled to the brim, he saw that they were small, wizened nuts, not the fat green ones his ancestors had described.

His face darkening, Chiun resumed his stride.

"This place has fallen upon evil days," he muttered. "The melons are bad and the pistachios are not worth the trouble it took to harvest them. What could have happened?"

"They happened," said Remo, jerking a thumb at a pair of passing white-turbaned mullahs. They stalked down the street in their camel-hair cloaks like buzzards with folded wings.

At the Iranian Parliament building, General Mefki greeted the Master of Sinanju with a proper bow. Not a full bow, but a respectful one, Chiun noted.

"We will see your leader now," Chiun told him.

"A thousand pardons," returned the general, his face shiny with sweat. "But the Grand Ayatollah has declined to see you. I have tried to reason with him, but-"

The general's words stopped at the sight of the change in the Master of Sinanju's face. It was stormy, the eyes afire.

"I've seen that expression before," Remo said in English. "I'd drag your High Ayatollah out by the beard if I were you."

"Come with me," said the general, who suddenly feared a firing squad less than he did the fire in the tiny Korean's eyes.

The Grand Ayatollah looked up sharply from his prayer rug on the floor. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the pair whom the general had escorted into his private chamber of meditation.

"In the name of Allah the Compassionate, the Merciful," he mumbled.

"What is this he mutters?" Chiun asked.

"The Ayatollah is very pious," said General Mefki. "He asks for Allah's guidance at the beginning of all meetings."

"He'd better pray this one goes right," Remo said. The general looked at him as if suddenly placing the accent. "American?" he asked.

"Yes," said Remo.

"No," said Chiun. "He is Sinanju. He used to be American. "

"But you work for America now?"

This exchange obviously puzzled the Grand Ayatollah, who did not speak English. He asked a question of the general.

Chiun answered it, in perfect Farsi.

"I am Chiun, reigning Master of Sinanju. My ancestors were once proud to have served the Peacock Throne." The Grand Ayatollah took a sip of his tea. He spat at Chiun's feet in a gesture of contempt. In Farsi he intoned, "The shah was a wounded serpent, as were all who came before him. If you served his ilk, that makes you a serpent's lackey."

Chiun's face trembled, and Remo wondered if he should get between Chiun and the Grand Ayatollah. Then he recalled Smith's instructions.

"Remember, Smith wants us to avoid a war here," he whispered.

Chiun hesitated. His face went flat.

"I come as an emissary of the United States," Chiun said quietly, evenly. And he was surprised to see the Ayatollah's face betray a flicker of fear.

"He fears America, not Sinanju," Chiun whispered to Remo.

"Obviously he doesn't know Sinanju from Shinola," Remo whispered back. "Keep that in mind."

"A force of American renegades has set sail for these shores," Chiun went on. "These people are hosts of a man named Sluggard. It is not the wish of the American emperor that these forces inflict harm upon Persia. Nor is it America's wish that these Americans, except possibly their leader, come to harm here. Allow us to arrest our renegades; and the one who has caused you so much trouble, Sluggard, will be turned over to you."

"Hey, I don't think that's a good idea, Chiun," Remo complained when he got the translation. "Sluggard may be bad, but he's still an American. I can't see turning him over to these turban-winders."

"Hush," said Chiun. He turned to the Grand Ayatollah. "Does the Imam agree?"

The Grand Ayatollah said nothing. He took another sip of tea. This time he swallowed it.

General Mefki spoke up then.

"I believe I can assure you that our forces will not engage these Americans, if the House of Sinanju will turn them away."

"Done," said Chiun.

"I will not speak for the Pasdaran," said the Grand Ayatollah at last. "They will do what they will do. It is in Allah's hands."

Chiun's brow furrowed.

"What does that mean?" Remo asked General Mefki after he had translated.

"It is their way of avoiding responsibility," he replied. "The clerics can no longer control the Revolutionary Guards they have inflicted upon this country, but they dare not admit it."

"Tell him," Remo said, gesturing toward the Grand Ayatollah, "that if his Guards cross us, we will crush their bones to powder."

General Mefki translated Remo's words.

The Grand Ayatollah's face betrayed true fear then. And Chiun was so shocked he said nothing.

Finally the Grand Ayatollah began muttering inaudibly.

"We will sink the American fleet in the Gulf. We will punish the Great Satan, here and on its very shores."

"He's bluffing," General Mefki explained in English. "They are all like that, revenge-crazed. He is old and helpless and knows it. The mullahs have broken the back of this once-proud nation and it is only a matter of time before the people rise up against them. Let me suggest we end this audience and that you go do what you must. You have my pledge of noninterference. It is all you can hope for here."

Chiun, his face unhappy, strode up to the Grand Ayatollah and, standing almost in his face, bowed low over the man's samovar and piles of cakes.

"May Allah maintain your shadow," he said, and he straightened. "We go now to accomplish our mission." The Grand Ayatollah waved him away with a feeble gesture.

Outside, on the Parliament steps, Remo asked Chiun, "Why did you bow to that old fart?"

"It was a gesture of respect."

"You respected him?"

Chiun shrugged. "Only long enough to spit into his tea. "

And while Remo was laughing, Chiun turned to General Mefki.

"I seek a carpet merchant named Masood. Do you know of such a man?"

"Yes. Two streets north, and on the right. But do you not have to reach the landing place of these renegades?"

"There is time," said Chiun. "Come, Remo."

As they walked past the blue-tiled mosques, the wailing of the muezzin calling the faithful to afternoon prayers filling the dusty air, Remo ventured, "I know what's next. "

"Oh?"

"Yep. We're going after the nail. You figure if we present it to the Crusaders, it'll take the wind out of their sails. They won't have any reason to fight."

"Yes, that too."

"Too?"

"After I show you the proper way to purchase a Persian carpet," said Chiun.

The Master of Sinanju strode into the store of the rug merchant Masood Attai.

"I have many rugs, as you can see," Masood Attai said, welcoming them.

"I wish to show my son the proper way to buy a fine carpet," said Chiun. "Observe, Remo." He went over to a stack of rugs nearly three feet tall.

"To detect a rotted warp, you do like so," he said. Taking a corner in both hands, he jerked suddenly. The nap went snap-pop!

"I get it," Remo said. "That sound means it's solid. Right?"

"This warp is rotted!" exclaimed Chiun, flaring at the rug merchant.'

"You pulled too hard," Masood Attai shot back. "Try this," he said, pulling down a prayer rug hanging on the wall. "This is a fine one," he said, holding it up with difficulty, for it was heavy.

Chiun took it as if it were a mere handkerchief. He examined the nap carefully. He spat on the nap and sniffed the spot.

"Bleached," he said distastefully.

"All moderns are bleached," Masood returned. Chiun let the rug drop to the floor.

"I do not wish to buy a donkey bag, but a fine Persian carpet. Show me your best."

"Ah," said Masood Attai. He went through a curtain in the rear of the shop and returned lugging a heavy blue rug.

"It is a Ladik. It is very fine. Note the repeating tulips. And for you, only five thousand rials," said Masood Attai as he spread it upon the floor.

While Chiun knelt to examine it, Remo's eyes searched the shop. He saw the picture of the Ayatollah Khomeini, draped in black. A heavy nail head gleamed dully above it. The portrait hung by a line of frayed string.

Remo's attention drifted back to the Master of Sinanju. Chiun was clucking as he examined the rug's coloring. "Is this your best?" he asked. "The colors are dull. The rug looks ... dead."

Masood Attai clapped his old hands. "You are truly a master! I should have recognized this from the start. This is my best rug, but like all moderns, it is woven of tabachi, slaughterhouse wool. You are correct that it lacks life. Truly you know rugs. You buy?"

"No!" spat Chiun, rising.

"There is no finer rug woven in this century than that one. What you seek, you must seek from a private collector or a museum. Not from one such as I."

"I am insulted."

"I am sorry. The times have changed."

"You can atone for your insult," suggested Chiun.

"How?"

"That nail. I wish to own it."

Masood Attai looked at the nail suspending the Ayatollah Khomeini's portrait. He spread his hands helplessly.

"I cannot. For I have no other nail. They are scarce now. "

"I promise to replace it with a nail you will never lose."

Masood Attai considered. Finally he said, "Done." And the Master of Sinanju went over to the portrait and lifted it off the nail. He extracted the nail with two delicate fingers. The wooden wall screeched as the nail came out. He tossed the nail to Remo, who caught it with both hands.

Then the Master of Sinanju set the portrait in its proper place with one hand and sent the forefinger of the other hand between the portrait's eyes.

When he withdrew it, the portrait hung perfectly.

Masood Attai screeched. He howled. He swore before Allah that this was a desecration.

"Next time, do not try to sell me a rug with a rotted warp," Chiun called back.

Out on the street, Remo said, "I guess things aren't like they were in the old days."

"I should have known it," Chiun said. "The Moslems have ruined this place."

"I thought Persia was always a Moslem land."

"No. The Arabs ruined it when they took over, bringing their ridiculous religion with them. In truth, Sinanju stopped working for Persia after the great conversion. It is sad. It will pain me to write of this experience in my scrolls."

"Not as much as this will pain you," Remo said slowly. He held up the nail. "Look."

Chiun took the heavy nail. It was almost a spike. It was rusty and dirt-encrusted, but along one flat side of the nail was worn lettering.

It read: Made in Japan.

Chapter 24

Reverend-General Eldon Sluggard descended into the bowels of the Seaworthy Gargantuan to address his mighty host. They had passed through the Strait of Hormuz, soon, he hoped, to be rechristened the Strait of Griselda after that other ball-buster, his ex-wife.

Sluggard's heart pounded as he entered the long cargo area. Where viscous brown crude usually sloshed, phalanxes of soldiers in cross-embroidered tunics stood waiting. They were ready. Eldon Sluggard could see it in their feverish eyes.

Reverend-General Sluggard was ready too. He wore two pistols strapped, cowboy style, on his hips. An M16 hung from his shoulder. There were throwing daggers in each boot. And of course his Civil-War-vintage saber, which he was getting used to wearing. He hadn't tripped over it in almost an hour. The sword would be his last line of defense. If it looked like he was going to be captured, he was going to set it hilt-down in the sand and belly-flop onto it. Anything so those ragheads didn't take him alive.

"Ten-hut!" he shouted.

The Paladins of the Lord came to attention. And Reverend-General Sluggard grinned expansively. His grin was as false as a gold tooth, but he knew if he didn't keep them pumped up the mullahs would have him for dinner.

"We are in the Gulf. The Pershing Gulf," he barked.

"Named after that famous American, General John 'Blackjack' Pershing."

"Hallelujah!" they exulted. "Are we ready to fight?"

"For God and glory!" their voices echoed.

They were nearly six thousand strong. They were young, irrational, and ignorant, but best of all they had an objective. The Holy Nail. Nothing could stand against them.

"We hit the beach in speedboats," said Reverend-General Sluggard. "That way we take 'em by surprise. We establish a beachhead, dig in, and start capturing the oil fields. When we've choked off their economy, we storm our way to Tehran. And the Holy Nail!"

"Hallelujah!"

"The nail is our true objective. All of you remember that the relic of our dear savior's Passion is holding up a picture of the Ayatollah-may he burn in hell."

"Burn!" cried the Hosts of the Lord. Although he had repeated it a dozen times or more, they still broke out in angry indignation every time he reminded them of the nail's fate.

All during the voyage, the Reverend-General had kept churning their emotions. He had told them about what the mullahs were going to do to their Christian family members if they got their way. He told them the story of the original Crusades. They hissed at the story of the First Crusade, which captured, but failed to hold on to Jerusalem. They cheered the story of the successful Third Crusade. They wept and vowed revenge when he told them of the Children's crusade of 1212, when European children sailed into the Holy Land and were captured and made slaves of the heathen.

By the time he had gotten to the Eighth Crusade, they were whipped into a passionate fury. And then he promised them that this would be the Last Crusade. After this, the scourge of the evil Moslems would be eradicated from the world.

"In another minute Ah'm gonna lead you all up on deck. You know what happens next."

"Victory!"

That wasn't what Eldon Sluggard had in mind, but it sounded good so he went with it.

"Yes! Victory! Victory over Islam. God has called us to a sacred mission and we're gonna accomplish it. And there's one thing I want you to know when we get out there. When all holy hell breaks loose and the bullets are flyin', you remember that bullets are part of the natural world. But you and Ah are part of the spiritual world because we are fortified with the Holy Spirit. And everyone knows that bullets can't touch the Holy Spirit. "

"Praise be to the Lord," cried the Paladins of the Lord.

"All right, Reverend-Majors, get your units together! We're going to make Holy War!"

And Reverend-General Sluggard marched topside. The Knights of the Lord followed him in double rows, marching lock-step. He had made them practice the lock-step on the voyage. It was the only military skill he knew. He didn't know beans about guns.

The Persian Gulf air was salty and cool. It was night. A low dark line off the starboard bow was the coast of Iran. It looked foreboding. Here and there lantern-rigged dhows sat on the still water like resting butterflies.

"Start lowering the boats," Reverend-General Eldon Sluggard ordered.

Remo and Chiun arrived at the place marked on the map they had taken from the Christian Campground. It was a tree-covered rise overlooking the Gulf.

"Here," proclaimed Chiun, folding up the map. He slid off the donkey Remo was leading.

"I ride the donkey on the way back," Remo muttered.

"Done," said Chiun. who expected to leave Iran by ship. They emerged from a clump of olive trees. The water hissed on the sand below.

"Is that the ship?"

Chiun's eyes narrowed. "It says Seaworthy Gargantuan. It is the name of the ship we saw departing America. "

"Okay, now what do we do? Your great plan is out, unless you think the Crusaders can't read English."

"And I suppose you have a wonderful white plan of your own?" Chiun squeaked.

"Actually not," Remo admitted worriedly. His hearing had picked up sounds, low, disturbing sounds.

Out on the water, a flotilla of speedboats was coming from all directions. They were converging on the Seaworthy Gargantuan.

"Revolutionary Guards," Remo said. "They're going for the tanker."

"And land forces too," added Chiun.

Remo turned. Coming up the road were tanks, jeeps, and armored personnel carriers. In the lead was an open jeep, and standing in the back, clutching a copy of the Koran, was the Grand Ayatollah of Iran. Behind him General Mefki's glassy-eyed head bounced. It was perched on the end of a stick.

"Looks like there's been a power struggle with the military," Remo said drily. "Guess who lost."

The vehicles slowed to a halt. The Grand Ayatollah dismounted and walked to a vantage point where he could survey the Gulf.

"Marg bar Amrika!" he shouted shaking the Koran over his head. "Let them drown in their own blood." A screaming horde of Revolutionary Guards poured out of the vehicles. They wore red headbands with revolutionary slogans written on them in white script. Out in the Gulf, the booming voice of Reverend Sluggard reverberated.

"God is on our side. Let's whip them ragheads!" he shouted.

"Smite them! Allah wills it," returned the Grand Ayatollah.

"You see?" Chiun shouted. "You see, Remo? They call upon the Supreme Creator to aid them in their ridiculous quarrel. Because they call him by different names, fools are willing to go to their deaths."

"So what do we do?"

"You despise the Iranians, do you not?"

"Yeah."

"I make a gift of them to you. I will deal with the Sluggard."

"But-" Remo began. Before he could react, Chiun was running down to the water.

"What the hell," Remo said. He doubled back on the Iranian land force. They were bunched up, exactly counter to all modern rules of close-quarters combat. And they were standing there shouting, "Down, down, USA! Down, down, USA!"

"Up yours!" Remo said, and started to work on them. On the deck of the Seaworthy Gargantuan, Reverend-General Eldon Sluggard saw the speedboats approach. "While you-all are gettin' into the water," he said, "let me speed you on your way with a few words from the Good Book." He opened his mock Bible and began to recite.

" 'Though Ah walk into the Valley of Death, Ah will fear no Ah-ranian for Ah am the meanest sonovabitch in the valley.' "

"Oh, shut up," Victoria Hoar snapped. She was suddenly beside him. "Get into one of those goddamned boats. You're supposed to be their leader, not their cheerleader. "

"Ah'm shoutin' encouragment," he protested. "Ah'll be along once they're rollin'."

Victoria Hoar reached down and pulled one of the throwing knives from Sluggard's own boot. She placed the point at his crotch and warned, "They still make eunuchs in this part of the world. You'd fit right in."

"Ah'm goin'," promised Reverend-General Sluggard. Then, from across the water, there was a sudden hush. Not even the speedboats could smother it. The hush was momentary. It was followed by a long, low sigh. Then a gasp. Then shouts of "Praise be!"

"What the hell is going on?" Victoria Hoar demanded. She looked out over the water. Her red mouth froze open.

"What the fuck?" said Reverend-General Eldon Sluggard.

For running across the water toward the Seaworthy Gargantuan was the Master of Sinanju.

He ran on top of the swells. His sandaled feet made little splashes, but other than that proof of contact with the water he appeared to be floating across the Gulf.

"I do not believe it," Victoria sputtered.

"I told you! I told you!" shouted Eldon Sluggard. "He is the devil, the very devil. He ain't human!"

As everyone watched open-mouthed, Chiun sprinted to the hull of the Seaworthy Gargantuan. He leapt upon the slippery black hull like a spider. He clung for a moment, then there came a sound like a metal punch going through sheet steel. The sound was repeated. It came again.

Sluggard leaned over the rail.

Below, he saw the old Oriental scaling the hull. With each step, Chiun jammed a finger into the hull. That was what was causing the sound. He used the resulting holes for finger and toe grips.

Eldon Sluggard jumped with each sound.

"Save me! Save me!" he wailed, ducking behind Victoria Hoar. He got down on his knees and blubbered.

"A miracle!" the Paladins of the Lord cried. "It's a sign from Heaven!" They lined the rails to watch, their weapons forgotten.

Chiun came over the rail. His sandals were not even wet.

The Knights of the Lord gathered around him. They sought to touch his robe. They asked for his blessing. The Master of Sinanju evaded their hands even though he was swiftly surrounded. Fingers reached for the hem of his kimono sleeves and it was as if the cloth was insubstantial. Some hands reached out to touch his hands and withdrew, stinging. They never saw the swift, remonstrating blows that made their finger bones go numb.

"I am Chiun."

"Chiun. Great Chiun!" they cried. They shouted his name to the heavens.

Chiun, taken aback, allowed his features to soften. "Did you say 'great'?" he asked.

"Great Chiun, the messenger of the Lord!" they called. Chiun smiled. Proper acclaim. This was something new. He raised his open hands as if in blessing.

"I call upon you to cease your war-making," he said.

"It will be done, O Chiun."

"Great Chiun," the Master of Sinanju corrected.

"We have to stop this," Victoria hissed in Sluggard's ear. "He's ruining our whole plan."

"Your whole plan. And I don't want any part of that devil. "

"I have an idea. Start reading."

Eldon Sluggard opened his Bible to a random page. " 'Beware false idols,' " he sang out. " 'For the devil has taken human form to tempt the guillible.' "

He was ignored.

Suddenly Victoria wrenched the book from Sluggard's hands. She presented it to the crowd around Chiun, showing the blank white pages.

"Behold!" she cried. "The pages are blank. "The Lord is speaking through his true messenger. It's a miracle!"

"So is walking on water," someone pointed out.

"That's been done before," said Victoria. "This is new. "

"Is it truly a miracle?" someone asked. The question was addressed respectfully to the Great Chiun.

"It is a fraud," Chiun replied. "Now I command you to throw away your unnecessary weapons."

His heart sinking, Reverend-General Sluggard watched as the rifles and bayonets and grenades went overboard. "We're dead," Victoria Hoar said.

"Not me," said Eldon Sluggard. "I'm outta here!" He started to belly over the rail.

"Don't be a fool. Look at those speedboats out there."

"You know that old sayin', better the devil you know than the devil you don't?"

"Yes."

"It don't apply here," said Reverend-General Eldon Sluggard just before he went over the rail. It was a long fall. He hit the water with a huge splash. Sluggard bobbed up on his stomach, facedown, his empty scabbard floating beside him.

A speedboat filled with Revolutionary Guards puttered up and he was pulled from the water. The victorious cries from below indicated that the Iranians recognized the face of their hated enemy Reverend Eldon Sluggard. The speedboat dug in and raced for shore.

On the shore, Remo had routed the Iranians. It was a disappointment. He had hoped to inflict more damage. But as soon as the first few fell with assorted internal injuries, the others turned tail and ran. Remo ran after them. He kicked whirling tires flat. He popped the treads of the decrepit tanks. But the soldiers he pulled out of the ruined vehicles were mostly boys. Few of them looked older than thirteen. Remo hadn't the heart to kill any of them. He sent them on their way with solid kicks to the seats of their khaki pants.

Disgusted, he returned to shore.

On a little hillock, the Grand Ayatollah was shouting imprecations at the Gulf. His bony fists shook with rage. His beard collected spittle from his sphincterlike mouth.

Remo came up from behind and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hi! Remember me?"

The Grand Ayatollah whirled. His eyes registered shock, then fear as he realized he was alone and with whom.

"Not so brave now?" Remo asked, knowing that the man did not understand English.

"Down, down, USA!" the mullah shouted suddenly, and started off. Remo stepped on the hem of his camelhair robe. The Grand Ayatollah of the Islamic Republic of Iran fell to the ground.

"You know, people said a lot of bad things about the Shah, but you jerks are the pits," Remo said. "I ought to snap your scrawny neck, but my orders are to avoid making this crisis worse than it is."

"Down, down, USA!" the Grand Ayatollah spat. It seemed to be the only English he knew or understood.

"Somewhere I read that the reason you people started this revolution was that the Shah had some of your mullahs' turbans pulled off when they started throwing their weight around. You've caused the world a lot of pain over a damned length of cloth."

And placing a foot on the Grand Ayatollah's heaving chest, Remo took one end of his turban and pulled. The pile of cloth unwound in a twinkling. Remo threw it aside.

"Chiun tells me that was the second worst thing you can do to one of you mullahs. The first is to shave off your beards. Too bad I didn't bring my scissors."

The Grand Ayatollah spat on Remo's loafers.

"Well, what the hell," Remo said. "Anything worth doing is worth doing thoroughly." And he got down on the Grand Ayatollah's chest. He started plucking at the man's beard. With each pluck the Grand Ayatollah howled.

When Remo finally stood up, the Grand Ayatollah was as clean-shaven as a baby's behind.

The Grand Ayatollah, tears erupting from his eyes, screamed his wrath at Remo.

"I don't know what you're saying, pal, but I'm sure the proper response is, 'That's the biz, sweetheart.' " Remo walked away grinning.

Chapter 25

Remo Williams saw that the Gulf was quiet. Chiun was standing in the forecastle of the Seaworthy Gargantuan, hands tucked into his sleeves. He was addressing Sluggard's disarmed forces. Remo couldn't hear what Chiun was saying, but he noticed that the speedboats of the Revolutionary Guards were standing off the tanker, as if uncertain what to do.

Remo dived into the water and sought them out. He crippled their idling propellers with snapping blows of his hands and then punctured the hulls from below.

The boats sank swiftly. Underwater, Remo reached out for the floundering Revolutionary Guards and pulled them under. He jabbed them in critical areas of the spine, not enough to paralyze them, but to ruin their coordination. If some didn't make it to shore, Remo reasoned, it was not his fault. Just the natural expression of the law of survival of the fittest.

Remo used Chiun's finger holes in the side of Seaworthy Gargantuan to reach the deck.

Chiun observed Remo's sopping clothes disdainfully. "This is my son," he told the crowd. "Remo." Immediately the Crusaders fell to their knees in supplication.

"The son of the Great Chiun!" they cried. "Great Remo. "

"He is not great. He is adequate."

"Adequate Remo," they exulted. "Praise be to Adequate Remo."

Chiun turned to Remo.

"Now do you understand?" he whispered. "This is how these things begin. These people will go back to their homes and tell of Chiun the Great and the Adequate Remo. They will start churches. They will make up rules to keep their followers in line, and in a mere three or four centuries, we will be considered deities ourselves."

Remo saw the worshipful gazes being directed at him. They reminded him of the expression on his own face when he was with Reverend Sluggard's ministry. Their sheeplike acceptance disgusted him.

"You've made your point," Remo said quietly. "It is ridiculous. It is wrong."

"I said you made your point," Remo repeated testily.

"Let us give tribute to the Great Chiun." This from a kneeling member of the crowd.

"We have had enough of your tribute," Chiun began to say.

But when the coins and paper money, not to mention whole wallets, began falling at his sandaled feet, Chiun whispered to Remo, "Do not just stand there. Help me collect my rightful tribute from these proper worshipers of perfection."

"You can't take money from them under false pretenses, Little Father," Remo said. "It's wrong."

"And it is a long boat ride home. We must keep these cretins in line. And what better way to do it than this? Besides, if they are so deluded that they take me for a higher being, how is that my mistake?"

"Tell you what, you take care of this. I'll handle Sluggard and Victoria. Where are they?"

"I do not know," Chiun said, tearing open a fat wallet. He threw the identification cards and the credit cards overboard and stuffed the money into a secret pocket in his kimono.

"The Iranians got Reverend Sluggard," said a pimple-faced Crusader. He pointed toward the coastline.

A speedboat had slowed in the water. Revolutionary Guards were wading ashore. They carried the limp bloated body of Reverend Eldon Sluggard like a fat pig being hoisted to a feast.

Remo's first impulse was to go after Sluggard. He hesitated at the rail. Then he said, "Screw him. He's not worth it. That just leaves Victoria."

Remo searched the ship. He found Victoria Hoar on the captain's bridge, high in the white superstructure. Victoria was giving orders to the captain.

"You listen to me. We've got to dump these people. They're all witnesses to the company's involvement. Get us out to the open sea, and we'll herd them into a flood-control compartment and let the water in. We can dump the bodies on the way home."

"Not a very Christian attitude," Remo said coolly. Victoria Hoar turned suddenly. Remo was leaning across the doorjamb. He stood on one leg, the other crossed over it. His bare arms were folded.

"Remo!"

"Why don't you excuse us," Remo told the captain.

"You are not the master of this vessel," the captain protested.

Remo changed the captain's mind. He knocked out a window and dangled him out of it. When he felt the captain secure a handhold, he let go. The captain scrambled down the superstructure like a frightened monkey. "Sluggard's in Iranian hands," Remo said quietly.

"For him that's a fate worse than death. But he deserved it, the idiot."

"I gather from what I overheard that you're the real brain behind this. Right?"

Victoria Hoar dug out a cigarette and lit it. She exhaled smoke slowly.

"Yes. He hadn't the brains of a gnat. But he had a gift and I knew how to control him. I suppose you have a lot of obvious questions."

"Yeah. "

"You know it wasn't over the nail," she went on, nervously pacing the bridge. "That was just a device. I spotted the nail on a trip to Tehran. It's a fake. Even Sluggard didn't believe it was the true nail. I was desperate to get my company back in the black. When I first saw the nail, the whole scheme came to me in a flash. Divine inspiration, you might say. All I needed was the right front man. Sluggard was my first choice. He was perfect."

"I know. Chiun has the nail. It says 'Made in Japan' on it."

Victoria Hoar blew out a little laugh with her smoke. "It could have worked. With enough Crusaders, we could have gained control of the oil fields. The damned war had sapped Iran of fighting men so badly, they were an easy mark. Believe it or not, we could have taken over. If not this time, then next."

"Maybe. But not without breaking a lot of eggs."

"Excuse me?"

"Your cannon fodder. You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs."

Victoria Hoar shrugged. "I didn't invent testosterone. I just know how to harness it. So what's next? Do you surrender me to the authorities?"

"We don't work that way."

"And who's we?"

"The fact that you know that there is a 'we' makes you a liability."

Victoria Hoar blinked. She looked at Remo's face. It was hard. The mouth, unsmiling, looked cruel. Even the eyes, which back in Thunderbolt had been so guileless, were now deep and pitiless. He was a different Remo now. But he was still a man. And all men respond to one thing. She stubbed out her cigarette and stepped up to him. She tugged at his belt buckle, a friendly, playful tug.

"You won't kill me," she breathed.

"Why not?" Remo said, looking her in the eyes. Her hands were straying toward his zipper. Her breath, once sweet, smelled of tobacco smoke. Remo hadn't known she was a smoker.

"Because I know you. You wouldn't kill a lady."

Her mouth parted. Her lips rose to meet his. Remo felt them brush his own. Her tongue touched his lightly, playfully.

"You're right," Remo said, drawing back. "I wouldn't kill a lady."

Victoria Hoar smiled. She had judged him right. Her fingers started to pull down his zipper.

"For a while I was doubting myself," Remo said quietly. "I thought my work, the things I had to do, were wrong. But now I see a greater wrong. Not doing my job."

Remo reached up to brush a lock of hair back from her smooth white neck, as if to kiss it. But instead of his lips, Victoria Hoar felt his forefinger and thumb bear down on her carotid artery. His fingers felt strong. She shivered with the anticipation of their caress. But no caress was coming. The fingers stayed firm and Victoria Hoar felt the darkness edging in at the periphery of her vision. And she knew that she would never feel Remo's caress-or any man's caress-ever again.

"Better that I take care of the likes of you and Sluggard than sit on my hands while you screw up the world."

"But you said-" Victoria started to say.

"You're no lady," Remo said, clamping hard. Victoria Hoar made a clumsy pile of arms and legs on the bridge floor. There was nothing sexy about her anymore.

Remo walked away without a backward glance. Reverend Eldon Sluggard woke up painfully. It was dark. His hands hit something hard and metallic and he said, "ouch!"

He pulled himself up on one elbow and looked around.

He recognized that he was lying on the floor of an armored personnel carrier. It was like being inside one of the armored cars that carried donations to his bank, except instead of money he was surrounded by evilly grinning Iranians.

Their too-white teeth were directed at him. Reverend Sluggard felt for his sidearm holsters. They were empty. His scabbard was full of seawater, but that was all. He pulled himself up into a seated position. He grinned back.

"Hi!" he said. He reached for his left boot, where there was a throwing dagger. But it was empty too. Then he remembered that the bitch had it.

That still left the right boot. All it contained was his soggy foot. The frozen grin on the Reverend Eldon Sluggard's face collapsed.

"Where we goin'?" he croaked.

"To Tehran. You will like it there. Everyone will wish to meet you. Everyone." Those grins got even wider, if that was possible. There was something familiar about them. He put his finger on it after a while. He had seen those grins in his nightmares, the perfect ivory teeth, the wickedly gleaming eyes. They belonged to the devil. And then it hit him that he was in a land of devils.

"Say," asked the Reverend Eldon Sluggard suddenly, "have you boys heard about Jesus?"

Chapter 26

Dr. Harold W. Smith knocked on the door. "Come in," Remo Williams called.

Smith found Remo rolling up his reed sleeping mat. A blue toothbrush stuck out of a chino pocket.

"What are you doing?" Smith asked.

"Packing," Remo said.

"Trip?"

"No. Chiun and I have come to a decision. We're moving out of this lunatic asylum. No offense, but that's what Folcroft is."

"None taken," Smith said. "And that is probably just as well. I have been hinting to Chiun that you've been here too long."

"This isn't Chiun's idea. It's mine. Chiun likes it here. He thinks the royal assassin should live in-house, so to speak. But he's agreed to come with me."

"That is nice of him. Unusually nice."

"He's still pretty shaken over our trip to Iran. It was bad enough the melons sucked and the rugs were all inferior, but the high-mucky-muck mullah had never heard of Sinanju. Worse, he was terrified of America. Chiun still can't figure that one out. I don't think we'll ever hear him threaten to quit America for Persia again. And speaking of that assignment, are all the dangling ends tied up?"

"As best we can do. The Crusaders have been returned to their families. The government has decided not to bring action against Mammoth Oil and Shale for violations of the Neutrality Act, largely because they're about to go under financially. And as far as Iran's public statements about American attempts to invade their nation go, they've been crying wolf for so long no one else in the international community takes their claims seriously. "

"What about the Crusaders who died in the first wave?"

"The Booe boy's death, although at the hands of Iranians, occurred at Sluggard's ministry. That makes it liable. I imagine there will be a handsome settlement for the boy's family. As far as the others go, the Iranians show no sign of relinquishing those bodies. I'm afraid they're going to join the ranks of the permanently missing unless something comes out of the flood of lawsuits about to descend upon the Sluggard organization. Given the state of our court system, there may be a friendly regime in Iran by then."

"I like a happy ending," Remo said wryly. "By the way, I've been meaning to ask. How did you crack that terrorist at FBI headquarters?"

Smith looked at his feet. "It was nothing," he said uncomfortably.

"Smitty! You're embarrassed. Come on, let's hear it."

Smith cleared his throat. "As you know, it takes three days to crack an interrogation subject. We didn't have that much time. I used a technique I had once employed when I was with the OSS and needed information from an Axis collaborator caught after he had betrayed the hiding place of a number of Jewish refugees to the Nazis."

"Go on. I'm enthralled."

"Er, I talked to him."

"Talked?"

"Calmly and collectedly. I did not accuse or harangue either man regarding his crimes. Instead, I spoke quietly of the people whose deaths they had caused. I read them intimate details about their lives. I showed photographs. I spoke of the grief of their loved ones. In short, I put faces on what had been faceless victims. The terrorist broke when I laid a photo of a seven-yearold girl he had killed on the table and read to him from a class assignment she had written the previous week. It was entitled, 'What I Want To Be When I Grow Up.' When I read the portion describing how the girl wanted to become a nurse and end human suffering, the man broke like a soap bubble."

"Knowing you, Smitty, you probably bored him to death. Either way, it was pretty neat. Congratulations."

"Um, thank you."

At that moment the Master of Sinanju walked in. "Greetings, Emperor Smith," he said stiffly. He had not entirely forgiven Smith for his earlier transgressions against his pride. "Has my son broken the bitter news to you?"

"Yes, Master Chiun. And this is excellent timing. I just received your steamer trunks."

"Good. We recovered them from Sluggard's yacht before departing for Per-Iran. I warned the PUS man that it would be his head if they were not treated with proper respect."

"UPS man," said Smith.

"All fourteen have arrived?"

"All fourteen."

"No broken locks or damaged panels?"

"They appear to be in good condition."

"Well, if that's that," Remo said brightly, "let's go."

"Have you a place to stay?" asked Smith.

"Chiun and I are thinking of buying a house."

"Well, I can't stop you. But I must caution against a permanent address. Security, you understand."

"Caution away. But we're buying a house. With a white picket fence. And maybe a garden."

"With melons," added Chiun.

"Let me know the instant you pass papers," Smith said.

"Don't worry, Smitty. We'll be sending you the bill. You coming, Chiun?"

"One moment, Remo. I must confer with my emperor. Please be so good as to check my trunks for damage. "

"Gotcha," said Remo, skipping down the hall.

"He appears to be very happy," Smith remarked quietly.

"He will get over it. Remo's happiness has always been as fleeting as the spring snows."

"Does this have anything to do with his recent religious awakening?"

"No, Remo's religious reawakening was like his moods. When it was strong, it filled the room. I do not know what brought it on, but Reverend Sluggard's false words put it back to sleep."

"That is probably for the best. In our line of work there is no room for spiritual questioning."

"Besides, I have instructed him in the Sinanju beliefs," Chiun said proudly. "All vestiges of his old religion, the names of gods and the superstitions, have been purged from his mind."

At that moment Remo poked his head in. "Hey, Chiun what's the holdup? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Shake a leg, will ya!"

"Then again," Chiun said darkly, "what can you do with someone after the Church of Rome has had him for his first twenty summers?"