Next of kin, p.10
Next of Kin, page 10
Chiun whispered softly into Remo’s ear. “I must. That was why I left you at the shipyard. He is too much for you. I have trained your body, but his weapon is his mind. He promises not to use his power, but he cannot keep that promise, because Nuihc, in all his teaching, did not teach him right from wrong. We must not allow him to kill us both at once, Remo. If he kills me, then you must fight him. Not before.”
“I can’t let that happen,” Remo groaned.
“I hope I have taught you right from wrong,” Chiun said. “Obey me, for the good of us both.” He stood.
The Dutchman nodded to Sanchez. The mute helped Remo off the floor and led him, limping, down a long corridor. Remo looked back. Chiun was watching him silently. When Remo was out of sight, Chiun spoke.
“You call Nuihc your father. Did he ever refer to you as his son?”
The Dutchman looked at him sharply. “What gives you the right to ask such a question?”
“As I thought. And so, when I say that Remo is my son and that I love him, does that make you wish to harm him?”
“He is nothing. Nothing compared with me.”
“And still no one will call you ‘son.’” The hazel eyes shone with pity. “You could have been fine, Jeremiah Purcell. But now you will be dead. Fatherless and dead.”
The Dutchman stood stock still, his breathing heavy. Working to keep his face expressionless, he pointed to the four corners of the room. As if commanded, a thick fog inexplicably rolled in from the corners. It covered the floor and curled its way up the walls. “Poison gas,” he hissed.
“Nuihc taught you well in his skills of lying and treachery. You cannot keep your word, can you? So important is it that I see your power and your worth.” He shook his head sadly.
“I keep my word to kill you,” the Dutchman answered. “Come outside and fight, or die here like a coward. Our moment has come, old man.” He threw open the French windows and leaped to the balcony, then to the lawn below.
It is illusion, Chiun told himself as the room careened around, the air choking him. The old man crawled out the window to the balcony and balanced on the rail. Below, the terraced gardens tilted crazily, the effects of the Dutchman’s conjured poison still thick in Chiun’s body. Good, the Oriental said to himself. He has shown me his capabilities. I understand the enemy. Now I can fight him.
Rest, Remo, my son. Your time with him may soon come.
On the railing of the balcony, Chiun drained his lungs of the poison gas and filled them with clean air. He slowed his heartbeat.
The Dutchman waited below, his pale eyes glowing with anticipation and fear. He was going to do combat with the ancient Master of Sinanju. The end was coming, one way or the other. Blessed end to a life no one should have to live.
“I am your destiny, Chiun,” the Dutchman said quietly. “Come do battle with the spirit of the dread Master Nuihc.”
Chiun stepped off the railing.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ALBERTO VITTORELLI LAY UNCONSCIOUS on a cot in the ship’s infirmary, covered by an oxygen tent brought by two Dutch island doctors. Dr. Caswell instructed the nurses to watch the makeshift monitors closely as the ship’s crew prepared the island’s ambulance speedboat for departure.
It was five PM and Caswell was numb with fatigue. Not since his days as a medic in the Pacific during World War II had he been called on to treat a patient for shock, third-degree burns, an amputated limb, and massive infection all at the same time. As the two Dutch G.P.’s slapped him wearily on the back in congratulations, he felt a surge of gratitude for the training of those wartime years.
He had been planning to retire in a few months. The cushy cruise ship job was Caswell’s last stab at a youth long departed. It hadn’t turned the trick for him: age and defeat, he discovered, crept up on him in the middle of the Caribbean as easily as they did anywhere else. But just when he had begun to give in to time, when the ambition and fervor of a young surgeon seemed a thousand years past, Alberto Vittorelli came, burned and mutilated, into his hands. And with those hands Caswell had healed again. Vittorelli was alive.
It had all been worth it, after all.
He stripped off his sweat-soaked surgical gown and stepped outside the infirmary. On deck, the captain paced, his youthful face twisted into a scowl.
“We’re finished, Captain,” Caswell said. “We’ll have him on the speedboat in twenty minutes.”
“Nine hours,” the captain roared. “Do you realize what this means to my schedule? The passengers can forget Jamaica. We’ll have so many reports to fill out, we won’t see daylight for six weeks. Your commission is shot, by the way. This kind of delay is inexcusable.”
“This kind of delay saved a man’s life,” the doctor said quietly.
“He’ll probably die in the hospital anyway,” the captain muttered. He strode away.
Before he knew what he was doing, Caswell heard his own voice shouting, “Just a minute, you pompous ass.”
The captain stopped abruptly and whirled around. “What did you call me, mister?”
“It’s ‘Doctor.’ I am a doctor, a fine doctor at that, and you are an idiot with sardines for brains. How dare you presume that your precious schedules are more important than one breath from Alberto Vittorelli’s mangled body? How dare you speak to me of losing a day in Jamaica when in that infirmary a man is alive who would surely be dead if it weren’t for nine hours of my work?”
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Why, you ungrateful rum dum! I’ll see that you never work another ship again.”
“Wonderful!” Caswell laughed merrily. “No more sticking tongue depressors down the throats of lonely old widows. No longer the dispenser of seasickness pills.” He looked at his hands. “I am a surgeon, Captain,” he said proudly. “I have better things to do before I die than work for you.”
“Then you’ll do them on that island, you stupid old loon,” the captain said, pointing to Sint Maarten. “I’m ordering you off my ship immediately.”
“May I say it’s the most intelligent order you’ve ever given. And by the way, Vittorelli won’t die in the hospital. I’ll be there to make sure he stays alive. Remember me—and men like me—when you’re dying, Captain.” He turned and walked back to his cabin, where a suitcase and a new life waited.
The captain sputtered impotently. Then two women passengers strolled by, nodding and giggling, and the captain resumed his mask of boyish confidence.
He walked briskly to the radio control room. The operator, a swarthy Mediterranean, was eating a salami sandwich. The air in the small room was redolent with garlic. We’ve been overrun by guineas, the captain said to himself, making a note to replace all foreigners on the ship’s crew with good Englishmen. Except the cooks. If there’d been a decent meal to be had in Britain, he would never have left for the sea in the first place.
“Radio St. Rose’s Hospital,” he barked. The radio operator lifted his headset. “Tell them we’re bringing in the wounded man. Then prepare for departure.”
The operator’s eyes widened. “He’s alive? Vittorelli’s alive?”
“Yes, yes. Send the message. And air out this cabin, in the name of the Queen.”
“Yes, sir.” When the door closed behind the captain, the radio operator called in the glad tidings. There was a whoop at the other end as the operator at St. Rose’s repeated the message to the staff.
“Good work,” the St. Rose dispatcher said. “Get our doctors back here.”
“Will do,” the ship’s operator began to say, when a roar of static over the headphones made him jump out of his seat.
“Giuseppe Battiato?” a flat voice asked from the other end of the transmission. The Italian crossed himself. It was like the voice of fate, booming and authoritative, calling him by name from an unknown source.
“Y-y-y-si?” the operator answered.
“This is a scrambled line,” the voice said. “No one on this frequency can hear us. Do you still read me?”
O Madre Dio. “I read you.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
REMO FELT AS IF he were in a dream, floating. Soft white hands of women caressed him. Eager lips brushed his face. He half focused on the small stone cell with its barred window, where he had been brought, screaming in pain, so long ago.
The pain. His leg no longer hurt him. Funny, the pain had been so bad before. He was sure he’d passed out from it, but now he felt nothing.
One of the girls, a voluptuous blonde, found his tongue with hers as she weaved deliciously in front of him. The other girl, a brunette beauty, tackled his belt buckle with deft expertise.
Suddenly there was a loud whooshing of air and a sharp crack. The blonde’s smile froze and vanished as she fell backward, a metal dart vibrating in her breastbone. Another thwack, and the brunette slumped dead at Remo’s feet.
He shook his head, unbelieving, and turned to look at the tiny prison window behind him. Through the bars, he saw his housekeeper’s fat face peering hotly at him, a straw peashooter between her lips.
“Sidonie.”
“Get up, fool. The old man need you. Get out of there.” She shifted her tremendous bulk in a rustle of skirts and produced a length of iron pipe, which she lowered halfway through the bars.
“You push that way, I push this way. We bend the bars, you get out. Got it?”
“Chiun,” he groaned through the fog in his brain. The pipe fell to the floor.
“Pick that up, boy,” Sidonie said, irritated. “I walk all the way to de Jeep for that. Now you help me use it to get you out, or I knock your block off with this peashooter, okay? It got poison on de end, so don’t try no funny stuff.” She puffed her cheeks menacingly.
Forcing himself to alertness, Remo reached up to the bars on the window and pulled them apart with his hands, then hoisted himself through the opening.
“Not bad, white boy,” Sidonie said, impressed. “Where Pierre? I still got his money. He come in that?” She pointed to the abandoned Jeep.
“He did. He’s dead, Sidonie.”
Her mouth turned downward. “That boy have no business coming to Devil’s Mountain,” she said. She waddled heavily in front of him.
“How’d you get here?”
“I can’t keep Fabienne in that house, Mr. Remo. Not and keep us both alive. They coming for her, the Dutchman’s men. We leave, they come. I seen them. It bad, Mr. Remo.”
“How’d you know we’d be here?”
She smiled ruefully. “I be in the Resistance, boy. I know you ain’t no tourists. The Dutchman, he something funny. He your business here, I figure.”
“Where’s Fabienne?”
“I hide her out in these caves near here—”
A scream pierced the air. “Dat her!” Sidonie puffed toward the brush. Fabienne screamed again.
“Where is she? I can get there faster alone.”
“Over there.” She pointed toward a molehill of volcanic pockets sprouting out of the earth beneath a large almond tree. Remo ran to the mouth of the largest cave, which seemed to be connected to the others.
“Fabienne?”
“Remo!” the girl shrieked below. There was a scuffle and another scream, followed by a series of unintelligible grunts. Remo blinked to adjust his eyes to the darkness as he descended deeper into the cave.
In the distance he saw the mute. “Get to the mouth of the cave!” he shouted to the girl. She scurried away.
Deep in the darkness of the cave, Sanchez turned silently to Remo, a knife flashing as he yanked it from between his teeth and raised it above his head to lunge. Remo dodged him and ran even deeper into an obscure channel of the cave. The air was cool and still here. It reminded him of the Dutchman’s castle, except that there was no light at all, not even enough to catch the metal of the mute’s knifeblade. It was pitch black. Even Remo’s trained night vision was worthless.
He reached a hand up experimentally. The ceiling was low. Long stalactites protruded like icicles above him. He tried to find the walls by touch to locate an avenue of escape.
Suddenly the air split as the mute’s blade skimmed close by Remo’s chest. He backed off involuntarily, breaking off one of the stalactites with a crash. The blade lunged again. By instinct, Remo moved away from the sound a split second before it would have struck him.
Another arc of sound crashed near his left ear. He twisted toward it, bringing his foot up in a ferocious kick. It struck flesh. The mute snarled and brought the knife down over Remo’s neck, but it hit only the hard cave earth below. Remo followed the sound of the knife striking and scooped up the mute in both arms. Before the writhing man in his arms could raise his weapon again, Remo thrust him to the ceiling, where a stalactite speared and held him like an insect on a pin.
The mute emitted a low, guttural moan, his arms and legs stirring the dark air briefly, then was silent again. The air returned to stillness.
“Fabienne? It’s all right. Say something. It’ll lead me to the entrance.”
“This way,” her voice called from far away, echoing through the empty chambers of the caves.
“Keep talking.”
“Over here, Remo.” The sound came from a dozen places at once. Over here, over here, over here.
“Never mind. I can’t tell where you are.” He thought for a moment. “Fabienne, pick up two stones. The bigger the better. Bring them to the dark mouth of the cave, away from the entrance.”
After a moment, she spoke. “All right.” All right, all right, all right, the walls echoed.
“Now hit the stones together. Put one on the ground if you have to. Just keep hitting.”
When his echo died down, he pitched his hearing low. Now he caught the cave’s secret sounds: the slow dripping of lime water in the stalactite chambers behind him, the beating of distant bats’ wings, soft as night. Silence, Chiun had taught him, was never silent if you listened carefully enough. He fixed his hearing again, to an even more sensitive level.
Now the air he had thought so still whirled and moaned like a desert storm around him. He stepped forward; his shoes squealed. He heard his heart thumping slowly, his blood gushing into his veins. Any sudden loud noise now would have the same effect on him as a syringe full of strychnine: his nerves would shatter and collapse from the shock. He didn’t dare enlarge his hearing further. One level lower, and the sound of his own swallowing would stop his heart.
It was there. Far ahead and to the right: the soft chink of rock on rock. It echoed too, but the hard, metallic sound carried more purely than a human voice. He could trace its source. He followed it slowly, desensitizing his hearing as he inched his way toward the sound.
“Remo?” It was a whisper, but the sound was stunning. He breathed deeply and brought his hearing much closer to the surface.
It was still there. Click. Pause. Click. It sounded further away than ever because Remo’s hearing was almost at normal level. He moved quickly toward it.
At last he saw a tiny spark in the distance, repeating with each striking of the stones. A flash… another. Soon he could see the outline of the girl lifting the heavy stone.
“You’re a doll,” Remo said. She wound her arms around him as he led her from the cave to the shade of the almond tree.
“Wait here for me—or Sidonie, if I don’t come back,” he said.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve got to settle some unfinished business.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
GIUSEPPE BATTIATO, THE COPPELIA’S radio operator, was pooling all his spiritual resources to keep from wetting his pants.
Puta, it was the puta in Barcelona who did this. He should never have married her. Alberto was right: what business did a father of four have taking a second wife before he’d gotten rid of the first? Live with her in Barcelona, Alberto said. Sample her honey treasure. Life is short. But one wife is enough for any man.
O stupido! He banged himself square in the forehead with his fist. Bigamy was a bad charge. Why hadn’t he listened?
“Are you there?” the disembodied voice in his headphones called again. “Repeat, do you read me?”
“I read, I read,” Giuseppe answered disgustedly.
“I need some information, Mr. Battiato.
He bet he did. The slut. How did she track him down to the middle of the Atlantic Ocean? He heard his own breath seething between his teeth. The motherless whore. She had probably called up Maria… No, the bitch still didn’t know how to use a telephone. She went to see her. God in heaven, the streets of Naples were doubtless running with blood at this moment.
“Are you from the government?” Battiato asked.
“Yes. In a manner of speaking.”
He knew it! And then the two bitches had gone together to the polizia to demand his arrest. He would never trust a woman again. How they would laugh when he was dragged off to prison! Hah! Giuseppe in shackles. Well, he would tell them both that the cold steel of manacles was more comforting than a woman’s treacherous heart, that was for sure.
“The wounded man on your ship, Alberto Vittorelli—”
“No!” Alberto! Could it have been Alberto? Crying fleets of angels, did his best friend sic the authorities on him? He would kill the bastard, the slimy dog dropping; he would cut out his black heart with a burning poker…
“Is there a problem? He’s still alive, isn’t he?”
“He is alive,” Battiato rumbled. But not for long. What was Alberto doing with Francesca in Barcelona? The pig, rutting with his best friend’s… A thought crashed in on him. What if it wasn’t Barcelona? What if it was Naples? His wife. Maria, you cheating bitch!
“I kill him!” he roared.
“I beg your pardon?”
Giuseppe pulled himself together, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “So sorry, signor. No problem. What do you want?”
They want my dick, that’s what they want. The three of them would take his manhood, limp and gray after years of prison, and throw it to the dogs on the street. That is what his mighty weapon is for, they would say. And poor Giuseppe would be at their mercy.
