Marveling at the technology available to assassins in this modern age, Rebecca tossed the phone into the big pocket of her beige desert jacket and drove over to a small shed that sat away from the palace. There was no one inside.
Rebecca sat down before a computer monitor. An old-fashioned microphone that looked as if it had been scavenged from Walter Winchell's attic sat beside it.
The keyboard and screen commands were in Arabic. That didn't matter to Rebecca Dalton. Like the pro that she was, Rebecca began typing swiftly at the keyboard. At the far end of snaking tendrils of wire, unseen locks popped open.
On the monitor a dozen red warnings flashed. That was all there was to it.
Brushing a little desert grime from one leg of her pants, Rebecca reached for the microphone. While there was still time to talk to the man she had just murdered.
ELECTRIC FANS successfully removed most of the dust from the air. They whirred for a few minutes before a second pair of explosions-these much smaller than the one that had sealed the tunnel-brought them to a spluttering stop.
A gasoline-fueled generator continued to chug in the distance, feeding power to dull lights. In the yellow glare, Remo found huge boulders blocking the tunnel a dozen yards along. Soft groans and puffs of dust rose from the newly formed wall.
Remo could sense no other openings. The chamber was completely sealed off from the outside world. It would take hours-maybe days-for him to dig through all that rock back up to ground level. "Great," Remo groused.
Tiny glass-enclosed laboratories were built into the walls on either side of the cave. Panes of glass had been carefully removed from each of the rooms, compromising what were supposed to be sealed environments.
As Remo stood in the middle of the chamber, he heard various pops coming from each of the rooms. Vaporous clouds began hissing out the open windows and into the main cave.
Remo instantly shut down his pores. Darting from the main section of the chamber, he raced up the tunnel. The wall of fallen rock stopped him dead.
He launched a fist into a rock, sending a shudder through the cavern walls. A fissure appeared along the broad face of the largest boulder. Another pummeling fist and the rock cracked in two. Wrapping his fingers around the edges, he pulled it free, hurling the half-ton piece of rock back into the chamber. It landed with a thunderous boom.
He was spinning back to the wall when he heard a voice behind him.
"Don't bother," Rebecca Dalton announced, her voice distorted by microphone feedback. "It's half a mile out through solid rock. You'll never make it." Remo didn't turn. He felt the waves from a video camera directed at his back.
His hand smashed the remaining section of rock, flinging it back in two large chunks.
"Let me guess," he grunted. "You work for Iraq."
"More or less," she replied, her voice as calm and sweet as ever. "They were the ones who hired me initially. But I'm getting a double salary for this. One from Iraq, the other from Benson Dilkes."
By her tone it was clear she thought the name should mean something to Remo.
Remo had moved on to the next rock. It was slow going. All the while he felt the tendrils of something soft and sinister moving through the air at his back. "Never heard of him."
"He was one of the best," Rebecca's echoing voice said. "Present company excepted, of course." Her tone was light, laughing. "Benson taught me a lot. Retired for a while, but he's back in the game again. He's got contacts around the world. More than anyone else in the business I've ever known. Benson is the one who's been pulling all the assassins before you could meet with them."
He knew it. There was a conspiracy. "Why?" he asked as he worked.
Even with fans off, shifting air currents within the underground chamber had continued to lazily circulate. Remo felt the first of the cloud-now invisible-roll over him.
Whatever was in the air was far more deadly than the simple poison gas Thomas Smedley had used against him in London. Remo's skin prickled hot. He redoubled his efforts.
"I don't know," Rebecca replied. "A job. A big one, by the way he sounds. Benson doesn't give much away. But it seems he's hiring an army of death to take over that village of yours. He's got a new employer who must really have it in for you. But they didn't want you to get too frustrated too soon, so Benson hired me to keep you busy. He'll be so proud that I was able to do more than that."
"Don't count on it," Remo said. He was thinking of Chiun. Alone in Sinanju. An Army of Death-wasn't there some ancient prophecy about that?
One thing was certain. Remo's threats were hollow. He was feeling it. Whatever was in the air was all over him. Crawling on his skin, burrowing in. Burning hot. His breathing low, he felt the heat in mouth and nose.
His movements were growing slower. He threw out another rock, climbing inside the opening. It was narrow, confining. He had barely tunneled a few feet. Not enough.
"Usually I'd just blow up your plane or hire someone to shoot you," Rebecca mused. "I'm not hands-on. I contract out. But I couldn't trust anyone else to do this job right. It's amazing the preparation that was necessary for you. At first I thought I could get you in there and collapse the whole chamber. But I've read up on you Sinanju escape artists. Just burying you under rock probably wouldn't have done it. One air pocket big enough to hide in and you'd find your way out somehow. You people are veritable Houdinis."
"He stole everything he knew from us," Remo grunted.
He was still trying to dig. Still trying to fight for life. But it was no good. He could feel it going. Slipping slowly away. The life was draining from his arms and legs. The world was growing dark.
A sound echoed through his spinning brain. Rebecca. Somehow Rebecca was still talking to him. But she couldn't be near. She had driven away. Left him here. Left him to die. He hardly heard the words.
"If you're wondering what you're inhaling, what's soaking into your pores or crawling on your skin ...well, it's just everything. None of it nice." Rebecca's voice feigned sympathy. "Everything they have, biological and chemical. Anthrax, smallpox, nocardiosis, cholera. There's sarin, mustard gas, tabun GA, butolin. Your eyeballs will bleed, your skin will peel off. By the time it's all done working its magic, they'll be able to soak up what's left with a sponge. Not that even the Iraqis would be silly enough to dig you up. No one will ever find you. This tunnel will be sealed like a pharaoh's tomb. No one will even know what happened to you. It's a shame, really. I liked you, Remo. You're not like most of the men in this business. You showed some style. A pity. Well, ta."
There was a horrid squeal of feedback, then nothing.
As if taking its cue from Rebecca Dalton, the generator far back in the chamber sputtered loudly once, then died. The lights dropped dim, then faded to dark.
From the darkness came a feeble scratching. It was followed by a booming crash. More rocks falling. Then silence.
Chapter 31
Chiun tripped through the desolate wasteland. Thorns tore at his garments. He noticed not.
He came upon a silvery stream, half-frozen. The old man stumbled down the shore, falling across ice and splashing to the other side. Muddied, his wet kimono skirts already freezing, he crawled up the far shore.
He ran on, racing to nowhere.
As he lurched along, the voices of the dead sang a chorus of accusation in his tortured mind.