"Ned, you're a saint," Remo said. "Chiun! Over here."
Remo scrambled into the hole. Ned scurried in behind him. Above, Chiun speeded up his work with the few die-hards who remained to fight for their missing boss. Remo heard three more screams, then silence.
Chiun met them at the end of the passageway leading from the trapdoor to the open shore of the ocean. Docked a half-mile away was a glittering eighty-foot yacht, rising majestically out of the sea beside a bobbing dinghy. Its small outboard motor was still running.
"That's where he went," Remo said.
"And he's going to keep on going," Ned said. "That ship's pulling out."
He was right. The yacht was turning slowly, preparing to head out for open sea. "You'll never catch him now. Ain't no other boats here."
"My pupil and I do not require boats," Chiun said haughtily. With that, he was in the water, heading toward the yacht at porpoise speed as Ned watched in amazement.
"Why don't you get back and call the police," Remo suggested.
"The cops? After what I seen you do, I'm calling Ripley's Believe It or Not."
"Better make it the cops," Remo said. "By the way, don't bother mentioning my friend or me. We don't exist."
"Anything you say," Ned said, smiling. "Hope you get where you're going. If you ever want to fly anywhere, call me. I'm in the book."
Remo smiled once and then vanished below the water.
Moments later, they were on deck. Big Ed was at the helm, the wind streaming through his wild hair; he was oblivious to the silent approach of the two men behind him. All he knew was that, within a fraction of a second, the ocean stretching in front of him was replaced by a close-up view of Remo's face, inches away from his own, and that his windpipe had inexplicably ceased functioning.
"I can kill you, or I can let you live," Remo said. "What'll it be?"
Big Ed pointed to his throat.
"Talk?" Remo asked. Ed's blue lips opened and shut like a flounder's. His head slapped back and forth in a nod.
Remo kept his finger on the man's windpipe. "Where'd the Lear jet go?" He released the tension slightly.
"Abaco," the man gasped. "The Bahamas. About an hour east of Grand Bahama Island."
"Who was flying it?"
"A woman. Don't know her name. Had a big scar running down her face. That's all I know, honest. Look, take the boat. It's yours. Just don't kill me, okay?"
"That's a deal," Remo said. "Now, don't forget to go straight home." With a heave, he sent the man arcing high over the side of the ship and into the ocean with a splash like a fountain.
He slapped his forehead. "The dinghy! He can escape in the dinghy."
"That has been taken care of," Chiun said.
By the time Big Ed reached the small boat, the fist-sized hole in the bottom had let in enough water to submerge all but the rim. He swore once, and looked up in despair at the two figures on the deck of the yacht.
"You can make it to shore if you swim in a straight line," Remo called.
"The cops will help you ashore." He waved as the sodden blond turned away and began the long swim back to land.
The air crackled with the roar of a jet taking off. A few seconds later a small, sleek craft whistled overhead. It looped around and dipped low, buzzing just above the ship. The man in the pilot's seat saluted. It was Ned.
"Looks like he found a way home," Remo said.
Chiun nodded. "Let us hope we can say the same for Emperor Smith."
?Chapter Nine
Greater Abaco Island, it turned out, was not appreciably larger than the Houston Astrodome. If it hadn't been for Chiun's relentless search for TV antennae, Big Ed's powerful boat would have passed it by in minutes. As it was, though, they arrived, with, Chiun estimated, plenty of time to catch the 3:00 P.M. airing of "Ways of Our Days."
"Quickly, a hotel," Chiun said restlessly to Remo. "Preferably with cable reception. Also a vibrating bed."
Remo looked around at the unpainted shacks appearing at infrequent intervals between stretches of rock and greenery. From the deep natural harbor where they'd left the yacht, they had made their way to a single-lane dirt road where chameleons scattered before their feet. This, it seemed, was the island's main thoroughfare.
"I don't think that's going to be so easy, Little Father," Remo said. "Besides, we don't have time for soap operas. Smitty's trapped here someplace."
"He who has no time for beauty is but half a person," Chiun said.
"And you won't need the vibrating bed, either. Wait a minute. Someone's coming."
Down the road, a tall black man was ambling gracefully toward them. When Remo jogged to meet him, the man's face lit up with a broad smile.
"You run too fast," he said amiably. " 'Round here, plenty of time for walking, taking things easy. That is the island way."
"I'm looking for someone," Remo said, glad that the only person he'd managed to find seemed to be a cooperative fellow.
"Yes? Maybe I know him. Abaco is a small place. Most folks know each other. 'Cept for South Shore, of course."
"Who's at South Shore?"
The black man chuckled. "Nobody you want to know. They put up the big fence, nobody can come in. The folks there, they stay inside the fence alla time."
"Doing what?"
The man stuck his thumb in his mouth and threw his head back. "Drinking." His eyes twinkled mischievously.
"Oh," Remo said. "Well, Smith's not there."
"Your friend's name is Smith?" He beamed. "I know Smith."
"You do?"
"Naturally. Everybody here know Smith. Fat man, very sweaty, girls on him alla time?"
"Wrong Smith," Remo said. "This Smith is tall, gray haired, but he wears a hat... Actually, he's pretty ordinary looking," he mused half to himself. "But he might be with someone. A woman."
"White woman?"
"I think so. All I know about her is that she has a scar on her face. A big one, I guess, running down the side... What's the matter?"
The smile had faded from the man's face. He backed off, making the sign against evil with his fingers.
"Do you know her?"
"I don't know nothing," the man said. "I don't see nothing. The South Shore not my business, okay?" He turned so quickly that he skidded on the dirt surface of the road, then headed at breakneck speed into the thick foliage of the hills.
"Your charm has worked its usual magic, I see," Chiun said as Remo walked back.
"I don't understand it. I just mentioned the woman with the scar, and he went berserk. But he said something about a place called South Shore. It doesn't sound like Smitty's kind of place, but if he was kidnapped, he might be there."
"It is as easy to walk south as north in this place," Chiun said glumly.
He was ecstatic by the time they'd walked a mile. South led into the village of Abaco, comprised of a grocery, a hardware store, and the Greater Abaco Beach Hotel, providing six rooms complete with television.
"Twenty minutes to spare," Chiun said, checking the sun. "Go and check us in at once."
"Come on, Chiun. What about Smitty? What about the way that guy freaked out when I mentioned the woman with the scar? Aren't you even interested?"
"I am interested in whether or not Dr. Sinclair knows that the wealthy widow he has just treated for manic depression is his long lost daughter," he said angrily. "Besides, you want scar-faced white girls? Bring her along."
"Who?"
"In the car," Chiun said impatiently.
Although there were only two automobiles on the road, a major traffic jam was in progress. One of the vehicles was a battered Land Rover, parked and empty in the middle of the street. The other was a white Opel, driving up onto the turf to pass the first car. Remo squinted through the bright sunlight to catch a glimpse of its driver.