The ruffians swelled with pride. To tell the people of Sinanju that they had watched the Master die in ignominy and disgrace would satisfy their thirst for revenge.
"Very well, old man," their leader said, and the criminals advanced upon the crag to join the Master.
They did not see, as their aged prisoner had seen, that the crag was brittle and cracked and could not support the weight of many men. The crag broke free with a deafening splinter of rock and falling earth, dashing the men against the stones below. But the Master himself was prepared, and leaped away before the crag broke.
He returned in time to his village, and lived for thirty more years. Until his death, which was as quiet and dignified a passage into the void as any man could wish for, the Master was known throughout the Orient as the wisest of men.
Remo didn't know why the story had come into his head, but it gave him an idea. It offered a slim chance for escape, but more than he'd had a few moments before.
"Throw me a rock," Remo panted.
"A rock?" LePat raised his eyebrows in merriment. "You mean a rope, don't you? Sorry, I'm all out of rescue equipment."
"A rock," Remo insisted. "I'll sink faster."
LePat's expression was puzzled. "You talk as if you want to die."
"If it's going to happen, I'd like to get it over with. Come on, you've won. I know you'd rather see me go this way than with a bullet."
"Don't try to goad me," the little man said. "A bullet's too painless. You won't get me to shoot you."
"You don't have to shoot me. I'm willing to die in this crud. Just throw me a rock to get things moving, okay?"
LePat looked at him for a moment, appraising, then shrugged. "Why not," he said, hefting a slime-covered stone the size of a canteloupe. "Watching you die is becoming a bore, anyway." He tossed it carelessly to Remo.
With the palm of his hand Remo slapped back hard at the stone, putting a lot of English on it with his fingertips. It careened around in an arc, flying in a curve past LePat.
The little man ducked and stared at the flying rock as it whizzed by in its wide circle. "I should have known you'd try a trick," he said, aiming the Walther at Remo. He squinted, his lips curling into a sneer. "I think I'll only wound you. The shoulder, perhaps?" He veered the sight slightly to the right. "Don't hope to die from this bullet, by the way. I'm a considerably better shot than you are. That rock was the wildest toss I ever saw."
Remo said nothing. He was listening to the pitch of the air as the rock reached the farthest point in its curve and came back around, singing.
"Are you afraid, Remo?" LePat taunted.
"Simply quaking."
His throw had been good. The rock was right on target. At the moment when LePat's finger tensed to squeeze the trigger, the rock slammed him in the middle of his back, sending the gun splattering into the quicksand with the falling form of LePat behind it. As LePat stretched out his arms to reach for the gun, Remo lurched forward and grasped both the man's hands.
LePat cried out, his legs scrambling for purchase on the solid ground beyond the quicksand. Remo counted on the man's fear. The harder LePat struggled, the closer he brought Remo to the edge of the quagmire.
It was receding. The iron grip across his chest eased, and Remo could breathe again. The extra oxygen pumped into his arms in a surge of energy. With a monumental effort he pushed himself ahead and clasped his hands behind LePat's back. The little man cursed as he pulled back, saving himself from the quicksand and dragging Remo up with him.
"Thanks a million, pal," Remo said. He set one foot on the bank. Then, going into a deep spin, he swung the man into the air and released him.
LePat screamed as he landed chest first in the quicksand. His arms flailed briefly, like the wings of a trapped insect, and then his breath released in a boil of filthy bubbles. His head disappeared first. The rest of him followed quickly. When Remo left him, all that remained above ground were LePat's shoes, which had come loose and floated upside down on the bog like the footprints of the doomed.
"Circe!" Remo called, running back through the scrub pines. He had found his way to the shoreline, and followed it back to the cave. Now, as he retraced his steps, he spotted the white car.
The place beside it where the girl had lain was empty.
The car. He went back to it and made a quick examination. Just as Circe had said, there was a small transmitter taped to the Opel's underside. With the strength of rage, he hurled the tracker high into the air and into the sea beyond. Then he returned to the place where he'd left the girl.
The ground was cold. She'd been moved some time ago. It could have been the police, he thought. But there were no tire tracks besides the Opel's. There was only one other explanation.
LePat hadn't been alone.
Remo got on his hands and knees in the grass by the car. He widened his pupils to maximum. The action made the blades of grass glimmer with unseen light. And on the grass were spots. They looked like water, but these spots were dark and thick and already beginning to harden. He rubbed some on his fingers and sniffed.
Blood.
She had left a trail for him.
The moon came out for a moment, illuminating the bloodstains to the road, where they continued. Toward South Shore. Whoever took Circe hadn't used a car.
A cloud passed overhead, blotting out the brief light of the moon, and a wave of sorrow passed over Remo. He was not a seer, but he knew when death was near. It was brushing against him now, and he knew that before the night was over, death would fold its dark wings and claim its victory.
?Chapter Fifteen
A shiver of apprehension ran down Chiun's spine. Ever since he heard the shots fired from the island, he, too, felt the wings of death flapping in the night breeze. Remo could take care of himself against bullets. But there was something else on that island, something indefinable and dangerous. It was as if the black clouds that obscured the stars was covering the whole earth, with the spectre of death heralding a new Dark Age.
Smith lay on the bunk where Remo had placed him. His eyelids fluttered. He looked at Chiun groggily.
"Where are we?" he whispered.
"Ah, Emperor Smith. You have come back to us at last. We are on a boat. It is safe here. Remo is on the island."
Smith shook himself awake. "My head," he said, cradling his head in his hands. "It feels like..."
"Like you drank too much?" Chiun offered.
"I beg your pardon? I don't drink."
"You did. Quite a bit, in fact, o illustrious one. You were, as Remo would say, doused."
"Soused," Smith corrected, groaning. "It's coming back to me now. The injection... those pink cocktails. Good God. The printouts."
"They are here. We brought you from that place."
"Thank you," he said, raising himself to his feet. Chiun handed him his clothes. "I can't imagine what would have happened if Abraxas got hold of them."
"You have seen him?"
"No. No one's seen him; just his name. It's been transmitted by satellite into every television set in the world. People are beginning to think that Abraxas is some kind of god."
"The masses are fools, easily duped," Chiun said loftily, averting his eyes. "But surely no one is in danger because of a name on a television set."
"That's just the beginning," Smith said, climbing into his trousers. "He's got a plan— the Great Plan, he calls it, the arrogant swine— to take over the world."
Chiun laughed aloud. "Others have tried that, most worthy emperor."
"He can do it," Smith said earnestly. "I know it's preposterous, but he's got everything organized to the last detail. You'll forgive me if I don't tell you the exact nature of his ideas. It's a matter of national security."