The man straightened. "Mister, there's no regulation says I got to find out what their relationship is. Anybody sends over a private armed guard with five thousand dollars cash for a one-way flight to Florida, I ain't going to ask no personal questions." He slammed the log closed. After a moment, he added, "Nobody forced him to go. He come up by himself. And he wasn't on drugs or nothing, either, was he, Ned?"
"Wouldn't even take a shot of hooch," Ned said disgustedly.
"Where was the call made from?" Remo asked.
"Miami. Said she was meeting him there. She sounded real nice."
Remo turned back to the old pilot and watched as he belched and rocked back in his chair, the Jack Daniels drooling off his chin. "Who picked Smith up in Florida?" he demanded.
"How should I know?" the pilot answered crankily, hiccupping.
Remo jerked his thumb toward the drunk. "He the only pilot you got?"
"There's another guy coming in about four."
"I can't wait that long." He walked over to Ned and hefted him out of his chair. "Come on, Ace. We're heading south."
"Hey, you can't take him," Bob protested. "He's stone drunk." Remo threw the roll of bills onto the counter. "Think that'll sober him up for your log?" He hoisted the pilot over his shoulder.
Ned was singing "The Yellow Rose of Texas" as he fumbled with the panel controls. "Fuel rich, thrust up," he mumbled between choruses.
"Who is this person who fouls my air with breath like hyena droppings?" Chiun demanded from the wing window seat.
"He's the pilot. He's going to fly the plane. If he can figure out how."
"Once again, your unerring judgment has taken control," Chiun said.
"Very funny. He'll be all right. They say flying's like riding a bicycle. You never forget."
"I'm sure I will never forget," Chiun said.
Remo ignored him. "Okay, Ned. You've got to get us to Clear Springs."
"No problem," Ned slurred. "Just keep the bottle handy. 'Less you want us to fly into a mountain." He laughed. They took off like a rocket.
The pilot squeezed at the air beside Remo's face. "Hand it over."
"Hand what over?"
"The bottle. You do have the bottle, don't you?" He looked out the window. The ground below them swam in a pleasant haze.
"What bottle?" Remo said.
?Chapter Seven
Most of the hundred best brains in the world were blotto.
Smith observed that the South Shore of Abaco, separated from the rest of the island by a tall fence, appeared to exist solely for the purpose of hosting a round-the-clock party. Some of the guests were famous people from different walks of life. Smith recognized a noted woman anthropologist who was dancing a tarantella on the beach. A former United States secretary of state, wearing a T-shirt with "Shake Your Booties" emblazoned on the chest, chugged down a pitcher of some pink and apparently alcoholic beverage while the crowd around him clapped and cheered.
"Cocktail, sir?" offered a waiter in a white jacket. He held out a tray with a dozen champagne glasses filled with pink liquid.
"No, thank you," Smith said tightly. The waiter walked away.
"Aw, go ahead," the fat man with a pink ribbon pinned to his collar prodded, slapping Smith on the back heartily. "Loosen up."
"I don't drink," Smith said.
"Hey, you're missing something," the man said. He tapped the rim of his own glass. The movement set him off balance, causing the contents to slosh over the side in a spill of pink foam. He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. "You know, this isn't any ordinary booze."
"I'm not surprised." Smith turned away, but the man followed him, huffing with drunken indignation.
"Maybe you don't know who you're talking to."
"That is correct," Smith said tersely. "I don't know, and I don't care."
"I'm Samuel P. Longtree," the man said with exaggerated dignity.
"I never heard of you."
The man stopped short, then laughed. "I didn't think you had. I'm a chemist. My brilliant career ended at the age of forty with my greatest discovery."
Smith sighed, knowing that Samuel P. Longtree wouldn't leave him alone until he took the bait. "Which was?" he asked wearily.
Longtree brightened. "This cocktail," he said, sipping his drink. "Cheers."
"Congratulations." Smith moved away.
"It's really quite remarkable. It affects the cortex of the brain so that a person's anxiety is all but eliminated. Imagine that— an instant cure for guilt, tension, performance anxiety, nervousness, apprehension, dread, fear—"
"And rational thought," Smith added.
"Ah, that's where you're wrong, my friend. The beauty of my concoction is that it leaves the drinker utterly lucid. You can perform the most complex and detailed mental tasks and still be flying higher than Betelgeuse. All it does is free you of your inhibitions."
Smith looked at him fully for the first time, his mind piecing together the information with what he knew about Peabody and the other two assassins. "Guilt, you said? No guilt?"
"Zero. Good-bye, mother-in-law. So long, lawnmower."
Smith inhaled deeply. "No guilt, no ethics, no morals..."
The man laughed. "Hey, who needs morals in Paradise? Only dirty minds need fig leaves."
"How long have you been here?"
"Who knows? Who cares?"
"Did you happen to see a man named Peabody here? He was possibly with two others." He described the dead American assassin.