In the early nineties, the Nobel committee had awarded the former terrorist its coveted Peace Prize.
To Nossur Aruch, the million-dollar award had been found money. Splurging, he had blown it all on a single special item.
A vast section at the center of the balcony seemed to be overgrown with vines. Aruch grabbed hold of a chunk of what appeared to be branches, tugging them aside. They folded with a plastic-sounding crinkle, exposing a heavy black base hidden beneath.
Aruch pulled back farther, exposing a single white fin.
The young soldier wasn't surprised by what he saw. Often on nights like these, Aruch's trips to his balcony would end in a maudlin moment like this. The ex-terrorist would pine over the road not traveled.
The camouflage netting Aruch peeled back revealed the rocket boosters of a slender missile. Nossur had used the "mad money" granted him by the Nobel Committee to purchase a surplus British long-range Bloodhound MK2 missile.
It was aimed at the heart of Jerusalem.
Obscured by trees and vines, the balcony was set back in an alcove at the center of the private courtyard. The yard itself was surrounded by a high wall. The missile was well hidden from prying eyes.
Aruch had bought the missile on the black market and had it smuggled into the West Bank piece by piece.
An impotent gesture. For, although Nossur Aruch loved terrorism almost more than life itself, he would never use his weapon. He had employed terror tactics in his younger life, but he was a diplomat now. And diplomats did not drop bombs on the heads of their enemies. No matter how strong the desire to do so.
Tears welled in the corners of his crinkling eyes as he studied the magnificent lines of his beautiful prize.
It was a giant paperweight. Nothing more.
He drew in a mucousy sniffle as he pulled the camouflage back across the missile's exposed tail section.
As he headed across the balcony to the open French doors, Nossur blew his big nose on the sleeve of his fatigues. A honking, wet bray. By the look of the splotches up and down the arm, it wasn't the first time.
Fatang marched in behind him.
The leader of the Palestine Independence Organization stepped over to his cluttered desk. The weight of the world on his drooping shoulders, he slumped into his chair.
Although the desk was a jumble of half-crumpled papers, Nossur knew where everything was. He spotted an unfamiliar sheet atop the pile the moment his gaze fell upon the desk.
He scooped up the note.
"What is this?" the PIO leader asked.
"It came while you were napping," the soldier said from his sentry post near the open balcony doors. Sounds from the deepening Hebron night filtered in across the dark yard.
Aruch frowned as he quickly scanned the paper. He groaned before he'd even finished.
"Yahrak Kiddisak man rabba-k," he cursed softly.
"Is something wrong, sir?" Fatang asked. Aruch glared up at the young man, a sour expression on his face.
"Things could not be better," he spit sarcastically. He crushed the paper in his hand, dropping it to the clutter on his desk. "I am to meet with the American secretary of the interior tomorrow morning."
"The Americans?" the guard asked. He seemed disgusted at the very prospect.
"Not the Americans. An American. The fool contacted me several weeks ago. He said something about a secret mission that only I would appreciate. The man is irredeemably stupid. He is what is called an environmental activist."
"Ah, I have heard of these." The soldier nodded. "Is it not their desire to have men live in caves like beasts?"
"That is true," Anuch said. "And I am told this Bryce Babcock is one of the worst. In settling their West many years ago, the Americans slaughtered every last wolf in an area known as Yellowstone Park. Babcock actually had wolves flown in from Canada and set them loose in the preserve. This is a spot where families vacation, mind you, Fatang." The young soldier was incredulous.
"Were the people not outraged?" he asked, stunned.
"Americans are apathetic," Aruch explained with a wave of his hand. "As long as it is not their child that is mauled, they do not care."
Fatang shook his head in disbelief. "Americans will forever remain a mystery to me, sir."
Aruch nodded. "To me, as well. But I must deal with them, for such is the life of a diplomat." As he spoke the contemptuous word, he cast a longing eye beyond the soldier at the shadowy contours of his precious Bloodhound. His eyes grew watery as he studied the tangle of vines painted on the plastic sheet that concealed his balcony missile.
The truth was, he didn't really care what Babcock had to say. The meeting was just another in a long line of pointless summits he had attended since renouncing the use of terror.
"More of the same," he muttered, thinking of the following day's meeting with Bryce Babcock. "The fool mentioned something about ushering in a new era of peace. The Palestinian people are doubtless about to be asked to capitulate once more."
Fatang smirked. "The Americans still believe that Muslim and Jew can live together in harmony." Aruch tore his eyes away from his beloved missile.
"They can," he said softly. "As long as the Muslim stands above the ground and the Jew lies below it."
The former terrorist rose to his feet. Shuffling wearily on his black boots, he headed out the office door.
He didn't cast a backward glance at his cherished Nobel missile. The thought that it would never be launched against Jerusalem brought him far too much pain.
Chapter 20
The plane touched down at the airport that had been constructed on the mile-and-a-half-long sandy isthmus that separated the crown colony of Gibraltar from the Spanish mainland.
The complaints had started the instant the pilot announced that they were being rerouted. They had continued unabated throughout the flight and were still going strong even as the passenger jet taxied to a stop in the shadow of the great limestone mass that was the Rock of Gibraltar.
Before the plane had stopped, Remo and Chiun rose from their seats. They waded through an ankledeep pile of unopened peanut packets on their way down the aisle. At the front, Remo's flight attendant was just opening the door when they arrived.
"Oh, now you're up." She pouted as the ramp was rolled to the side of the plane. "I tried to wake you a bunch of times."
"Peanuts make me sleepy," Remo explained.
The woman's eyes widened. "You said they put you in the mood," she accused angrily.
"Yes." Remo nodded. "The mood for sleeping. But if it's any consolation, I dreamed only of you."
"Fat lot of good that did me," she snapped. She practically shoved him onto the ramp.
The air outside was cooler than Remo expected. The airport extended out into the Bay of Gibraltar. A stiff wind blew in across the bay, causing the wisps of hair above the Master of Sinanju's ears to twirl madly around his bald scalp.
"Smitty was gonna call," Remo said as he and Chiun descended the ramp.