"Well, actually ...most people," Admiral Harris said. "Not many do in this day and age."
Standing between them, Remo frowned. "A mere what?" he asked the Master of Sinanju.
"It means 'prince of the sea,' O ignorant one," Chiun answered with thin impatience. "The leader of the Muslim fleet in these very waters was known by that name eight hundred years ago."
Admiral Harris suddenly found himself warming to his Asian passenger. After all, anyone who knew about amir-al-bahr couldn't be all bad. The young one, however, was still a vulgar landlubber. And seemed to go out of his way to prove it.
"Whoop-de-do," Remo said, twirling a finger in the air.
The admiral ignored him.
"Do you know about admirabilis, sir?" he asked Chiun.
Chiun made a displeased cluck. "The Christian corruption for the purer Arabic," he intoned. "And before you ask," he said to Remo, "they brought back the term during one of their silly Crusades, thinking it was analogous to the Latin word for admirable."
"I wasn't gonna ask," said Remo, who had been about to. "And who gives a crap in a hat?" Harris was finding it easier to ignore the young man.
He was positively beaming at Chiun. "Are you a sailor, sir?" he enthused.
The old man took a deep breath of clean Mediterranean air. "In my long life, I have spent much time on the sea." He nodded.
"Complaining every minute," Remo pointed out.
"You strike me as the nautical type," Harris said to Chiun, his smile interrupted for the briefest of glares at Remo.
Remo had had enough. "Listen, Captain Crunch, unless you want me to strike you as the nautical type, I suggest you get me to a freaking phone."
With great reluctance, Harris turned away from the delightful old man. "Yes, sir," he said icily. "I was told to inform you that your quarry has landed in Lebanon."
"Perfect," Remo groused. "More traveling."
"You need not be concerned," Chiun said. "For we are in the capable hands of Amir-al-bahr." He lowered his head in a slight bow to the Navy man. The wind threw his tufts of hair in crazy directions.
The old seaman smiled warmly. "You flatter me with the title, sir," Admiral Harris said, returning the bow. "But I don't think it's deserved. Why not just call me Jason?"
"Very well, Jason, Prince of the Sea," Chiun replied, a smile cracking his parchment face.
"Where do you stow the barf bags?" Remo asked.
Chapter 21
From the back seat of his bulletproof sedan, Nossur Aruch watched the countryside race past in shades of brown.
The sky above Lebanon was a thin pastel blue. The car's tinted windows made it seem much darker. A rich texture of color foreign to much of the sunbleached Middle East.
The shaded windows-also bulletproof-enabled Aruch to see out while preventing others from seeing in.
It wasn't vanity that put the one-way windows on his car, but survival. With so many people thirsting for his blood, the last thing he wanted was for someone to spot him on one of his infrequent trips to the countryside.
Fanatical Jews wanted him dead.
Fanatical Muslims wanted him dead, too, but only after they'd punished him. Knives, stones and boiling oil always topped the lists. Even after they killed him, the indignities would not end. The reformed terrorist didn't even want to think about what they'd do to his battered old corpse once he was dead.
Although fear for his life kept him hiding in his West Bank compound, death was the last thing on Nossur Aruch's mind at the moment-unless one counted being bored to death.
His driver turned onto the road that would take him to the port of Tyre in Lebanon, twenty miles from the Israeli border. Behind, a truckload of armed guards followed suit.
"I hate this," Nossur muttered.
"Sir?"
It was his driver's voice on the speaker. Aruch had raised the partition between the front and back seats but hadn't shut off the intercom.
Reaching a lazy hand for the control panel, he powered down the smoky privacy partition. Fatang was behind the wheel, a bodyguard seated beside him.
"Are we not there yet?" Aruch complained.
"Ten minutes more, sir," Fatang said.
Aruch leaned an elbow on the handle and braced his chin in one hand as he stared outside. The scruffy white whiskers felt like steel wool against his wrinkled palm.
"He had better be there," Nossur grumbled. The message from Secretary Babcock had been cryptic. He had mentioned Aruch's conversion to the peace process several times during a number of his rambling telephone calls and insanely long letters. The unhappy decision of the people of Israel to elect a prime minister from the conservative Likud party had soured Babcock on that country's commitment to peace. Even though they had recently corrected that mistake at the ballot box, the notion that they would do so in the first place was something he had found unforgivable. Only Nossur, Babcock had said, would appreciate the gift he was bringing to the Middle East.
Aruch wasn't certain what exactly to expect. But a clandestine mission for Washington likely meant that the current American President was trying yet again to secure a positive place in future history books. Aiding the Mideast peace process would somehow help everyone forget about his numerous personal and political failings.
Thinking of the words that would be written about him by the future histories of a free Palestinian state, Aruch sighed loudly. Whatever gift the interior secretary was bringing, it wouldn't be what Nossur really wanted.
As the car drew close to the Mediterranean shore, the houses grew more densely packed. Pedestrians crowded the streets. Many women wore the traditional black robes and veils. The men sported Western-style pants and boots. Shirts were opened to the third button, revealing dark skin.
The sheer number of guns slung over sweaty backs made Aruch all the more thankful that the people couldn't see beyond the closed window of his speeding sedan.
They arrived at the port of Tyre at the appointed time.
The streets gave way to huge docking areas at the rocky coast. Flocks of awkwardly ambling gulls scattered from their speeding path. Fatang guided the car to the proper berth, slowing to a stop beneath the great looming shadow of the Radiant Grappler II.
Aruch frowned at the famous Earthpeace vessel. Even as he scanned the deck, Fatang and the other bodyguard hopped out of the car. The armed men from Aruch's personal security detail swarmed in from behind.
With shouts and threats, the soldiers quickly cleared the area of curious onlookers. Running, they returned to the car. When Nossur Aruch stepped out into the warm air, he was surrounded on all sides by a living wall. Guards crushed protectively around his rumpled form. Within the mass of human flesh, Aruch's shoulders slumped.
"Let us get this over with," he grumbled with an impatient lisp.
Amid the thunder of stomping feet, his men hustled the schlumpy PIO leader up the boarding ramp to the deck of the moored ship.
"HE'S HERE!" Bryce Babcock said urgently. "How do I look? Too casual?" He stretched his arms out wide. He'd torn the plastic off his dry-cleaned khaki outfit five minutes before. His dove-fir Earthpeace pin was affixed to his lapel.
"It rook fine," Dr. Ree Hop Doe replied. Behind his thick, Coke-bottle glasses, Doe continually winced and blinked. The natural light streaming through the bridge windows was blinding. He had stayed belowdecks for the entire trip. Many of the crew had only just seen the Asian scientist for the first time.