"That's the whole point of the neutrino bomb," the interior secretary explained. There was pleading in his eyes. "It was built to render metal inoperative, not kill people. It's a weapon of peace."
Aruch shook his head. "There is no such thing," he spit. "A weapon has but a single purpose."
"Not this one," Babcock argued.
Aruch caressed the stainless-steel bomb casing with one stubby hand. "We will see," he said cryptically. "You will arm it. Now," he commanded Doe.
This time, there was no talk of bank checks. Dr. Doe stepped obediently over to the bomb. The PIO leader watched in distrust as the scientist popped the side panel. A row of user-friendly buttons and an LED panel were visible beneath.
It took less time than programming a VCR. Once the bomb was armed, Doe glanced at Aruch. "What time I set for?" he asked.
Aruch's eyes danced. "How far is the border to Israel?" he shouted over his shoulder to his waiting soldiers.
"Thirty minutes by land," Fatang replied sharply. "Set it for one hour," Aruch ordered.
Doe did as he was told. The time now entered, he clicked the steel panel shut. A red digital timer counted down the time to detonation-59:47 ... 59:46...59:45...
As the seconds ticked down, a thin trickle of drool appeared at Nossur Aruch's lip. Delighted eyes flashed to the two men who had brought him his prize.
"Who knows how to disarm it?" the terrorist asked.
"Onry me," Dr. Ree Hop Doe answered.
Both Babcock and Doe were shocked by the ensuing gunshot. Only when Dr. Doe fell away-hands clutching at the crimson stain that was already seeping across his white shirt-front-did Babcock see the gun in Aruch's hand.
As Doe dropped, gulping, to the floor, the terrorist slipped the weapon back into his black leather hip holster.
"Put it in the truck," Aruch commanded. Fatang and another soldier strode forward and collected the neutrino bomb. Stepping over Doe's lifeless body, they carted the bomb out the door. "Come," the terrorist said to the still stunned Bryce Babcock. "Let us usher in peace together." He extended a hand to the open door.
Babcock took an uncertain step. "What about him?" he asked, nodding dumbly to the sleeping President.
When Aruch glanced at the former chief executive, a wicked smile split his prickly stubble. "We will save that one for later. Some of the men you mentioned earlier would pay a handsome price for him, don't you think?"
Cackling, Nossur Aruch left the room.
Bryce Babcock didn't know what else to do. His feet lead weights, he stepped past the former President. He trailed the PIO leader out into the baking light of the Lebanese day.
AFTER THE DOOR clicked shut, the President waited for the engine sounds to fade into the distance before opening his eyes.
When he was certain they were gone, he climbed unsteadily to his feet.
Bones creaked with age and muscles protested the sudden movement after so many hours of inactivity. Head woozy from the blood rush, he had to rest for a moment, propping a big hand against the desk. His leathery face was flushed.
They were taking the bomb to Israel. He'd have to follow. Would have to try to stop them.
But he was old now. Just the simple effort to stand had seemed a great challenge.
His head began to clear. No time.
Hobbling, the President made his way to the door. He opened it a crack, peering outside.
Clear.
Opening the door wider, he slipped outside. Quiet for a moment.
All at once, a shout in Arabic. A single gunshot. Intense silence.
A second gunshot.
Followed by the whispering sigh of the desert wind. And nothing more.
Chapter 26
Remo stole a rusty old Buick LeSabre from the roadside in Tyre. The owner of the restaurant where he'd placed his call to Smith had given them directions to the offices of the Lebanese PIO branch. He spit on the floor as he did so.
The four side windows of the big blue American car were open wide as they bounced their way down the rutted road.
In the passenger's seat, Chiun hummed a merry Korean tune. For the first time in days, Remo didn't get the impression he was faking it. This time, it seemed like the real deal.
"Smith does not want you to ice the President, Little Father," Remo insisted as he drove.
Chiun was breathing dry desert air and basking in the brilliant sunlight shining through the filthy windshield.
"You are young," the Master of Sinanju said, patting Remo's hand paternally. "When you have seen as many winters as I, you will know better how to judge the mind of an emperor." He stroked his wisp of beard pensively. "How do you think Smith feels about public scourging?"
"Look, Chiun," Remo said reasonably, "even if he does want you to kill the President which he absolutely does not-how would it change your life one jot?"
"If Smith finally ascends to the throne of America, I will be at his side," the Master of Sinanju replied. "At long last, I may finally cease skulking in the shadows of anonymity where I have languished lo these many years and step out into the glorious light."
"And this couldn't possibly be motivated in part because you missed your fifteen minutes of fame when your movie tanked," Remo commented dryly.
"It did not tank, O crass one. It was not even released." He tipped his head. "Although now that you mention it, the notoriety I receive as official presidential assassin could boost rentals."
"Do you even get a cut?" Remo asked.
"No," Chiun admitted. "But I would. As a boon from President Smith for my many years of faithful service."
"Well, don't say I didn't warn you, Little Father," Remo said. "The best you can hope for is to bump off the guy who held the job two Presidents ago."
As they drove along the potholed road, a serious expression wrinkled Chiun's aged face. "He was the old one, was he not?" he asked.
"He was older than the other ones we've worked for."
Chiun folded his hands in his lap. "I liked him," he said, nodding. "He had the bearing of a true leader."
"Does 'leader' translate to 'despot' in this context?" Remo asked. "'Cause I don't think so."