The Destroyer 148 - Dead Reckoning by Warren Murphy

Author:Warren Murphy
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2012-06-08T19:40:15+00:00

Remo noted the young Arab on the street corner as he pulled into the space a block from Bill’s Diner. The man was hunched away from Remo but his darting eyes betrayed fear and guilt. He looked like he was whispering into his elbow.

“That your brother?” Remo asked Achmed.

“No,” squeaked a voice from the backseat.

“Didn’t think so. Give me a minute, Little Father.”

Leaving Chiun and Achmed in his rental car, Remo strolled up to Ibrahim.

Ibrahim had been momentarily turned away from Remo and was startled when he turned back to find the young white man with the thick wrists standing directly behind him.

“Didn’t your mullah tell you it’s not polite to stare?” Remo said, flashing a disarming smile.

He took the young man by the elbow. From across the street it would have looked like a friendly gesture, an old acquaintance greeting a friend he had not seen in years. Ibrahim gasped at the white-hot pain in his elbow joint. It was as if his marrow had been replaced with molten lead. The cell phone he had been whispering into dropped from his hand and clattered to the sidewalk.

“I am so sick of these things,” Remo said.

He picked up the cell phone. All he heard on the other end of the line was heavy breathing and soft Arabic chatter. Remo did not speak Arabic but fortunately he knew better than Arabic for he knew the universal language of peace and love and human understanding.

“America is number one. Accept no substitutes. Suck on that one, Saladin.” He crushed the phone under his heel.

“You’re one of the Iranian thugs, right?” Remo asked Ibrahim. Through gritted teeth and watering eyes, the young man nodded. Remo dragged him over to the rental car.

“Chiun, this guy Iranian?” Remo asked.

“He smells like one. The faint whiff of tahini, tabouleh and goat is unmistakable.”

“Thank you,” Remo said. He dragged Ibrahim back away from the car.

“All right. Now let’s see if you’re smarter than a fifth grader. You guys have Mustafa. Where is he?”

“Please, sir, I do not know the address.”

“That’s not a good start,” Remo said.

“But they are coming. They are coming here. For you.”

“Well, then, I don’t need you, do I?”

“I can help. I will be your assistant. I never liked them anyway.”

“Not big on loyalty, are we?” Remo said. “What a thought. I’ll tell you what. I’ll keep you in the maybe pile.”

For Ibrahim, the maybe pile was a filthy tin trash can at the dark end of the nearest alley. Remo stuffed him in head first and folded the terrorist’s legs in order to get the lid to fit. He was whistling “You’re A Grand Old Rag” when he returned to the car.

“Who was that?” Achmed asked from the backseat. He was a little the worse for wear from his ordeal on the airplane. A great purple bruise adorned his forehead and his upper lip was split and bleeding.

“Some guy,” Remo said. “Who knows? Who cares? Anyway, he didn’t have your brother with him. He must’ve tracked him here though.

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