Midnight Man

CHAPTER NINETEEN

ELMO WIMPLER WAS ALMOST ready to go.

The joke would be on the man he rented the boats from when they were found, painted black, and he wondered why someone would want to deface his boats.

The boats had taken more paint that Wimpler had expected and he was glad that he had made up a new batch of the invisibility paint and put it into spray cans. The paint job wasn’t much, but it would do for a quick operation.

Maybe when this was over, and he found someone willing to pay him for having killed the Emir, he would move onto a boat. A yacht of his own. And he would only get off the ship when he wanted to make a contract for a killing, or to shop for supplies and food. He did not think he would leave the boat for a woman. It no longer interested him. He had thought a lot about women since the night he had worked his will on Phyllis and, frankly, there was no comparison. He preferred killing to sex.

And tonight he would kill his first monarch, he thought, as he finished pulling on his invisible, black trousers.

· · ·

There were twenty-one dead men on the island, counting Pakir.

Remo called Smith to tell him that the Emir was all right.

“Everyone else is dead?”

“They were all fakes,” Remo said.

“I hope so.”

“They were. And the Royal Guards were in Pakir’s pocket because they figured if they stayed loyal to the Emir, they’d be next on the hit parade.”

“Have you seen any sign of the bodies of our real agents?”

“I’d have to guess that they were dumped out at sea,” Remo said.

“The Princess?” asked Smith.

“She’s well and she’s clean. She’s the only one on the island who wasn’t part of it. I think Pakir had a thing for her and wanted to keep her alive.”

“What are you doing now?”

“Chiun and I are going after Wimpler. His boat is out there offshore.”

“Is that wise?” Smith said. “Leaving the Emir and the Princess alone?”

“It is now. I’ve taken care of it,” Remo said.

“Be careful,” said Smith.

Remo hung up the hall telephone and turned to find Sarra watching him from the doorway of her brother’s room.

“The Emir?” Remo asked.

“Not well. Pakir’s disloyalty is a crushing blow. Chiun is with him.”

“You trusted Pakir too, didn’t you?”

“I disliked him, but I didn’t think he would turn on the Emir,” she said.

“He had the hots for you,” said Remo.

“The hots?” she asked.

“Slang. He lusted for you.”

“Probably. But not I for him. I only have hots for you,” she said.

“Thank you,” Remo said. “It beats the hell out of love every time.”

She stepped up and hugged him. “You will be careful with this other man you wait for?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll remember what I told you?”

“Yes. I do not understand it, and I do not believe it, but I will do it.”

“Just do it,” Remo said. They walked together to the doorway of the Emir’s room.

Chiun was leaning over the thin and bony ruler who was speaking.

“Since I will die in any case, I would rather have been murdered than find out that Pakir, my friend, had plotted against me.”

Chiun’s face tightened with anger. “That is stupid,” he said.

The Emir looked shocked.

“What?”

“Stupid, stupid,” said Chiun. “You are giving to others and their actions the power of life and death over you. But if a man is to be a man, he must rule not only a country, but the circumstances of his life and the conditions of his death.”

The Emir obviously thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “There should be no lament for traitors,” he said.

“Are you all right, my brother?” Sarra asked as she entered the room.

“Just tired,” the Emir said.

“Rest,” she said. “I will sit with you.”

“And he will be about his majesty’s work,” Chiun said.

From the doorway, Remo called to Sarra. “You know what to do?”

“Yes,” she said. “I do not understand, but I will do it.”

And even as Chiun and Remo were going down the stairs toward their waiting boat, Princess Sarra busied herself in the Emir’s room, lighting candles. Candles taken from all over the house. She lit them on the dresser and near the windows and on the small end tables and desk and on the mantle.

As their boat powered away from the main dock, and turned behind the small island, Remo saw the flickering of candles in the Emir’s room, and smiled to himself. Elmo Wimpler might have a device that could short-circuit lightbulbs, but it would take a lot of concentrated puffs of air to blow out all those candles. And while he was doing it, he would be just another little man in a black suit, and Princess Sarra, with Pakir’s revolver, would blow him into pieces.

The Emir was safe.

As their boat moved quietly, slowly toward the dark silhouette against the dark, nighttime sky, Remo said to Chiun, “You are really fond of him, aren’t you?”

“He was the holder of a great throne,” Chiun said. “He has been replaced by jackals who have neither his courage nor his character. They will, in the sacred name of ‘the people,’ exalt mediocrity, stupidity, and brutality. I would have a monarchy every time.”

“Why?” Remo asked. “Monarchies can be mediocre, stupid, and brutal too.”

“But if they are, they can be changed with the disposal of one man. Because of this, the best monarchs know that they must rule with intelligence and compassion. This man was one of the best. The poor people of his nation will soon know how much of a man he was. Shhhhh. We approach.”

Remo cut the engines. The boat continued drifting toward the larger boat, anchored some 40 yards ahead of them.

Elmo Wimpler had only taken a little while to decide with what weapon to replace his confiscated skull-crusher.

A knife.

An invisible knife which would, however, produce very visible blood.

He had treated three different knives with his paint, and fashioned a belt with large loops so he could wear them all on his waist. He would, when he had the time, practice throwing them. It would make him even more deadly, working in the dark, and without the telltale flash of flame that would give away his position if he used a gun.

He buckled his belt. It was time.

Time to ice an Emir.

He walked toward the front of the boat. And then he heard it.

A voice.

It was the American.

“Anybody home?” it called. “Ready or not, here we come.”

They had felt themselves drift into the boat, but up close, without the boat outlined black against the sky, they could not see it. He and Chiun climbed out of their small boat, going up the side of Wimpler’s craft, finding handholds and toeholds where none could be seen.

He couldn’t believe his eyes. Climbing over the side of the boat, stepping onto the deck, were those two from the park. The American and the Oriental. They had found him.

Elmo Wimpler shrank back into the shadows, crouching down in a corner of the rear deck. He couldn’t let them interfere. Not now. Not when he was so close.

He waited until they were both on deck. Then quietly he drew one of his knives. They began to walk about the boat when he noticed something.

Their feet made no sound as they walked.

But normal men should have made sounds as they walked around a wooden deck. Were they… something more than normal?

He put the thought out of his mind. He had no time. He had to get rid of them and get on to the Emir.

He stood up and took a step toward the American. And both men turned in his direction as if they had heard him.

He had made no sound. How had they known?

The Oriental pointed directly at him and said: “There?”

How could they know?

“It’s all over, Elmo,” the tall one said. “It’s all over. Back to Wimpville for you.”

No. No. Not now. Not ever.

He threw the invisible knife through the darkness of the night at the tall man, and the Oriental pushed the white man out of the way. Elmo watched as the knife struck the Oriental in the chest—hilt first.

Damn.

“A knife,” the Oriental said. He saw the tall one nod. Elmo pulled another knife from his belt. Holding it in front of him, he charged the tall white man.

He didn’t see the man’s hand move, but something struck his wrist. The knife flew from his hand and over the side.

He rolled back away from the man and pulled his last knife from his belt. He stood perfectly still. If he did not move, they would have to come to him. And he was still the Shadow, the man who terrified other men, the man with the power of life and death over others.

“He’s standing still, Chiun,” the American said.

“He is right there,” the old man said, pointing directly at Wimpler. “He has another knife.”

“A piece of cake,” Remo said.

Elmo tightened his grip on the knife and licked his lips. The Oriental moved closer to him on one side, the white man on the other.

Now. Within easy reach.

Wimpler swung the knife with all his power, aiming for the old man’s skinny throat. But suddenly the old man wasn’t there anymore.

“You can stop moving,” said the Oriental into the blackness. “But you cannot stop breathing, and we can always find you.”

Blinded with anger and frustration, Elmo swung at the robed man with his knife again, feeling even more fury as he sharply expelled his air before the thrust.

The Oriental easily avoided the knife.

Then the tall one was behind him. Wimpler looked from one to the other, one to the other. He swung the invisible knife wildly around him. But his breath came in loud puffs and the men avoided the knife slashes. It couldn’t be. The greatest invention of all time was being nullified by his own goddamned breathing.

He threw the knife at the white man. It missed as the tall man ducked and clattered harmlessly against the side of the boat.

He couldn’t let himself be caught. He couldn’t. They would ruin it all. Make him visible. Make him a nothing again.

He couldn’t stand that.

Elmo Wimpler stood up straight and bolted to the rear railing of the boat.

“Chiun, the rail.”

Wimpler jumped off.

The impulse to jump had been blind and suicidal, but without intending it or even thinking of it, Elmo landed in the little, electrically-powered, fishing boat he had been towing. He had planned to use it to motor silently into the Emir’s island. As he landed in a heap in the boat, he felt a sharp pain in his ankle.

He started the electric trolling motor and tossed off the small rope that bound him to the bigger boat. Even this small boat had been treated with the invisibility paint and now they would never find him.

Remo sensed that Wimpler was jumping the rail. He was surprised when he heard a thud rather than a splash. He ran to the rail just as the electric motor started up. The son of a bitch had a small, invisible boat. Remo watched as the wake of the boat kicked up and it looked as if some giant, finned fish were swimming away from the larger boat.

“Chiun, he’s got a boat. Let’s get this thing started.”

“Too slow,” said Chiun. “He will be hidden in darkness by then. Swim.”

Remo nodded and vaulted over the railing into the chilly, Atlantic water. He paused for a moment, then picked up the faint trail of the small boat’s wake, slapping tiny pressure waves against his face. He straightened out his body atop the water and began stroking after the boat, making his body one with the water, letting the flow of the water surround his body and pull him with itself, stroking only to correct his direction.

Wimpler had looked back in time to see the tall man jump off the boat into the water. Was the fool actually going to try to catch him by swimming? Did he think he could outswim a motor-driven boat?

In disbelief, as he watched, the swimming man began to gain on him.

How could that be?

How could he swim faster than a boat?

And how could he see Elmo’s boat to chase it?

He realized the answer to the second question. The man was following the wake of the boat and the faint sound of the electric motor. His invisible boat was doing him no good. It pinpointed his position beautifully.

Wimpler had to try to outrun the swimming man who, incredibly, seemed to be gaining speed but wasn’t even stroking. He turned the boat’s rudder, pushing it into a large, curved swing, a circle. Remo stayed close behind.

The circle closed tighter and tighter around the bigger boat.

Wimpler had a plan. He found a small aluminum oar under his seat. He turned the boat again. He glanced behind him. Remo was following tight behind his boat, only fifteen yards away.

This time, he turned the rudder of the boat sharply. The boat swerved inwards, and as Wimpler gave it maximum throttle it surged ahead, and raced straight on toward the larger boat. Wimpler waited a moment, correcting direction, aiming it at the large, black outline visible for a moment against the whitish clouds. Then he poised in the bow of his small boat. Suddenly, it rammed the bigger boat. Jarred, for a moment, Wimpler jumped up onto the deck of the larger boat, the oar raised over his head.

Chiun, in the corner of the deck, turned just as Wimpler raced for him, ready to swing the oar down atop the Oriental’s skull. Then he would start up the large boat and race away from this swimming maniac who was following him.

Wimpler swung the metal oar at the Oriental’s head. It struck something. But then, like a pole vaulter, Wimpler found himself thrown upward through the air, out into the ocean.

He was conscious when he hit the cold water. His instinct was to try to swim. He had gotten only three strokes when his arms began to tire and his legs to feel heavy. He began to sink.

Panic.

The clothing he had used to fashion his outfit became heavier as it absorbed water but his great invention—his invisibility paint—began to expand and to form bubbles which began filling up with water. It was swelling, becoming cumbersome. He felt the growing size of it pressing against his arms and legs, making movements difficult.

He opened his mouth to call for help but his mouth filled with water. He screamed, but it was only in his mind.

He tried to think.

Get rid of the clothes. Get them off.

He tried, but the garments seemed to cling to him like glue. His arms refused to move, to follow his commands to rip at his buttons and free themselves.

He felt as if he were wearing a suit of armor.

He felt numb.

He felt sleepy.

Then he didn’t feel anything, anymore.

Remo hoisted himself up over the side of the larger boat.

“What are you doing?” Chiun demanded as he climbed back aboard.

“He crashed, Chiun. He rammed right into you. He probably sank like a stone.”

“I know he sank like a stone, you white buffoon,” Chiun said. “I threw him overboard. But his uniform. Do you realize we could make a fortune with that?”

“What?”

“Can’t you see the possibilities?”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about the possibilities,” Remo said. “You’re just money hungry.”

“You do not want me to be rich. You want my people to forever starve, to be forever oppressed, to…”

Anything was better than listening to the whole spiel. Remo looked out at the calm sea. There was a faint, little whirlpool of ripples about fifteen feet from the boat. Remo wondered how deep the water was.

“Well, since I’m wet already,” he said.

Chiun patted him on the back in encouragement.

Remo dove over the railing into the water. When he reached the spot of the ripples, he dove straight down. He could not gauge how deep he had gone, but he could feel the pressure of the surrounding water compressing the air in his lungs. And then before him, he saw Elmo Wimpler. The little man’s eyes were open in the horror of death. No more bubbles came from his open mouth. His hair floated around his face like a gang of anarchistic snakes. He had reached the point in the water where the weight of his body matched the weight of the water surrounding him, and he hovered there, neither going up nor down. Some day, when the gases of death had formed inside his body, the specific density of the corpse would change, would lighten, and he would pop to the surface like a cork.

Remo reached out to touch the body and realized that the suit Wimpler was wearing had swollen like a balloon. His arms and legs looked as if they were welded together. The clothing was covered with great bubbles and even as Remo watched they broke open and disintegrated and slipped away into the water, tiny black slicks of paint breaking down.

He grabbed Wimpler by the neck and swam to the surface with Wimpler’s body in tow. When he got to the boat he pushed the body up and over, onto the deck.

He followed.

“I can see him,” Chiun complained.

“Not much of a looker, was he?” Remo said.

“The water has destroyed his secret,” Chiun said. “Or the salt.”

“Yeah,” said Remo. “Something’s ruining his cover.”

“Throw him back,” Chiun said.

“I beg your pardon,” Remo said.

“I said throw him back. The suit is useless and he is dead so he is useless.”

“Throw him back, like a fish?” Remo said.

“Just throw him back, like anything you want to throw him back as,” Chiun said. “A fish, a stone, a pound of marbles. Throw him back and let us return to the island.”

“Sheesh,” Remo said. He hefted the body up, over the rail and dropped it.

It made a bigger splash striking the water than any too-small fish that had ever been thrown back.

The big boat lurched. Then Remo could feel it drop a few inches. He went to the other side and looked down. There was a gash in the wooden side.

The invisible paint had been ripped off and beneath it, Remo could see the torn wood, caused when Wimpler’s small boat had slammed the side. The big boat was sinking.

Let it, Remo thought.

“Let’s go,” he called. “Time to go home.” Chiun followed him into their small boat. They cut loose and turned back to shore, back to New Jersey, back to the Emir and Princess Sarra.

When they returned to the mansion, Remo called Smith from the first floor hall telephone.

“It’s over,” he said.

“Wimpler?”

“Dead. Bottom of the ocean.”

“His invisible outfit?” Smith asked.

“You’re getting just like Chiun,” Remo said. “The salt water destroyed it.”

“And the Emir?”

“Okay, the last time we looked,” Remo said. “I guess they can relax for a while.”

“Probably not,” Smith said. “There will always be someone who wants him dead, Remo; someone else who will hire a hit man or a mercenary or a whole army. I’m going to send in new security forces tonight to guard him. You make sure that you don’t leave there until everyone is in place.”

“Okay, Smitty.”

Remo hung up and looked over at Chiun who still seemed disconsolate.

“C’mon, Chiun. Cheer up. Let’s go upstairs.”

There was no answer to their knock on the Emir’s door. They walked in to find the Emir lying on his back on bed, his arms flung out to his sides in a grotesque parody of death. But this was no parody because there was no life left in the monarch’s body. There was a smile on his face.

Princess Sarra was seated by the bed, her head in her arms. She was crying. Next to her on the mattress was the revolver with which she was to protect her brother. The candles still burned in the room.

She looked up as Remo and Chiun entered.

“Remo…”

“I know.”

“He died only moments ago. He was sleeping and then he just stopped breathing.” She said it with a tone of desperation as if she expected Remo to be able to do something to repeal the Emir’s action.

“His troubles are over,” Remo said.

Chiun stood at the foot of the bed and bowed his head. “I salute you as a great ruler, a true son of a true throne.”

· · ·

The Emir was buried in the United States. The rulers of his country who had offered millions to have him back alive, so they could kill him, refused his body in death, and denied him burial in his native land.

· · ·

Sitting at an outdoor café on University Place in New York, Smith asked Remo: “The Princess?”

“I put her on a plane.”

“To where?”

“I didn’t ask.”

Chiun sat glumly at the little table, twisting a paper napkin into thread-thin strips.

Smith nodded toward him, his eyes asking Remo a question.

“He’s been upset since we lost Wimpler’s invisible paint,” Remo said.

“Well, those samples you saved us and his car in the garage should give us enough to duplicate the formula,” Smith said.

Chiun looked up sharply.

“And then what will you do with it?” he said.

Smith shrugged. “Turn it over to the Defense Department. Some kind of military application, I guess,”

Chiun went back to tearing his napkin, unhappy as he watched all possibility of commercial enterprise being drained from the invisible, black paint.

“Don’t feel bad,” Remo said. “In the wrong hands, that paint could have been used for a lot of bad things, Chiun.”

“Name one.”

“Well,” said Remo. “It could have been used to paint Sinanju. Then Smitty’s submarine, filled with gold, would never be able to find it.”

Chiun said something sharply in Korean.

“What did he say?” Smith asked Remo.

“Trust me. You don’t want to know.”

“Try me.”

“He said that when he’s a world-famous writer, people won’t treat him this way.”