"I think he was too stupid to pass for a waiter," Nilsson said as Barenga turned toward him. "Now you put on the uniform and do it fast. We don't have much time."
Barenga decided he would take no more time than was absolutely necessary, thus proving to Nilsson his loyalty and absolute trustworthiness. In twenty-two seconds he had peeled off the dashiki and put on the uniform jacket and pants.
Nilsson finished rolling Philander under the overcrowded bed and turned to inspect Barenga.
"I believe most waiters wear shirts," he said. "I've never seen one before wearing a jacket over his bare skin."
"I ain't got no shirt," Barenga said. "But if you want, I'll look for one," he added hurriedly.
Nilsson shook his head. "Never mind," he said. "The sight of the jacket should do all right. Let's go."
They rode up in an empty service elevator. At the eighteenth floor, Nilsson stepped out and looked both ways before motioning Barenga to follow him.
Barenga moved out slowly onto the carpeted floor and began to wheel the car along the hallway, a respectful three paces behind Nilsson. He was a cold mu-fu, this blond, kinky honkey. Barenga was going to keep an eye on him. He didn't act right. He was too quick to pull that trigger. Man, like he was dedicated. He had that look in his eyes like one of those social workers, man, that was always going to do everything and fix everything and make everything right, man, 'cause they had all that love, you know, love. They were so goddamn sure of themselves, man, they was like dedicated, like the minister of the Abyssinian Church, and then at knifepoint, you asked one of them for a penny, and suddenly, they realized everything wasn't going to be as easy as they thought. At least the smart ones learned that. The stupid ones, who were more numerous, never learned nothing. But this cat was funny like, because he knew plenty, but he still had that dedicated look.
Barenga stopped pushing the cart and stepped forward to Nilsson, who had beckoned him with a crooked finger. "Now you knock on the door and when you get an answer, tell them Room Service. When the door opens, I'll handle everything else. You got that?" Barenga nodded.
CHAPTER TEN
Only a few feet away, another man nodded.
Separated from Nilsson and Barenga by the wall of the apartment, Chiun pressed a button, turning off the last of his favorite afternoon television shows. He settled back into full Lotus position and allowed his eyes to close.
Remo, he knew, had gone to look for the in trusive wench. He would no doubt find her; that she could vanish was really too much to be hoped for. That would be simple and in America life was never simple.
It was a very strange country, he mused, as his eyes closed gently. Chiun had worked for too many emperors to believe in the superiority of the masses, but in America the masses were right. Everyone could live in happiness if only people would respect everyone else's right to be left alone. That was all the masses wanted in America, to be left alone. It was the one thing they never got, he reflected. Instead, they got social tinkering, and the tensions and troubles that tinkering caused.
How unlike Sinanju, the tiny village that Chiun was from but had not seen in years. Yes, it was poor by American standards but the people were rich in many ways. Each lived his own life and did not try to live another's. And the poor, the aged, the weak, and the children, they were cared for. It did not require social programs, politicians' promises, and long speeches, just the income from the skills of the Master of Sinanju. For over a thousand years the village had hired out its Master as an assassin, and his labors supported those in the village who could not support themselves.
This was Chiun's responsibility. As he sat with his eyes closed, his mind on the edge of sleep, he thought it had been just and fair, a rich and honest life. The Master of Sinanju had always performed his missions, and the emperors he had served had always paid. Now his "emperor" was Dr. Smith, the head of CURE and Remo's employer. Dr. Smith also paid.
Why could America not handle its social problems in the same efficient way it handled its need for assassins and their skills? But that would be simple, and simplicity was not the white man's way. It was not their fault; just that they had been born defective.
Chiun heard the knock on the door but decided not to answer it. If it was Remo, he could get in. Anyone else would be looking for Remo or the girl, and since neither of them were here, there was no point in opening the door to say that when a closed unanswered door could deliver the same message.
Rap! Rap! Rap! The knocking was louder now. Chiun ignored it more, if that were possible.
"Hey. This here is Room Service," a voice brayed from the hallway. Rap! Rap! Rap!
If the man hammered on the door long enough he would eventually get tired, perhaps so tired that for sustenance he might eat the food he was carrying. That would be punishment enough. Chiun dozed.
In the hallway, Lhasa Nilsson put a hand on the doorknob and turned it. The door opened noiselessly.
"No one here," he said. "Bring the cart and we'll wait."
"Why bring the cart?"
"Because it gives us a reason to be inside. Bring the cart."
Chiun had heard the door open, had heard the voices, and as Nilsson and Barenga entered the apartment, he rose and turned to face the two men.
Nilsson saw the last part of Chiun's fluid rise from the floor and the way he turned. Something he recognized in it made him move his hand close to his jacket pocket, where he kept the small revolver.
"Hey, old man, why don't you answer the door?" Barenga growled.
"Quiet," Nilsson commanded. Then to Chiun, he said, "Where is she?"
"She has gone," Chiun said. "Perhaps to join the circus?" He folded his hands in front of his light green robe.
Nilsson nodded; he watched Chiun's hands move, slowly, without threat, carefully.
"Check the rooms," he told Barenga. "Look under the beds."
Barenga headed for the first bedroom while Nilsson returned his eyes to Chiun.
"Of course, we know each other," Nilsson said.
Chiun nodded. "I know of you," he said. "I do not think you know me."
"But we are in the same trade?" Nilsson said.
"Profession," Chiun said. "I am not a shoemaker."
"All right, profession," Nilsson said with a small smile. "Are you here to kill the girl too?"
"I am here to save her."
"Too bad," Nilsson said. "You lose."
"There is a time for everything under the sun," Chiun said.
Barenga came out of the bedroom. "That one's empty," he announced, and went to the next bedroom.
"It is good you have such efficient, intelligent help," Chiun said. "A young house like yours needs assistance."
"A young house?" Nilsson said. "The Nilsson name has been famous for six hundred years."
"So too was that of Charlemagne and other blunderers."
"And who are you to be so officious?" Nilsson asked.
"It is unfortunate that you are so obviously the youngest of your family. Your elders would not need to ask the identity of the Master of Sinanju."
"Sinanju? You?"
Chiun nodded and Nilsson laughed.
"I can't understand your arrogance," Nilsson said. "Not after what my family did to your house at Islamabad."
"Yes, you are the youngest," said Chiun. "Because you have learned no lessons from history."
"I know enough history to know that the army we supported defeated the army you supported," Nilsson said. "And you know it too."
"Masters of Sinanju are not foot soldiers," Chiun said. "We were not there to win the war. Tell me, what happened to the pretender you put onto the throne?"
"He was killed," Nilsson said slowly.
"And his successor?"
"Killed, too."
"And did your history lessons teach you who then assumed the throne?"
Nilsson paused. "The man we deposed."
"That is correct," Chiun said. "And yet you say the House of Sinanju was defeated? By an upstart family only six hundred years old?" He laughed aloud, a high piercing cackle. "We should always lose thus. We were to protect the emperor and maintain his throne. A year later when we left, he was still alive, his throne still secure. His two enemies had met sudden death." Chiun extended his arms to his sides as if administering a blessing. "Pride is a good thing for a house to have, but it is dangerous for its individual members. They stop thinking and live on pride instead, and he who lives on pride does not live long. As you will learn."