Lhasa was to have telephoned a message to the field officer which should have arrived by now. It made a difference-being a millionaire medical missionary, or a penniless overeducated crank trying to bring healing to natives who were not ready for healing that did not involve the mask and the dance and the song.
Field Lieutenant Pepperidge Barnes was at home when Dr. Gunner Nilsson arrived; he was openly delighted to see the old man. He often worried about the kindly, harmless gentleman alone up there in the hills with those insane savages, and he had been meaning to drive up to see him.
No, there had been no message for Doctor Nilsson. Was it anything important? Oh, just a message from his brother on vacation? Well, of course, feel free to use the telephone. Lt. Barnes was going to walk to his office to see what mischief the retarded inhabitants of this retarded land had committed on Her Majesty during the night. Perhaps when Dr. Nilsson had completed his call and had rested, he would stop at Lt. Barnes' office and the two could play a game of chess?
After Barnes left, Gunner Nilsson sat for a long time, looking at the telephone, half-expecting it to ring. He did not consider it possible that Lhasa had failed. After all, he was a Nilsson with Nilsson instincts and Gunner had told him how to do it, and Nilssons did not fail. Still, he should have called by now.
Gunner waited, but after an hour elapsed he began the laborious process of placing a call to the number Lhasa had told him about in Switzerland.
He sat for another hour with the telephone in his hand, staring at his hand, taking satisfaction in the knowledge that it was old and tanned and had of its own volition put down the weapons which for six hundred years had been the legacy of the Nilsson family, father to son, generation to generation, century to century.
No more killing. Just this one by Lhasa and then no more.
He felt the telephone vibrate in Ms hand and he raised it to his ear.
"We have your number in Switzerland," the female voice said.
"Thank you," he said.
"Go ahead," she said.
"Hello," a man's voice said.
"I am calling in regard to certain moneys due to a Mr. Nilsson for performance of a certain service," Gunner said.
There was a pause, then the voice said, "Who is this?"
"My name is Dr. Gunner Nilsson. I am Lhasa Nilsson's brother."
"Oh, I see. Dr. Nilsson, I am sorry to have to tell you this. There will be no payment made on that contract."
Gunner Nilsson's hand tightened around the telephone. "Why?"
"The contract has not been concluded."
"I see," Nilsson said slowly. "Have you heard from Lhasa?"
"Again, I am sorry, Doctor. I have not heard from him. However I have heard of him. I'm afraid your brother has met with an untimely end."
Nilsson blinked hard. He caught himself doing it, and reacted by opening his eyes wide.
"I see," he said again. "Do you have any details on the matter?"
"Yes. But I am not-able to discuss them on the telephone."
"Of course, I understand," said. He cleared his throat. "I will speak with you again in a few days. But now there is something you must do." He cleared his throat again.
"What is that?"
"Close the contract. I will carry it out myself. Without interference."
"Are you sure you wish to do that?"
"Close the contract," Nilsson said and hung up the phone without saying good-bye. His old and tanned hand rested on the telephone cradle. He picked up the receiver again. It fit smoothly in the palm of his hand and was cool to the touch, just, he realized, like the butt of a revolver.
He sat there, sensing the warmth of the imaginary revolver in his hand, thinking of all the children Lhasa might have had who could have extracted payment from a world which had killed their father. But Lhasa had never had those children. Gunner had seen to that.
So what was left?
Gunner squeezed the telephone receiver, lifted it slowly and held it at arm's length, aiming the earpiece at a spot against the far wall. With his index finger he squeezed. For a moment, he felt the need to blink, but he suppressed it. How quickly the old habits returned. He cleared his throat as his finger pressed hard on the middle of the receiver. He smiled at the sound.
Lhasa would need no children to avenge him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"That's right," said Remo. "We lost the girl."
He heard Smith choke on the other end of the phone.
"Nothing curable, I hope," Remo said.
"Don't worry about it," Smith said. "Have you any leads on the girl?"
"Maybe," Remo said. "There is some kind of a thing called Maggot which apparently is a singer. She's been looking for him. I think I might be able to find her there."
"It's imperative to keep her alive."
"Right," Remo said.
"And there are new complications."
"As opposed to the old complications?"
"The Lhasa Nilsson you ran into?"
"Yeah."
"He makes this international. An international contract."
"Doesn't matter," Remo said.
"Maybe it does," Smith said. "The Nilsson family is something special."
"In what way?"
"They have been in this business for six hundred years."
" 'This business' is killing?"
"Their reputation says they have never failed," Smith said.
"I have one stiff in the closet who's spoiled their record," Remo said.
"That's what worries me," Smith said. "I just can't believe it's going to stop there."
"And I told you it doesn't matter. One country, a hundred countries. One Nilsson, a hundred Nilssons. All the same. If we find the girl, she's safe."
"Are you really so arrogant?" Smith asked.
"Look," Remo said testily. "You worry about all the Nilssons. Worry about them all you want. Do you really believe there is any comparison between them and the House of Sinanju?"
"They are highly regarded."
"Come look in my closet. See what that does for your high regard."
"I am only suggesting that you be realistic and cautious. You are up against very good people and you sound like Chiun. The next thing I know you'll be telling me some nonsense about the majesty and worth and wonder of the House of Sinanju."
"You know," Remo said, "You don't deserve what you get. You deserve some heavy-handed button man who needs two assistants to read the name of the victim."
"Just don't be like Chiun."
"I won't. But don't expect the mountain to tremble at the breeze."
He hung up, feeling tense, disgusted by Smith's lack of confidence. He looked up to see Chiun staring at him from across the room, a small smile on his face.
"What are you smirking about?" Remo demanded.
"Do you know that there are times when I actually think you may yet amount to something?" Chiun asked.
"Don't get carried away," Remo said. "Come on, we're going to visit someone."
"May I ask who?"
"I hoped you would," Remo said. "We're going to see Maggot and the Dead Meat Lice."
"Only in America could I be so fortunate," Chiun said.
Vickie Stoner stuck out her tongue and took a long lick of the shiny red, translucent lollipop. It was being held in the right hand of Dead Meat Louse Number One, who sat on the edge of Vickie's bed.
"Just like being a baby again, man," she said.
"Even better," he said. "These ain't just any lollipops."
"No?"
"No. I buy them special." He leaned forward and whispered, "From the House of the Heavenly Hash."
"That's bitchen, man. Bitchen."
"Sweets for the sweet."
"Great, Number One. You just make that up?"
"Nahh. I read it once in a lyric."
"Cool," she said. "Why not climb in here with me?"
"Thought you'd never ask."
Louse Number One was wearing only a thighlength dashiki which he peeled off quickly, before he slipped under the sheet with Vickie. He still held the lollipop in his right hand.