"I am aware of only two homicides by strangulation other than those you have reported," Smith said. "A medical-supply salesman named Cosmo Bellingham and an insurance adjuster by the name of Carl Lusk. One was found in the elevator of the Sheraton Washington Hotel. The other in an alley near Logan Circle."
"And that didn't ring any bells?"
"Two strangulations. Statistically within the norm for an urban center like the District of Columbia."
"Well, counting the two call girls, four hotel maids, and the late ambassador, we have nine. How statistical is that?"
"Are you saying that all of these homicides are connected?"
"You tell me," Remo said acidly. "Does your computer tell you what they were done away with?"
More clicks. "No."
"Silk scarves," Remo said. "Yellow silk scarves."
"Like the ambassador?" Harold Smith croaked. "Oh, my God. Are you certain?"
"The cops I overheard at the escort service say it's the killer's trademark. Now, think. Who do we know who strangles with yellow scarves?"
"The Thuggee cult," Smith said hoarsely. "But, Remo, you wiped that group out long ago. It was the work of that pirate who ran Just Folks Airlines, Aldrich Hunt Baynes III. He's dead. The cult was smashed. Even the airline is out of business now."
"Tell me, Smith, were those two salesmen traveling when they got it?"
"Let me check." Smith's fingers attacked his keyboard like a feverish concert pianist. Presently, expanded versions of the wire-service reports on both homicides appeared on the screen as side-by-side blocks of text.
"Bellingham was killed shortly after checking into his hotel," Smith reported. "The other man died before reaching his."
"Travelers. Same M.O., Smitty," Remo pointed out. "They always hit travelers. Make friends, get their confidence, and when they're lulled, wrap the of silk scarf around their throats. Then walk away with their wallets."
"The two men were also robbed," Smith said. "But, Remo, if we smashed that cult, how could this be?"
"You forget, Smith. It's just updated Thuggee. It was around long before Just Folks tried to scare up some new customers by scaring passengers away from other airlines. And it'll probably be around long after. Besides," Remo added, his voice going soft, "we smashed the cult, not Kali."
"Beg pardon?"
"When we wrapped that one up," Remo admitted slowly, "there were a few things Chiun and I left out of our debriefing."
Smith clutched the receiver until he was white-fingered. "Go on."
"It wasn't just Baynes and the others. It was Kali herself."
"If I recall my mythology," Smith said aridly, "Kali was a mythical Hindu deity."
"Who lusted for blood and who the original East Indian thugs worshiped. Hapless travelers were sacrificed to Kali. The whole cult thing was triggered, believe it or not, by a stone statue of Kali that somehow exerted an influence over its worshipers."
"Influence?"
"According to Chiun, the spirit of Kali inhabited the statue."
"Yes," Smith said. "I recall now. The cult revolved around the idol. The Master of Sinanju believed that it possessed magical properties. Pure superstition, of course. Chiun comes from a tiny fishing village without running water and electricity."
"That just happens to have produced a line of assassins who worked for every empire since the paint on the sphinx was still wet," Remo retorted. "So backward that when the United States-the greatest nation on the face of the earth anytime, anywhere-needed someone to pull its chestnuts out of the fire, it turned to the last Master of Sinanju."
Smith swallowed. "Where is that statue now?" he asked.
"When we tracked down Baynes," Remo answered, "he had it. I grabbed it. It grabbed back. We struggled. I broke it into a zillion pieces and threw it off the side of a mountain."
"And?"
"Obviously," Remo said in a distracted voice, "the spirit of Kali went somewhere else."
Smith was silent.
"Strictly for the sake of argument," he asked at last, "where?"
"How the hell do I know?" Remo snapped. "I just know that without Chiun, I don't think I'm strong enough to beat her this time."
"But you admitted that you threw it off a mountain."
"Thanks to Chiun. He made it possible. Until he rescued me, I was its slave. It was awful, Smitty. I couldn't help myself." His voice sank to a reedy croak. "I did . . . things."
"What things?'
"I killed a pigeon," Remo said with thick-voiced shame. "An innocent pigeon."
"And . . . ?" Smith prodded.
Remo cleared his throat and looked away guitily. "I laid it before the statue. As an offering. I would have gone on to wasting people, but Chiun gave me the strength to resist. Now he's gone. And I have to face Kali alone."
"Remo, you do not know this," Smith said sharply. "This may simply be a serial killer with an affinity for yellow scarves. Or a copycat."
"There's one way to find out."
"And that is?"
"If this killer is targeting travelers, throw her some tourist bait," Remo suggested.
"Yes. Very good. The other victims were apparently picked up at the Washington National Airport. That is where you should start."
"Not me, Smitty. You."
"I?"
"If it is Kali, I may not be able to resist her scent. That's how she got to me last time. But you might. She has no power over you. We could set up a trap. You play the cheese and I'll be the trap. How about it?"
"The field is not my place. It is yours."
"And I have a responsibility to Sinanju now. I am Sinanju. I have to go there and see if I can hack it as Reigning Master. But I gotta close the books on Kali before I go. It's the only way."
"You are serious about leaving CURE?" Smith asked quietly.
"Yeah," Remo said flatly. "That doesn't mean I wouldn't take the odd job here and there," he added. "But nothing small. It's gotta be worth my time. Otherwise you can just send in the Marines. I'm out of it. What say, Smitty?"
The line hummed with the silence between the two men.
At last Harold W. Smith spoke.
"As long as you are with the organization," he said coldly, "you will do as instructed. Go to Washington National. Allow yourself to be picked up by this woman. Interrogate her, and if she is the sole cause of these strangulations, liquidate her. Otherwise, call for further instruction. I will await your report."
"You gutless bas-"
Harold Smith hung up the phone on Remo's reply. If there was one thing he had learned in his many years as an administrator, it was how to motivate employees.
Whatever he had become under Chiun's tutelege, Remo Williams was still an American. He would heed his country's call. He always had. He always would. That was why he had been selected in the first place.
Chapter 11
"Screw you, Smith!" Remo shouted into the dead receiver. "You're on your own."
Remo slammed the phone on its hook. The hook broke off, taking the receiver to the floor with it.
Remo started away from the pay phone. Outside, he hailed a Checker cab.
"Airport," he told the driver.
"Dunes or Washington National?" the cabby asked.
"Dulles," Remo said, thinking no sense tempting fate. He had been willing to go to the mat one last time for Smith, but only if Smith would do it his way. He had been doing it Smith's way for too damn long. No more.
"Going anyplace interesting?" the cabby asked.
"Asia," Remo said, cranking down the window against the heat of the warm July day.
"Asia. That's pretty far. Better there than the Middle East, huh?"
Remo perked up. "What's going on there now?"
"The usual. Mad Ass is rattling his scimitar. We're rattling ours. But nothing happens. I don't think there'll be a war."
"Don't count on it," Remo said, thinking that what went on in the Middle East wouldn't matter much to him once he was back in Sinanju. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised to find a job offer from Mad Ass himself waiting for him. Of course, he wouldn't take it. He was going to be particular about who he worked for. Unlike Chiun, who would work for anyone as long as their gold took tooth marks.