The ride to Dulles was short. Remo paid the driver and entered the main terminal. He went to the Air Korea booth, bought a one-way ticket to Seoul, and then went in search of his gate.
As he approached the metal-detector station, he noticed the blond woman loitering outside the ladies' room.
The first thing Remo noticed was that she had the largest chest he had ever seen. It projected out like a triangular form straining to burst the yellow fabric of her dress. He wondered how she kept from tipping forward.
Evidently they were quite a burden, because she picked at her brassiere straps with careless fingers.
Remo noticed her yellow nail polish. His eyes flicked to her throat.
"Uh-oh," Remo said, his pupils dilating at sight of the tastefully tied yellow silk scarf.
Remo ducked into the men's room. Bending over a sink, he splashed water onto his face. He patted himself dry with a paper towel. Had she been waiting for him?
"Maybe she won't be there when I get back," Remo muttered. He went to the door. With a single finger he eased it open a crack. She was still there, leaning against a white wall, her eyes darting to the line of passengers coming down the walkway, laden with luggage and shoulder bags.
Remo swallowed. She looked very young. Not dangerous at all-unless she fell on top of you and crushed you with her sharp chest, Remo thought with forced humor.
Words the Master of Sinanju had told him long years ago echoed in Remo's ears.
"Know your enemy."
Remo took a deep breath and stepped out onto the walkway. He went directly to the girl in yellow. His legs actually felt rubbery. He sucked in a double lungful of oxygen, held it in his stomach, and released it slowly, releasing also the tension in his chest and the fear in his belly.
He was in control enough to smile as he approached the blond.
"Excuse me," he said.
Her head turned. Her blue eyes fell on Remo. They were curious. Almost innocent eyes. Maybe he had been mistaken. "Yes?" she said in a sweet, breathy voice.
"Are you Cynthia?" Remo asked. "The office said they'd send a gorgeous blond named Cynthia to meet me."
Her red mouth parted. Thick brows puckered tentatively.
"Yes, I'm Cynthia," she said. "You must be-"
"Dale. Dale Cooper."
"Of course, Mr. Cooper." She put out a hand. "Nice to meet you."
Remo smiled. She had taken the bait. "Call me Dale."
"Dale. Let's get your bags together."
"Sure," Remo said. He let her lead him to the luggage carousel, where he made a pretense of picking his luggage from the revolving conveyor.
"This is mine," Remo said, grabbing a brown over-the-shoulder bag and a black leather briefcase. "Shall we go?"
"Yes. But we'll have to take a cab."
"You don't look like you have much driving experience," Remo remarked lightly.
"Oh, I'm older than I look. Much older."
She led him to the first cab waiting in line. The driver got out and opened the trunk. Remo saw that he was the same driver who had brought him here.
"What happened to Asia?" the cabby asked gruffly.
"Search me," Remo said, forcing a smile. "Last I heard, it was still in the Pacific."
The driver scratched his head as he jumped back behind the wheel.
"Where is the office putting me up this time?" Remo asked.
"The Watergate Hotel," the girl who answered to the name of Cynthia said quickly.
"Watergate it is," the driver muttered. To Remo's relief, he was silent during the rest of the ride.
Remo made small talk as he took stock of "Cynthia."
Seen closer, she struck him as younger than he had thought. Her body was certainly mature. But her face, under expert makeup that included a purplish-yellow eye shadow, seemed girlish. She had that dewy look.
"Yellow must be your favorite color," Remo suggested.
"I worship yellow," Cynthia said, fingering her scarf. "It's so . . . eye-catching." She laughed. Even her laugh sounded pure. Remo wondered how someone with that kind of high-school laugh could strangle ten people.
He would remember to ask her that-before he took her out.
At the Watergate lobby, Cynthia turned to Remo and said, "Why don't you relax? I'll check you in."
"Thanks," Remo said, putting down his luggage. He watched her saunter over to the front desk. She had a nice walk. A little slinky. She walked in her high heels as if driving tacks with them.
As Remo watched, she leaned over the counter, startling the clerk with her ample bosom. "Any messages?" she whispered.
The clerk's "No" was a croak. His eyes were on her bosom as if it snarled and snapped at him like a pair of pit bulls.
Cynthia thanked him and palmed a key from her yellow purse as she turned.
Remo smiled tightly. His acute hearing had picked up the exchange. And the palming, though slick, was made obvious by Cynthia's body language.
She was taking him to a room she had preregistered. Either her own, or to one that was a convenient dumping ground for victims.
Either way suited Remo Willams just fine. If she was an acolyte of Kali's, he'd soon know where his mortal enemy was hiding. He could decide whether to run or strike, depending on the answer.
Cynthia joined him. "I don't see a bellboy," she said, frowning. A bellboy hovered out of sight. Obviously paid to ignore anyone Cynthia brought in.
"I can carry my own bags," Remo said quickly.
"Great. I hate waiting."
Once they stepped on the elevator, the mood changed. Cynthia stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. Her yellowtipped fingers went to her neck scarf. This time they plucked at the fabric nervously. The loose knot slipped apart. When Cynthia brought her hand down, the scarf floated with it.
This time Remo suppressed his smile completely.
The elevator came to a stop.
"After you," Cynthia offered, her voice cool and tight.
Remo picked up his bags. This was the critical moment. His hands were encumbered. Would she take him before he stepped off the elevator, or wait until they were in the room itself?
He stepped out into the corridor, feeling Cynthia's warm presence trail after him. Her body heat registered on the back of his bare arms. A temperature change of only a few degrees would indicate an impending attack.
But the attack didn't come. Instead, Cynthia got in front and opened the door for him. It was pitch-dark inside.
Remo slipped in, tossing his bags down. He snapped on the light switch. Before he could turn, it snapped off again. The door slammed. The room went totally black. He was not alone. Remo skipped the mock protestations. He shifted to one side as his visual purple adjusted to the blackness. As a Master of Sinanju, he could not exactly see in the dark, but he could detect shadowy motion within the blackness.
In the dark, he grinned in fierce anticipation.
And in the dark, the yellow scarf settled over his throat with a silken snap.
Casually Remo reached up. A supersharp fingernail raked the smooth fabric. The scarf tightened. It parted with an angry snarl.
"Sorry," Remo said. "Yellow isn't my color."
A hiss answered him, low and feline.
Remo snagged a soft, thin wrist. He gave it a twist.
"Oww! You're hurting me!" It was Cynthia.
"Not what I had in mind," Remo said, collecting the scratching fingers of Cynthia's hand in one fist. He pushed the hand back, exposing the wrist.
With his other hand, Remo found the girl's wrist and tapped it once, sharply.
"Oh!" said Cynthia. It was a very surprised "Oh." Remo tapped again. This time her exclamation was dreamy and moist.