After the attempt on Lyle Lavallette's life, the police had offered him protection. He turned them down. He had declined to brief the FBI about his personal life and habits. "No one is going to try to kill me. Really," he said.
His wife in a sober moment suggested he hire extra bodyguards.
"I already have two bodyguards, which is two more than I need," he told her.
The two bodyguards were a pair of former Detroit Lions linebackers. Drake Mangan had hired them for two reasons: they were tax-deductible and he was a football fan and liked to hear their war stories over lunch. The rest of the time, he kept them cooling their heels in the first-floor lobby of the National Autos building while he held sway in his twelfth-floor office. They were nice guys but when they were bored, they had a tendency to play with their guns.
Which was why, when Drake Mangan heard gunshots drifting up from the lobby via the elevator shaft, he was only mildly interested. Certainly not surprised and definitely not afraid. Things like that happened, and sometimes several times in a slow week.
Nevertheless, Mangan ordered his executive secretary to call the lobby.
"Ask Security what's going on down there."
The secretary came back into his office almost immediately, looking worried.
"Mr. Mangan, there seems to be some trouble."
"What kind of trouble? Has one of those walking sides of beef shot himself in the foot again?"
"No, Mr. Mangan. One of them shot a security guard."
"Damn. Don't they know what that does to our insurance rates?"
The secretary shrugged and Mangan said, "Well, get them up here and let's see what's going on."
"I can't. They were shot too. By the other security guards."
"What the hell's going on down there?" he said. "How many people are shot? Who did you talk to?"
"I'm not sure. He had a funny little voice. Kind of squeaky, Oriental, maybe. He said he was the one they were shooting at."
"Anything else?"
"Yes, sir. He said he was on his way up."
"Up? Up here?"
"This is the only up I have any knowledge of, Mr. Mangan."
"Don't get smart. Get the police."
At that moment, the muted hum of the elevator rose to their floor.
"It's him," said Drake Mangan, looking for a place to hide.
The elevator doors purred open. A figure glided out and appeared in the office door.
Drake Mangan leveled an accusing finger at the figure. "You! Assassin!" he shouted.
Chiun, Master of Sinanju, smiled at the rare display of recognition from a white man.
"I do not sign autographs," he said. He wore a peach kimono tastefully trimmed in black. His hazel eyes were birdlike in their survey of the room. "I will need an office if I am to stay here," Chiun said. "This one will suffice."
"This is my office," Mangan said stonily.
"For a white, your taste is almost adequate," Chiun said.
"What did you do with my bodyguards?"
"Nothing," Chiun said, examining cut flowers on a long table. "They did it to themselves. I merely informed them that I was here as a personal emissary of their government and they refused to admit me. Then they began shooting one another. They were very excitable."
Mangan looked incredulous. "They shot one another trying to shoot you?"
Chiun shrugged expressively. "I would not call it real trying."
Mangan nodded to his secretary, who slipped back out into her reception area. A push-button telephone began beeping electronically.
"What did you say about the government?" Mangan asked in a loud voice, hoping it would drown out the sound of his secretary dialing for help.
Chiun looked up from the flowers and decided to ignore the telephoning.
"You are most fortunate," he said. "Ordinarily I am employed to protect the Constitution. Today, I am protecting you."
"Protecting me? From what?"
"From wrongful assassination, of course," Chiun said. "Is there any other kind?"
Chiun spat on the Oriental rug, which he recognized had been made in Iran. "Of course. Killing with guns is wrongful. Killing without payment is wrongful. Killing-"
"Who sent you?" interrupted Mangan when his secretary poked her head back into the office and gave him a thumbs-up sign. Good. Help was on the way. He just had to stall this old fool.
"I cannot say," whispered Chiun and pressed an index finger to his lips. "But he secretly rules this land on behalf of your President. Just do not tell anyone, or your government may fall."
"I see," said Mangan who did not see at all. Gingerly, he slipped into the padded leather chair behind his massive desk. It was a big substantial desk, excellent for ducking behind in the event of shooting, which Mangan expected momentarily.
"Perhaps then someday you may explain it to me," said Chiun. "Now. Down to business. Have you had any contact with anyone calling himself Remo Williams?"
"No. Who's Remo Williams?"
"Remo Williams is my pupil. He is Korean, like me. Possibly as much as one-sixteenth Korean. But there is another who is calling himself Remo Williams. This one means you harm and I am here to protect you from him."
"And you work for the President?"
"I work for no one," Chiun snapped. "I have a contract with the emperor. He works for the President." Chiun smiled. "But I'm sure the President knows I am here. "
Just then, the elevator doors opened and four policemen ran into the office, guns drawn.
"Start shooting," Mangan yelled. "Everyone's expendable but me." As Chiun turned toward the door to the office, Mangan ran out, past his secretary's desk and into a small alcove, where he picked up a telephone.
Behind him, he heard one of the policemen say: "Now don't give us any trouble, old-timer, and you won't get hurt." He heard an answering chuckle.
"Let me talk to the President," Mangan said into the telephone.
The White House operator asked, "Is this an emergency, Mr. Mangan?"
"I'm a personal friend of the President's. I poured seven figures' worth of corporate profits into his reelection. I don't need an excuse to talk to him."
"One moment, please, sir."
Mangan held the phone, expecting to hear shooting from inside his office. But there was nothing but silence.
In a few seconds, the President of the United States was on the line. "Good to hear from you, Drake. What's on your mind?"
"I have a situation here, Mr. President. I know this is going to sound wild but did you, by any remote chance, send some Chinaman here to protect my life?"
"Describe him."
"Maybe five feet tall, maybe eighty years old. Dressed in some kind of colored dress or something. He just trashed my entire security force."
"Good. Then he's on the job," the President said.
"Sir?"
"You can relax now, Drake. You're in good hands."
"Good hands? Mr. President, He's old and wrinkled."
"It hasn't stopped me," said the President. "I had him sent there to protect you."
"From what?"
"From the same nut who shot Lavallette," the President said. "We can't very well have all of Detroit's brains wiped out, can we?"
"We use a Chinaman for protection?"
"A Korean. Never call him Chinese," the President said. "I can't be responsible. Is the young fella there too?"
"The old man's alone," Mangan said.
"Well, one of them's enough," the President said. "Let me know how this all turns out. Regards to the wife. And by the way, I wouldn't mention any of this to anyone. I've already forgotten this conversation."
"I understand, Mr. President. I think."
Mangan dropped the receiver and ran back to his office. Christ, the old gook was from the President and Mangan had turned four Detroit cops loose on him. If he was dead already, how would Mangan explain it to the President? Chiun was not dead. He was sitting calmly behind Mangan's desk. The four police officers lay in the center of the office carpet, all their wrists bound together with their own four sets of handcuffs.