They were writhing around on the floor, trying to get loose. Once of them saw him and yelled, "Mr. Mangan. Call for reinforcements."
Mangan shook his head. "That won't be necessary, men. Heh, heh. Just a case of mistaken identity. The old gentleman here is part of my security team."
"Then get us out of here," another policeman called. Mangan dug into their pockets for the handcuff keys and freed them all, even though he did not like touching members of the proletariat.
"You sure this guy's all right?" one of the policemen asked Mangan. The officer was rubbing his wrists, trying to get circulation back into his fingers.
"Yes. He's okay. It was all my error," he said.
"You know we're going to have to file a report on this," the cop said.
Mangan smiled and said, "Maybe we can work something out."
In the hallway outside his office, he worked something out. The policemen would each be able to buy their next new cars at half-price. In return, they would just simply deal with the unfortunate shootings down in the lobby as accidental gunshots. And they would forget the old man.
He saw the policemen on to the elevator and then went back into his office.
"Mr.-"
"Chiun. Master Chiun, not Mister."
"Master Chiun. I've checked you out. You are who you say you are."
"I could have told you that and saved us both a great deal of trouble," Chiun said petulantly.
"What's done is done. If you're here to protect me, what should I do?"
"Try not to get yourself killed," Chiun said.
The rescue helicopters came during the night. Remo was the first to hear them and he quietly woke Lorna from her sleep.
"The planes are on the way," he said.
"I don't hear them," she said.
"You will in a minute."
"Good. It'll be wonderful to get back to civilization," she said.
"Truth is, I'll sort of miss you all," Remo said.
"What do you mean?"
"This is where I get off," he said. "Last stop."
"You're not going back with us?" She paused; the first whirrings of the approaching helicopters were now faintly audible over the broad desert.
"No," Remo said. "People would ask too many questions. "
"Where will you go?" she said. "This is the desert."
"I know, but trust me, I can find my way out. No problem at all."
"You can't do that."
"I have to. I just wanted to say good-bye to you. And ask a favor."
"Name it."
"Don't mention my name. You're the only one who knows it and if anybody mentions me, just don't mention my name. Let me just be a passenger who wandered off. "
"You sure you want it this way?" she said.
"I do."
She threw herself into Remo's arms. "I won't ask you any questions," she said. "But you just be careful."
"I will. And take care of that little girl," Remo said. He squeezed the woman once, then turned and ran off across the sand, just as the rescue craft's light became visible a mile away across the desert.
Remo ran just until he was out of sight, then slowed down and began loping north at a casual pace. A few miles away, Remo climbed onto an outcropping of rock and looked back. Two giant helicopters were parked on the sand, next to the burned-out jetliner. He could see people being helped aboard the two craft. He nodded to himself, in satisfaction, and turned away again.
The sun was coming up off to his right, turning the dunes to rose color. Later, as the sun went higher, it bleached the sand white. It was late afternoon when the sand gave way to rock. Remo spent the time thinking. In a curious way, he already missed the scene of the aircraft wreck. He had been raised an orphan and had never had a family; they had looked up to him; they had relied on him. It was a strange, but a pleasant, feeling, and once again he pitied himself for all that he had missed, and would always miss, in his life.
"Ah, that's the biz, sweetheart," he growled to himself and started to run northward.
He found the town just after sunset and used a pay phone in the local tavern. No matter how small a town was, he thought, it had a tavern. Maybe that's what created towns; maybe somebody built a tavern and then a town grew up around it.
He dialed Chiun's hotel in New York but got no answer in the room. Then he dialed a special code. The call went through a number in East Moline, Illinois, was rerouted through a circuit in Iola, Wisconsin, and finally rang the telephone on the desk of Dr. Harold W. Smith.
"Yes?" Smith's lemony voice said.
"Smitty, it's me," Remo said. "I'm back." There was a long silence.
"Smitty? What's the matter?" Remo said.
"Remo?" Smith said slowly. "Is Chiun with you?"
"No. I just called his number but he didn't answer. I thought you'd know where he is."
"I'm happy to hear from you, Remo," Smith said.
"Then why do you sound like you just got a call from your dead grandmother?"
"Are you still in Detroit?"
Remo looked at the receiver in his hand as if it were personally responsible for the stupid words coming through the earpiece.
"Detroit? What are you talking about? I'm in Utah."
"When did you arrive in Utah, Remo?"
"Yesterday, when my goddamn plane crashed in the desert. And stop talking to me like I'm Jack the Ripper, will you?"
At Folcroft Sanitarium, Smith keyed a one-word command into his terminaclass="underline" TRACE.
The green letters blinked and a telephone number appeared almost instantly on the screen. Smith saw that it was a Utah area code. The computer also told him that Remo was calling from a pay phone.
"Hello. Smitty. Whistle if you hear me."
"I heard you, Remo," Smith said. "What was that about a plane crash?"
"My flight went down in some desert about eighty miles from here."
"Flight number?"
"Who cares about the freaking flight number? Listen, I just saved a planeload of people out in the desert. And I got out alive. Why are you being so annoying?"
Smith's computer, on command, began scrolling the facts of a Los Angeles-Salt Lake City flight that had disappeared the previous day.
"Did your flight originate in Los Angeles?"
"Of course. I did that guy, the way you wanted, and then I got out of there on another plane right away."
"And you haven't been in Detroit?"
"Why would I be in Detroit? I buy Japanese."
"Remo, I think it would be best if you returned to Folcroft right away."
"You sound like you want to stick me in a rubber room," Remo said.
"You should be debriefed on your experience."
"Debrief this. I was in the desert and it was hot and everybody's safe and I planted the skyjacker in the sand and that's that. End of debriefing."
"Don't get upset. It's just that I wanted to talk to you."
"Where's Chiun? Talk about that."
"He's away," Smith said.
"He didn't go back to Sinanju again, did he?"
"No."
"He's where, Smitty? Where is he?"
"He's on an errand," Smith said.
"An errand? Chiun wouldn't do an errand for the Shah of Iran if he came back to life. Is he on assignment?"
Smith hesitated a moment. "Something like that."
"Where is he?"
"I can't really tell you that. Now if you'll just-"
"Smitty," said Remo, "I'm going to hang up. But before I go I want you to listen carefully."
"Yes?" said Smith, leaning into the phone.
In Utah, Remo brought the palm of his hand to the telephone speaker with such force that the receiver snapped into pieces.
Smith howled in pain but he howled into a dead telephone. Remo was gone.
Chapter 8
The black car pulled up so silently that he did not hear it coming.