The gunman laughed in relief.
On the bed, Mangan groaned atop the body of his dead mistress.
"Now for you." The gunman grabbed him by his lapel. The fabric felt stiff under his fingers.
A Kevlar suit. That explained it. The man had taken the precaution of wearing a bullet-resistant business suit. A lot of politicians were wearing them these days because they were light and reasonably comfortable, but could deflect anything short of a Teflon-coated bullet.
"What are you doing?" Mangan said when the gunman started to pull at his tie.
"They used to do it like this back in the old days.
They'd take a guy out to a secluded spot and open up his shirt before they whacked him. It used to be a tradition and I'm just bringing it back."
The gunman ripped open Mangan's shirt buttons and tore a hole in his undershirt. Then he put the muzzle of the pistol to bare skin, held the struggling man down with an arm across his clavicle, and fired a single heart-stopping round.
Drake Mangan jerked like a man who'd touched a live wire, then his body relaxed.
The gunman stood up and told the corpse, "I would have preferred giving you a head shot."
Then he quietly left the penthouse, waiting until he reached the stairs before holstering his pistol and stripping off his gloves. He took his time. It was a long walk to the street but he had all the time in the world.
He wondered if he would get a bonus for the old Oriental. Probably not. He was probably just some overpriced kung-fu guy Mangan had hired to bodyguard him. Those guys were a dime a dozen.
Chapter 9
"I still can't figure out what made the earpiece explode like that," the telephone repairman said.
"It's fixed now?" Smith asked.
"Yes. I've just got to clean up around here and I'm done. "
"You're done now. I'll clean up," Smith said.
The repairman smiled. "No. We have to clean up. Part of the total service package offered by American Telephone and Northeast Bell Communications Nynex and Telegraph Consolidated Incorporated. That's the name of the new company."
"Very interesting," Smith said. The telephone rang. He walked the repairman to the office door and pushed him outside. "Thank you very much."
"I wanted to clean up."
"I'll do it. Good-bye." Smith locked the door and ran back to the telephone.
"Hail, Emperor Smith," said Chiun.
"We must have a bad connection," Smith said. "Your voice sounds weak."
"It is a minor thing," said Chiun. "I will soon recover."
"Recover from what?"
"From the shame," Chiun said.
Smith gripped the receiver more tightly. The earpiece that the repairman had just installed was loose against his ear. He twisted it tight.
"I'm sure you will recover from the shame," he said, sensing another of Chiun's con games coming on.
"The shame of this indignity," said Chiun as if Smith had asked him for an explanation. "I am only happy that the Master who trained me did not live to see this. I would hang my head before him; his remonstrances would scourge my soul."
Smith sighed. "What shame is that?" he said. There would be no talking to Chiun until the old Oriental had gone through his full song and dance.
"In times past, Masters of Sinanju have been called upon to preserve the lives of certain personages. Kings, emperors, sultans. There was even a pharaoh of Egypt who came under the protection of a Master of Sinanju when that pharaoh ascended his throne. He was but six summers of age but the Master who protected him saw him rule until his ninety-sixth birthday. It is recorded as the longest reign in history and it would never have happened without Sinanju at his side. Now that was a trust of honor. Would that the current Master had such an illustrious charge."
Smith tensed. "Is something wrong?" he asked.
"But not Chiun," the sorrowful voice continued. "Chiun is not given kings to guard. Not even a lowly prince. Or a pretender. I could hold my head high if I were charged with guarding a pretender to a worthy throne."
"Did something happen to Drake Mangan? Is he all right?"
"Instead, I have been given a fat white merchant, a merchant whose life is not even important to his loved ones. How can one do one's best work when one is asked to work at such an unworthy task? I ask you. How?"
"Is Mangan dead?" demanded Smith.
"Pah!" spat Chiun. "He was born dead. All his life, he lived a living death, eating and drinking poisons that increased his deadness. If he is more dead now, it is merely in degree. The only difference between a living dead white man and a dead dead white man is that the latter does not bray. Although he does still smell."
"What happened?" Smith asked wearily.
Chiun's voice swelled. "A terrible creature descended upon him. Huge he was, his bigness as that of a house. A veritable giant. But the Master of Sinanju did not fear this apparition, this giant whose enormity rivaled that of a great temple. The Master of Sinanju moved forward to confront him, but it was already too late. The fat white merchant who was already dead before Sinanju ever heard of him, became still."
"All right," Smith said. "He got Mangan."
"No," said Chiun. "His weapon did. These guns are a menace, Emperor. Perhaps it is time that laws were passed."
"We'll discuss it later," said Smith. "He got Mangan. But you got him, is that correct?"
Chiun hesitated before answering. "Not precisely correct."
"What does that mean?" demanded Smith, who had seen the seemingly frail Master of Sinanju rip through a squadron of armed soldiers like a hurricane through a cornfield.
"It means what it means," said Chiun haughtily. "The Master of Sinanju is never vague."
"All right, all right. He got away. Somehow he got away from you. But you saw him. It wasn't Remo?"
"Yes and no," Chiun said.
"I'm glad you're never vague," Smith said dryly. "Either it was or it wasn't Remo. Which was it?"
Chiun's voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper. "He gave his name. It was most strange. Amateurs seldom appreciate the value of advertising. But this one gave his name. "
"Yes?"
"He said his name was Remo Williams. But he was not the Remo Williams we know. Why would he lie?" Smith quickly brought the CURE computer system on line and began keying a search sequence.
"Maybe it wasn't all a lie," Smith said. He typed in the name REMO WILLIAMS and hit the control button. The search program was initiated, working with a speed that would have astonished the operators of the Pentagon's "numbercrunching" supercomputers; all possible public records in America were scanned for the name of Remo Williams. When Remo had been recruited to work for CURE many years ago, all files on him had been deleted. If there were now any references to a Remo Williams, it would indicate an impostor was using his name.
"Describe the man," Smith asked Chiun, activating an auxiliary computer file on which to record the description. "He was pale, like a white, and too tall, with big clumsy feet, like a white. And like most whites, he had coarse hairs growing from his chin."
"A beard?"
"No. Not like mine. I have a beard. This white thing had hair ends growing from his face."
Smith keyed the fact that the killer had needed a shave. "Age?" asked Smith as he watched the search program run on the split screen. Millions of records, glowing an electronic green, scrolled past his eyes in a blur. It hurt to look at the running program and his fingers poised to record the answer to his question.
"He is no more than fifty-five winters, perhaps less," Chiun said. "Do you know him now?"
"Master of Sinaju," said Smith slowly, "think carefully. Did this man look like Remo? Our Remo?"
There was a long silence over the line before the Master of Sinanju replied.
"Who can say? All whites look alike. Wait. He had a scar on his face, along the right side of the jaw. Our Remo has no such scar."