Remo looked toward the dais and saw Chiun's body lying across those of James Revell and Hubert Millis.
None was moving. Lyle Lavallette was running down the slightly elevated stage toward the fallen men and the bodyguards were coming from the other side.
Remo swerved away from the gunman and ran toward the platform. Newsmen were moving close now and Remo vaulted over them and landed atop the pile of bodies. "Chiun, Chiun," he called. "Are you all right?"
The squeaky voice from under him answered, "I was until some elephant crashed upon my poor body."
The gunman had stopped firing; there were probably too many newsmen in the way for him to have a shot, Remo realized. He started to his feet, even as he felt the bodies of Lavallette and the bodyguards drop on top of the pile.
"I'll get the gunman, Chiun," Remo said.
He started to slip through the pack, but could not get free. Something was holding his ankle. He reached down to free it, but the pressure was suddenly released. He tried to stand again and the pressure was on his other ankle. Through the cluster of bodies, he could see nothing.
Remo lunged backward with his body and suddenly the pressure was released and Remo went sprawling onto his back on the platform.
He stood up and looked over the heads of the reporters who were clustered milling about in front of the dais. The gunman was gone.
Remo darted into the crowd but there was no sign of the man. All around him, reporters were babbling.
"Who was it?"
"Who did the shooting?"
"Did anybody get hit?"
He heard one reporter say, "I know who did it." Remo moved quickly behind that reporter and grasped his earlobe between right thumb and forefinger.
"Who did it, buddy?" he said.
"Owwww. Stop that."
"First, who did it?"
"A cameraman. He came when I did and I saw his name on the guest list."
"What was his name?" Remo said.
"A funny name. Owwww. All right. His name was Remo Williams."
Remo released the newsman's ear, swallowed hard, then ran back to the dais to collect Chiun so they could get out of the mob scene before they wound up as stars on the six-o'clock news.
As they left the parking lot, they could hear the whooping of approaching police sirens.
Chapter 11
The Master of Sinanju was not hungry. The Master of Sinanju would not be hungry for the foreseeable future, at least so long as his ungrateful wretch of a pupil continued to intrude upon his privacy.
"Well, I'm hungry and I intend to make some rice."
"Good," said the Master of Sinanju. "Make it in Massachusetts," he added, repeating a slogan he had once heard on television.
Remo bit back an answer and went into the small kitchenette of the hotel suite. On the counter, on a room-service tray, were six packages of whole-grain brown rice, and as a concession to variety; one package of white rice, which according to Chiun had less nutrient value and an inferior taste. Not to mention being improperly colored.
Remo opened the package of white rice. "Yum, yum. White rice. My favorite."
He glanced into the living room and saw a disgusted expression wrinkle Chiun's parchment features. But the old man did not move from his lotus position in the center of the floor.
"I haven't had white rice in so long, just the thought of a steaming bowl makes my mouth water."
Chiun sniffed disdainfully.
Remo put on a pot of water and measured out a half-cup of rice grains. While he waited for the water to boil, he made pleasant conversation although he was not in a pleasant mood. Still, after a half-day of argument and pleading had failed to move Chiun, he had decided on this approach.
"Sure wish we had this rice in the desert, when my plane crashed. Do you know, Chiun? I was the leader of all the survivors. Surrounded by sand. And I found myself enjoying it."
"You would," Chiun said. "I will have Smith buy you a sandbox for Christmas."
"I enjoyed being appreciated. There we were surrounded by sand and these people I had never met before looked up to me. "
"So did the sand probably," said Chiun.
The first bubbles of water surfaced in the pot and Remo looked for a wooden spoon but had to settle for a plastic one.
"I think I may have helped save some lives," Remo said. "That was the part that stays with me. I guess I can understand how important you think it is to feed the villagers of Sinanju."
The rice swirled in the boiling water.
The Master of Sinanju opened his mouth to speak, a softer light in his hazel eyes, but he caught himself before the breath became a kind word and resumed staring into infinity.
Remo saw the momentary softening and went on, as he put a lid on the pot: "I used to think those people in Sinanju were lazy ungrateful bastards. Every one of them. Living off the blood money of the Master. But I've changed now."
Chiun brushed a long-nailed finger against an eye. Was he brushing away a tear? Remo wondered.
"I can understand now how it is a Master's obligation to feed the village."
He waited five minutes then opened the pot. The rice was soft and fluffy.
"Maybe someday, I'll be the one to feed the people of Sinanju," Remo said, putting the rice into two identical bowls. "I'd like that."
Remo looked at Chiun from the corner of his eye but the aged Korean averted his face.
"Care for some rice?" Remo said casually.
Chiun came up from his sitting position as if being catapulted from the floor. He cleared the space to his bedroom like a flash of golden light, the color of his day kimono.
The door slammed behind him and through the door panel Remo could hear the sound of the Master of Sinanju noisily blowing his nose. It sounded like a goose honking.
A moment later, the door reopened and Chiun stood framed in the doorway, calm and serene, a beatific expression on his face.
"Yes, my son. I think I will have some rice," he said formally.
After they had put aside their empty bowls and eating sticks, Remo said, "I would speak with you, Little Father. "
Chiun held up a hand. "The proprieties must be observed. First the food."
"Yes?" said Remo.
"I think you are finally learning to cook rice properly. That rice was correctly done, not like that insidious mortar that Japanese refer to as rice. This was done in the Korean style."
"That's the way I like it in Chinese restaurants," Remo said.
"Pah," said Chiun. "The Chinese stole the correct cooking technique from the Koreans, who are widely acknowledged to be the world's greatest chefs."
Remo nodded his head in agreement, although the only Korean dish he had ever tasted was some kind of pickled cabbage that tasted like rancid crabgrass.
He lowered his head and waited and finally Chiun said, "And now you may speak of other things."
"I know this subject offends you, Chiun, but I must ask. Who was that gunman this afternoon?"
"Some lunatic who likes to shoot people," Chiun said casually.
"He gave his name to one of the reporters there," Remo said.
"An alias," Chiun said. "American gangsters are always using aliases."
"He gave his name as Remo Williams," Remo said.
"He probably picked the name at random from the telephone book," Chiun said.
"There aren't a lot of Remo Williamses in the telephone book, Little Father. Why did Smith send you to Detroit?"
"Business," Chiun said.
"I figured that much. That gunman's your target?"
"You should have figured that out too," Chiun said.
"I'm trying to be respectful and hold a decent conversation with you," Remo said, and Chiun, looking as chastened as Remo had ever seen him, said nothing.