"We're friends," Remo said. "That woman has betrayed you. She is in league with those who captured you and held you prisoner."
Mei Soong rose on her arms, a look of surprise, then of terror on her face. "Untrue," she screamed.
Remo turned to her, and since the movement x"f the.45 automatic was not to him, he did not respond with automatic movement, but then heard the crack as he saw the top of her head blasted into the stone wall, splattering blood and gray matter, leaving her brain like a coddled egg about to be eaten from the shell of her skull.
He snatched the gun from General Liu.
"She betrayed me," said General Liu, trembling. Then he fell down and sobbed.
It would not be until he strolled a Peking street that Remo would realize that the general's tears were from relieved tension, and that indeed, Remo had been a very poor detective. He watched Liu fall to his knees and bring his hands to his face, heaving, sobbing.
"Poor bastard. All this and then his wife betraying him too," Remo whispered to Chiun.
Chiun responded with a phrase carrying a very special meaning. "Gonsa shmuck," he said.
"What?" said Remo, not really hearing.
"In English, that means very much a shmuck."
"Poor bastard," said Remo.
"Shmuck," said Chiun.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The President's heart was lighter as he watched the newscast. His closest advisor watched also, twisting an index finger through his kinky blond hair.
They sat in the office in deep leather chairs. The President's shoes were off and he twiddled his toes on the hassock. To the right of his left big toe was the advisor's face on the television screen, saying that he would make a trip to Peking and accompany the Premier back to the United States.
"The trip is carefully planned and thorough. Everything will be routine," the voice intoned on TV.
"A routine bit of incredible luck," the President interjected.
A reporter asked the TV face a question. "Will events in China now influence the trip?" he said.
"The Premier's journey is proceeding according to schedule and plans. What is happening in China now influences it in no way."
The President framed his advisor's face between his two big toes. "Now that General Liu is returning with you."
The advisor smiled and turned to the President: "Sir, just how _did we find General Liu? The FBI, the CIA, Treasury, everyone says they had nothing to do with it. The CIA wants to guard him now."
"No," the President said. "They will all be busy trying to track down those two men who kidnapped the general. The General will go back to Peking with you. He will be with two men. They will take the rear of your plane."
"I take it you have some special agents I know nothing about."
"Professor. Once I could have answered that question. Today, I'm not even sure. And that's all I can say." The President glanced at his watch. "It's almost eight o'clock. Please go now."
"Yes, Mr. President," said the aide, arising with his briefcase. They shook hands and smiled. Perhaps peace, a realistic peace, might yet be achieved by man. Wishing or running rampant in parks with peace symbols would not bring it, however. It would come if one worked and schemed and plotted for peace, just as one did for victory in war.
"It looks good, Mr. President," the aide said.
"It looks good. Good night."
"Good night sir," said the aide and left. The white door shut behind him. And the President listened as various people spoke of Phase Two of his economic Policy. There were five people with five different opinions. It sounded like a meeting of his economic advisors. Well, it was a great country and no President could do it much harm.
The second hand on his watch circled the six and headed up past the seven and nine and eleven, then met the twelve, and there was no ring. God Bless you, Smith, wherever you are, thought the President.
Then the special line rang, like a symphony of bells, and the President hopped from his chair and soft-footed it to his desk. He picked up the receiver on the special phone.
"Yes," he said.
"In answer to your question of two days ago, sir," came the lemony voice, "we will continue but under different circumstances. Something didn't work. I will not tell you what, but it did not work. So in the future, do not even bother to ask for the use of that person."
"Is there some way we can let him know of his nation's gratitude."
"No. As a matter of fact, he is incredibly lucky to be alive."
"I have seen pictures of him from agents tailing Mei Soong. One of them was killed in a karate school. Your man was seen."
"It will not matter. He will not look like that any longer after he returns."
"I do wish there was some recognition, some reward we could give him."
"He's alive, Mr. President. Is there anything else you wish to discuss?"
"No, no. Just tell him thank you from me. And thank you for letting him deliver the general safely to his destination."
"Goodbye, Mr. President."
The President hung up the phone. And he chose to believe, because he wanted to believe, that America still had men like Smith and the man who worked for Smith. The Nation produced men like that. And it would survive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Remo was uncomfortable.
Peking was making Mm edgy. Everywhere he and Chiun went with their escorts, people noticed them, and stared. Now it was not the noticing that made him uncomfortable, not that. Their eyes were telling him something, even in the crowded shopping areas, the broad pin-neat streets. But he didn't know what.
And something else was bothering him. They had delivered General Liu and received thanks. Two Chinese generals of Liu's Army had looked at Remo very closely and mumbled with Liu. And one of them had said, in obviously mistaken English, "Destroyer… Shiva," which was probably a Navy captain or something.
And that afternoon, they would formally be shown the Working People's Palace of Culture, in the Forbidden City, as a special honor.
Chiun was unimpressed with the honor. He had been noticeably cool ever since Remo had expressed heartfelt hurt that Chiun would kill him. Chiun was emotionally distressed that Remo would take it that way.
It had come to a head after Remo had telephoned Smith to tell him the mission was successful. Smith had been silent for a long moment, and then had ordered Remo to tell Chiun his blue butterflies had arrived.
"Can't you think of a better signal than that?" Remo had asked.
"It's for your own good. Inform Chiun of that."
So that afternoon in their hotel room, Remo thought he would bite the bullet once and for all, and see what happened. He was not totally unprepared to take on Chiun, given, of course, that nothing he had been taught would be new to Chiun and that Chiun's attack would be based on that. But Remo had a secret weapon, one the old man might not expect. A right cross to the jaw, as taught in the CYO boxing team of Newark, New Jersey. Not a perfect weapon, but it might have a chance.
He readied himself in the middle of the room to make Chiun come to him. Then he said softly, "Chiun, Smith says your blue butterflies have arrived."
Chiun was sitting in the lotus position watching the television set, absorbed in whether a young doctor should tell the mother of a leukemia victim that her daughter had leukemia, an especially difficult task because the doctor had once had an affair with the woman and was not sure if it was his daughter or the daughter of Bruce Barlow who owned the town in which they all lived, and who had just contracted a venereal disease, possibly from Constance Lance whom the doctor's stepfather was engaged to, and who had a weak heart which any shock might destroy. Besides, Barlow, as Remo had gathered from two days of that pap, was considering a gift to the hospital to buy a kidney machine which Dolores Baines Caldwell needed desperately if she were to live to finish her study of cancer before her laboratory was repossessed by an as-yet-to-be-introduced Davis Marshall whom the leukemia victim had met on a holiday in Duluth, Minnesota.