Chiun nodded. "It would be reasonable. One could leave an equipment bag near a counter here without it being out of place. And what is unique about the bag?"
Remo looked again at the fabric as the security men herded them away from the ruins.
When they were back behind the police lines, Remo said, "Handwoven."
"Precisely," Chiun said. "But there is more."
They watched as a mammoth Russian officer, accompanied by a thin mustached man with the look of a ferret, arrived at the scene and began barking out orders. Instantly, the bombing scene began to take on some semblance of order. The big Russian was good, Remo thought to himself. He knew what to do and he knew how to command. There weren't many like that, either in the police or in the Army.
"Come," Chiun said. "What else?"
Remo turned and followed Chiun away from the scene. He did not notice the Russian officer look up and see him. The glint of recognition came over his eyes as he saw the face of Remo Black, which he had seen in that report on his desk earlier. Sorkofsky nodded to one of his plainclothes men, who came over to his side, listened to the colonel's whispered directions and then casually sauntered off in the direction Remo and Chiun had gone.
"I don't know, Chiun," said Remo, holding the
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piece of cloth at arm's length for a different look. "What else?"
"Smell it," Chiun said.
Remo sniffed at the fabric, but could get only traces of aromas. He held the piece of cloth between his two hands tightly to warm it, inducing it to give off more of its scent, then raised his cupped hands to his nose and inhaled deeply.
There was the smoky burned smell, characteristic of explosive, but there was another smell too. It was bitterly sweet and pinched at his nostrils. Remo had smelled it before, a long time ago . . . but where?
He shook his head and tried again. He was able to pick out the scent now from among all the scents on the fabric-scents of gunpowder and sweat-but the sweet smell eluded him.
"I don't know, Chiun. What is it?"
"Arnica," Chiun said. "Smell it again, so you know it next time."
Remo sniffed it again and impressed the aroma on his memory.
"What's arnica?" he said.
"It comes from the dried flowers of an herb. It is made into an ointment and used by fighters to reduce swelling and cuts," Chiun said.
Remo remembered. It was back while he was hi the army, long ago, long before CURE and long before Chiun, and he had been corraled into a boxing show. He had landed a lucky right hand and put a cut next to his opponent's eye, and in the next round, during a clinch, his nose was right next to the cut and he smelled the arnica that his opponent's corner had used to reduce the swelling and stop the flow of blood around the cut.
"A boxer," Remo said. "We're looking for a boxer."
"Yes," said Chiun. "And one from a country with handwoven bags."
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Remo nodded. "Probably a small country that might be too poor for real equipment."
"Good," said Chiun. "I'm glad you understand. And now that I've done your work for you, I think I will return to the stadium and watch your opposition."
"All right," Remo said. ''I'm going to the boxing arena. And I'll take the tail with me."
He nodded toward his own shoulder and Chiun nodded his understanding. Without even seeing the Russian agent, both had known they had been followed since leaving the refreshment stand.
Chiun strolled slowly back to the track and field arena stadium, while Remo walked off quickly toward the fieldhouse, where preliminary boxing bouts were starting. He would like to get this over quickly, he thought, so he could get to the other fieldhouse in time to watch Josie Littlefeather's routine on the balance beam.
In the boxing arena, Remo walked down the long corridor of dressing rooms, stopping into each one, wishing all the fighters good luck, and checking their equipment bags. His tail loitered in the corridor behind him, smoking and trying to look casual.
The last dressing room was labeled "People's Democratic Republic of Baruba," and as soon as Remo went in, he saw a woven equipment bag, its fabric identical to the shred of cloth in his hand, in a corner of the room near an open locker.
"Hey, pal," Remo said to the lone figure on the table. "Good luck." The black-skinned boxer looked up, startled, then responded to Remo's smile with a smile of his own.
"I hope you win today," Remo said. "What's your name?"
The black man hesitated a moment too long. "Sammy Wanenko" he said.
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"Good," said Remo. "Well, good luck again." He shook the boxer's already-taped hand.
He wondered for a moment if he should shake the man up a bit and make him talk, but if he did, there would be questions and yap-yap and he would miss Josie's routine. He remembered the tail out in the hall. He would do to send the message back.
Remo went back into the corridor, and his tail pushed away from the wall where he had been lounging and lit a cigarette, his eyes watching the dark-haired American.
Remo beckoned to him.
"Come here," he said.
The Russian agent looked behind him, but there was nobody else in the corridor. He walked up to Remo, who grabbed the man's wrist, pulled him to the end of the corridor, and into a little alcove.
"You speak English?" Remo asked.
"Yes." The man was trying to free his wrist.
"Stop that," Remo said. "I just want to talk. I've got a message for your boss."
"Yes?"
"Tell him that the terrorists are the Baruban boxing team. You got that? The Baruban boxing team. Here. Give him this." He handed the agent the piece of woven fabric.
"This was at the scene of the bombing. It's how they planted the explosives," Remo said. "It's the material the Barubans use for their equipment bags. You got it?"
The Russian did not respond, but then quickly said "yes" when he felt something unbelievably hard probe his ribs right through the heavy suit he wore: Remo's index ringer.
"Yes, yes," he said. "I got it."
"Okay. I've got to go. But you give him that message."
Remo took off on the run, to see Josie's routine.
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The agent watched him leave, then looked at the fabric in his hands. Good old Colonel Sorkofsky, he thought. Trust the Rhino to spot somebody or something important.
He looked forward to hurrying back to Sorkofsky and giving him the American's information.
He walked back down the corridor, his eyes down, looking at the fabric in his hand.
He never heard the door of the Baruban dressing room open behind him, and it was too late when he heard the footstep behind him because a strong arm was already around his throat, and as he was being dragged into the dressing room, he saw the glint of a knife up over Ms head and then it felt like fire as it drove into his chest, tearing his heart muscle and making it stop.
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"You did well," Flight Lieutenant Jack Mullin told the Baruban boxer.
The boxer was holding a white cloth to his bleeding forehead.
"I got knocked out in the first round," he said.
"I don't mean your bloody boxing match, you bleeding idiot," Mullin snarled. He pointed to the body of the dead Russian agent in a corner of the room. "I mean him."
The three other Africans masquerading as Baruban islanders nodded.
"Does anyone know who this American might be who talked to that agent?" Mullin asked.
One of the Africans said, "From the description, he sounds like the one called Remo Black. When I am at the track, he is all the Americans talk about. They say he is very strange."
"Probably CIA," said Mullin.
"His trainer is an Oriental," the African added. "Very old and frail. He wears nice robes. All sewn with pretty pictures and-"
"I'm not interested in his goddamn threads," Mullin said, and the African clamped his mouth shut in midsentence. "They will have to be taken care of. Both of them."