"That one," Chiun hissed, pointing.
They hit the door running. It popped inward.
Inside, three startled faces looked in their direction.
Two were brown faces. Hispanic. Their eyes were widely luminous, and frightened.
The third face was also Hispanic in complexion.
"You are just in time!" cried the owner of the third face, Enrique Espiritu Esperanza. "These men are attempting to assassinate me!"
"No we're not!" protested the other two, fumbling machine pistols from under their clothing.
It was the last words they were destined to speak.
Remo and Chiun moved in on them. Remo shot between the pair, took Enrique Esperanza by his terrycloth robe and pushed him behind a long, low item of furniture that was awash in bric-a-brac.
Remo turned, saying, "Don't kill-"
The sound of two grinding spinal columns cut off the rest. The two Hispanics fell from the Master of Sinanju's inexorable grip, their heads lolling crazily, their eyes bulging and glassy.
They gurgled once after they collapsed on the rug. That was all.
"Nice going, Little Father," Remo complained. "They could have told us something."
"Their faces told all," Chiun said coldly. "They were conspirators. In league with our political enemies."
Enrique Esperanza stepped up, adjusting his disordered robe on his broad shoulders. "You did well to come here," he said softly, "for you were just in time to save me from certain death."
Chiun bowed. "When you have Sinanju, you need nothing more."
Looking around the room, Remo asked, "What kind of setup is this?"
Chapter 32
Harold W. Smith stared at the computer screen. It was dark now. It was very dark.
Smith had searched his database all night for any connection between Nogeira and Rona Ripper. He had found none. Not one.
It was during this scanning that his computer had beeped an alert. Key buzzwords were routinely input into the system on a regular basis, and the CURE mainframes constantly scanned all databases within their telephonic outreach for new information on those mission-sensitive key words.
Smith pressed a key. In the corner, the screen displayed: TRACEWORD: NOGEIRA.
Smith called up the new data.
It was off an FBI mainframe. The final autopsy report of General Nogeira had been input into the FBI mainframes, making it available to Smith's roving data search. It was flagged TOP SECRET.
Smith scanned the report, first with curiosity, then with growing horror.
The official FBI autopsy on the body pulled from the Florida Everglades had reached an inescapable conclusion. A conclusion that sent Harold Smith scrambling for his green wastebasket and fumbling to his desktop an assortment of aspirins, antacids and other remedies. As he read along, he began unscrewing childproof caps and extracting pills. He didn't bother to identify them before they entered his mouth.
He popped an aspirin as he read that the body had lacked certain distinguishing marks known to have marred the real body of General Nogeira, dictator of Bananama.
One was that the dictator was known to have had five general's stars tattooed to his naked shoulders, so that even in disguise he would be identifiable to his allies.
The Everglades body had only four such stars on each shoulder.
"Tattoos can be chemically removed," Smith said, ingesting a Dramamine.
There were other discrepancies. Body weight, height, and an appendectomy scar that should not have been there.
"Inconsequential," Smith said, popping an antacid.
In the third paragraph, the report noted that fingerprints taken from the skin glove did not match those of Nogeira.
"Easily explained," Smith told himself. "The skin glove was from a drowning victim. Someone not connected with this."
The FBI report concluded in the final paragraph that the body believed to be that of Nogeira was in fact that of another person entirely.
"Premature," Smith scoffed, taking another aspirin.
At the bottom of the report was a notation that the FBI had run the fingerprints through its extensive files and produced no positive match.
Harold Smith logged over to the computerized FBI fingerprint records and brought up a digitized copy of the skin glove prints. They looked like ordinary fingerprints. He initiated a cross-match program that ran those prints through various other files at his disposal.
It took an hour, but in the end Harold Smith had a perfect match.
A second row of fingerprints showed beneath the first. They were labeled. The name of the individual to whom those fingerprints belonged made Smith blink wildly, as if his eyes sought to reject the indisputable facts before them.
The name was that of Enrique Espiritu Esperanza.
"Oh my God," croaked Harold W. Smith, his stomach, head, and eyes one great throbbing network of pain. "I have instructed them to install the most brutal dictator in this hemisphere as governor of California, and I have no way to reach Remo and Chiun."
Chapter 33
In the guest house of the Esperanza vineyard, Remo Williams frowned at the strange piece of furniture behind which he had pushed Esperanza to safety.
"It looks like an altar," Remo said, eyeing the assortment of statuary, portraits, and knickknacks. There was a wooden gourd set in the center of the feather-bedecked altar, and its bowl was dark with a brownish-red crust that could only be blood.
"Yes," said Esperanza. "One of my servants, he is from the Caribbean. An island man. You know, they practice strange beliefs on those islands."
"Looks like Voodoo stuff," Remo remarked.
"Santeria. Not Voodoo, but very much like it."
"This servant of yours," Chiun asked slowly. "Does he know of love potions?"
Esperanza blinked rapidly.
"Love potions?"
"Yes. I have a . . . friend who has need of such a thing." Chiun looked at Remo out of the corner of his eye. Remo looked away. Esperanza looked at them both and smiled with veiled understanding.
"Ah, I see," he said, gesturing. "Come, come. I will talk to him on your behalf. It may be that I can do something for this . . . friend."
As they were leaving the room, Remo said, "Cashman was hit this afternoon."
Esperanza laid a broad brown hand on his white-suited chest and turned, his face aghast. "No! Not Harmon!"
"He's not dead. The doctor says he'll recover."
"Ah, good," said Esperanza.
"Once he kicks his cocaine habit," Remo added.
Esperanza stopped again. "Harmon? Not Harmon."
Remo nodded. "The doctor confirmed it."
"How strange. You know, I have never known him to speak of drugs."
"Yeah, all you ever saw him do was wolf down Oreo cookies by the fistful."
"I understand those addicted ones often experience strange pangs and hungers," said Esperanza sadly.
They resumed walking down the stairs.
"What is that smell?" Chiun asked, sniffing the air doubtfully.
Remo answered. "Smells like Oreos."
"I keep a goodly supply here," explained Esperanza. "Once the election is over, I will donate the remainder to charity."
"Yeah," Remo said sourly. "A lot of starving people want nothing better than to sit down to a heaping bowl full of chocolate cookies."
"Remo!" Chiun admonished. "Watch your tone. This man is our patron."
"Sorry," Remo said, frowning. Something was bothering him. Something that danced along the edges of his memory. He couldn't think what it was.
Down in the parlor, Enrique Esperanza said, "My servant is away. Why do you not take this fine house for the duration of your stay with me?"
"Suits me," said Remo.
"A protector should always be at his patron's side," said Chiun flatly.
Esperanza considered. "I know: You may come with me, and your friend may remain here."
"It is proper," said Chiun.
"Okay," said Remo.