"No, Remo," said Smith in a tired tone. "In the last hour both the governor and lieutenant governor of California have been killed in a plane crash. According to my computers, they were on their way to a concert. The tickets-both airline and concert-were provided by Emmanuel Nogeira."
"But he's been in prison for two years," Remo said.
"A prison in which he had unlimited access to a telephone, and full use of his credit card," Smith pointed out.
"Some prison," Remo remarked.
"Remo, I need a full report on the assignment."
"Okay," Remo said. "Put the scrambler on top speed. Here goes."
Remo rattled off his report. At the end of it, he added, "There is one consolation."
"And that is?"
"Nogeira never did get baptized."
Smith was silent a moment. "You say you are not clear on the identities of these assailants?"
"Take your pick," Remo said. "Either they were Colombians out to kill him, Bananamanian Army forces out to kill him, or his own people out to kill him. Whoever they were, they were out to kill him. And they definitely contributed." "I think we can leave the Bananamanian Army out of this," Smith mused. "It was in their interest to let American justice run its course."
"If that means they wanted to see Nogeira punished,"
Remo inserted, "I'd say they go back to the top of the list. Because American justice was being run into the ground by this guy, not the other way around."
"Point taken," said Smith, his voice losing its distant, reflective quality.
"You think Nogeira was behind the plane crash?" Remo asked, after the pause on the line had grown lengthy.
"I am certain of it."
"Well, whatever he was up to, the secret died with him."
"He may have had confederates."
"The guys who wasted him?" Remo suggested.
Smith's response was thin. "Perhaps."
Remo asked, "What do you want me to do?"
"Nothing. I will have Federal agents cover the airports, highways, and train stations."
"I think you can save your breath."
"Why is that?"
"From the way those guys shot up the FBI down there, I think the word's already been put out."
"Of course. Then I must confer with the President."
"Before you do, do me a favor, Smitty?"
"What is that?" Smith said, wincing at that bit of familiarity. He hated to be called "Smitty"-the more so because it usually meant Remo was about to ask a favor.
"Call Chiun first and tell him that even though I didn't do the hit, I did right."
"You did neither," said Harold Smith, who was too busy now to bother with trivial disputes between his field operatives.
He hung up the phone without another word and took hold of the red telephone, wondering what the President's reaction to his discovery would be.
Chapter 4
In the lobby of the Fontainebleau Hotel overlooking the Miami waterfront, Remo hung up the pay phone.
He glided to the bank of elevators. "Glided" was the perfect word to describe the way Remo moved. He wore a white T-shirt and tan chinos. His feet were encased in hand-made loafers of Italian leather. Quality shoes. Still, they should have left impressions in the deep nap of the lobby carpet. But they did not. His soles seemed just to caress the nap, like constantly moving brushes.
Remo's casual attire should have gotten disapproving looks from the lobby staff. It did not. He might have been invisible. In a way, he was.
The elevator door dinged and opened. Remo stepped aboard, punched the seventh-floor button, and folded his lean arms. His deep-set brown eyes were clouded with worry.
Maybe Chiun won't ask me how it went, Remo thought.
Yeah, and maybe he'll have cooked dinner for us both.
Neither was very likely, Remo knew.
He came off the elevator with his hands in his pockets and his mouth an unhappy downward curl on his face.
He pushed open the door to his room.
Instantly, his nostrils were greeted by the fresh, sweet smell of boiled white rice-his favorite-and the tang of baked fish.
Remo grinned. Maybe the day would be saved, after all. Something had caused Chiun to break down and cook dinner.
He started toward the kitchenette of their suite of rooms.
"I smell good eating," Remo said.
"And I smell failure," came a squeaky, querulous voice.
"Uh-oh," Remo muttered. In a brighter voice he said aloud, "Do I smell dinner?"
"No, you do not."
"No? Why?"
"Because I smell failure."
This time, Remo's "Uh-oh" was audible.
He paused on the threshold of the kitchenette. The Master of Sinanju was in the act of pouring the contents of a stainless-steel pot into the sink. He reached down and touched the garbage-disposal button. It rumbled. The steam emanating from the sink was quickly drawn from sight. The fresh smell of steamed rice went away with it.
"You're throwing away perfectly good rice," Remo pointed out.
"I am no longer hungry," said Chiun, next taking a tray of baked fish from the oven.
This, too, was consumed by the garbage disposal.
Remo could only watch helplessly, his saliva glands-just about the only physical part of him he did not fully control-working overtime.
"Who said I failed?" Remo asked unhappily.
"Your feet."
Remo looked down. His feet looked like they always did. His shoes shone. Not that he ever bothered to shine them. Whenever they got dirty or picked up a scuff, he simply threw them away and bought new ones. Sometimes in that order.
"What about my feet?"
"They stink of failure."
Remo sniffed the air. "I don't smell anything."
"This odor is not smelt, but heard," Chiun said, thin-voiced. "Your every footfall reeks of shame, and failure."
"I did not fail," Remo said stubbornly.
"You did not accomplish your mission?" asked Chiun, turning to face him for the first time.
Chiun, Reigning Master of Sinanju, stood no more than five feet tall. In his kimono, he resembled a frail cone of scarlet. The front was a swirl of calla lilies, stitched in silvery thread.
Eyes the color of steel regarded Remo, giving off cold, brittle sparks. They were set in a face that might have been a resin mask, yellow and lined with age. The bald head shone under the overhead light. Over each ear, wispy white hair made a gentle puff. His chin, resolute despite its unquestionable frailty, boasted a curl of a beard that was like smoke frozen in eternity.
Slowly, long-nailed hands rose and the fingers, thin and the color of eagle talons, came together. Fingers grasped the opposite wrist and the scarlet sleeves came together then, hiding the old Korean's hands.
"Speak," he intoned.
"Okay," Remo said quickly. "I didn't complete my mission. "
"Then you failed."
"I did not fail," Remo repeated.
"You lie. This was the most important mission Emperor Smith has given you, and you botched it like the clod-footed amateur that you are."
"Who said it was so important?"
"I do. Smith asked you to do a simple thing: to dispatch a former head of state. A minor thing-for Sinanju. A major thing, in our Emperor's eyes."
"Smith said nothing of the sort."
Chiun cocked his head. "You did not kill this man?"
"No. But he is dead."
"Aiiee!" Chiun wailed, his hands springing into view. They took hold of the puffs over his ears and tugged in consternation. He did a little circle dance in his sandaled feet. "You let competition steal the food from our babies' mouths!"
The reference was to the children in Sinanju-who were fed by the work of the Master, as they had been for five thousand years. It was the reason the men of Sinanju had first hired out their services to the emperors of ancient Asia.
"Actually, an alligator got him," Remo admitted, folding his lean arms.