Remo opened the door a crack. "Look," he whispered. "See, I'm wet. Can you come back in an hour?"
There was a group of three men, all wearing brown snap-brimmed hats, shined cordovans, gray lightweight summer suits, white shirts and conservative ties. They were all clean-shaven and not one of them appeared to have a cavity or a tooth defect.
It had amused Remo that this uniform, this sparkling advertisement of membership in the Federal Bureau of Investigation, was called plainclothes. If they wanted to be inconspicuous, they might have done better in an increasingly permissive society by being more permissive with themselves.
As Chiun had said, "When the fish climb trees, you do not go swimming to hide as a fish."
The apparent leader of the group offered a little two-piece wallet device which exposed an FBI identity card in plastic. It was his face, showing roundish, somewhat aging, symmetrical features. A smile could have made it a nice face.
It was not a nice face now.
"Can we come in?"
"Get a warrant," said Remo.
"We have one," said the man whose name on the card was Supervisor Bannon. Remo shrugged.
"Okay, but be quiet," he said and opened the door. The three men entered. The two behind Bannon masked tension. Remo could see it in their eyes. They took off their hats and opened the distance between them, almost making the base of a triangle for Bannon's point.
They were watching Bannon more closely than Remo. Absently, they showed their cards to Remo, who saw they were a Winarsky and a Tracy and they were duly authorized to do whatever duly authorized people were authorized to do.
Which didn't help Remo's goosebumps as he stood with a towel wrapping his groin. He was slightly shorter than the men and his body would not necessarily disclose his skills. Undressed, he looked like a relatively healthy tennis player. Bannon looked like an ex-tackle for the Rams. The other two could have been tennis players, twenty pounds on the wrong side of six-love. Bannon sat down in a soft chair, his hat still on his head.
Winarsky and Tracy eyed Chiun. Remo shut the door. Bannon looked deep into his own navel. Remo saw Tracy and Winarsky exchange glances.
"Oriental," said Supervisor Bannon. "The man is Oriental."
"Shhh," came the voice-from Chiun who sat slide-rule straight and quiet, poised two body lengths across the gray carpeting from Supervisor Bannon. Remo patted downward in the air, indicating that Supervisor Bannou should lower his tone.
"Oriental," said Supervisor Bannon.
Winarsky said to Remo: "You're Remo Donaldson, correct?"
"Right," said Remo.
"Remo Donaldson," said Bannon, looking up from his stomach. "Why did you kill those Special Forces people in Florida? Why did you kill General Withers? Why did you do those terrible things, Remo Donaldson?"
Remo shrugged and appeared confused. He looked to Winarsky and Tracy.
"We have reason to believe you may be connected with the death of some government people in Florida," Winarsky explained. "We want to talk to you about it."
"We want justice," said Supervisor Bannon. "That's what it's all about."
"Actually, Mr. Donaldson, Justice is a function of the courts. We just gather information. We don't even indict anyone. We're just here for some information. The information you give us about yourself could just as easily clear you." Winarsky's voice was even and controlled. He looked directly at Remo.
Bannon looked to the ceiling. "Justice," he said. "If not justice, then what?"
Tracy leaned over and whispered into Bannon's ear. Bannon pushed at Tracy's shoulder and yelled: "I will not be interfered with. When you've spent as much time as I have rooting out injustice, then you can tell me how to interrogate a suspect. Then, Tracy, you can tell me about my job. Until then, Tracy, stand clear."
He turned to Remo. "Mr. Donaldson. Have you ever been to confession? Have you ever confessed your sins against the United States government? Against decency? Against democracy? Against the flag?"
"Sir," said Winarsky. "I think we had better leave Tracy here and you and I return to headquarters."
Bannon began to hum softly to himself, a tune which Remo couldn't make out. But he thought he had heard it before. Somewhere.
"We're not leaving anywhere," said Bannon. "We're not leaving our nation to injustice or…" Bannon stared up at the ceiling and then at Remo.
He hummed some more. He looked at Remo almost without seeing him. Then he slipped a .38 calibre snub-nosed revolver from a holster under his coat in a very nice motion. Much better than most FBI men drew. It was more relaxed than most men going for a gun, and thus its fluidity gave speed and command. Most likely the draw was an accident because Bannon had not looked that good when he walked in.
Bannon pointed the gun at Tracy, who instinctively raised his hands. The room was silent but for a woman on television exclaiming the virtues of the disposable diaper. According to the message, the diaper could not only keep baby dry but could make happy marriages. Since it was a commercial and since Chiun could sense the drawing of weapons—the sudden silence in the room tipping him off—he turned around to see what weapon was drawn on whom.
When he saw it was the fat meat-eater in the soft chair pointing a pistol at the overweight meat-eater standing, Chiun returned his gaze to the set and watched how Lemon Smart non-phosphate soap could make a wash sunshine fresh. Chiun had contempt for men who would use weapons at close range. As he had said: "You might as well push buttons. A child could kill like that."
"Sir," said Winarsky loudly.
"Shhh," said Chiun.
"Quiet the Oriental," said Bannon pointed the gun at Tracy's stomach, then waving it toward Chiun. Tracy was nearest to Chiun.
"Wait," said Remo. "Don't go near the old man. Not now. Just stay where you are."
"Move, Tracy. Or I will put as big a hole into you as I plan to put into the injustice-maker, Remo Donaldson. I am judge and executioner, Donaldson. And my justice is keen."
"Sir," said Winarsky. "That's… that's not regulation." Remo could tell Winarsky knew it was weak when he said it. But then, in a crisis, man's ultimate values always surface, values he might not even know he had.
"Move, Tracy, or you are dead," said Bannon, whose gaze became vacant again as he hummed. What was that song? Remo could not make it out.
Bannon blinked. He focused. He brought his right hand flush to his hips, so the pistol could not be knocked away. A snub-nosed gun was perfect for this.
He pointed the little cannon, with the poised slug capable of making a grapefruit-sized gouge in flesh, at Tracy's stomach. Perspiration formed on Tracy's forehead. Remo saw him swallow.
Bannon was a quick one step and a simple stroke away. Remo could take the gun away whenever he wanted. But then Tracy began to move toward Chiun and Remo faced a new target line.
He tried. "Don't move," said Remo. "Don't go near that old man now. Don't go near him."
"Mister," said Agent Tracy. "There's a .38 being pointed at my stomach now and I can feel the slug in me already, so with your kind permission or without it, I am going to quiet this little old man."
"I've seen men survive bullet wounds," Remo said.
He could say no more before Tracy, in his nervousness, grabbed the wisp of white hair on Chiun's balding yellow head.
Tracy did this with his left hand as he kept his eye on Bannon, still believing the pistol was the major threat against his life. Probably, he did not feel his wrist snap. First the wrist, and Tracy's body was going down into the floor as the golden-robed old man used its mass to rise on. Remo didn't even see the skull blow that killed Agent Tracy who had placed unreal fear in the efficacy of guns and paid the ultimate price for his miscalculation. The body bumped on the rug, dead before grounding.