Bannon was in pre-shoot, that just-about-a-second length of time between the recognition of danger and shooting. He did not have that just-about-a-second. A frail foot went through his right eye into his brain, which never got off its signal to squeeze the trigger.
Remo could see the foot because of the golden flowing robes floating violently around it. Winarsky moved a hand to his holster on his hip, a compendium of bad habits, exposing his heart, his chest, his throat, his head, as if he were posing to be killed. Winarsky undoubtedly thought reaching for a pistol like that was a good move. Maybe his best move. Remo would remember that white shirt, big and open and incredibly vulnerable. He would remember all motion stilled… the white open shirt… the hand moved away from any blocking action… the hand on the hip.
And the golden robes as Chiun seemed hung in the air, a red spot on the rug behind him where his big toe, having punctured an eye-socket, had touched the gray carpet after killing Bannon, and Chiun seemed poised in mid-air forever as if unable to decide in what spot he should kill Winarsky.
He narrowed the choices to one, and then it was over. Chiun had taken him with an off-angle right hand stroke just over the right temple above Winarsky's gun hand. Confronted with so many obvious targets and moves, he had taken an obscure angular attack.
Winarsky stood in his official FBI crouch, the one all agents are taught when they are taught how to draw their revolvers from their hips. He stood that way while a red splotch formed just above his right ear. He stood that way while he was dead.
When Agent Winarsky hit the floor, the Master of Sinanju was back at the problems of Middle America, being discussed by Middle America ad infinitum. Chiun, as he had often said, respected America's true art form.
Remo was left with two dead men on the floor and one in a chair.
He and Chiun might have to move rapidly. Then again, knowing how organizations worked, they might not have to move that fast at all.
Remo dialled FBI headquarters and asked for Supervisor Bannon, giving the name of a supervisor in Newark, N.J. Bannon was out to lunch, his secretary-said.
"What about Agents Winarsky and Tracy?"
"Out to lunch with him."
"Do you know where I can reach him? It's urgent."
"Yes, the Plymouth Luncheonette. That's where he said he was going,"
"Thank you," said Remo. So much for the trace from FBI headquarters. Remo dialled the desk clerk.
"Anyone been looking for me in the lobby? I'm expecting people."
"No," said the clerk.
So much for the FBI identifying themselves to the hotel clerk. Obviously Bannon had been doing his own number outside regular channels. And he had done it without leaving a trace.
Remo moved the bodies to the bathtub, then dressed quickly in slacks, sports shirt and soft Italian shoes. He wanted to look casual to attract less attention where he was going.
Just before he left, he said to the straight golden-robed body with the whisps of hair flowing downs
"Don't let anyone in, Chiun."
"Shhh," said the Master of Sinanju, who did not like beauty to be interrupted.
"You know, Chiun," yelled Remo. "If you weren't so magnificent, you'd be a shit." Then he slammed the door. Chiun never cleaned up his own bodies.
Never.
The gardening supply store assured the handsome young homeowner that even though his leaves were soggy, the Super Garb was not about to leak. It was tested, the owner assured the man who moved so smoothly, so it could hold—without tearing—250 pounds.
"Give me three," said Remo.
The young homeowner moved so smoothly, did he ever participate in ballet?
"Wrap the Super Garbs," Remo said.
"Oh," said the owner, who frittered away to impose his will on a clerk who was overworked, over-abused and heterosexual.
That afternoon, Remo learned that the Duralite extra-large suitcase was made of stanislucent poly-chromide.
"Thanks, give me three," said Remo to the clerk in the luggage shop.
"It also has the scratchproof, virtually scratchproof, exide exterior, with, and this is a prime feature, the new low-line snap buckle."
"Three," Remo said.
"It is guaranteed," said the clerk, "for eight years. That's an eight-year guarantee."
"Give me three before I grind you into a puppy biscuit remnant," Remo said, smiling.
"What did you say?" said the clerk who restrained himself from pounding the customer through the door because he knew he had a sale. Besides, if he had another incident at this store, then he would never again be able to get a job as a salesman.
"Three, please," said Remo. "Deliver them immediately," and he gave his room number at the hotel.
"Immediately," he said, "Or I won't pay for them."
"You have a half hour," he added smiling.
When the customer had left, the salesman said: "I hope I see him again. Preferably in a dark bar."
Did the gentleman want the valises insured? "Of course," said Remo. "These valises hold very valuable possessions. Priceless. Insure them for $2 each."
"Jewellery and things?"
"No. Manuscripts. Priceless to me."
"Oh, very nice. We will have our man pick them up in an hour in your hotel suite.
"Here," said Remo to the men picking up the three valises. "Here's a tenner for you and your partner. They're kind of heavy, so be careful with them. And don't disturb the little fellow watching television.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Remo had to take Chiun with him.
That was the first problem. Chiun had done it again, or rather, as Chiun explained it, he was minding his own business when it was done to him. Chiun, if you took literally what he said, was always minding his own business. Then he was abused, then a little something happened and that was it.
"I would not expect it all to be understood by a man given to dilly-dallying as you did with those imbeciles before," Chiun said.
"Now let's go over this again," said Remo, packing his one valise with two throws of underwear and a neat folding of one extra suit, then moving on to Chiun's wardrobe.
"You were sitting peacefully in the downstairs restaurant, correct?"
"Correct."
Chiun motioned with one long finger that he wanted the white kimono folded outside in and the blue one folded inside out. Remo could have let Chiun pack his own luggage but they would not be out of the hotel for at least another day.
"And this person at the table next to you was talking about the Third World?"
"Correct."
"And you did not intrude yourself on their conversation?"
"Correct."
"Then what happened?"
"I will not be questioned like a child. The green robe is on top." Remo put the green robe on the bed for last.
"I've got to know for my report to Smith," Remo said,
"Of course. I had forgotten that I am dealing with a person who spies on me. I had forgotten that all I have taught you means ought. I had forgotten that truths that save your life are forgotten because you know them now and I, after all, do not rank in your wonderful organization. I do not even know the purpose of your organization. That is how little I am valued. I am just a poor teacher of the martial arts, a lowly, lowly servant. Put the sandals in a bag."
"May I remind you, little father, that it was you who told Smith I could function when I'm not at peak? I never risked your life," Remo said.
"If it makes you feel better to bring up old wounds, then indulge yourself. I am just a poor servant."
"Dammit, Chum," said Remo, stuffing the first of eight pairs of sandals into the first of eight plastic bags, "When one of the most famous heavyweight contenders gets knocked on his ass by an eighty-year-old man, we have some explaining to do."
"No one saw it," Chiun said.
They saw Ali Baba whatever-his-name-is go on his ass. They saw that."