Above him, Chiun gave a warning hiss. Remo knew that sound. He ducked back into the building and held the glass-and-brass door shut with both hands, and started wishing he had accepted that extra pair of earmuffs from Chiun.
The weird sound came and went quickly. When it was gone, Remo stepped out cautiously.
Moving with every sense alert because he had no defense against the voracious insects that were too small to see, Remo worked toward a gathering knot of people.
They were crowding around a dead man lying in the middle of stopped traffic. The dead man was dressed like a yellow jacket wasp. A cop was kneeling over the body. When he got the man's golden helmet off, the eyes behind the green compound lenses looked as if they had been gouged out.
Remo looked away from the dead man toward Chiun, still stationed several floors above, and shrugged his shoulders elaborately.
Chiun ignored him. Remo waved him down. Finally, the old Korean disappeared from the parapet edge.
When Chiun joined Remo a few minutes later, Remo was saying, "This doesn't make any sense. Look at him. Bee-Master's own bugs killed him."
Before Chiun could speak, a small voice at their side said, "That isn't Bee-Master."
Remo looked down. A boy of about thirteen with blond hair cut in a mushroom fade stood there.
"Who asked you?" said Remo.
"Nobody. But you called him Bee-Master. Everybody knows Bee-Master wears a silver cybernetic helmet with infrared goggles. That's Death Yellowjacket."
"Death Yellowjacket?"
"Yeah. He's much cooler."
"Not anymore," said Remo. "He's dead."
"That's not the real Death Yellowjacket, just some guy dressed like him for the convention," the buy said.
"What convention?" asked Remo.
The boy puffed out his chest. On his T-shirt's front was a legend of Day-Glo green and red: New York Comic Collectors' Spectacular.
"The comic convention," the boy said. "At the Marriott. I just came from there." He held up a fat sheaf of comic books sealed in clear Mylar envelopes.
Noticing this, Chiun asked, "Do you have any Donald Duck?"
"Naw. Nobody reads about ducks anymore. It's all superheroes."
By now, an ambulance was pulling up, and the police were pushing the crowd back.
"Did you see this guy at the convention?" Remo asked the kid.
"No. But there's a costume contest at six. He was probably dressed for that. Too bad he died. Bet he'd cop first prize."
Remo and Chiun swapped looks. Remo's was puzzled, and Chiun's was bland.
"Tell me, kid," said Remo. "Why would Bee-Master want to kill Death Yellowjacket?"
"He wouldn't. Bee-Master wouldn't kill anyone. He's old-fashioned that way. On the other hand, Death Yellowjacket kicks butt and takes no names."
"Humor me. If Bee-Master wanted to kill Death Yellowjacket, what's his motive?"
"That's simple. Death Yellowjacket outsells Bee-Master two to one. And bees and wasps hate each other anyway."
"Told you so," said the Master of Sinanju in a serenely smug tone of voice.
At the Marriott Marquis, they were told that the man in the yellow jacket costume was registered under the name of Morris Baggot.
They were about to leave when Chiun happened to look up and noticed a man in black spandex descending in one of the capsulelike glass elevators. His head was encased in a stainless-steel helmet mask with glowing red eyes.
"Observe," Chiun hissed.
Remo looked up. "Uh-oh." He called the desk clerk's attention to the descending elevator. "You wouldn't happen to know who that is, would you?"
The desk clerk did. "That's Mr. Pym," he said.
"Pym? Not Peter Pym?"
"That's right. Do you know him?"
"Only by reputation," growled Remo. "What's his room number?"
The clerk looked it up on his reservation terminal. "Room 33-4."
"Where's the comic-book thing being held?" Remo pressed.
"Ballroom."
"Thanks," said Remo, pocketing his FBI ID.
Taking Chiun aside, he said, "That's gotta be our guy. He's operating under Bee-Master's alias. Looks like he's headed to the comic-book show, no doubt to capture first prize in the costume contest now that Death Yellowjacket is out of the picture."
"We will vanquish him and avenge the stalwart wasp," vowed Chiun.
"First, let's check out his room."
They grabbed an elevator.
THE DOOR to room 33-4. opened easily after Remo stunned the electronic lock with the heel of his hand.
Inside, they found stacks of sealed comic books, with the price tags still on the Mylar envelopes. Remo whistled at some of the prices.
Under the bed, Remo found a carrying case with an ID tag in the name of Peter Pym, along with an address in Johnstown, Pennsylvania.
"This guy takes his Bee-Master pretty seriously," said Remo. Setting the box on the bed, he forced it open. Inside was a purple plush shelf like a jeweler's display case except that in each depression sat a fat death's-head bumblebee instead of a precious stone.
Remo blinked. In that blink, his hands became pale blurs. When they stopped moving, the bees were so much mangled mush scattered at his feet.
"Whew! That was close," he said.
"You were in no danger," Chiun said dismissively.
"Only because I stung them first."
Chiun shook his head "They slept the sleep of things that do not live-except at the will of their master."
And stooping, the Master of Sinanju plucked one of the mashed bees from the rug and raised it to the level of his pupil's eyes.
"Look more closely, blind one. And behold the true nature of the not-bee ...."
Chapter 46
"What did you discover when you dissected the bee?" Harold Smith asked.
"At first," said B. Eugene Roache, "I was interested in taking measurements of the thorax, wings and legs. It never occurred to me to enter the body cavities and explore."
"Go on," said Smith, his voice growing tense. This entomologist's nervous urgency was infectious.
"The body parts of course did not correspond to the Bravo bee. I ascertained that from a casual examination. There is no such species as an Africanized bumblebee. But I wanted to record the measurements for future reference. As I was doing that, I felt the detached wing between my fingers. It felt wrong to the touch."
"Wrong?"
"I've handled many bee wings in my career. I know how they feel against naked skin. These were too slick, too smooth. A bee's wing feels something like old cellophane, if you know that texture. This was entirely different. So I did an analysis of it."
"What did you find, Dr. Roache?"
"I found," Roache said in a disturbed voice, "that the bee's wing was composed of Mylar."
"Mylar!"
"Yes. A man-made substance. At that point I attacked the bee's interior structure. What I found gives me the shivers. This bee is not a bee. It's man-made."
"Man-made!"
"Yes. Isn't that fantastic? Someone has engineered a replica bee. That means he's discovered the secret of how bees fly. We've been trying to crack that one for decades! Isn't that incredible?"
"Dr. Roache," Harold Smith said tightly. "Whoever created that bee has devised one of the most deadly killing tools ever unleashed on this nation. Against that threat, the secret of bee aerodynamics is unimportant."
"There's more. Its stinger is a tiny hypodermic needle. The entire abdomen is a reservoir for Africanized bee neurotoxin. It's not an Africanized killer bee, but it carried the same toxin. Isn't that ingenious?"
"Insidious," Smith said.
"And I'm not sure about this part, but the head seems to contain a scanning mechanism. I would have to examine it under an electron microscope, but I have the feeling there's a miniature television camera in there."
"In other words," said Smith, "the bee is a combination of flying spy and assassin in a single package?"