With that, Harold Smith hung up.
Remo came up to the desk. "Good thing you said no."
"Why is that?" said Smith, returning the red phone to the drawer and closing it.
"Because there's no way I'm doing bodyguard duty on that Squirrelly Chicane. Whoever named her has her personality down pat. Every nut idea on the planet is in her personal collection."
"You seem to know her reputation quite well."
"Chiun's been talking about her a lot lately. I think he's developing a crush on her or something."
"I see," said Smith.
The terminal beeped, and Smith said, "Excuse me." He stared at the screen for a moment and muttered, "Odd."
"What's odd?" Remo demanded.
"Another Chinese body has washed ashore in Malibu."
"Must be some immigrant-smuggling scheme gone bad," said Remo.
"You could be right. Except that the first body was of a screenwriter who had been in this country some time. I have reason to believe he was a Chinese sleeper agent."
"What makes you say that?"
"Yearly deposits into his bank account from a Hong Kong bank. Yet the man claims income from the sale of scripts to various domestic film-production companies, and his IRS records do not jibe with my findings."
"Sounds circumstantial."
"Perhaps you might look into it," Smith suggested.
"No, thanks."
Smith looked up from his screen, his gray face tinged with phosphorescent green.
"I understood you were interested in an assignment."
"I am. Point me to a drug dealer or a serial killer, and I'll have them in the boneyard by sundown. Those two are already there. You don't need me."
Smith regarded his enforcement arm for a silent moment. The computer beeped again. Smith glanced at the screen.
"Another Chinese body," he remarked. "This one has been identified. Hmm. It seems he also has connections to Hollywood. A producer of films, although no credits are available."
"I hear ticket sales are down. Maybe someone's trying to thin out the competition a little."
"Unlikely," said Smith. "I sincerely hope that these bodies have nothing to do with Squirrelly Chicane's bizarre announcement that she is the new Bunji Lama."
"Me, too," Remo said hastily. "Well, gotta run."
"I will relay Dr. Gerling's opinion when I have it."
"Great, great," said Remo, shutting the door.
Smith stared at the closed door with a puzzled expression riding his patrician features. Remo was behaving more strangely than usual. He hoped it was nothing serious. Usually Chiun's behavior was the more worrisome. He made a mental note to consult with Dr. Gerling at day's end.
His computer beeped twice in warning, and Smith noticed it was precisely 11:59. Instantly he pressed the hidden stud that sent the CURE terminal slipping back into concealment.
At exactly two seconds past noon, Mrs. Mikulka knocked once and entered carrying a maroon tray.
"It's noon, Dr. Smith. I have your prune-whip yogurt."
"Thank you, Mrs. Mikulka," said Smith, who had trained his secretary to be almost as punctual as he. Two seconds was a tolerable variable. But just barely.
Chapter 14
Squirrelly Chicane missed her heart-shaped pink bed. She missed her tape deck and assorted Kitaro and Yanni tapes. But most of all she missed Remo Buttafuoco.
He had saved her life. The pot had to wear off before she realized what had really happened during her beach party.
And all day long bodies kept washing up on the beach.
She had asked Kula to throw them back, and he always did. He made a great bodyguard, even if he was forever complaining of having a humongous case of herpes. If Squirrelly asked him to do something, he did it. He was like a big faithful puppy dog. Once she caught him on his hands and knees drinking out of the toilet like a mastiff. That was probably why he was called a Mongrol.
Still, she missed Remo. But not as much as she missed sleeping in a real bed. The floor wouldn't have been so bad, but both Kula and Lobsang had insisted upon her sleeping on a shelf above the floor. They called it a kang, explaining that Bunji Lamas traditionally slept on a kang.
The trouble was, Squirrelly kept rolling off. Her back wasn't up to the ordeal. And every time she complained to Lobsang, he fed her a piping-hot cup of tea loaded with rancid melted butter. The man had absolutely no fear of cholesterol.
"There is a lady on the telephone for you, Buddha-Sent One," Kula announced through the closed door where he stood guard, vowing to lay down his life and his yaks and his herpes before any Chinese assassin could get past him.
"What lady?"
"She says she is the number-one lady."
"The number one . . . you mean the First Lady?"
"That is what I said, Presence. The number-one lady."
"That's the call I've been waiting for! Quick, be a good Mongrol and fetch the phone here."
Kula entered, handed over the cordless receiver and bowed himself out of the room. Just watching his contorted posture made Squirrelly's own back cringe.
"Hello?" she said excitedly.
"Squirrelly, this is the First Lady speaking."
"How'd it go? Did you get my visa?"
"Well, it took a real struggle. The Chinese authorities gave me the biggest runaround. First they said it was impossible to process your application in less than three months. Then they admitted they could, but they couldn't guarantee your safety from what they called counterrevolutionary elements."
Squirrelly frowned. "Funny how they turned on me so fast. We used to be such friends. So, how'd you coax them off the mark?"
"First," said the First Lady, "I threatened to revoke their preferred-trade status, then I pointed out that I headed the Presidential Commission on Tibetan Independence and if you, my official representative, couldn't go, then I was going."
"You didn't?" Squirrelly squealed.
"I did."
"And they gave in?"
"Caved in. Like a house of cards."
"I love it! I love it! When do I leave?"
"As soon as you want. Listen, it would be a good idea if you went to India first and got the blessing of the Dalai Lama."
"The cute little munchkin with the glasses? He's adorable."
"Make it very high profile. The higher the better. That way they won't dare mess with you."
"I'll give him a kiss for you."
"I'll be watching your progress on CNN. Gotta run. I have meetings all day long. Good luck!"
Squirrelly Chicane hung up the phone and immediately dialed a Virginia number.
"Mother, I'm going! This is so great. And listen to this, I'm going to pay the Delhi Lamb a courtesy call."
"Try not to sleep with him, dear. He's a religious figure."
Squirrelly made her voice chilly. "The thought never crossed my mind."
"But it would. The older you get, the more like your brother you seem."
"Just for that, no postcards from Tibet for you" And Squirrelly hung up. She leaned back on her hard kang, and wondered if there was some ecclesiastical law against two lamas getting it on. She would have to remember to ask Lobsang. He knew all that secret Buddhist stuff.
Chapter 15
The minister of state security entered Beijing's Great Hall of the People wearing his gray Mao suit and carrying his empty hands at his sides.
The premier of China in his own gray Mao suit sat with his hands folded. The premier nodded, indicating the empty chair to his immediate left. His eyes were heavy of lid, as if sleep beckoned. This seeming inattentiveness had fooled many a rival in the near past.
The minister of state security eased into the seat and waited for the premier to speak. They were alone in the Great Hall of the People. That did not mean that they were either unobserved or that their words would not carry to plotting ears. China was at a crossroads. She looked inward, but increasingly the outer world intruded. These were worrisome times.