The bills this month amounted to a surprisingly small sum, Smith was relieved to see. Less than fifty thousand dollars. This was down from the last quarter after Chiun had discovered the Home Shopping Network and splurged, seemingly, on one of every item offered over a two-week period, including two cases of a product inexplicably called Hair in a Can.
Smith took another gulp of Alka-Seltzer and examined the charges line by line.
In the card that was issued to Remo Buttafuoco, he noticed a round-trip airlines ticket for two. He wondered where Remo and Chiun had gone. Then he saw on the very next line a two-day car rental from a Los Angeles franchise of a well-known agency. The next item indicated the car had been serviced in Malibu.
Smith frowned. Malibu. Malibu. Why did Malibu ring a warning bell in his memory?
And then he remembered. The attempt on Squirrelly Chicane three days before in Malibu, and the waves of suspicious dead Chinese bodies that had been washing up on the beach ever since.
"What on earth..."
Face slack with concern, Smith went to his computer and checked the Bunji file.
Six bodies now. As he read the latest reports, he realized that the dead men had been killed in ways that were consistent with both Remo and Chiun's methods of operation. The disemboweled man might as easily have been eviscerated by a superhard fingernail as a knife. And those who had been found with crushed larynxes and faces jellied beyond recognition bore Remo's hallmarks. He should have recognized the signs before, Smith realized grimly.
Harold Smith picked up the phone and dialed Remo's contact number.
A sleepy voice answered, "I'm not home. Go away."
"Remo. This is Smith."
"Smitty, what's the good word? Or in your case, the bad one?"
"The word," Smith said stiffly, "is that I know you and Chiun were involved with the Chinese deaths in Malibu."
"Okay," Remo said without skipping a beat. "It's too early in the morning to lie. We were."
"Please explain the situation to me, Remo," Smith said coldly. "This was not an authorized operation."
"You'd better talk to Chiun. It was kinda his operation."
"I would like to hear it from you first."
Remo's voice turned away and lifted. "Hey, Chiun! Smitty's on the phone for you!"
"Remo, I said-"
"Chiun! You up?"
Silence.
Remo's voice came back. "Damn. Hold the phone, Smitty."
Smith gripped the telephone receiver with unshakable tightness as he listened to the faint sounds of doors opening and closing and Remo returning.
"He's gone," said Remo.
"I will hear your explanation first."
"You don't understand, Smitty. Chiun's really gone. Two of his trunks are missing, but the freaking gold's still here."
"Gold. What gold?"
"The freaking gold he got off those Mongols."
"Mongols? What Mongols? Remo, start at the beginning, please."
"How about I just cut to the chase and let's see where that takes us," Remo said unhappily.
"Go ahead."
"You know the story about the Tibetan monk who showed up on Squirrelly Chicane's doorstep and proclaimed her the Bunji Lama?"
"Yes."
"Well, first he showed up on my doorstep. Along with that Mongol, Kula. Remember him from the Gulf War?"
"Go on."
"Well, they asked Chiun to help them find the Bunji Lama!'
"Find? You mean-"
"Yeah, Chiun led them straight to Squirrelly. He went through a lot of hocus-pocus to set them up for the scam, but in the end he just turned on 'The Poopi Silverfish Show' and there she was."
"Poopi Silverfish?"
"No, Squirrelly Chicane. She was into one of her past-life rags, and Lobsang just lapped it up."
"Lobsang was the Tibetan monk?"
"You got it."
"Where do you fit into this, Remo?"
"Me? I was just along for the ride. Carrying luggage and collecting abuse. When the Chinese tried to hit Squirrelly, Chiun and I were there and we hit them first. That's about the only good thing that came out of the trip."
"I disagree," Smith said in a cold voice. "It would have been far better had Squirrelly Chicane been assassinated than she go through with her ridiculous scheme to insert herself into the Tibetan situation."
"Don't look now, but I think Chiun's gone and introduced himself into the Tibetan situation, too."
"You may be right, Remo," said Smith in a tight voice. "He called me yesterday and requested a sabbatical."
"He say where he was going?"
"Back to the village of Sinanju, was my understanding."
"That should be easy to check. Just dial 1-800-SINANJU If he's not there or expected, he's off to Tibet."
"One moment, Remo," said Smith, switching phone lines. He dialed 1-800-SINANJU, and a querulous old voice began speaking in Korean.
"I...er...seek the Master of Sinanju," Smith said in carefully enunciated English.
"His awesome magnificence is not here," the voice said, switching to formal but thick English.
"Is he expected?"
"He is not expected. Do you wish someone dispatched? Or a throne toppled?"
"Thank you, no, I will call later."
"Others give inferior service. Provide your telephone number, and the Master of Sinanju will return your call if you are found worthy of the honor."
"Thank you, no."
Switching lines again, Smith told Remo, "He is not expected in Sinanju. He must be in Tibet."
"Great," Remo groaned. "I don't know who to feel sorry for, the Tibetans or the Chinese."
"Remo," Smith said urgently, "it is imperative that Squirrelly Chicane not upset the balance of power in Tibet."
"Balance? It's a Chinese slave state. Where's the balance?"
"Here is the balance. Remo, Tibet is largely plateau. It is, in effect, the high ground of Asia. From there the Chinese look down upon India, which they consider an enemy. Tibet is a natural impassable barrier to the hostile forces beneath it. Also we know that the Chinese store some of their short-range missiles in the more inaccessible parts of Tibet. They consider the Tibetan question very sensitive and they are determined to hold on to it."
"So I see by the papers."
"Open revolt in Tibet could bring in Mongolia or India, which have religious ties to Tibet. If there is a new Sino-Indian conflict, Pakistan, China's ally and India's bitter enemy, will no doubt open up a second front. Pakistan is a nuclear power. You know what that means?"
"Yeah. Bye-bye, India. Damn."
"Leave for Tibet immediately, Remo."
"What happened to 'Tibet is none of our business'?"
"It wasn't and it isn't. But now that I know that the Master of Sinanju has triggered the chain of events now building toward crisis, it is our responsibility to interdict Squirrelly Chicane."
"What do you mean 'we,' white eyes?" Remo muttered.
Chapter 19
The night before she was to leave India for Tibet, the forty-seventh Bunji Lama could not sleep.
She tossed on her kang and dreamed wild dreams. This much the scriptures later recorded. What they failed to record was that chocolate-covered cherries as much as insomnia kept her from sleep.
She sat up, too enervated for rest, and with her perfect teeth-indicating her high state of spiritual evolution-she broke the outer chocolate shell and sucked the sweet nectar that was within.
From time to time she hummed to herself. Often she sang softly.
"I am the Buddha. The Buddha is me. I found myself under the bodhi tree. Don't cry for me, Pasadeeenaaa."
Outside the Dalai Lama's Dharamsala abode, the Tibetan exile community gathered around, spinning their tassled prayer wheels in their hands. Those who understood English translated for the others.
"The new Bunji Lama sings as sweetly as any woman," it was said.