He turned the corner. Ahead of him he saw a door marked "Absolutely No Admittance" and two burly men in pink robes standing in front of it with arms folded.
Remo approached the men.
"Hi, fellas," he said. "Nice day, wasn't it?"
They did not speak.
"A perfect day," said Remo. "For bananafish."
They remained silent, not deigning to look at him.
"All right, boys, move aside," said Remo. "I've got to talk to the swami."
A sharp voice came from behind Remo. "First me," and Remo turned and saw the young American from the carnival.
"Oh, yeah, you," Remo said. "Did you bring your plates?"
"I won't need them," said Ferdinand De Chef Hunt, moving a few steps closer, until only fifteen feet separated him and Remo.
Inside the closed door, Maharaji Dor checked his watch again, looked at the monitor, and saw the network symbol flash on. Time to go. At these rates, he couldn't afford to waste any time.
He stuck his head through the door into the next office, where Winthrop Dalton and V. Rodefer Harrow III sat with Cletis Larribee.
"Everything ready here?" he said.
"Yes, Blissful Master," said Dalton.
Larribee nodded.
"Okay. I'm going out now. You be in the wings in ten minutes."
Dor went back into the office, closed the door, and went through the other door onto a private ramp that led up into a dugout in the infield.
Hunt took the two small stones from his pocket as he faced Remo.
"Plates. Now stones," said Remo. "When do you graduate to pies?"
Hunt only smiled. He positioned the two stones carefully on his palm and fingertips. It was as his grandfather had shown him. The old man had described it to young Ferdinand in terms of animals, but now Hunt knew the old man was talking about people.
"There are some animals that are different from others," the old man had told him. "They're stronger. They're faster. Sometimes they're smarter."
"And how do you bring them down?" the young boy had asked.
"You do it by using their own powers against them." The old man had stood up and gestured toward the woods. "Did you see him?"
"Who?" asked the boy.
"There's a wild boar out there. Tough, fast, mean and smart. He knows we're here, and he's just waiting for us to move on so he can move on."
"So what do you do, grandpa?"
The old man picked up a rifle, then looked around the porch until he found a small stone.
"Watch," he said.
He tossed the stone high into the air, far to the left of the spot where he had seen the boar. The stone came down, easily onto a patch of grass, but the boar's supersensitive hearing picked up the sound, and the animal bolted, to the right, away from the sound of the stone. His flight took him past a slim break in the trees, and as his body passed the opening, Grandpa De Chef put a bullet in the beast's head.
"That's how, Ferdie," the old man said. "You make the target commit itself to an empty threat. And then when it's committed, you make the kill." He smiled down at the boy. "Maybe you don't understand it now, but someday you will. No matter what your momma says."
"Come on, pal, I don't have all night." Remo's voice brought Hunt back to where he was.
Without hesitating, without analysis, he brought his right arm back and then fired it forward at Remo. The stone on his fingertips leaped from his hand first, moving toward Remo but two inches to the left of Remo's head.
The second stone, propelled from the palm of Hunt's hand, was only a foot behind, aimed toward Remo's right, so when he ducked away from the first stone, the second would catch him squarely between the eyes.
Hunt smiled, and then the smile changed to astonishment, and then fear.
There was a thud ahead of him and a scream. The first stone had passed Remo's head and buried itself into the forehead of one of the pink-robed guards who stood behind Remo. The man screamed and crumpled.
Remo had not moved a fraction of an inch, and the second stone moved toward the right side of his head, outside the intended target line, and then Remo flicked up his right hand and caught the stone in the air between thumb and forefinger.
Remo looked at the stone, then back at Hunt.
"Sorry, pal. I told you, you should've stuck to plates."
Hunt backed away. "You're going to kill me, aren't you?"
"That's the biz, sweetheart."
Hunt turned and ran down the ramp, toward the brightly lit stadium, and Remo took a few steps after him, then saw up ahead of him the television cameras grinding away.
He stopped. He could not chance being seen on television. Hunt now was in the infield, running toward the bandstand. He glanced once back over his shoulder as he ran.
At that moment, Maharaji Gupta Mahesh Dor stood inside the dugout, shielded from view by a cordon of pink-robed men.
Remo waited, and Hunt turned again. This time, Remo let fly the stone in his right hand. Hunt saw it coming at him, threw up his right hand to block it, and the stone smashed into his hand, cracking the fingers with the force of a hammer, and driving the stone and flesh and finger-bone into Hunt's forehead.
Hunt fell. Two persons who saw him fall screamed, but suddenly their screams were overwhelmed by the roar of the faithful, as the maharaji stepped from the dugout and trotted lightly across the field toward the bandstand.
"Blissful Master. Blissful Master." The stadium resounded with the screams. Hunt's already dead body lay partially under the back of the bandstand, and the two persons who had seen him fall convinced themselves they were mistaken and joined the chanting for Dor.
Remo turned back to the door. The pink-robed guard knelt over his companion who had been felled by Hunt's first rock. Remo moved past him and into the room beyond.
Winthrop Dalton, V. Rodefer Harrow III, and Cletis Larribee looked up.
"Say, fella, what are you doing here?" asked Dalton.
"Which one of you is expendable?" Remo asked.
"He is," said Dalton, pointing to Harrow.
"He is," said Harrow, pointing to Dalton.
"I pick you," said Remo to Harrow, crushing his skull into his jowls.
"Hey, fella," said Dalton, looking at Harrow's collapsing body. "No need to work your hostility out on us."
"Where is he?"
"Who?"
"The swami."
Dalton pointed to a closed-circuit television set on the wall. It showed Maharaji Gupta Mahesh Dor acknowledge the applause, and step forward to a microphone.
"He's out there," said Dalton. "And we have to go now, so if you'll just get out of our way."
"Who are you?" said Remo to Cletis Larribee. "How come you don't say anything?"
"He'll have plenty to say in just a few minutes," said Dalton. "And if you must know, he is the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency."
"What's in the suitcase, pal?" Remo asked Larribee.
"Watch the television," said Dalton huffily. "You'll see it all on there in a few minutes. Come, Cletis, time to go."
Dalton took a step toward the door and then took no more steps as his Adam's apple found itself inextricably entwined with his spinal column. He fell to the floor on top of Harrow.
"You're the big thing that they've been talking about, aren't you?" said Remo.
Larribee, too terrified to speak, could only nod.
"But you're not going to say anything tonight, are you?" said Remo.
Larribee shook his head rapidly from side to side. His voice came back. "Don't worry, pal. I'm not going to say anything."
"Look around you," said Remo, gesturing toward the two bodies. "And don't forget. I'll be watching you."
Larribee nodded. "I won't forget. I won't forget."
"And I'll take the briefcase," said Remo.
"Those are state secrets in there," said Larribee.