"You can have them back as soon as you're done."
On the bandstand before national television, Maharaji Dor was finished detailing the support for his simple message of bliss and happiness that he had gained all over the world, and even from one of America's heartland religions, the Baptists.
"But even more encouraging, even more proof that mine is the way, even a greater display of the power of the truth, is the next man I will introduce to you. A man who knows the secrets of government will tell you about that. Will tell you the truth about your government, and then he will speak about divine truth."
He turned and saw Larribee coming up the steps of the bandstand.
"Ladies and gentlemen, listen now to this message from the deputy director of your country's Central Intelligence Agency. My friend and follower, Cletis… uh… Cletis is how I know him."
He waved his arm toward Larribee in a gesture of greeting. There were a few boos, a few small smatterings of applause. Mostly the audience sat stunned.
Larribee, looking neither left nor right, brushed by Maharaji Dor and took the microphone. He gazed out over the crowd. He saw the thousands of faces. He realized millions more were watching on coast-to-coast live television.
He put down the microphone, then remembered Remo's hard eyes, and raised it to his face again. He opened his mouth and, softly, began to croak:
"What a friend we have in Jesus.
"All our sins and grief to bear."
As he moved along the old gospel song, his voice grew stronger. He closed his eyes to imagine himself back in the choir loft of the Monumental Baptist Church at Willows Landing.
"What a privilege to carry,
"Everything to God in prayer."
Maharaji Dor jumped forward and ripped the microphone from Larribee's hand.
"And now you know," he screamed into it. "You can't trust the CIA." He threw the microphone to the wooden floor of the bandstand. The loud crack resounded through the stadium.
"I'm going home," Dor shouted. "I'm going back to Patna." He stamped his foot like an angry child. "You hear me? I'm going back."
"Go back, you bum," came a shout from the audience.
"Yeah, go back, you bum. Who needs you?"
The stadium became a crescendo of booing, as Remo moved up to where Chiun and Joleen stood.
At the same moment, Elton Snowy, who had carefully worked his way through the infield carrying his bogus bag of chicken, came around the platform. He saw his daughter.
"Joleen," he shouted.
She looked up. "Daddy," she yelled with happiness.
Snowy came running toward her, and she threw her arms around him. He tried to hug her back, but the bag of bombed chicken was in the way.
"Here, pal, take this," he said to Remo, thrusting the bag to him.
Remo shrugged, took the bag, then opened Larribee's briefcase and stuck the bag inside. He snapped the briefcase shut again.
"I missed you so much," Snowy said.
"Me, too, Daddy." She stepped back. "Daddy, I want you to meet the man I love."
Snowy looked over her shoulder at Remo. Remo shrugged, a who-me shrug. Joleen turned around and waved her hand toward Chiun. "He is my real master," she said, "And I love him."
"Joleen, honey," said her father. "I love you. You know that."
She nodded.
He brought a right hand up and punched her crisp on the chin. The girl collapsed in his arms. "But you ain't marrying no dink." He lifted the girl in his arms and began to walk toward one of the stadium exits.
"What did that mean?" Chiun asked Remo.
"That's racism, Chiun," Remo answered.
"Racism? I thought racism was something to do with baseball."
"No. He just doesn't want his daughter to marry a Korean."
"But how will you white people ever improve yourselves if you don't marry up to yellow?" asked Chiun.
"Damned if I know," said Remo. He and Chiun turned, walking in the direction that Maharaji Dor had stomped out in. But when they reached the ramp, Remo saw Larribee still standing behind the bandstand, looking lost and frightened.
"I'll catch up to you," said Remo, and he went back to Larribee.
"Good show," said Remo.
Frightened, Larribee could only nod.
"Here's your briefcase. I think you ought to go home," said Remo.
Larribee nodded again, but did not move. He seemed paralyzed, rooted to the spot.
"Oh, hell," said Remo. "Come on." He took Larribee's arm and pulled him. toward one of the stadium exits, moving him quickly through the swirls of confused, angry people now anting their way across the stadium playing surface.
After Larribee was safely in a cab on his way to the airport, Remo slid back through the flow of people to the ramp leading to the maharaji's office.
Except for the bodies of Dalton and Harrow, the first office was empty. The door to the inner office was closed, but as Remo approached it, the door was flung open. Chiun stood there.
"Remo," he said. "I am going to Sinanju."
"I told you, as soon as we're done, I'll try to get it arranged again."
He moved into the room as Chiun said, "No. I mean I am going now."
Remo looked at him, then at Maharaji Dor seated behind the desk, then back at Chiun, who said, "I am joining his employ."
Stunned, Remo was silent a second, then said: "Just like that?"
"Just like that," said Chiun. "I will have my daytime dramas beamed in by satellite. He has promised. And I can visit Sinanju frequently. He has promised. Remo, you didn't get a chance to really know the beautiful people of India, or to see the loveliness of the Indian countryside." He looked at Remo expectantly.
Remo looked back, then said coldly: "If you go, you go alone."
"So be it," said Chiun.
Remo turned and walked away.
"Where are you going?" asked Chiun.
"To get drunk."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Remo was no longer really a drinker.
Six bartenders in San Francisco could swear to that.
In the first bar, he had ordered a shot of Seagram's, and when the bartender brought it, he had raised it to his mouth to slug it down, but the smell had wafted into his nostrils and he could not make himself drink the liquor. He had paid the bartender and left, and next door in another tavern, ordered a beer, and when it came, he had raised it to his lips, but its smell gagged him, and again he paid and left, leaving the drink untouched.
Four more times he tried, but the Sinanju disciplines were too strong to be broken that easily, that recklessly, and besides over each glass, he beard's Chiun's lecturing voice:
"Alcohol is for pickling things that are dead. Or people who wish to be."
Or: "Beer is made from a grain that only cows can consume, and even they need two stomachs to manage the task."
So instead, Remo walked the night, angry and sad, hoping that someone would try to mug him, preferably an army company, so that he would have a way to work off his fury.
But no one did, and Remo walked the entire night before returning to his suite, overlooking a golf course near Golden Gate Park.
He looked around, hoping to see Chiun putter out from the bedroom, but the apartment was empty and echo-still.
Then the phone rang.
Remo had it to his ear before the first ring stopped.
"Good work, Remo," Smith said.
"Oh, it's you."
"Yes. Everything seems to be under control."
"Well, I'm glad. I'm really glad for you," Remo said. "You don't know how glad."
"Except there's one thing. Larribee was blown up this morning in his car, driving to his home in Washington."
"Good for him. At least he found a way out of this mess."
"You had nothing to do with it?" Smith asked suspiciously.
"No. I just wish I had."
"All right. By the way, you'll be interested in knowing. That security leak that I thought we had in Folcroft? Well, it turned out to be just an underpaid little computer clerk. Seems he followed the maharaji, and one day just couldn't restrain himself and pumped a message into the computer. Very amusing, but really nothing…"