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"Hah," Chiun shrieked.

"Hah? It's moss."

"It is not moss, o dim one," Chiun declared with an­noyance. "This is the south side of that tree." He pointed to the towering pine. "Moss grows on the north side. This is transplanted moss. A camouflage." With one grand sweep, he yanked the patch of moss from the ground. The steel casing and combination lock of a safe lay beneath it.

Remo's face broke into a grin. "Well, I'll be. Not bad, Little Father."

"Not good," Chiun said. "Behold."

The soldiers were in the trees. There were more of them this time, armed with everything from close-range pistols to a flame thrower. The flame thrower at­tacked first, sending a tunnel of fire straight toward Remo.

He tore the door off the safe and held it up to the orange stream just before it reached them. Bullets pinged off the steel shield. The smell of spent ammu­nition filled the air. "Hold this," he said, handing the safe door to Chiun.

The safe contained a sheaf of papers-bills of sale, communications with European pharmaceutical com­panies, and charts. They appeared to be medical charts of some kind. At the top of each chart was a man's name, followed by a serial number. The dog-

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tags, Remo remembered. The charts must be for the soldiers firing at him now, soldiers who had somehow found their way into Foxx's care. They detailed sev­eral years' worth of resting heart rates, stress toler­ances', and a section labeled "Blood Levels" was fol­lowed by a long list of items. The first on the list was procaine. On every single chart, the procaine level of the soldier had risen dramatically during the course of the charting.

Under the last of the charts rested four manila fold­ers. In the first was a series of photographs and a biog­raphy of General Homer G. Watson, the now-dead Secretary of the Air Force. Clipped to the biographical sheet were scores of notes detailing the general's schedules, standing appointments, and favorite res­taurants. On the upper right corner of the folder was a small black X. The next folder contained information on Admiral Thornton Ives. The Secretary of the Navy's folder had an X on it, too. So did the third, belonging to Clive R. Dobbins.

"They got the Secretary of the Army," Remo said, disspirited.

"Read the news some other time," Chiun snapped. "They are boom-shooting at us, fool. Get me out of this place."

But Remo didn't move. The last dossier belonged to the president of the United States. It didn't have a black X on its cover. Not yet.

Remo dug back into the safe. Nothing was left in there except a series of glinting objects at the bottom. Remo reached in and pulled one of them out. It was a glass vial, about ten inches long, filled with a clear liq­uid and stoppered at the top by a cork. Foxx's formula, Remo thought, holding the vial up to the light. A burst of machine gun fire smashed the vial to shreds. Noth-

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ing else happened, except that someone up in the trees started wailing.

Keening, Remo thought as the high, mournful sound passed over the din of gunfire. It was more than some crazy soldier's war yell. It was a lament, high and terrible.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the firing stopped. "You see?" Chiun said. "You have taken so long with your library that they ran out of booms."

"I don't think so," Remo said uncertainly. "But it had something to do with this stuff." He pulled out the case at the bottom of the safe, in which the rest of the vials were stored.

"Stop!" came the high, keening voice again. "Don't break them."

Remo set the case on the ground. "What's that?"

"Don't break them. Please," the soldier shouted, scrambling down from the tree, his Centennial Air-weight waving overhead. Remo recognized him as the soldier who had run away from the ambush at the lean-to. Riley threw down his gun. "Please. Leave the formula alone and we'll all come down unarmed." There was pleading in his voice.

Remo gaped in astonishment as the soldiers threw their weapons to the ground and scrambled down from the trees, each pair of eyes riveted on the case filled with glass vials.

Chiun was not surprised. "Obviously they have dis­covered that I was in their presence," he said smugly.

"You were behind that door," Remo objected. "They didn't even see you."

"Excuse me, o learned one. O fierce assassin. I am sure it was your excellent reading that struck fear into their hearts."

"I'll explain everything," Riley said. "Only please

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. . ." He cast a baleful eye at the glass vials. "The case." He ventured toward it.

Remo snatched it away. "Uh-uh. Explain first. Then you get the goodies."

Riley hestitated. "Do you promise?" he asked. "Do you give your solemn word that you won't harm us or the case?"

Remo looked at him. The man knew where Foxx was. He could also tell a lot about the bizarre military establishment in the frozen Black Hills, where overage soldiers with the faces of kids were bivouacked. But not harming them?. . . . "Will you dump all your weapons?"

"Done," the soldier said quickly. "But it's your word, right?" He stared with something like despera­tion at the case in Remo's hands.

"Do you know where Foxx went?"

"Yes, I do," Riley said.

"How do I know you'll tell me the truth?"

"You've got my word on it. I'll have yours, and you'll have mine. Mine is good. What about yours?"

After a moment Remo said, "All right. We won't hurt you or the stuff. Tell your buddies to get into parade drill formation."

Riley nodded. "I'm trusting you," he said. He rounded up the apprehensive-looking young soldiers into a shambling unit in the middle of the clearing. They stood there in utter silence, every eye trained on the metal case filled with Foxx's formula.

That's what you call parade drill?" Remo said. "Even the volunteer army looks better than that."

Riley looked up, his eyes filled with anger and pride. "This is no parade unit, mister. This is the Team.

Chapter Fifteen

Randall Riiey joined the Team in April 1953. He'd re­tired from the army with a twenty-year pension at the age of thirty-eight. At a time when most men's careers were just beginning to take off, his was over. After twenty years and two Purple Hearts, he landed a job as a dishwasher in Chicago's South Side. . Then Foxx appeared. Foxx had been in the army, too, but an earlier army, the fighters of which were now old men, far older than Foxx himself. He had flown some of the earliest American aircraft in the dog­fight days of World War I.

The information came out a little at a time. During the first brief meeting at the hash joint in Chicago where Riley was working, Foxx revealed little more than a smiie along with a handshake of understand­ing. Riley was drinking then, and fading fast. The bot­tle had seemed like the last refuge of a used-up com­bat soldier, and Foxx had understood.

"I'll be back," Foxx said. "I have a deal for you." And then he was gone.

The second time Foxx came into the restaurant was a week later. This time he arrived in a long limousine, with a hundred dollars in cash, which he handed to the

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besotted ex-Sergeant Riley. "This is yours whether you come with me or not. But if you come, there will be more. I plan to give you something worth more than all the money in the world."

"Whazzat," Riley asked as the two images of the man wafted in front of him in an alcoholic haze.

"Your self-respect," Foxx said.

"You from the Salvation Army or something?"

"I'm a doctor," Foxx said. "I don't belong to any or­ganization. There's just me. If you jom me, there will be two of us. But after that, there will be many, be­cause what I am offering is a chance for you and men like you to do what they do best, for the rest of your lives." He turned to leave. "Yes or no?"

Riley put down his dishrag and followed the strange, ageless looking man. He never saw Chicago again.