The men trailed out onto the steps of the building behind Zentz. As they stood on the sidewalk, there was a roar and a flash of heat enveloped them. A car had been burning half a block away, ignited by a Molotov cocktail, and the flames had finally reached its gas tank, which exploded.
Drops of gasoline had splattered into the air and dropped down on other cars, igniting the paint. Some of the gasoline had set afire summer-dried bushes in front of a few of the old frame houses. The sound of oncoming fire engines could be heard, their klaxon horns whooping in the evening stillness. A group of young children, none more than 12 years old, stood across from the fire scene, shouting exultantly.
"Dynamite," said Zentz. "Great. Marvelous." He turned around and looked at the other men's faces. "Ain't that something?" he said. Remo looked around at the men whose faces were set tight in anger. He noticed that Jessica had not joined them.
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"Let's go look for some more," Zentz said. He marched off with the men trailing him. Chiun walked at his side.
"You like this?" Chiun asked.
"Great. First we train the kids, and they'll bring this government down."
"With fires and death?" Chiun asked.
"Whatever it takes," Zentz said.
Remo moved up alongside the two other men. "This is all good," Jbe said, "but we ought to maybe do something more dramatic." He spoke softly so he was not overheard by the six policemen who were following them. "Like kidnap somebody. Say, like Bobby Jack Billings." He looked at Zentz's face for some reaction.
The reaction was a scowl. "Naaah," said Zentz. "That kind of stuff gets you into trouble. Feds and all that bullshit, breaking laws. I like what we're doing."
"Is there anybody else in this organization but you?" Remo asked. "I like to know who I'm joining."
"Not yet, maybe," Zentz said. "But someday we'll have an army. You can see what these kids can do. Wait until we have thousands."
"It will never happen for you," Chiun said grimly.
They turned the corner and looked up Fourth Street toward Washington Street, the city's main thoroughfare. Four cars had been ignited and were burning. Sparks had started a fire in the dry wood siding of a four-story frame house near the cars.
"Swell," said Zentz. "Marvelous. Great."
"Sick," said Chiun.
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"Who puts up the money for this organization?" Remo asked Zentz.
"Public donations," the young man said. He was rubbing his hands together in gleeful satisfaction as he looked at the fires. "I love fires," he said. "There's something pure about them. Clean."
"You think so?" Chiun said. He saw another group of children standing across the street from the fire scene. They were twenty feet ahead now of the other six men.
"Yeah. Don't you think so?" Zentz said. "Just look at those flames."
"If you enjoy them so much . . ." Chiun said.
Before Remo could reach out a hand to stop him, Chiun had grasped Zentz's right wrist. He twirled the man around in front of him like a stone on a string, then let him go. Feet first, Zentz went through the brittle back window of a burning car. His body vanished inside the car. His screams filled the night. He tried to climb up through the same broken window. Just as he did, the flames reached the car's gas tank.
It exploded. The roar muffled Zentz's screams, and when the first flash of flame had lessened, there was no longer any sign of the PLOTZ director in the window.
Remo sighed. "You're getting pretty goddamn dangerous around cars," he said.
"Somebody who loves fire that much should not be deprived of his enjoyment," Chiun said.
"I was still questioning him about PLOTZ," Remo said.
"The fool knew nothing. Questions were a waste of time."
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The six men came running up behind them.
"Was that him in the car?" the fat man with the balding head said.
"Yeah," Remo said. "What department you with?"
"Hoboken police," the man said. He looked at the burning car. "Good riddance to bad rubbish."
The other five men stood around.
"It looked like he jumped into that car," one of them said.
"He did," Remo said. "My friend here tried to stop him, but he just shook him off."
"Shit," another man said. "I'll be up all night writing reports on this."
They turned out to be from the Hoboken police, the New Jersey police, the FBI, the county prosecutor's office, the county sheriff's office, and the U.S. Attorney General's office.
Remo and Chiun left them on the corner by the car, concocting a plan whereby only one of them would have to write a report, and the others could all file duplicates. Since policemen hated writing reports worse than they hated crime, this idea appealed to all of them.
"C'mon," Remo said. "We'll get back and see what's in Zentz's office."
As they ran to the front of the loft building, a yellow cab was pulling away from the curb. They hurried inside the building. Zentz's office door was open; so was his safe and his filing cabinets. Papers had been riffled, and files had been yanked.
"That woman," Remo said.
"Correct," said Chiun.
"She's taken the files."
"Correct and obvious," Chiun answered.
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"We've got to get her," Remo said.
"Whatever makes you happy," Chiun replied.
They ran back out of the building toward their rented car, parked a block away.
As Remo unlocked the door and started inside, Chiun said, "You are going to drive this car?"
"Of course," Remo said. "I drove it here, didn't I?" He reached across and unlocked the door for Chiun who slid in onto the front seat next to Remo.
Remo started the engine which caught with a smooth purr.
"Where are we going?" Chiun asked.
"I hadn't thought of that," Remo said.
"Think of it," Chiun said.
Remo thought of it. "Newark Airport. It's right near here. If that chick is splitting by cab, that's probably where she went." He nodded his head, agreeing with himself.
Remo dropped the gear shift into drive and pulled away from the curb.
Kerthunk. Kerthunk. Kerthunk.
"What the hell is that?" asked Remo.
"Four tires that are no longer round," Chiun said.
"Four flats?" Remo said.
Chiun nodded.
"She flattened our tires so we couldn't follow her," Remo said.
"Don't whine," Chiun said. "It is not becoming t.o you."
Remo nosed the car into a parking spot and turned off the engine. With Chiun behind him, he ran up the block. At the corner of First Street, they saw a yellow cab and jumped into the back seat.
The cab was obviously the pride of the Hoboken
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fleet in that it had one wheel on each corner and still had all its fenders. This was no mean feat in a city in which the police regularly announced crackdowns on triple parking along Washington Street, the city's main thoroughfare, a street that was a hundred feet wide but so snarled by parked cars that getting through it on anything wider than a bicycle tested the endurance of man and the permanence of steel.
The driver looked at them.
"I'm supposed to be going home now," he said.
"Newark Airport. Then you go home," Remo said.
"Naah," the driver said. "Gotta go home now."
Remo put his hand on the vinyl seat cover of the seat next to the driver. He closed his fingers and ripped out a large chunk of vinyl and foam rubber, exposing the seat's steel springs.
The driver looked at Remo, the ripped seat, and then at Remo again.
He shook his head and screeched from the curb.
"Newark Airport coming up."
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CHAPTER NINE
When the cost of building the Lincoln and Holland Tunnels under the Hudson River was repaid, the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey was supposed to make the two conduits toll-free. However, the Port Authority always managed to find a way to avoid such displays of public largesse. It built the tunnels and kept the fares intact. Then it built some more, and raised the tunnel fares for motorists—even though the cost of the tunnels had been paid by tolls five times over.