"Speak only at the commercial," Chiun said.
"We're both sick about it," Remo informed Smith. "We did get the name of the cell commander. They called him General Bernie. I think it was the guy who got away."
"Was General Bernie an American?"
"Yeah."
Remo heard the tapping of Smith's keyboard in Rye, New York. "There's no record of a General Bernie in any branch of the armed forces. Must be made up."
"That's what Ken said."
"Ken?"
"Also made up."
"Nothing about the leadership of the White Hand? Stated purpose? Full name of anybody in the ranks?"
"No, no and no. But the FBI had Ken's real name."
Smith sighed. "Jerome Reik. Special Forces, dishonorable discharge, no known political or organizational affiliations."
"So why'd somebody kill him?" Remo asked.
"Maybe just insurance, in case he happened to accidentally pick up some tidbit of intelligence during his time with the White Hand, and we're not even convinced that's the real name of the group," Smith said, "There have been white supremacist groups with similar names, but the FBI identified Latinos and African Americans among the dead from both the Chicago and Denver cells, so that's not a likely affiliation. I can tell you that the Denver police would like to have a word with you about Mr. Reik's unfortunate passing."
"We'll be sure to stop by the station."
"I assume you were the ones who left the child's doll with the patient? Does this have any significance?"
"Not that you want to know about."
"Fine. But the hospital staff remembered the visitor in the kimono," Smith said. "We may need to ask Master Chiun to wear less distinctive attire while on mission."
"What?" Chiun squeaked.
"Hear that? I think you have your answer."
"Maybe you can explain to Master Chiun why this would be beneficial," Smith suggested.
"Oh, no I can't. You're on your own on this one. So what do we do next?"
Smith sighed. "We're working on that."
"Should we just hang out here in Denver? The air is making us sick."
"Smog?"
"Yeah. Anything you can do about it? Maybe call in the Air Force to use its highly classified weather-making technology to blow Denver?"
There was a stony silence. "What Air Force weather- making technology?" "So the Air Forcedoes have weather-making technology! What'11 you give me if I keep it to myself?"
"I never said—!"
"Joking, I'm just joking, Smitty. Listen, isn't there anybody else in the vicinity who's done some governmental corruption?"
"Of course," Smith said. "In Colorado alone there are hundreds of government workers at all levels who are likely involved in corruption of some kind or another."
"I mean high-profile," Remo said. "Somebody who's getting a lot of press or maybe would get a lot of press if they got gunned down."
"Hmm," Smith said.
"Come on, Smitty, I can't take being cooped up with Chiun and his Excito Tomate soap opera."
"Exciting Tomatoes?" asked Mark Smith as the call at the Rye end switched to speakerphone.
"It is Excito Totalmente, imbecile," Chiun said.
"How's it going in the salt mines, Junior?" Remo said. "Help out the old taskmaster, would you? We're trying to figure out what targets might be next in the Mile High City of Asphyxiation."
Mark Howard answered with an eerily familiar, "Hmm."
"There's got to be somebody," Remo insisted.
"We've considered it, Remo," Smith said. "We're doubtful they would even continue with the next strike after their run-in with you and Master Chiun."
"Think again," Remo replied. "These people have an
agenda. You said so yourself. They've got a long to-do list, and I'll wager the plasma-screen TV at the duplex that they're not going to slow down for a minute."
"Do not take that bet, Emperor—it is not his television to gamble with!" Chiun called.
"You said yourself the cell is probably been pared down to the single commanding officer, this General Bernie," Smith said. "Maybe he would carry on, but even so he would change his planned targets."
"Maybe not," Remo said as the latest commercial ended and the discordant wail of music heralded the return to the Exciting Tomatoes soap opera. The tomatoes in question, Remo gathered from trying not to listen, were four generations of superrich Mexican women. They were all ruthless. They could all spew tears at the drop of a hat. Every one of them, from the seventeen-year-old bimbette daughter to the fifty-five-year-old grand matriarch, possessed massive breasts. They wore a lot of halter tops to show off their massive breasts, and Remo was almost certain that most aristocratic Mexican grandmothers did not wear halter tops, especially to formal dinner parties.
"I bet Ken knew what the next hit was going to be," Remo decided out loud.
"Who's Ken?" Mark Howard asked.
"The guy who was in the burn unit. We questioned him, but he was too dosed up in the hospital to be helpful. I tried getting something out of him at the courthouse but there were complications. Maybe he said something to the paramedic who worked him. Can't hurt to ask."
The Exciting Tomatoes matriarch and her teenage descendant chose that moment to sob and embrace, and the cameraman widened his view so as not to miss a single bulge of their fronts coming together in a braless mash.
"Anything's better than staying in the room," Remo added.
There was a man jogging alongside the ambulance. He made a gesture with his hand and the paramedic in the passenger seat incredulously rolled down her window.
"Hi, Shorley."
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"Can we talk?" asked the jogger.
Shirley Feely shook her head. "Did you happen to notice we're on a call?" she asked sarcastically. "That loud noise is called a siren. And see the flashing lights?"
"Yeah, I know about these things," the stranger said, amazingly unwinded by his running. "Is it really an emergency or just one of those cat-stuck-in-a-tree calls?"
Shirley Feely decided that this guy ranked just below her dad as the world's biggest all-time asshole. She turned on her partner suddenly. "Why are you slowing down?"
"Well, that guy you're talking to," Keith Ostrowski said.
"Forget that asswipe and drive!"
Ostrowski was competent enough when it came to his job, and he drove them quickly to the scene of the call. The suburban ranch house was quiet when they arrived. For a second, as they came to a halt in the driveway, Shirley thought she glimpsed a flash of movement in the backyard between the houses.
The front door was unlocked. When they stepped inside they heard an old woman saying, "Why, thank you kindly. That is much better."
They found the old woman on the sunporch, relaxing into a reclining wooden chair. Remo Williams was pouring her a tall glass of lemonade from a frosty pitcher.
Keith Ostrowski frowned. "Isn't that the guy you were talking to?"
"Hi, Shorley," Remo said.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded.
"Helping out," Remo said. "Mrs. Butler fell. She couldn't get up."
"I threw my back out again. Oh, it hurt to high heaven!" said the elderly Mrs. Butler. "Remo gave me a little squeeze on the hip and behold! The pain was gone."
"This doesn't explain what you are doing here," Shirley insisted.
"I thought he was getting fresh with me at first." Mrs. Butler smiled. "You weren't getting fresh with me, were you, Remo?"
"No, ma'am, I sure wasn't."
"What if I asked nicely?"
"Mrs. Butler, you slay me!"
Mrs. Butler giggled, but Shirley Feely was not amused. "Mrs. Butler, I do not know who this man is, but I can tell you he certainly is not a trained paramedic." "Oh, but he did a wonderful job. My back hasn't been so loose in years."