Chiun sighed in disgust. "Remo is holding a cab."
"Do you mean hailing a cab?" Smith asked.
"No, I do not mean that," Chiun said.
"Who are you jokers?" asked the air force officer who was the highest ranking officer on duty.
"Schneiders and Kurosawa. Glad to meet you but we're in a hurry."
"What the hell kind of an ID is this?" the major barked. "Says here you're from the DOJ, Mr. Schneiders."
"He's Schneiders," said the dark-haired Caucasian man, pointing a thumb at the tiny Asian.
"Sure, you are."
"Kurosawa is a Japanese name, and I am most certainly not Japanese," declared the Asian.
His partner added, "Like I said, we're in a hurry."
"How come I never heard of you?"
"Dunno. We're supposed to be meeting a liaison with General Norton."
"Oh, really?" The officer leaned against the guard post windowsill, and he threw a smile and a wink at the guard inside. The guard moved his hand discreetly to the control that would call for more backup. This pair might be packing who knew what. Hell, the little Asian named Schneiders might have explosives under that robe of his. This was only a small military terminal at the Topeka airport, but who knew who might want to take it out.
"Did not the emperor handle this?" the Asian demanded of his taller partner.
"He always does."
"You have forgotten a password perhaps?" the little
man said. "You have failed to approach the correct entranceway to this outpost? Think, Remo! In what way have you failed?"
The major was stiff now. The clown act had gone into full gear, and his instincts told him it was a distraction from the real action—any second now something big would get sprung on him. A busload of America haters, probably, and might be from anywhere. France, Germany, and four out of any five Asian, Middle Eastern or South American nations held grudges against the U.S.
"Major Wylkes!" came a call from behind him, along with a rush of fast-moving vehicles. Wylkes spun fast, realized he'd just turned his back on the intruders and spun back, only to find Schneiders and Kurosawa standing motionless, watching his antics curiously. Then Wylkes realized who he had just seen coming at him in a big hurry in a jeep and he spun back again. The vehicle came to a hard stop beside the guard shack. General Norton stepped out quickly and snatched the IDs out of Major Wylkes's hand.
"Mr. Kurosawa?" the general addressed the small Asian man.
Before the Asian could respond, the tall man said, "I'm Kurosawa. He's Schneiders."
"General Norton. There appears to have been a lapse in communication. My assistant did not realize you would be arriving this quickly. We came as fast as we could, but..."
The general nodded disapprovingly at the jeep. His driver was a stone-faced statue, but a young officer in the back seat was staring at the floor like a fourth-grader being shamed by the teacher.
The Asian shook his head, clucking gently. "I sympathize, General," he said. "A competent lackey is a rare thing indeed."
The. barrel-chested general laughed quietly. "Isn't that the truth? Let me know if you ever find one."
"I shall, but do not stop breathing in anticipation of my call," said the small Asian, apparently delighted with himself, and then he gave a sharp, disapproving look at the dark man called Kurosawa.
The general ushered the pair of oddballs into his jeep. The general's assistant was ordered out to make room for them.
"Could you have the suits brings the trunks, General?" the dark one asked.
"Suits?" the general grunted.
"Blacksuits." The younger one pointed up, down, around.
"I don't understand," the general grumbled.
The younger man stood in his seat, leaned out, and his arm seemed to reach an impossibly far distance to extract a Special Forces commando who had slithered on the scene in response to Major Wylkes's silent alarm. The commando spluttered, but realized he was facing a general and went rigid when he was lowered to his feet.
"Oh," the general said, as surprised as the commando, and he and Major Wylkes stared at one another for a long moment, knowing they would never, ever speak of this incident again. "Yes, Wylkes, have the trunks brought to E-pad. Now."
"Yes, General."
"But no scratches!" declared the old Asian, Schneiders, as the jeep rumbled off.
There were three crew on the small military jet. It was used to transport top bureaucratic brass and visiting foreign VIPs around the country, so it was outfitted like a passenger jet for wealthy businessmen. The cabin had a communications system designed for civvies, which meant no complicated protocols. It was almost as simple as a regular telephone.
"Doesn't work," said the dark-haired man.
"What number are you trying to dial?" asked the helpful Air Force officer who served as steward.
"Can't tell ya. Have to kill ya."
"I can get you an outside line again and you can try dialing yourself one more time."
The dark-haired man shrugged. "No, thanks. They'll call me. I'll wait."
The steward explained that the aircraft was one of the most highly secure in the world, with a dynamically shifting communications array so that it communicated with the world on varying wavelengths and frequencies and even different technologies, shifting frequently and unpredictably, and there was no way somebody was going to know how to dial in...
The phone rang. The steward picked it up, then handed it to Remo, face reddening.
"Agent Kurosawa here."
"Your ETA is seventy minutes," Smith said without greeting. "We've narrowed the possible number of follow-up targets to thirty-one."
"Whoa. What're we supposed to do about that?" Remo asked.
"Canvass as many as possible," Smith answered dryly. "We can only hope we'll get lucky."
"We're developing a patrol itinerary that should have you reconnoitering the maximum number of targets in the least time," Mark Howard added. "Are you seeing the map?"
Remo looked for help from Chiun, who stared into space with his hands in his sleeves as if his thoughts floated in another universe, but Remo knew he heard every word. Chiun nodded briefly at the wall behind the conference table, where a small panel was embedded. The steward was well-trained in security protocol and knew enough to not be in the compartment, so Remo had only himself to rely on. He jabbed at the words at the bottom of the screen, then at the tiny pictures above the words, and the screen came to life with a computer image.
"We see it," Remo reported, grinning with self-satisfaction. Anyway, he saw something that looked like a map of San Francisco.
"Less than two hours ago a board of elections judge was murdered in a Greek restaurant in San Francisco— that's the red icon," Smith reported. "From that central location, we foresee a number of possible targets, the blue icons."
"Hold on," Remo said. "An election official? Like one of nice retired folks in the neighborhood who makes sure you stick the ballot in the box right-side up?"
"Only the first move by the local cell," Smith assured him. "They always strike a number of targets, and they always include some local figures in the mix. It's their way of connecting with the people on the street."
"The locals who get axed are always corrupt?" Remo asked.
"There is always a high-profile accusation of corruption," Mark Howard said.
"So somebody can always say he or she was a crook and got what was coming to him," Remo finished. "But you think some of the accusations are false, Junior?"
"They have to be," Mark Howard said. "There are so many victims, such a wide range of crimes, there's no way that even CURE resources could find a definitive answer on all of them."
Remo considered that, feeling grim. "Tell me about the election judge," he said.
"She's of no consequence now," Smith said. "We need to think about the next target."