The office showed no signs of a struggle. The desk at the computer console was tidy as ever, its drawers locked. The wastebasket was empty. The closed door leading to the outer office didn't look as if it had been tampered with. If Smith had been abducted, Remo said to himself, it was the cleanest kidnapping on record.
There was nothing to show that Smith had even been there except for the short sheet of printout paper that hung from one of the computers. Remo walked noiselessly to it. Not that he would understand Smith's arcane computer jargon but...
"DOCTOR SMITH. CALL 555-8000. DOCTOR SMITH. CALL 555-8000. DOCTOR..."
Remo blinked at the paper in his hand. He read it again. "What is this?" he whispered.
Chiun asked a question with his eyes. Remo handed him the sheet and walked to the telephone. The old man restrained him, motioning to the door leading to the secretary's desk.
"It doesn't matter," Remo said. "The place is clean." He dialed 555-8000.
"The number you have reached is not in service," the recording announced. He slammed down the phone.
"Who's in there?" shrilled a woman's voice from behind the door. The lock jiggled with frightened, clumsy movements. Mrs. Mikulka opened it with a gasp and stood stock still in the doorway, her hand on her chest. "No one's allowed in here," she said hoarsely. "Who are you? What do you want?"
"My name is Remo. Where's Smitty?"
"Oh." The tightness went out of her voice. "Dr. Smith had to leave unexpectedly, but he left a message for you." With an uncertain glance at the removed window, she edged back toward the outer office. "Er... Follow me, please."
Sandley. 12 mi. S/E
18 min. DC3 #TL 516.
"What's this mean?" Remo said, scowling at the neat handwritten note. "What's Sandley?"
"An airport, sir," the secretary explained. "It's nearby. But Dr. Smith didn't say anything about—"
"Thanks," Remo said.
TL-516 was the only DC-3 at Sandley Airport. It was painted red, and it had enough dents and scratches on it to pass for a World War II bomber.
"Who flies that red plane?" Remo shouted as he burst into the flight office.
The two old men were playing cards. One was bald, drinking coffee out of a stained paper cup. The other was swigging bourbon straight from a near-empty bottle. His eyes were watery and unfocused. He set down the fifth with a thud and smeared his hand across his mouth. "I do," he said.
"That figures." Remo strolled toward the table.
The man with the coffee saw the look on Remo's face and rose hurriedly. "I got some book work to do, Ned," he said timidly as he edged away.
"Hey, I was winning," Ned said, raising the bottle to his lips.
Remo yanked it away. "Hold the poison till we talk. I'm looking for a man named Smith. Tall, fifties, metal-rimmed glasses, three-piece gray suit, a hat. You see him?"
The old pilot tapped his finger to his forehead. "Little tetched?"
Remo cleared his throat. "I guess some people might think so. Where'd you take him?"
"Clear Springs Airport, near Miami. About nine o'clock this morning."
"Was he alone?"
"Yep. Didn't even know what he was going there for." He chuckled. "Tetched. Didn't even know the girl who sent for him. A real rich bitch, too. Isn't that right, Bob?" He glanced blearily at the bald man behind the counter. Bob jumped at the sound of his name.
"What girl?" Remo asked.
"I got it all here in the books, sir," Bob said, twitching.
"You the base operator here?"
"Eee-yess," he said hesitantly. "You from the FAA?"
"No," Remo said, grabbing the log containing the day's flights. "Jane Smith? You believed that?"
"She called late last night. I figured maybe it was his daughter."
"Didn't you ask?"
The man straightened. "Mister, there's no regulation says I got to find out what their relationship is. Anybody sends over a private armed guard with five thousand dollars cash for a one-way flight to Florida, I ain't going to ask no personal questions." He slammed the log closed. After a moment, he added, "Nobody forced him to go. He come up by himself. And he wasn't on drugs or nothing, either, was he, Ned?"
"Wouldn't even take a shot of hooch," Ned said disgustedly.
"Where was the call made from?" Remo asked.
"Miami. Said she was meeting him there. She sounded real nice."
Remo turned back to the old pilot and watched as he belched and rocked back in his chair, the Jack Daniels drooling off his chin. "Who picked Smith up in Florida?" he demanded.
"How should I know?" the pilot answered crankily, hiccupping.
Remo jerked his thumb toward the drunk. "He the only pilot you got?"
"There's another guy coming in about four."
"I can't wait that long." He walked over to Ned and hefted him out of his chair. "Come on, Ace. We're heading south."
"Hey, you can't take him," Bob protested. "He's stone drunk." Remo threw the roll of bills onto the counter. "Think that'll sober him up for your log?" He hoisted the pilot over his shoulder.
Ned was singing "The Yellow Rose of Texas" as he fumbled with the panel controls. "Fuel rich, thrust up," he mumbled between choruses.
"Who is this person who fouls my air with breath like hyena droppings?" Chiun demanded from the wing window seat.
"He's the pilot. He's going to fly the plane. If he can figure out how."
"Once again, your unerring judgment has taken control," Chiun said.
"Very funny. He'll be all right. They say flying's like riding a bicycle. You never forget."
"I'm sure I will never forget," Chiun said.
Remo ignored him. "Okay, Ned. You've got to get us to Clear Springs."
"No problem," Ned slurred. "Just keep the bottle handy. 'Less you want us to fly into a mountain." He laughed. They took off like a rocket.
The pilot squeezed at the air beside Remo's face. "Hand it over."
"Hand what over?"
"The bottle. You do have the bottle, don't you?" He looked out the window. The ground below them swam in a pleasant haze.
"What bottle?" Remo said.
?Chapter Seven
Most of the hundred best brains in the world were blotto.
Smith observed that the South Shore of Abaco, separated from the rest of the island by a tall fence, appeared to exist solely for the purpose of hosting a round-the-clock party. Some of the guests were famous people from different walks of life. Smith recognized a noted woman anthropologist who was dancing a tarantella on the beach. A former United States secretary of state, wearing a T-shirt with "Shake Your Booties" emblazoned on the chest, chugged down a pitcher of some pink and apparently alcoholic beverage while the crowd around him clapped and cheered.
"Cocktail, sir?" offered a waiter in a white jacket. He held out a tray with a dozen champagne glasses filled with pink liquid.
"No, thank you," Smith said tightly. The waiter walked away.
"Aw, go ahead," the fat man with a pink ribbon pinned to his collar prodded, slapping Smith on the back heartily. "Loosen up."
"I don't drink," Smith said.
"Hey, you're missing something," the man said. He tapped the rim of his own glass. The movement set him off balance, causing the contents to slosh over the side in a spill of pink foam. He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. "You know, this isn't any ordinary booze."
"I'm not surprised." Smith turned away, but the man followed him, huffing with drunken indignation.