With the other passersby, he watched the plane crash and burst into flames. Like the others, he heard the screams of the dying. He may have felt pity; the others surely did. Or he may have gone a little crazy at the moment when he took in the sight of the icy river tainted with human blood. No one could say. But what he did at that strange, pivotal moment was so peculiar, so brazen, so unreasonable, that the whole country stopped what it was doing to watch, stunned, as the man did what everyone else had been too sensible to do: He jumped in.
He jumped into the freezing, debris-littered water, without any thought for what would happen during the next moment, to rescue a woman who would have died without him.
He lived.
Remo would not live, he was almost sure of that. He was better trained than the man standing on the river's edge, and in a condition superior to any athlete's. But the odds were still a million to one against him that he would approach the exact speed at exactly the right time, that the impact would be perfect, that the handicaps of a broken hand and excessive air pressure and a snail's posture wouldn't hinder him.
And, somehow, it didn't matter.
Suddenly Remo knew how that man on the river's edge felt, knew as surely as he knew his own name, during that dive into the icy water. There was no heroism involved, no glory, no anticipation, no fear. There was only the air in front of him, and the nerves in his muscles snapping automatically, and the moment he had thrust himself into, pure and free, unconnected with either future or past, moving, soaring, stilled in time.
The doors loomed up ahead of him. Remo grinned. It was going to be one hell of a fine way to go.
Five feet in front of the doors, he propelled himself into a horizontal triple spin. His knees bent instinctively. His hair crackled behind him, lighting the dark tunnel with bright sparks. Then, working purely on reflex, he set himself up for the blow.
The moment had come.
Three. Two. One.
The doors flashed with a boom like a dynamite explosion. Abraxas, seated in his wheelchair facing the camera, looked up in horror.
The room was round and domed. One huge curving window covering half the enclosure looked onto the ocean floor, where primitive dark sting rays fluttered near sponges and red fire coral.
Remo never stopped moving. Rolling into the circular room, he crossed to the curved window in a fraction of a second.
The light on the camera glowed red. Abraxas forced himself to turn toward it. "My— my people," he whispered weakly, his eyes on Remo.
Remo threw himself against the glass, kicking out with every ounce of strength he could muster. All he saw now was Circe's face, smiling at him from the past. So there was a past again, he thought. And a future. He had lived.
The moment was over.
The glass of the windows starred and burst outward with the impact from Remo's hurtling body. The sea, in a fury, rushed into the transmission dome.
He eased his way through the current, his breath suspended. The water, at this depth nearly as dark as the tunnel, burst into blinding light as it reached the electrified doors and set them to fizzling in a wild fireworks display.
In the sudden brightness he saw Abraxas, first screaming in terror as the ocean rushed toward him, then pitching with the force of the water. He gripped the arms of his wheelchair as it sputtered and bled white sparks. His one eye rolled back into its socket, the eyelid quivering spasmodically as the metal plates on his face and neck blistered and bubbled and steamed in the water. The last thing Remo saw of him was the black voice box falling from its brace.
Then the lightning stopped, and a ray floated lazily into the wreckage.
?Chapter Nineteen
Smith was still working frantically at the computer console when Remo arrived back at South Shore. Chiun was standing in the corner, banging at the static-filled television monitor overhead.
"Worthless machine," he grumbled. "No dramas. No news stories. Not even a variety show featuring trained dogs. Only an ugly man being drowned. Probably a commercial."
"What's up?" Remo asked.
"I couldn't scramble the codes in time," Smith said despairingly. "The world got a full ten seconds of Abraxas getting electrocuted underwater. I don't know how the president will ever live this down."
"The president?" Remo said. "What about me? The TV murderer."
"You weren't recognizable," Smith said. "All anyone could see was a blur. How did you get to him, anyway?"
"Well, it was..." he began. But the moment had passed. It was over. It would never be the same again, and no one would ever understand what it had been like. "It was a piece of cake," Remo said.
A printout clacked out of the console. "I've sent word to the president about this mess by tapping into the White House computers. This must be his reply," Smith said. He read the printout silently, his face falling. "Helicopters have been dispatched to take out the delegates. Er, I'll have to explain about the casualty. The advertising man."
Smith raised a pencil. "We'll call it an accident. The mental health of the delegates can be proved to be unstable at this point, I think."
"An accident? An ac—"
"The two of you had better leave the island quickly," Smith said. "No one will believe what they say about Chiun, but I don't want him spotted."
"One does not need to see the Master of Sinanju to recognize his technique."
"Hmmm." Smith looked stricken.
"What's the bad news?"
"Oh, no bad news," Smith said quietly. "The White House press secretary has sent out a bulletin to the news media calling Abraxas's broadcast a hoax. Someone's even confessed to it. Some independent film producer or something."
"Maybe it'll get his name in the papers," Remo said. "But what about the bad vibes Peabody and the other zombies caused? You said the United Nations was up in arms."
Smith took a deep breath. "It seems that problem is solved, too. New terrorists have come in to replace the assassinated leaders. The countries who were accusing other world powers of sabotaging their images are back to working on the terrorist problem again."
"Back to normal, huh?"
"Normal," Smith muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
"Of course it is normal," Chiun said. "Chaos must be maintained to balance order. It is the inviolate principle of Zen. Good and evil, yin and yang. It has existed long before the fraud who called himself Abraxas."
"What about Circe?" Remo asked suddenly.
"I'll arrange to have her buried. We won't be able to attend the funeral, of course."
"Then who will?" Remo asked. "No one even knew her name."
The room fell silent. At last Smith spoke. "It will be a civil burial, I imagine."
"You mean a pauper's burial. Something for the bums nobody cares about."
In the distance, carried over the sea, could be heard the faint drone of helicopters.
"A special plane is coming to take me to Washington," Smith said crisply, dropping the subject of funerals. His silence spoke louder than words. After all, there's nothing anyone can do about her now. "I suggest that the two of you head back toward Folcroft as soon as possible. Can the boat you took me on get you as far as Miami?"
"It'll get us as far as Trinidad," Remo said. "Also Haiti, Puerto Rico, Guadelupe, Barbados, Jamaica..."
"Out of the question," Smith snapped.
"I have a broken hand."
"We'll see to it at Folcroft." He rose to turn off the computer console.
"I also have your plans to rip off the IRS," he said.
Smith looked over to him, gaping. "What are you saying?"
"You heard me. It was happy hour with the dictator of the world, remember? Either Chiun and I cruise the seas until my hand gets better, or the Internal Revenue boys get a little present from Harold W. Smith."