Those, God help him, Remo thought, were her exact words. She seemed a little unsure delivering them, and he realized immediately why. They were someone else's words that she had memorised and was now reciting.
"I've got a question," a young woman said from the floor. She was skinny and buck-toothed and wore a too large white sweater.
"Questions are allowed in our new order," Joan said.
"Why Teterboro?" the girl asked. "Why not Kennedy or LaGuardia?"
"Because we are walking before we run. Because we must show our strength. Because we were told to," Joan responded.
"But why?"
"Because," Joan shrieked. "That's why. And questions are counter productive. You either are or you aren't. You either do or you don't. I don't like questions. Our leaders don't like questions. All my life, people are always asking me questions, and well, I'm not going to answer them any more because what's right is right, whether you understand it or not." Her face was livid. She stamped her foot.
"She's right," one man said. "Questions are counter productive," thereby proving that he would rather bang Joan than the girl with buck teeth.
"Counter productive.," another voice called. "Yes, down with counter productivity," came another.
John Hacker beamed. "Now that we're all agreed," and she underscored all, "let us proceed with our revolutionary fervour to do what must be done in the never-ending fight against fascism."
There was a collective nod of agreement from the audience and they began rising to their feet Remo moved back slightly from the doorway to assure that he would not be glimpsed.
The thirteen people in the room milled around, everyone trying to talk at once, and Remo retreated downstairs, after first assuring himself that there was no other exit from the room.
As Remo re-entered the dining section of The Bard, he saw Chiun spot him in the mirror. Chiun immediately leaned over toward the window, and when Remo arrived at the booth, Chiun had his nose near the small hole in the glass. He was gasping as if he were a fish.
Remo, who knew that Chiun could live for a year inside a barrel of pickles without drawing a breath, said, "You know what you're breathing? Pizza crust and raw clams and baclava."
Chiun recoiled from the window. "Baclava?" he said.
"Yes," Remo said, "baclava. You start out by grinding these almonds and dates into a paste. Then you get a big pot of honey and gobs and gobs of sugar and...."
"Hold. Enough," Chiun said. "I will take my chances in here."
Remo looked up and saw the first people from the meeting beginning to leave. He perched on the edge of his bench, ready to move when he saw Joan. She arrived three minutes later, the last of the group, and he got up and intercepted her in the doorway.
"You're under arrest," he whispered in her ear and when she turned, startled, and recognized him, he smiled.
"Oh, it's you," she said. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm on special assignment for the Patton College library."
She giggled. "I really ripped them off, didn't I?"
"Yes. And if you don't have a drink with me, I'm going to run you in."
"All right," she said, again the revolutionary leader. "But only because I want to. Because I'm supposed to tell you something and I'm trying to remember what it is."
He led her back to the table and introduced her to Chiun, who turned a withered smile in her direction.
"Excuse me for not arising," he said, "but I lack the strength. Was that polite enough, Remo?"
Joan nodded graciously to the old man, wondering for a moment what Remo was doing with the representative of the Third World and wondering if Chiun were Chinese or Vietnamese, and then abandoning the wonder as unworthy of a revolutionary leader.
""What are you drinking?" Joan asked Remo.
"A Singapore Sling," Remo said. "The latest thing in health drinks. Like one?"
"Sure, but not if it's too sweet. I've got this terrible toothache."
Remo called the waitress, motioned for her to refill him and Chiun's glasses, and said, "And another Singapore Sling for Madame Chiang here. And not too sweet."
"Still pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" Joan Hacker asked, leaning forward and setting her bosom down onto the table top.
"No more than I have to be. Have you picked your targets yet?"
"Targets?"
"Targets. The bridges you're going to blow. Isn't that why you left school? To come down here and blow up the bridges? Paralyze New York. Seal it off from the rest of the country. Then direct the Third World revolution that will topple it from within?"
"If we hadn't had such a meaningful relationship," she said, "I'd think you were being sarcastic. Even if it isn't a bad idea."
"It's yours," Remo said, "to use as you will. You don't even have to give me credit for it. Only one proviso."
"Oh?"
"You have to leave the Brooklyn Bridge."
"Why?" she asked suspiciously, her mind already made up that if one were to blow up bridges around New York, the only one really worth blowing up would be the Brooklyn Bridge.
"Because Hart Crane wrote a great poem about it, and because people sometimes have important reasons to get to Brooklyn."
"Yes, indeed," Chiun said, removing his face from the hole in the window long enough to speak.
"All right," said Joan. "The bridge is yours." Quietly, she vowed to herself that the Brooklyn Bridge would be the first to go, meaningful relationship or no meaningful relationship.
"Can I charge tolls?" Remo asked, as the waitress put their drinks in front of them.
"Tolls will be outlawed in our new world," Joan said. "The bridges will belong to everybody."
"Good reason then to blow them up," Remo said. He lifted his glass and drained it. "Bottoms up," he said. Joan drained her drink.
"Phewww," she said. "It's too sweet."
"I'll fix that," Remo said. "You'll see." He signalled the waitress for a refill for him and for Joan. "And not so sweet," he called.
Chiun still dawdled over his glass of juice.
Teterboro was what Joan had been talking about. It was an airport in New Jersey and Remo had to find out what had been planned.
As she was halfway through her second drink, he broached the subject.
"I was only joking about the bridges," he said. "But if I were you guys, I'd really be doing something like that. You know, working on the transportation angle. Imagine, tying up Kennedy Airport or bombing the runways at Newark Airport."
Joan Hacker giggled. "Child's play," she said.
"Child's play?" Remo said. "Not at all. It would be tough and dangerous and would really advance the cause of revolution. I think it's brilliant."
She slurped her glass until she had drained the last drop of heavy liquor from the bottom. Remo signalled for another as she said thickly, "You'll never be a revolutionary. You don't think well enough."
"No? Well, you tell me a better idea."
"I will. How about if you took over the control tower? And had all the planes bumping into each other? Hah? Hah? Hah? Less work. More chaos. Terrific."
Remo shook him head in admiration. "Terrific," he agreed. "I've got to hand it to you. Sneak in after dark, say at midnight, take over the tower and whammo, instant chaos. Doubly so, during the night-time."
She drained a big swig of her third Singapore Sling.
"Midnight, phooey," she said. "How about high noon? Daylight makes terror even more unbearable."
Chiun's ears perked up when he heard that. He turned from the window. "That is true, child. That is true. So it is written."
"You bet your sweet banana, so it's written," Joan Hacker confided to the Master of Sinanju, draining another swallow of her drink. "I know, for a fact. I have sources in the Third World too, you know."
She drank again.