"Why do you suppose they attacked the targets they did and not your headquarters?"
"Ah suppose they didn't know where to find me. Ah don't broadcast mah address on TV, just a post-office box number."
"Has this anything to do with your reported fundraising problems?"
"No," Reverend Sluggard said flatly. "Malh Cross Crusade fund drive is going to be a whoppin' success." He ran pudgy fingers through his heavily pomaded hair.
"You seem pretty sure of that. How do you know?"
"Because the Almighty revealed it to me."
"If he revealed that to you, as you claim, why hasn't he revealed the reason why Middle Eastern terrorists, allegedly in the pay of Iran, hijacked two aircraft, shot up an air show, and took the Lincoln Memorial hostage to publicize their demands that you be turned over to one of their Revolutionary Tribunals?"
"You'll have to ask him that," Reverend Sluggard said, wiping his beefy jowls. "All Ah know is that Judgment Day is a-comin' for America. If mah ministry falls to these fanatics, then none of you are safe. Ah'm callin' on all of America to join me and to get with God if they want this great Christian nation of ours to stand forever. For more information, tune into mah TV show, Get with God. Ah have all the answers."
"Reverend Sluggard-"
"That's all Ah got to say," Reverend Sluggard said, "but before Ah go, Ah want to reassure mah followers that the Lord's work will go on. No enemy of God will lay a hand on me or any of mah followers. Because Ah got this." He patted a thick leather-covered book. "And if you kind folks will allow, Ah want to read a passage Ah think appropriate to these troubled times: 'Though Ah be surrounded by serpents, Ah will fear no scoundrels. Though Ah stand in the quicksand of idolators, Ah know that the Chariot of the Lord is comin' to succor me and that his Hosts will raise their crossbows in mah defense.' Amen."
And slapping the great book closed, Eldon Sluggard walked off camera, leaving it to a network correspondent to explain that this was coming live from the Eldon Sluggard World Ministries in Thunderbolt, Georgia.
Smith stared at the screen, his brow knitting. "There's no such passage in the Bible," he muttered. Shutting off the television, he started for his mini computer, when he heard a knocking at the door. He opened it.
"Remo. Master Chiun," Smith said without inflection. It was what passed for a warm greeting from Dr. Harold W. Smith.
"We appreciate your enthusiasm," Remo said, stepping in. He turned when he noticed that Chiun was still standing out in the hall, his back to Smith.
"You coming, Little Father?"
"I have not been formally invited in."
"I think he's still pissed at you, Smitty."
Smith cleared his throat. "Master Chiun, would you come in, please? I am sorry if I offended you."
"Wrong choice of words, Smitty," Remo whispered.
"If?" Chiun called over his shoulder loudly.
"That I offended you. Truly sorry. It won't happen again. And I wish you would come in. I have a question only someone with your knowledge of ancient history can answer."
Chiun immediately whirled in place. He marched into the room like an ancient vizier entering his king's inner chambers.
"I live to serve my emperor. What is your question?"
"Did they have crossbows during biblical days?"
"No," said Chiun as Remo closed the door. "The crossbow was a foolish invention of a later period. My ancestors first encountered it when-"
"Thank you, Master of Sinanju," Smith said abruptly. "That was all I desired to know."
Chiun's face tightened. His mouth pursed. His cheeks filled with indignity. He flounced around and again presented his back to Smith, his anger evident in his stiff posture.
"You did it again," Remo whispered.
"Later," Smith said. "I want you to listen carefully. The terrorists failed, but these people never give up. They will try again."
"Chiun and I are up to it," Remo said confidently.
"Speak for yourself, white man," Chiun asked. Remo ignored him. Smith continued speaking.
"We can't spend all our energies putting down terrorist attacks. There has already been loss of life. Whatever is motivating these people, they take the matter very seriously."
"You want us to go to Iran?" Remo asked.
Chiun suddenly turned, his face lighting with interest. "It is the Persian New Year. The melons are quite good at this time of year," he said eagerly. "And Sinanju is well known to Persians-educated Persians. We could solve your problems with a few words whispered into the proper ears."
"No, I am not sending you to Iran," Smith said. Chiun returned to presenting his back to his emperor. "I want you two to look into Reverend Sluggard's ministry," Smith went on. "Find out why they want him. If we can uncover what is going on at this end, maybe we can expose or neutralize it. We might be able to reason with Iran. Speaking geopolitically, it remains in our interest to maintain a semblance of neutrality toward that country."
"You're dreaming, Smitty," Remo said tightly. "The U.S. and Iran are on a collision course. And will be as long as those religious crazies are running that country."
"Do not forget to mention the crazies running this country," Chiun muttered. "Some of them do not even bother to wear their crowns on correct occasions."
"What is he saying?" Smith asked Remo.
"I'll explain later. By the way, what's your hat size?"
"I'm not sure. I haven't worn a hat in thirty years. Why do you ask?"
"Long story. Okay, Smitty, we're on our way. By the way, where exactly are we going?"
"Sluggard's national headquarters are located in Thunderbolt, Georgia. It's outside of Savannah. Use false identification. Try to blend in with Sluggard's people. If we crack this quickly, we may beat the next wave of terror outbreaks."
"Gotcha, Smitty. You coming, Chiun?" Remo asked as he opened the door.
"I have not yet been given my leave by my emperor."
"You may leave, Master of Sinanju," Smith said quietly. The Master of Sinanju turned softly, executed a polite but unostentatious bow, and floated out of the room, his bearded chin high in the air.
"I'll try to pull that wild hair out of his you-know-what before we get back, Smitty," Remo promised, winking.
Chapter 9
Reverend Eldon Sluggard hurried from the auditorium of the Eldon Sluggard Temple of Tribute, under rows of moss-draped eucalyptus trees, past the quadrangle facing the Eldon Sluggard University, and entered the Eldon Sluggard World Broadcast Ministries Complex on the lazy banks of the Wilmington River.
"Get my media advisers, pronto," he snarled at a secretary, hurrying into a conference room.
When they arrived, moments later, the Reverend Eldon Sluggard was seated at one end of the long conference table, his hands resting on a thick leather volume with a gold-leaf cross embossed on its front cover.
The men, all dressed in sharp business suits, took their places. One of them switched on a cabinet television and popped a videocassette into a wall slot.
"Here's the replay, Reverend," he said as he took his seat.
The eyes of all thirteen men watched as the TV replayed the press conference of a few minutes ago. One by one the men began their critique.
"Good delivery there, El. You had 'em hangin' on your every syllable with that first bit about the mullahs tryin' to crucify America on a cross of oil."
"Nice comeback to that question about your finances. 'God don't count shekels in public.' But what's it mean?"
"Search me," said Reverend Sluggard, noticing that when his video image raised his left arm to gesture, a dark patch showed under his armpit. Sluggard lifted his arms and saw that the underarms of his immaculate white one-thousand-dollar Brioni suit were soaked with sweat. He scribbled a note to himself in the leather book to have his tailor reinforce the underarm padding. The man would bitch, as he always did. But screw him. The wop.