"A second cousin perhaps?" Chiun said to Zhava. "A little training and you could go far."
Remo shot Chiun a nasty look, then kneeled down and flipped open a book. On the inside cover were some scrawled words in Hebrew.
"Here," he said. "What does it say?"
"Biology," Zhava read. "Room B-27. Teacher, Doctor Moishe Gavan."
Remo snapped the book shut and dropped it on the floor with the others.
"Well, let's just go visit Doctor Gavan."
The three moved down the Weizmann Institute hallway toward Room B-27, which was located in the cellar all the way down on the right.
For early morning, the area was abuzz with activity. Many people rushed by the group, most of them older than Remo expected and wearing uniforms. Most of the younger ones were sickly looking, their expressions ranging from grim to green.
"Did we come during a fire drill or something?" Remo asked Zhava.
"Those are not firemen," she whispered. "They are police."
Remo saw a large crowd outside Room B-27, accompanied by a huge stink. He recognized it easily. It followed him everywhere. The stench of death. "Stay here," he instructed Chiun and Zhava. "I'll see what's going on."
"It smells here of pork," said Chiun. "I am going to wait in the vehicle. Tell Remo that," he finished, motioning Zhava on.
Remo had moved through the crowd of teachers and students and was now standing shoulder to shoulder with a burly policeman. The policeman turned toward him and said something impolitely in guttural Hebrew. Remo replied in Korean something about the cop's mother and camel's feet. The policeman said something else, and Remo was about to reply in a more universal language when Zhava appeared by his side, waving a card in front of the policeman's nose and speaking in soothing tones. The policeman lifted his arm and the two moved through.
Zhava and Remo stopped just inside the door of Room B-27 because if they had moved any further, they would have gotten their feet all red.
Completely covering the tile floor was a carpet of blood. In the very center of the room was a gory swastika pieced together from the chubby limbs of what was once a man. All around him were trays of dissected fetal pigs.
"Some people just can't leave their work at the office," Remo said.
Zhava left the room.
Remo looked closer until he saw a small identification card pinned to the upper right hand section of the flesh swastika. It read, "Dr. Moihe Gavan." A guttural voice said something in Hebrew behind him.
Remo turned around to face the policeman and saw Zhava standing behind him. "He wants to know if you are finished," she said.
"Sure," said Remo, "let's go."
They started through the crowd again, Zhava and the Israeli cop leading the way and talking. Remo tapped her on the shoulder.
"Ask him if there is a phone I can use. I've got to report."
"So do I," said Zhava.
"We'll flip for it," said Remo.
Zhava asked, and they were shown to the front office and assured that the line was not tapped. Many important governmental experiments were being tried here, so the security was tight.
Remo won the toss and called Smith. Since it was still very early morning, and there were not many people using the phone at that hour, the overseas connection was made in record time and Remo had to wait only fifteen minutes.
Smith was fresh but less than enthusiastic when he came on the line, especially when he heard about the latest death, of Dr. Gavan.
"You're doing wonderfully," Smith said. "Bodies are piling up all over Israel, and you've blown up a million-dollar weapon…"
"You heard about that?"
"News travels fast on the war circuit. That nearly caused an international incident right there. Thank heavens no one knows you're responsible. No one does know, do they?"
"I won't tell them if you won't."
"So besides all that, and almost totally blowing your cover, what have you got?"
"A song in my heart and rhythm," said Remo. "Look, Smitty, I don't know what's going on here. That's your job. You find out what blew my cover, you find out the connection between all those dead guys, you find me somebody to do something to."
"Easy, Remo, easy," said Smith. "Keep working on it, keep thinking, and I'll get back to you."
"Wonderful," said Remo. "I can hardly wait. Make it quick, and did you send Chiun those tapes? If he doesn't get them soon, he's going to make me into the perfect hamburger."
"The tapes went out yesterday. I know nothing about hamburgers."
"Good. See ya 'round."
Remo hung up in a sour mood. Keep thinking, huh? Well, he had done a little thinking, and he was ready to show that walking answer to the Florida sunshine tree where he could put all his computers.
The facts were simple. Zhava Fifer killed the one lead he had. And everywhere she went, people wound up dead. She was the one, Remo decided. Thinking, huh? How was that for thinking?
He marched out of the front office to where Zhava waited by the door. "Finished?" she asked.
"You betcha," he said. "Your turn."
"Good. I must use the phone now." Zhava moved toward the office.
"Zhava!" Remo called sweetly.
"Yes?" she turned.
"What were you and that policeman talking about before?" Now he had her.
"Nothing, really. Why?"
"Come on, you can tell me. I just want to know." Remo moved in toward her.
"Well, he wanted to know if you had been here a bit earlier. He thought he had seen you here before."
A likely story. He'd take her into the office and get the truth out of her. "Oh? And what did you say?"
"I told him no. That you had been with me," Zhava said, then went into the office to use the phone.
Remo stopped and frowned. She couldn't have killed Gavan since she had been with him all night. And how to explain those four dips tackling her in the desert? Remo scratched his head and went outside. He didn't like this thinking bit.
He drifted out into the parking lot where Chiun sat erect in the front seat of the jeep. The sun was just about to rise, highlighting the sand and underlighting rain clouds that spread across the horizon.
Remo leaned against the back of the jeep and wished he could still smoke.
"You are depressed, my son," Chiun said.
"Yeah. This place gets to me."
"It is understandable. It is hard to work in a land of little beauty."
The sun rose, casting a ribbon of colors across the undersides of the the clouds and turning the desert into shimmering gold.
"It's not that," Remo said. "It's just that I haven't gotten anything done."
"Nothing done?" said Chiun. "Last night, you killed two evil men, even though you failed to keep your elbow straight on the back wrist thrust. You call that nothing? Those fools in the alley who endangered my trunks? You have used the skills I taught you. You have used them badly, but, still, is that nothing? Is the thousands of years of wisdom nothing? The shipments of gold in payment nothing? You surprise me, Remo. Several more weeks here and you may yet help solve the overpopulation problem of the cities of this land."
Remo grunted.
"Your discomfort is caused merely by the lack of beauty of this place. Where are the palaces of yesteryear?" Chiun asked.
Remo watched the clouds as they scudded along the horizon, leaving rain-soaked sand in their wake.
"Don't worry about it. Smitty tells me that your shows are on the way."
"That Smith is an idiot," Chiun said. "My beautiful stories will wind up at the Arctic Circle." He paused. "Still, we should return to the hotel to be sure. Now."
When Zhava Fifer walked up, Chiun was dancing back and forth in front of Remo, saying, "Now, now, now."
"What is wrong?" Zhava asked Remo.
"He's about to find out if Brenda's tumor is malignant, if Judge Faithweather has lost his seat on the bench because of his indiscretion with Maggie Barlowe, defense attorney, and whether Doctor Belton's drug rehabilitation therapy will work on Mrs. Baxter's little girl in time for her to ride in the big race."