"I suppose this means that you are not the American messenger and are merely more of the amateur help that abounds in this land of little beauty," said an Oriental voice in his ear.
Irving stared in wonder at the smoking hole in the backboard of the bed, then turned to see the Oriental at the room's writing desk.
He spun toward the small man, crying, "What trick is this, swine?" His gun centered itself on the Oriental's stomach. Messenger? Amateur help? Beauty? He thought, Do not let this clutter your mind. You are Helmut Dorfmann, finest shot in your class. Think of the stimulus, direct the bullet with your mind, then fire.
Irving's trigger finger tightened thrice more. The mirror above the writing desk cracked, and the bureau's formica top shattered. The Oriental sat in the lotus position in an armchair across the room. "One cannot trust Americans for anything," he said. "Not even a simple delivery. I await beauty. Instead, I get a creature with pieces of plastic in his eyes, blond roots in his hair, and scars of surgery around his neck, and a gun in his hand. Why do you hate the furniture of my room? Because if it is simply ugliness you punish, you will need a bigger gun."
Markowitz's mind reeled. How could the Chinaman have known about the surgery? The hair dye? The contact lenses? Was it all a trap? His gun sought out the Oriental's heart as if by its own will. He cried out: "For the German people, die. Die." The gun jerked twice in his hands. Irving squeezed his eyes shut, then pried them open again.
The Oriental was standing directly before him, shaking his head. "Not for the German people," he said. "Oh, no. They hired this house once for a mission, and they did not pay. Would you like to hear about it?"
Markowitz stood dumbly in the center of the room. His eyes flitted over the damage to the bed, the shattered television, the writing desk. The back of the reading chair was torn into little pieces. Small bits of stuffing still floated down to the carpet. Chips of wood had smashed a lamp and wedged themselves into a closet. But the Oriental stood unharmed before him.
Markowitz cried in rage, gripped his gun in both hands, pushed the barrel into the Oriental's face and fired. The hammer clicked on an empty chamber.
"I will tell you," said the Oriental from behind Markowitz. "They asked me to solve a problem concerning the little man with the little mustache. He heard I was coming. He was so frightened he killed even a woman."
Markowitz blinked. He looked down at the barrel of his revolver. It was straight. Perhaps his food had been poisoned.
"And then they refused to pay us," the old Oriental said. "It was not our fault he killed himself, this little fool. Did you know he ate carpeting?"
Too much. First to make a fool of the son of the Keich and then to insult the Fuehrer himself. Too much. The man must die.
"Demon," cried the man who had been Helmut Dorfmann. "I must kill you with my own two hands."
His hands stretched across the space between them, his fingers claws, toughened by his years on the sea, by his daily exercise, to rip out the cursed yellow throat from which poured the evil lies about Hitler.
But before his fingers could grip, there was a blur passing before his eyes. Suddenly, he did not seem to have hands to kill with.
His charge stopped, and he brought up his arms. Mounds of red were sliding down his jacket and his throat constricted into a horrible, choking sound. He found his feet, but before he could run, there was another blur, and the blur seemed to encircle him, and there were two small tugs at his shoulders.
Irving's numbed shock turned into bursting pain and his mouth opened and his eyes squeezed shut. He felt as if he were floating and his legs were gone. Then he thought he felt the thick hotel carpeting on his back. Then there was only the incredible pain. Then nothing.
Chiun decided to wait in the lobby for his shipment of video tapes. Hopefully Remo would be back soon to clean up the mess.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Remo," said Zhava, "this is Yoel Zabari, the head of the Zeher Lahurban, and Tochala Delit, my immediate superior. Gentleman, this is Remo Williams."
"Mr. Weel-yums," said Yoel Zabari.
"Mr. Zahoring, Mr. Delish," said Remo.
"Zabari, Delit," said Zhava.
"Gotcha," Remo said.
They stood in the third-floor office of the nuclear security agency, after a three and a half hour drive that did almost nothing to diminish the aroma of the desert flowers that clung to them.
Two more comfortable-looking red padded chairs had been added to the office, one facing Zabari's desk, the other across from where Delit sat.
Now the two of them moved into the room as the male Israelis sat. Zhava, still somewhat flushed, her skin clinging to a never before experienced creamy tone, strode to the chair by Zabari's side. Delit sat across from her.
"Please sit down," said Zabari in heavily accented English. "Zhava, you are looking well. Mr. Williams, it is with great pleasure that we meet."
Remo saw that this was what the man's half-a-mouth said. The look in his one good eye and the way he sat said, "It is a pleasure to have someone as dangerous as yourself in a position where I can kill you if necessary."
Remo sat in the chair across from him. "You got banged up pretty bad. A bomb? And it's no pleasure being here. What kind of a country are you people running anyway?"
Zhava sucked in her breath and her flush blushed, turning her the shade of tomato soup. Zabari, however, replied easily.
"So this is the famous American bluntness, eh? Surely, Mr. Williams, we cannot be to blame for your problems. 'Tourists' must be careful when they walk the desert at night. As the Talmud says, 'A human being is here today, in the grave tomorrow.' " The left side of his face smiled.
The right side of Remo's face smirked back. "The Book of Sinanju says, 'I have lived fifty years to know the mistakes of forty-nine.' "
"Ah," said Yoel Zabari, looking pleased, "but the Talmud also states, 'The Lord hates him who talks one way and thinks another.' "
"The Book of Sinanju replies, 'We sleep with legs outstretched, free of true, free of false.' "
"I see," Zabari mused. "The Wisdom of the Talmud includes, however, 'One who commits a crime as an agent, is also a criminal.' "
"How true," said Remo cordially. "Sinanju says, 'The perfect man leaves no trace of his conduct.' "
"Hmmm," said Zabari, considering, then quoted, " 'Worry kills the strongest man.' "
Remo replied in Chiun's sing-song, " 'Training is not knowledge and knowledge is not strength. But combine knowledge with training and one will get strength.' Or at least I think that's how it goes."
Zabari cocked his one good eye at Remo and leaned forward in his chair.
" 'Loose talk leads to sin,' " he said, then as an afterthought, adding the Talmudic source, "Abot."
" 'Think twice, then say nothing,' " Remo replied. "Chiun."
Delit and Fifer still sat on either side of the desk, between the two combatants, their heads moving back and forth, as if watching a tennis game.
It was Zabari's serve.
" 'Even a thief prays that he will succeed.' "
Remo returned, " 'Never cut a man with words. They become a weapon against you.' "
Delit's and Fifer's heads turned to Zabari.
" 'Silence is good for the learned. All the more for fools.' "
Back to Remo.
" 'Learn to cut a man with your eyes. They are sometimes stronger than your hands.' "
Zabari: " 'A man is born with closed hands; he expects to grab the whole world. He dies with open hands; he takes nothing with him.' "
Remo: " 'Everything is a weapon in the hands of a man who understands.' "