"Sir?"
"Thank you. You may leave."
"But you know I didn't get one sentence of what they said, Mr. Woburn."
"We pay our bills for services rendered. We are reliable. We are paying you. You are excused," said Reggie.
Wonderful, Reggie thought. Technology had failed because technology was only of one age. He knew now he was of the ages and that was why he used the ears that could hear beyond hearing, as the stone had said. Some little spy somewhere could not. Why was the man still standing there in his office with his mouth open?
"Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Woburn?"
Hadn't he told him already he was excused? "Warner Dabney is here for your service. These guys were real, extra special tough. But the next time . . ." Dabney said.
"What is your name again?" He would have to be shown that when he was excused, it meant excused.
"Dabney, sir. Warner Dabney."
"Warner, give me your hand," said Reggie. He reached into the desk. There was a pin inside the desk with a chemical to suppress the heartbeat. It had been created for surgery by one of Woburn's pharmaceutical firms, but it had yet to be tested on humans. The problem was diluting the powerful formula to make it safe. One part per million could kill.
Warner Dabney hesitantly put forward his hand. When a rich client who paid even for failures asked for something silly, you didn't say no. Warner had never been paid for a failure before.
"Thank you," said Reginald, taking the upraised palm and very gently stroking the pads of the man's fingertips. Then Reggie smiled and put the pin into the palm. Warner Dabney dropped like a stone. Bang. He was on the floor. Reginald put back the needle. The product had been tested on humans. It worked.
The constabulary agreed on the telephone that the death was obviously a heart attack and that Del Ray Promotions could just go ahead and plant him.
"His head still on his body?"
"Yes, officer," said Reggie.
"Den dat death be natural. In the Caribbean, we are most careful about investigating unnatural deaths. If that mon be dead with an arrow in his heart, no way we say that be a natural death, sir."
"I agree with you, constable, and please convey our appreciation to Government House and your fine island people for this warm and most hospitable welcome we have received from you this day. "
"As you wish, your Highness," said the constable, suddenly wondering why he had said that. And then he remembered. He had the same feeling speaking to Mr. Woburn that he did when he stood at parade rest before Queen Elizabeth of Great Britain. He apologized to Mr. Woburn for the slip of tongue.
"We accept your apology," said Reggie.
As Warner Dabney was leaving the office, heels first in the hands of two porters, Reginald Woburn III could not suppress the true exhilaration at having the first thrust at his enemies succeed.
It was not his purpose to inform servants of his thinking. Warner Dabney had succeeded but had not even known he had succeeded. But seeing that these two routinely handled eavesdropping devices, he had discovered that the two had been exposed to this sort of thing before, undoubtedly often. It fit with the picture in Reggie's mind of a professional assassin. They would be used to that kind of things. And when one of the maintenance men explained that one of the condo share owners was the one who had ripped out a wall and said, "Would you believe he did it with his bare hands, sir?" Reginald answered, simply, "We do."
He had found them, or more correctly, they had found him. Now to continue with the way of the seventh stone. Everything was working perfectly.
"Do you wish to charge them for the broken wall, Mr. Woburn?"
"No. We'll just speak to them."
That afternoon, Chiun met the first really respectful white, an owner of the general property, who commiserated with him over ungrateful sons ... not that Chiun was complaining . . . and about the difficulty in working for a government.
Not that Chiun was complaining about that either. He didn't complain. Even if said government, like all typically white things, did not appreciate his work. How white. How American.
"You did say American, didn't you?" said Reggie happily, and he got a nod.
"I thought we heard you," he said.
The next day, Remo had a phone call from Smith that there was urgent government business and when Remo left by car, Reginald Woburn III did a little joyous dance in what was left of the aloe bed.
It was working.
Chapter Five
Smith was waiting at the airport with a valise and a wallet. His gaunt face was twisted with strain. "I'm sorry. I know you need a vacation desperately, but I had to put you on again," he said, and said nothing more until they reached his car, a gray Chevrolet compact. This man had millions at his disposal, Remo knew, and could fly about in his own jet if he wished. Yet he traveled economy class, used the least expensive car he could, and never wasted a penny even though no government oversight committee would ever get a chance to look at the organization's expenditures. They had chosen the right man when they had chosen Smith, thought Remo.
He glanced at the wallet. It contained a press pass to the White House. Inside the valise were a white shirt, a suit the color of a nasal decongestant and a tie to match.
"I take it the suit's for me," Remo said as the car left the parking lot.
"Yes. You can't enter the White House press corps without it."
"Why the color of medicine? Who would wear a suit this color?"
"You've got to look like a reporter," Smith said. Remo looked at the suit again. A pinkish gray. It was really a pinkish gray.
"Do they get special prices on these clothes?" he asked.
"No. They like it. They choose colors like that. Not the television reporters. They're mostly actors and actresses and they know how to dress. Real reporters dress like that and you're going to be one. And I'm sorry I'm interrupting your vacation."
"I was going crazy doing nothing," Rerno said.
"Be careful," Smith said. "I mean it. Watch yourself."
Remo reached over to the steering wheel, and putting the pads of his thumb and index finger around the plastic, caught the very movement of the material itself. Even before the world had known of atoms and molecules, Sinanju had known that everything was movement of particles that attracted and repelled.
Sinanju knew that nothing was still; everything was movement. Remo felt the movement of the car and breathed in air more stale because of the closed windows. He could feel the warm smoothness of the gray plastic wheel and then the slight indentations and pits where the plastic had dried uneven, although it looked smooth to the eye. Through his fingers, he sensed the mass of the wheel, the sticky plasticness of it, the strain of the materials and then the movement of the cosmos on that scale too small for the eye to see, just as the universe was too large to see. In an instant, it was one and then he guided just one atom in one molecule into another orbit by the most minute charge, a thought transmitted through a fingertip, and the steering wheel had a three-quarterinch gap in it where his fingers had touched.
To Smith, it looked as if Remo had reached over and made a section of the wheel disappear. It happened that quickly. He was sure Remo had broken it off somehow and hidden it somewhere. Magic.
"So I need a rest. So I'm not up to my level. Who's going to be a danger to me?" asked Remo. "Who is a problem? I can take whoever we need in my sleep. Where is the problem?"
"I guess for your continued health. Growth. I don't know. But I do know if we weren't desperate, I never would have gotten you back from your vacation."
"I had a vacation. I've been down at that island forever. It must be going on, my God, four days," Remo said.
"The President is going to be killed this afternoon at his news conference."