But there was no time. As soon as they got out of San Gauta this man lost no time in getting a passage to Hanoi. Kathy was sure he worked for some government, probably her own. He was, after all, very American although he had some strange eating habits.
In a large South American city outside San Gauta, he had made a single phone call. And within an hour, a rather prosperous-looking woman in the back of a chauffeur-driven limousine pulled up to the phone he was using in a little kiosk outside a large store.
"Are you looking for Valdez Street?" the woman had asked.
"Just a moment," Remo had said. And then he had whispered to Kathy, "Do you remember those words I asked you not to forget?"
"Yes," Kathy had answered.
"What were they?"
"I am looking for the large groceryman."
"The large groceryman?" said Remo.
"Yes," said Kathy.
Remo winked. "I hate this code pippyding."
"A supermarket," he said loudly to the woman.
The woman tapped her driver on the shoulder, indicating that he should leave.
"He's looking for a large groceryman," yelled Kathy.
"Right," said Remo.
The woman stopped her chauffeur and handed Remo a small briefcase. Then she drove off. The briefcase had a simple clasp lock. Remo fumbled with it for a moment and then simply broke it off. Kathy noticed he only would have had to slip a bar free.
Inside were two wallets with passports and a plastic camera. The passports had names but no pictures. There was also a metal device to make impressions, much like a corporate seal.
Kathy recognized the camera. It had a picture of two smiling children on it, with the sun shining brightly behind them. It was called "Insta-Tot," the first instant camera a four-year-old could use. The directions were in pictures and the words were addressed to parents. They said what a thrill a child would get mastering this absolutely simple device. It was so easy to use that words were not even needed. Just follow the pictures. It suggested that the parents let their children figure it out themselves if they had already had preschool experience.
"I don't know where the film goes," said Remo. "Why do they make things like this? Where does the film go?"
"In the bunny's mouth," said Kathy. She pointed to the side of the camera where a smiling bunny's teeth surrounded a square opening. Then she pointed to the film. The film was an oblong square just the shape of the hole. On one end of it was a picture of a bright orange carrot. "The carrot goes into the bunny's mouth," said Kathy.
"Why didn't they say so?" said Remo.
Kathy pointed to the picture on the Insta-Tot package. There was a click.
"You just photographed your foot," said Kathy.
"Why don't they tell you these things?" said Remo.
"I presume these pictures are for our passports."
"Yeah. This will get us both into Hanoi."
Kathy O'Donnell pointed the smiling Insta-Tot sun toward the real sun. Then she put the big blue eye on the camera to her eye. Then she pressed the bunny's nose.
The picture came out in a minute, only somewhat blurred, good enough for a passport.
"You have talent," said Remo. Then she put the camera in his hands, put his fingers on the bunny's nose, pointed the camera at her face, stepped back, and told him to snap. On the third frame he got her picture.
He crumpled the camera in his hands and gave her the metal seal. She imprinted both pictures into the passport with the seal. Someone had gotten Remo the seal of the United States of America in the course of an hour. He had been instructed to destroy it. He did so quickly with his hands, as though polishing it. He made the seal into a solid block of metal which he threw with a clank to the street.
"How did you do that?"
Even more amazing was his answer. In terms of force and essence, the mystical concepts he explained, came very close to intricate atomic theory.
On one hand, he could do things with his body that were awesome. On the other, he rattled off metaphysical explanations like nursery rhymes. Yet, he couldn't get through the directions for a four-year-old.
She asked him about this.
"I have some difficulty with mechanical things," Remo admitted. "But when they unnecessarily confuse you with directions, then things become impossible."
"What is confusing about pressing the bunny's nose?"
"Well, you see, you're scientific. You understand things like that," said Remo.
"I also understood the carrot in the bunny's mouth," said Kathy.
"Okay, you can be smartass about it, but you were employed for the project in Malder. and you do know what we are looking for. You would recognize it if we found it."
"I think I would," said Kathy. She was not sure how they would be able to get out of that Communist capital, but just watching the power of this magnificent man would satisfy her forever, even if she were held in some prison camp. If worse ever came to worst and she was captured, she could trade off what she knew for her safety. Besides, men were men. She would work out something if she had to.
But she did not think she would have to. She would more than likely see a trail of shattered bodies, each one a glorious thrill to her entire nervous system.
She hoped there might even be a problem getting into the group on its way to Hanoi and that he would have to kill to get them out. Just a little killing to make the day bright, to make her feel womanly again.
But the covers were perfect and unchallenged. They were part of the International Media Committee for Truth in Southeast Asia, Their first names were correct, which told Kathy that Remo had informed his superior about her already. It also told her that Remo had to have the highest priority possible with an agency that could get things done quickly.
She thought about these things in the dim light of the Swiss airliner, totally satisfied by the miraculous hands of this wonderful man called Remo. Actually, Reemer seemed like most men to Kathy. But Remo was unlike all the rest.
"I've never met a man like you," she said. "You're so different from other men."
"No, I am not."
"Who are you like?"
"Someone else. Except he doesn't seem to function in the modern world. I don't know. Don't bring up that subject."
"Is he your father?" asked Kathy.
"Sort of."
"I'd like to meet him."
"Go to sleep," said Remo.
Before landing in Hanoi, the International Media Committee for Truth in Southeast Asia had discussed the main draft of their conclusion to their investigation of the truth. It declared that Hanoi had been maligned, that its living standards and freedom should be copied by the rest of the world. It blamed the American media for distortion.
The man reading the communique was an actor. He knew the news business as few did. He had played a newspaperman on Broadway and on television.
"We just want to see the truth come out," he said.
"What about the hundreds of thousands of people who are willing to die to get out of Vietnam now that it's liberated?" said Remo. There was no purpose in mentioning this. He wasn't going to change anything. It was just that these peopie were so sure that their intelligence was superior to the average American's. It had been grating to hear them discuss how provincial the Americans were, how distorted the American news was.
"They're not Vietnamese. They're Chinese," said the spokesman, his craggy face had appeared on many TV commercials announcing his willingness to work for the betterment of mankind.
"So?" said Remo.
"Well, they weren't Vietnamese who were fleeing, but families who had once come from China," said the spokesman for the truth committee.