"But the judge set the bail exorbitantly high."
"Right, and who would suspect the minister of a half-assed church of putting up the money? That was just a little extra insurance to make sure nothing got back to him."
"He was pretty thorough, wasn't he, this minister?" Smith said.
"Not thorough enough," Remo said.
* * *
In a Mexico City hotel room, Rafael Cintron was waiting with his two colleagues, Antonio Jiminez and Pablo Santoro, for some Iranian diplomats to arrive for a conference.
"It is unfortunate what happened to Señor Moorcock in Detroit," he said to the other two, "but we are fortunate that the Iranians wish to seek another avenue in order to keep our, er, business flourishing. After all, they paid us quite a lot of money to carry their drugs during our trips to the United States and are willing to continue to do so."
"We are with you, Rafael," Jiminez said. "You have no need to convince us."
Cintron looked at the other man, Santoro, who nodded his agreement. "Excellent," he said. He had gotten used to the life-style he had been enjoying on the money the Iranians paid him and was very happy that he would not have to choose between his wife and his mistress but could continue to support both.
When the knock finally sounded at the door, he jumped up from his seat and said, "At last!" The others watched as he walked eagerly to the door and swung it open.
"Welcome, my friend—" Cintron started to say, but as the man in the doorway started to fall forward, Cintron was forced to leap out of the way. "What…" he said, and they all gaped at the fallen man, who was obviously dead.
"Watch out!" Jiminez shouted, and Cintron turned to see that there had been another man right behind the first, and now he was falling forward too. Cintron jumped out of the way in time to avoid the second man, then did a dance step to avoid being hit by a third.
"Dios mio," Cintron said, staring down at the three dead men. From what he could see, there wasn't a mark on any of them, but they were quite dead.
"How—" Santoro asked.
"I don't know."
"I do," a small, elderly Oriental said, stepping into the room through the open door.
All three men looked at him in disbelief.
"Who— who are you?" Cintron asked.
"I am a man who is concerned about the health of the youth of the United States."
"What?"
"These men were trying to destroy it," the Oriental gentleman went on, "and you men were helping them. You see the price they paid, so you can guess the price you must pay."
"You're mad," Cintron said.
"You killed them?" Jiminez asked, knowing that the question was ridiculous.
"Oh, yes," the Oriental said.
"That's preposterous," Cintron said. "How could you have—"
"Easily," the man said. "I am acting on behalf of the children of America and of the world. I am their instrument."
"He is loco," Santoro said.
"We must leave," Cintron said. "Something is very wrong."
"Si, we must leave," Jiminez agreed.
They gathered up their belongings and turned to leave but found the way blocked by the elderly Oriental, who looked frail enough to be knocked over by a stiff breeze— until you looked at his eyes.
His eyes were frightening.
"Let us pass."
"I will let you pass… on," the man said, and started toward them.
Cintron did not exactly see what the old Oriental did, but suddenly Jiminez slumped to the floor, just as dead as the three Iranians, and without a mark on him.
"What happened?" Cintron asked, looking at Santoro, but by that time Santoro had also slumped to the floor, dead. "This is insane," he said.
"Yes," Chiun said, before he killed Rafael Cintron, "that is just what the destruction of children is. Insane."
"So when do you expect Chiun back?" Smith asked.
"He won't be long," Remo said. "He's just making sure that the children of the world are safe. He's a very concerned citizen, you know."