Gene Jethro listened and watched the long fingernails as they made arrows in the air.
"In your Western ambush, you are very blunt. You arrange that weapons begin their assault at the same time. This you think is most effective. It is not, especially against one man who knows the bare rudiments of his craft. Rather a more subtle ambush is in order, two layers of surprises beyond the initial trap. Now, let us take a normal ambush, four sides or three it does not matter. Guns firing here. Guns firing there. And guns firing there. Impossible to escape, right?"
"I guess so, sir," said Jethro.
"No. Not in the least. With speed one can eliminate one point before the others really become effective. What I'm talking about are fractions of your seconds. But we are assuming our target is not as clumsy as you. So, he destroys a single point and then begins to work on the others or runs or whatever he wills. This sort of ambush works only against amateurs. So, but let us say that each point is an ambush. Let us create firing patterns around each individual firing pattern, and these patterns stay quiet until that point is attacked."
"It's like doubling the chances," said Jethro.
"No. It is increasing the effectiveness nine times. Now we're assuming he will attack the points if he has been trained correctly. Remember now, the secondary level does not fire at him originally—only when he attacks the primary level. Secondary must hold its fire. Now you set up a third level for the second level. And you increase your effectiveness, not by nine times, but nine to the ninth power. You use only twenty-seven men. Twenty-seven men for an infinitely large effectiveness than three times three times three."
"Yeah, but where are we gonna set this thing up? The Mojave desert?"
"Don't be absurd. A hotel is perfect. Perfect. With their rooms and hallways, perfect. The lobby of his hotel. Even you could figure out how that would work."
"I'm scared."
"There's this or, if you prefer, a puddle."
"You need me. You can't do what you do without me."
"And who were you when I found you? A shop steward. If I can make a shop steward into the Gene Jethro of today, I can do it with anyone. I have taught you to love as no Westerner can love. I have given you a gadget weapon designed for your incompetence that dissolves your worst opponents. I have made you Gene Jethro, and I can do the same for someone else. I do not need you. I use you. I am surprised you have not figured this out by now."
"But you said you just wanted to help me. You said you saw so much potential in me that it was a shame I was wasting it."
"A pretty little song for a foolish little head."
Gene Jethro sighed and stared at a hanging palm, then down at his hands.
"What if this older Oriental gentleman should decide to come here after us, if he's as good as you say."
"He has been here and left. We need have no worry about that gentleman. He is not a fool."
"Twenty-seven you say? In his hotel lobby?"
"Correct. Three protected by three, each protected by three."
"I better get going then."
"Call your people to you. I'm afraid you're not leaving here."
"But the convention. The 17th. This is our biggest day."
"It shall come to pass," said the man with the flat Oriental voice. "It shall come to pass. Who would have thought that I could build this structure in two months? Who would have thought I could raise you to a presidency in two months? It shall come to pass, for you see, my friend, it is written both in the stars and in my mind. Our little white adversary whom you fear will be dead before another sun sets. You will be the most powerful labour leader by another sunset. And I shall have what I want."
"What do you want?"
The flat Oriental face smiled. "One thing at a time. First the whiteling. Of course, he might escape."
Nuihc took joy in the sudden shock on the face of his whiteling.
"He could escape this ambush," said Nuihc.
"But…"
"If he knows the scarlet ribbon. But do not add unnecessary worries to your heart. No white man could ever comprehend the scarlet ribbon, any more than you."
Remo reached Jethro's headquarters hotel. Surprisingly, the entrance was easy. No reinforcements—the door hadn't even been repaired. Chris waited downstairs out of sight in the car parked a few blocks away.
The women climbed the flights of steps, driven by anger and rage, panting, stumbling, pressing forward, mumbling, "Wait'll1 get him."
They paused on the eighteenth floor. The door was still open at the hinges. Remo opened it wider for the women. They pushed through, panting. When the guard saw Remo, he hurriedly pressed the elevator button. Jumping up and down in fear, he looked nervously at the indicator dial and then back at Remo and the women. The door opened and Remo could see him lunge for the close button. He let him go. The quartet stormed to the far door.
"It's open," said Remo. "There was some trouble with the lock breaking. They just don't make things the way they used to." Snores could be heard from inside.
"That's him," said Mrs. Loffer. 'I know that snore," Remo eased the door open. The other women watched. One whispered:
"Cut out his heart."
Remo followed. Mrs. Loffer stared at the bed, illuminated by a small night light, a middle-aged man with a redhead snuggled in his arms.
"She's a perfect size ten," sobbed Mrs, Loffer, her voice cracking. "A perfect size ten."
She tiptoed to the bed. Remo could smell the nausea of stale champagne. Mrs. Loffer leaned down, close to her husband's ear.
"Joey. Honey. I heard a noise downstairs."
Still snoring. The redhead turned over, her mouth wide open in a grinding rasp of a nasal symphony.
Mrs. Loffer nudged her husband's hairy shoulder.
"Joey. Honey. It's time for coffee. Go downstairs and get the coffee, honey. Gotta make the coffee."
Snores. The redhead size ten opened her eyes, saw Remo, saw the woman, and started to scream. Remo had his hand over her mouth before the sound could begin.
Joseph Loffer, leader of the best-paid workers in the world, pilots whose average salary topped $30,000 a year, awoke, presumably to go downstairs to start the coffee.
He opened his eyes, kissed his wife, and suddenly became totally awake when he saw that his wife was dressed, and that a man was holding the mouth of his nude paramour. He was about to launch a desperate explanation when Mrs. Loffer clobbered him. The blow took off from the floor and ended in his testicles. As he doubled over, Mrs. Loffer caught him with a knee in the face, then an open hand slap to the cheek, then fingernails to the eyes. He tumbled back on the bed, Mrs. Loffer on top.
It was not a bad attack at all and Remo wondered at the capacity of some people, whether by instinct or through rage, to execute an almost perfect interior line attack. Of course, there were no fatal blows, but still Mrs. Loffer kept up the unrelenting pressure along the center of her body and Joey's, She sustained well, she executed rather well, and all in all, Remo had to admit she was doing a fine job.
"See if you can get the elbows into it. Very nice, Mrs. Loffer. Very nice. Let me say, for someone without training, superb. That's it, keep up the pressure, very nice. No, no roundhouse blows. You've got a nice interior-line attack going there, and I wouldn't spoil it now," said Remo.
Mrs. Loffer, tired, rolled off her husband, who lay stunned and bleeding slightly. She sat on the edge of the bed, lowered her head into her hands, and sobbed hysterically. Her husband managed to raise himself on his elbows and then, with a mighty effort, pushed himself to sitting position.
"I'm sorry." he said. "I'm sorry."
"You bastard," said Mrs. Loffer. "You bastard. Get packed. We're going."