"I will," Remo said evenly. "I promise."
Suddenly the bubbles breaking at Phong's mouth turned red. His breath wheezed out. His eyes closed. Remo let Phong's head drop to the hardwood stage and flipped him over onto his stomach. The raw meat that was his back was slick with blood. Near the bottom, over the small of his back, Remo saw the dark lines under the blood.
With his hand, Remo gently wiped the blood away. There were two lines, the name Dick Youngblood, and below that, in Latin, the legend "Semper Fi. "
"Dick. . . " Remo said slowly.
On the floor, Copra Inisfree lay spread-eagled. Shaking himself out of his daze, Remo went to her side. "I'm shot. I've been shot," Copra Inisfree said over and over. "Think of the ratings this must be getting."
"You're fine," Remo said.
"Look at my chest. The blood."
"It's not your blood. It's Phong's. Here, let me help you up."
Copra slapped his hand away. "Don't you touch me with those bloody hands of yours. This dress is a Holstein original. Hand me that microphone."
Frowning, Remo plucked up the mike and put it in her hand.
Copra brought the mike to her lips and, staring at the ceiling, said, "More after this commercial."
Then she dropped the microphone and started to cry. Remo shook his head in disgust and walked off the stage. The auditorium had been cleared. The cameramen sat calmly behind their cameras as if they were shooting an ant farm and not a human drama. The director picked himself off the floor, saw Copra Inisfree's bloated bulk lying inert, and said in an anguished voice, "Oh, my God, not the star!"
His hands protecting his face from the cameras, Remo slipped out a side exit, looking for Chiun. He found the Master of Sinanju in the lobby. Chiun was standing on a squirming Vietnamese man with a ratlike mustache. The man was shouting imprecations and Chiun quieted him with a tap of one sandaled foot. In his long-nailed hands Chiun held clusters of Vietnamese by their shirt collars.
"Once again," he said bitterly, "you have left me with the dirty job."
Remo lifted his blood-smeared hands wordlessly.
"I suppose there are worse chores than catching lice-infested Vietnamese," Chiun admitted, dropping his handfuls of captives.
"Which one is our guy?" Remo asked.
Chiun shrugged. "How should I know? All Vietnamese have faces like burnt biscuits. Who can tell biscuits apart?"
"I didn't see the killer's face, did you?"
"No. I followed him this far, but they all look alike from the back."
"He wore a blue shirt," said Remo, looking over the men Chiun had captured. Only one of them had a blue shirt.
"You," Remo said. "You're the guy."
"No!" the man protested. "I no shoot. Am American. Naturalized. "
Remo reached down and took the man's wrists, one in each hand. He squeezed and the man's fingers went limp. They were empty. Remo bent over and sniffed his palms.
"No gunpowder smell. Let's try the others." Remo checked the rest of them. Their hands didn't give off the telltale smell of burned gunpowder that would have irritated his supersensitive nostrils. Just to be certain, he patted them down. None were armed.
Chiun walked up and down the back of the Vietnamese under his feet.
"This one is not carrying any weapon either," he said.
"You let him get away," Remo said bitterly.
"I tried. Who would have expected so many Vietnamese in one place? Perhaps we should take the head of one of these wretches back to Smith. Who will know the difference?"
"We will," said Remo. "Come on. We have things to do."
"Oh?" asked the Master of Sinanju, stepping off his Vietnamese captive. He wiped his sandals on the plastic foot rug on his way out.
"What things?" asked Chiun curiously, noticing the purposeful set of Remo's face.
"I made a promise back there. And Smith is going to help me keep it."
Chapter 7
Remo paced his suite at the Park Central Hotel impatiently. He had washed the blood off his hands and changed his clothes. Instead of a white T-shirt and tan slacks, he now wore a black T-shirt and gray chinos.
"Where the hell is Smitty?" Remo asked for the twelfth time. "He said he'd call right back."
"Emperors live by their own sun," Chiun said absently. "It is an old Korean saying." The Master of Sinanju sat on his tatami mat, watching Remo with concern. He couldn't remember having seen his pupil so tense. He was acting almost like a typical nerve-frayed American instead of what he truly was, heir to the House of Sinanju, the finest assassins known to recorded history.
"Your breathing is wrong," Chiun pointed out.
"It's my breathing."
"You are wasting energy pacing the floor. You should exercise if you desire to work off stress."
"I'm not stressed. I'm impatient. I'm going to call Smitty again," Remo said suddenly, reaching for the phone.
He dialed the correct code on the first try, not even noticing that historical first. He slammed down the phone when he got a recorded message informing him that the number was not in service.
"Damn. He's not even in the office. I got what passes for his frigging busy signal."
Chiun, noticing where the sun sat in the sky, frowned. "Odd," he said. "The emperor always holds forth at Fortress Folcroft until much later than this. Perhaps he has succumbed to some minor malady."
"Not Smith. He's so bloodless, bacteria die in his mouth. "
"Hark!" said Chiun, cocking his head to the door.
"What?" Remo asked peevishly.
"If you would focus on your breathing and not on your strange concerns, you would recognize Emperor Smith's footsteps approaching our door."
"What?" Remo flew to the door. He threw it open. The shocked, lemony face of Dr. Harold W. Smith stared back at him. Smith wore a white coverall with the name "Fred" stitched into a red oval over his breast pocket. In his right hand he carried a small pressurized tank and nozzle device. His left clutched a shabby leather briefcase.
Smith's high forehead puckered under his thinning white hair. Though the door was open, he knocked loudly.
"What's this?" Remo wanted to know.
"Hotel exterminator," Smith said in a loud and obvious voice. "Open up, please."
"It is open," Remo told him.
"Shhh," Smith said. He rattled the doorknob, then said noisily, "Ah, sorry to disturb you, sir. May I come in? This will only take a moment."
Remo rolled his eyes and said, also in a too-loud voice, "Yeah, okay, Mr. Hotel Exterminator. You can come in." But he slammed the door after Smith so hard that Smith dropped his pressurized tank with a muffled thunk.
Smith stripped off the coverall to reveal a three-piece gray suit and mumbled, "Security," as he carried his briefcase over to a round table. He pulled the shades.
"Is this really necessary?" Remo demanded.
"Of course it is, Remo," Chiun inserted, rising in place. "Greetings, Emperor Smith. Your presence here fills us with joy."
"Some of us more than others," Remo said. "I've been losing weight waiting for your return call."
"I've been talking with the President," Smith explained. "Could you please hit the lights?"
Remo switched on the overhead lights. "I prefer sunshine," he added sourly.
"What we're about to discuss is highly classified and must not go beyond this room," Smith said. He retrieved the pressurized tank from the floor, turned a gasket, and toted it to the telephone.
"Oh, come off it," Remo shouted. "You're not actually going to spray for roaches too?"
"This is a debugging unit. It will ensure that our conversation is not eavesdropped upon."
"Fine," Remo said, sinking into the sofa and kicking off his Italian loafers. "While you're at it, sweep my shoes too. The clerk who sold them to me looked shifty."
Smith ignored the remark and finished his circuit of the room. He set down his equipment and joined Remo on the sofa, carefully hitching up his pant legs so the knees wouldn't bag.