The sun was at 12 o'clock high when two Indian men wearing pink robes, a pudgy fat Indian woman in a pink robe and a veil wrapped tightly around her head, and a thin young American man arrived at the back gate of Kezar Stadium.
They showed some identification to a uniformed guard, who quickly waved them through the turnstile and pointed them to a ramp thirty feet away.
The foursome went up the ramp, then down stone stairs into the playing surface of Kezar Stadium. They carefully checked the bandstand platform, which had been erected in the center of the stadium, poking around under it. Then, apparently satisfied, they walked across the field and up another ramp that led to locker rooms and a suite of offices.
They passed through a door that read "Absolutely No Admittance" and into a suite of offices. Inside, the pudgy young Indian woman said, "Shit, this is hot," and began to strip off her robe.
When the robe was off, the woman was a woman no longer. Wearing the disguise had been Maharaji Gupta Mahesh Dor, and now he was resplendent in a white satin suit with pants that were gathered and pufied out from hip to knee, then wrapped tightly about his calves, and a Nehru jacket with a jeweled collar.
He shook himself, as if trying to detach himself from his sticky hotness.
"Hey, you, what's your name?" he shouted to one of the middle-aged Indian men who bore silver stripes down their foreheads. "Go outside and see if you can find that television shmuck. He's supposed to meet us here at twelve."
He turned to go into an inner office. The young American followed. At the doorway, Dor said over his shoulder: "And you, Ferdinand, keep your eyes open for those troublemakers. I don't want to have to leave here in disguise too."
Ferdinand De Chef Hunt smiled. His teeth shone pearly white, as white as the two perfectly round white stones he manipulated in the fingers of his right hand, the two stones, one of which he knew would be blood red before the evening was over.
The inner office was a small, remorselessly air-conditioned room, with only overhead lighting and no windows.
"This'll do," said Dor, plopping himself into a chair behind the large wooden desk.
"I have found him, O Blissful One," came an Indian voice from the door. Dor looked up and saw the Indian man leading in a tweedy young man with bushy red hair and glasses.
"Good, now everybody split. I want to talk to this guy for a while. About tonight."
"Tonight will be a night of beauty, Blissful Master," said the Indian.
"Yeah, sure. Tell me again about the cume potential," he said to the television man. "What can we grab on just one network, live, catching both coasts?"
"We will catch the spirit of all those who seek after truth," the Indian man spoke again.
"Will you get the hell out of here with your drivel? I've got business to talk about. Well?" he said again to the television man.
"Actually, we envision that your program slot will fit neatly into the gap between…"
Hunt smiled again and followed the Indian out of the room, closing the door behind him. Television merchandising did not interest him. Only killing did.
Although the program was not to begin until 8 p.m., the crowd began arriving at 5 o'clock. They were mostly young, mostly hairy, mostly intense, although there were more than a few who smuggled in their own secular bliss devices in paper bags in hip pockets, or in tightly rolled joints stashed into the corners of regular cigarette packs.
Another early arrival carried a bag, but it did not contain bliss. Elton Snowy walked through the entry turnstile and up the steps into the stadium, then downstairs to get as close as possible to the bandstand. In his right arm he carried a large bag, the top of which showed a pile of pieces of fried chicken. Under the chicken was a plastic bag filled with gunpowder, steel filings, and the highly explosive heads of railroad detonating caps.
Snowy moved down the steps toward the first row of seats. Against his left leg he felt the uncomfortable thumping of the .38 caliber pistol he had taped to his leg. He didn't know if a pistol shot would detonate his homemade bomb, but he was going to try it. Unless he found Joleen first. He squeezed his bag grimly, as if resisting an invisible attempt to remove it from him.
Remo, Chiun, and Joleen were late arrivals, it being well after dusk when they entered Kezar Stadium.
Chiun's luggage from San Diego had finally arrived at the San Francisco hotel suite Remo had rented, and Chiun had insisted upon watching his beautiful dramas, which is what he called afternoon television soap operas. He would not hear of leaving before they were over, unless, of course, Remo wanted to take him again to Disneyland and the fun ride in the Flying Bucket.
Since that was the thing Remo wanted to do least in the world, they waited, and it was only after the last TV serial was over that Chiun rose from the floor, his red robe swirling about him, and said: "We will never get to Sinanju by waiting here."
Inside the stadium, they found a madhouse. The crowd was small in comparison to the size of the stadium, only 15,000 people. The Divine Bliss followers sat close in, in the box seats and the infield folding chairs, distinguishable instantly by their pink robes and the look of the zealot in their eyes. But that was only half the crowd. The other half consisted of curiosity seekers, troublemakers, motorcycle gangs, and they roamed the higher reaches of the stadium, mugging the unwary, fighting with each other, and slowly, systematically destroying stadium equipment.
And over all this confusion rose the raucous voices of a singing group, six men and a girl, who were souling their way through old down-home gospel classics, whose lyrics had been revised to substitute Master or Blissful Master for Jesus.
At least one of the parties was delighted. Maharaji Gupta Mahesh Dor sat in the small office with the television representative, snapping his fingers and saying over and over, "Cool. Cool. That's the way we do it. Cool."
"It reminds me somewhat of Billy Graham," said the earnest young TV man, watching the closed circuit screen that flickered ghostly green in the darkened office.
"Don't knock Billy Graham," said the maharaji. "He's got a nice set. The man's beautiful."
Dor glanced at his watch. "The speakers'll start soon. They're cued for forty-five minutes. Then we start the broadcast, it picks up with my being introduced by one of those nigger Baptists, and then I go on and do my number."
"That's it. That's the schedule," said the TV man.
"Beautiful," said Dor. "You can split now. Go make sure your cameramen take their lens caps off or whatever it is you people do."
Remo left Chiun and Joleen in the playing field section of the stadium to which Chiun's red robes and Joleen's pink sari won them easy admittance. The first speaker was on, a Baptist minister explaining how he had given up false Christianity for the service of a greater good, the work of the Blissful Master. It would have taken very sharp eyes to notice, as the minister waved his arms above his head, that his wrists were faintly scarred.
"That man has been shackled," said Chiun to Joleen.
"He was in Patna," Joleen said, noncommittally.
"Your master is an evil person," said Chiun.
Joleen looked at Chiun and smiled softly. "But he is my master no more. I have a new master." Tenderly she squeezed Chiun's hand, which he flickingly removed from hers.
Meanwhile, Remo made a wrong turn and found himself on the wrong side of the stadium, trying to wend his way along corridors, which generally became boarded over and closed. But all stadiums are alike, and there are always rooms and offices through which one can piece his way to get past roadblocks.
Remo paused in one office to stop a rape, and because he did not have a lot of time, he prevented the rape in the simplest way possible, by rendering the offending instrument harmless.
Then he was back into the corridors, darting into and through offices, and finally he was on the far side of the stadium, trotting along a corridor that led to a ramp that led to the bandstand.
He turned the corner. Ahead of him he saw a door marked "Absolutel
y No Admittance" and two burly men in pink robes standing in front of it with arms folded.
Remo approached the men.
"Hi, fellas," he said. "Nice day, wasn't it?"
They did not speak.
"A perfect day," said Remo. "For bananafish."
They remained silent, not deigning to look at him.
"All right, boys, move aside," said Remo. "I've got to talk to the swami."
A sharp voice came from behind Remo. "First me," and Remo turned and saw the young American from the carnival.
"Oh, yeah, you," Remo said. "Did you bring your plates?"
"I won't need them," said Ferdinand De Chef Hunt, moving a few steps closer, until only fifteen feet separated him and Remo.
Inside the closed door, Maharaji Dor checked his watch again, looked at the monitor, and saw the network symbol flash on. Time to go. At these rates, he couldn't afford to waste any time.
He stuck his head through the door into the next office, where Winthrop Dalton and V. Rodefer Harrow III sat with Cletis Larribee.
"Everything ready here?" he said.
"Yes, Blissful Master," said Dalton.
Larribee nodded.
"Okay. I'm going out now. You be in the wings in ten minutes."
Dor went back into the office, closed the door, and went through the other door onto a private ramp that led up into a dugout in the infield.
Hunt took the two small stones from his pocket as he faced Remo.
"Plates. Now stones," said Remo. "When do you graduate to pies?"
Hunt only smiled. He positioned the two stones carefully on his palm and fingertips. It was as his grandfather had shown him. The old man had described it to young Ferdinand in terms of animals, but now Hunt knew the old man was talking about people.
"There are some animals that are different from others," the old man had told him. "They're stronger. They're faster. Sometimes they're smarter."
"And how do you bring them down?" the young boy had asked.
"You do it by using their own powers against them." The old man had stood up and gestured toward the woods. "Did you see him?"
"Who?" asked the boy.
"There's a wild boar out there. Tough, fast, mean and smart. He knows we're here, and he's just waiting for us to move on so he can move on."
"So what do you do, grandpa?"
The old man picked up a rifle, then looked around the porch until he found a small stone.
"Watch," he said.
He tossed the stone high into the air, far to the left of the spot where he had seen the boar. The stone came down, easily onto a patch of grass, but the boar's supersensitive hearing picked up the sound, and the animal bolted, to the right, away from the sound of the stone. His flight took him past a slim break in the trees, and as his body passed the opening, Grandpa De Chef put a bullet in the beast's head.
"That's how, Ferdie," the old man said. "You make the target commit itself to an empty threat. And then when it's committed, you make the kill." He smiled down at the boy. "Maybe you don't understand it now, but someday you will. No matter what your momma says."
"Come on, pal, I don't have all night." Remo's voice brought Hunt back to where he was.
Without hesitating, without analysis, he brought his right arm back and then fired it forward at Remo. The stone on his fingertips leaped from his hand first, moving toward Remo but two inches to the left of Remo's head.
The second stone, propelled from the palm of Hunt's hand, was only a foot behind, aimed toward Remo's right, so when he ducked away from the first stone, the second would catch him squarely between the eyes.
Hunt smiled, and then the smile changed to astonishment, and then fear.
There was a thud ahead of him and a scream. The first stone had passed Remo's head and buried itself into the forehead of one of the pink-robed guards who stood behind Remo. The man screamed and crumpled.
Remo had not moved a fraction of an inch, and the second stone moved toward the right side of his head, outside the intended target line, and then Remo flicked up his right hand and caught the stone in the air between thumb and forefinger.
Remo looked at the stone, then back at Hunt.
"Sorry, pal. I told you, you should've stuck to plates."
Hunt backed away. "You're going to kill me, aren't you?"
"That's the biz, sweetheart."
Hunt turned and ran down the ramp, toward the brightly lit stadium, and Remo took a few steps after him, then saw up ahead of him the television cameras grinding away.
He stopped. He could not chance being seen on television. Hunt now was in the infield, running toward the bandstand. He glanced once back over his shoulder as he ran.
At that moment, Maharaji Gupta Mahesh Dor stood inside the dugout, shielded from view by a cordon of pink-robed men.
Remo waited, and Hunt turned again. This time, Remo let fly the stone in his right hand. Hunt saw it coming at him, threw up his right hand to block it, and the stone smashed into his hand, cracking the fingers with the force of a hammer, and driving the stone and flesh and finger-bone into Hunt's forehead.
Hunt fell. Two persons who saw him fall screamed, but suddenly their screams were overwhelmed by the roar of the faithful, as the maharaji stepped from the dugout and trotted lightly across the field toward the bandstand.
"Blissful Master. Blissful Master." The stadium resounded with the screams. Hunt's already dead body lay partially under the back of the bandstand, and the two persons who had seen him fall convinced themselves they were mistaken and joined the chanting for Dor.
Remo turned back to the door. The pink-robed guard knelt over his companion who had been felled by Hunt's first rock. Remo moved past him and into the room beyond.
Winthrop Dalton, V. Rodefer Harrow III, and Cletis Larribee looked up.
"Say, fella, what are you doing here?" asked Dalton.
"Which one of you is expendable?" Remo asked.
"He is," said Dalton, pointing to Harrow.
"He is," said Harrow, pointing to Dalton.
"I pick you," said Remo to Harrow, crushing his skull into his jowls.
"Hey, fella," said Dalton, looking at Harrow's collapsing body. "No need to work your hostility out on us."
"Where is he?"
"Who?"
"The swami."
Dalton pointed to a closed-circuit television set on the wall. It showed Maharaji Gupta Mahesh Dor acknowledge the applause, and step forward to a microphone.
"He's out there," said Dalton. "And we have to go now, so if you'll just get out of our way."
"Who are you?" said Remo to Cletis Larribee. "How come you don't say anything?"
"He'll have plenty to say in just a few minutes," said Dalton. "And if you must know, he is the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency."
"What's in the suitcase, pal?" Remo asked Larribee.
"Watch the television," said Dalton huffily. "You'll see it all on there in a few minutes. Come, Cletis, time to go."
Dalton took a step toward the door and then took no more steps as his Adam's apple found itself inextricably entwined with his spinal column. He fell to the floor on top of Harrow.
"You're the big thing that they've been talking about, aren't you?" said Remo.
Larribee, too terrified to speak, could only nod.
"But you're not going to say anything tonight, are you?" said Remo.
Larribee shook his head rapidly from side to side. His voice came back. "Don't worry, pal. I'm not going to say anything."
"Look around you," said Remo, gesturing toward the two bodies. "And don't forget. I'll be watching you."
Larribee nodded. "I won't forget. I won't forget."
"And I'll take the briefcase," said Remo.
"Those are state secrets in there," said Larribee.
"You can have them back as soon as you're done."
On the bandstand before national television, Maharaji Dor was finished detailing the support for his simple mes
sage of bliss and happiness that he had gained all over the world, and even from one of America's heartland religions, the Baptists.
"But even more encouraging, even more proof that mine is the way, even a greater display of the power of the truth, is the next man I will introduce to you. A man who knows the secrets of government will tell you about that. Will tell you the truth about your government, and then he will speak about divine truth."
He turned and saw Larribee coming up the steps of the bandstand.
"Ladies and gentlemen, listen now to this message from the deputy director of your country's Central Intelligence Agency. My friend and follower, Cletis… uh… Cletis is how I know him."
He waved his arm toward Larribee in a gesture of greeting. There were a few boos, a few small smatterings of applause. Mostly the audience sat stunned.
Larribee, looking neither left nor right, brushed by Maharaji Dor and took the microphone. He gazed out over the crowd. He saw the thousands of faces. He realized millions more were watching on coast-to-coast live television.
He put down the microphone, then remembered Remo's hard eyes, and raised it to his face again. He opened his mouth and, softly, began to croak:
"What a friend we have in Jesus.
"All our sins and grief to bear."
As he moved along the old gospel song, his voice grew stronger. He closed his eyes to imagine himself back in the choir loft of the Monumental Baptist Church at Willows Landing.
"What a privilege to carry,
"Everything to God in prayer."
Maharaji Dor jumped forward and ripped the microphone from Larribee's hand.
"And now you know," he screamed into it. "You can't trust the CIA." He threw the microphone to the wooden floor of the bandstand. The loud crack resounded through the stadium.
"I'm going home," Dor shouted. "I'm going back to Patna." He stamped his foot like an angry child. "You hear me? I'm going back."
"Go back, you bum," came a shout from the audience.
"Yeah, go back, you bum. Who needs you?"
The stadium became a crescendo of booing, as Remo moved up to where Chiun and Joleen stood.
At the same moment, Elton Snowy, who had carefully worked his way through the infield carrying his bogus bag of chicken, came around the platform. He saw his daughter.
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