"Move, Tracy, or you are dead," said Bannon, whose gaze became vacant again as he hummed. What was that song? Remo could not make it out.
Bannon blinked. He focused. He brought his right hand flush to his hips, so the pistol could not be knocked away. A snub-nosed gun was perfect for this.
He pointed the little cannon, with the poised slug capable of making a grapefruit-sized gouge in flesh, at Tracy's stomach. Perspiration formed on Tracy's forehead. Remo saw him swallow.
Bannon was a quick one step and a simple stroke away. Remo could take the gun away whenever he wanted. But then Tracy began to move toward Chiun and Remo faced a new target line.
He tried. "Don't move," said Remo. "Don't go near that old man now. Don't go near him."
"Mister," said Agent Tracy. "There's a .38 being pointed at my stomach now and I can feel the slug in me already, so with your kind permission or without it, I am going to quiet this little old man."
"I've seen men survive bullet wounds," Remo said.
He could say no more before Tracy, in his nervousness, grabbed the wisp of white hair on Chiun's balding yellow head.
Tracy did this with his left hand as he kept his eye on Bannon, still believing the pistol was the major threat against his life. Probably, he did not feel his wrist snap. First the wrist, and Tracy's body was going down into the floor as the golden-robed old man used its mass to rise on. Remo didn't even see the skull blow that killed Agent Tracy who had placed unreal fear in the efficacy of guns and paid the ultimate price for his miscalculation. The body bumped on the rug, dead before grounding.
Bannon was in pre-shoot, that just-about-a-second length of time between the recognition of danger and shooting. He did not have that just-about-a-second. A frail foot went through his right eye into his brain, which never got off its signal to squeeze the trigger.
Remo could see the foot because of the golden flowing robes floating violently around it. Winarsky moved a hand to his holster on his hip, a compendium of bad habits, exposing his heart, his chest, his throat, his head, as if he were posing to be killed. Winarsky undoubtedly thought reaching for a pistol like that was a good move. Maybe his best move. Remo would remember that white shirt, big and open and incredibly vulnerable. He would remember all motion stilled… the white open shirt… the hand moved away from any blocking action… the hand on the hip.
And the golden robes as Chiun seemed hung in the air, a red spot on the rug behind him where his big toe, having punctured an eye-socket, had touched the gray carpet after killing Bannon, and Chiun seemed poised in mid-air forever as if unable to decide in what spot he should kill Winarsky.
He narrowed the choices to one, and then it was over. Chiun had taken him with an off-angle right hand stroke just over the right temple above Winarsky's gun hand. Confronted with so many obvious targets and moves, he had taken an obscure angular attack.
Winarsky stood in his official FBI crouch, the one all agents are taught when they are taught how to draw their revolvers from their hips. He stood that way while a red splotch formed just above his right ear. He stood that way while he was dead.
When Agent Winarsky hit the floor, the Master of Sinanju was back at the problems of Middle America, being discussed by Middle America ad infinitum. Chiun, as he had often said, respected America's true art form.
Remo was left with two dead men on the floor and one in a chair.
He and Chiun might have to move rapidly. Then again, knowing how organizations worked, they might not have to move that fast at all.
Remo dialled FBI headquarters and asked for Supervisor Bannon, giving the name of a supervisor in Newark, N.J. Bannon was out to lunch, his secretary-said.
"What about Agents Winarsky and Tracy?"
"Out to lunch with him."
"Do you know where I can reach him? It's urgent."
"Yes, the Plymouth Luncheonette. That's where he said he was going,"
"Thank you," said Remo. So much for the trace from FBI headquarters. Remo dialled the desk clerk.
"Anyone been looking for me in the lobby? I'm expecting people."
"No," said the clerk.
So much for the FBI identifying themselves to the hotel clerk. Obviously Bannon had been doing his own number outside regular channels. And he had done it without leaving a trace.
Remo moved the bodies to the bathtub, then dressed quickly in slacks, sports shirt and soft Italian shoes. He wanted to look casual to attract less attention where he was going.
Just before he left, he said to the straight golden-robed body with the whisps of hair flowing downs
"Don't let anyone in, Chiun."
"Shhh," said the Master of Sinanju, who did not like beauty to be interrupted.
"You know, Chiun," yelled Remo. "If you weren't so magnificent, you'd be a shit." Then he slammed the door. Chiun never cleaned up his own bodies.
Never.
The gardening supply store assured the handsome young homeowner that even though his leaves were soggy, the Super Garb was not about to leak. It was tested, the owner assured the man who moved so smoothly, so it could hold—without tearing—250 pounds.
"Give me three," said Remo.
The young homeowner moved so smoothly, did he ever participate in ballet?
"Wrap the Super Garbs," Remo said.
"Oh," said the owner, who frittered away to impose his will on a clerk who was overworked, over-abused and heterosexual.
That afternoon, Remo learned that the Duralite extra-large suitcase was made of stanislucent poly-chromide.
"Thanks, give me three," said Remo to the clerk in the luggage shop.
"It also has the scratchproof, virtually scratchproof, exide exterior, with, and this is a prime feature, the new low-line snap buckle."
"Three," Remo said.
"It is guaranteed," said the clerk, "for eight years. That's an eight-year guarantee."
"Give me three before I grind you into a puppy biscuit remnant," Remo said, smiling.
"What did you say?" said the clerk who restrained himself from pounding the customer through the door because he knew he had a sale. Besides, if he had another incident at this store, then he would never again be able to get a job as a salesman.
"Three, please," said Remo. "Deliver them immediately," and he gave his room number at the hotel.
"Immediately," he said, "Or I won't pay for them."
"You have a half hour," he added smiling.
When the customer had left, the salesman said: "I hope I see him again. Preferably in a dark bar."
Did the gentleman want the valises insured? "Of course," said Remo. "These valises hold very valuable possessions. Priceless. Insure them for $2 each."
"Jewellery and things?"
"No. Manuscripts. Priceless to me."
"Oh, very nice. We will have our man pick them up in an hour in your hotel suite.
"Here," said Remo to the men picking up the three valises. "Here's a tenner for you and your partner. They're kind of heavy, so be careful with them. And don't disturb the little fellow watching television.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Remo had to take Chiun with him.
That was the first problem. Chiun had done it again, or rather, as Chiun explained it, he was minding his own business when it was done to him. Chiun, if you took literally what he said, was always minding his own business. Then he was abused, then a little something happened and that was it.
"I would not expect it all to be understood by a man given to dilly-dallying as you did with those imbeciles before," Chiun said.
"Now let's go over this again," said Remo, packing his one valise with two throws of underwear and a neat folding of one extra suit, then moving on to Chiun's wardrobe.
"You were sitting peacefully in the downstairs restaurant, correct?"
"Correct."
Chiun motioned with one long finger that he wanted the white kimono folded outside in and the blue one folded inside out. Remo could have let Chiun pack his own lu
ggage but they would not be out of the hotel for at least another day.
"And this person at the table next to you was talking about the Third World?"
"Correct."
"And you did not intrude yourself on their conversation?"
"Correct."
"Then what happened?"
"I will not be questioned like a child. The green robe is on top." Remo put the green robe on the bed for last.
"I've got to know for my report to Smith," Remo said,
"Of course. I had forgotten that I am dealing with a person who spies on me. I had forgotten that all I have taught you means ought. I had forgotten that truths that save your life are forgotten because you know them now and I, after all, do not rank in your wonderful organization. I do not even know the purpose of your organization. That is how little I am valued. I am just a poor teacher of the martial arts, a lowly, lowly servant. Put the sandals in a bag."
"May I remind you, little father, that it was you who told Smith I could function when I'm not at peak? I never risked your life," Remo said.
"If it makes you feel better to bring up old wounds, then indulge yourself. I am just a poor servant."
"Dammit, Chum," said Remo, stuffing the first of eight pairs of sandals into the first of eight plastic bags, "When one of the most famous heavyweight contenders gets knocked on his ass by an eighty-year-old man, we have some explaining to do."
"No one saw it," Chiun said.
They saw Ali Baba whatever-his-name-is go on his ass. They saw that."
They did not see my hand, nor did the young gentleman, whom I might add would probably make a much finer pupil than you. I could tell in his eyes. His basic balance was better. But Dr. Smith did not bring me a fine specimen like that to train. No, he brought me flotsam from the sewers of America, smelling of beef-eating and alcohol-drinking, his mind in constant haze, his balance never evoked, and from that nothing, I made a master. A true master." Then Chiun caught himself, and added quickly, "at least by American standards."
"All right. How did it happen?"
"I was concerned only with my own affairs when he cast unwarranted aspersions upon me. I ignored the insult because I wished no undue disturbance. I know your squeamishness and unwarranted fears."
"Then what happened?"
"I was insulted again."
"What did he say?"
"I do not wish to open old wounds."
"That was an hour and a half ago, Chiun, and the poor bastard is in the hospital. Not that long ago, Chiun. Now what happened?"
Chiun stared from the window in regal silence.
"Your taping machines are not indestructible, little father," Remo said, "and I know you wouldn't lay out your own money to buy replacements."
"I have created a monster," sighed Chiun. "so be it. This is my punishment for trusting too much. I shall bear it. He cast aspersions on my mother. But I said nothing at first until he attacked me."
"What did he say about… hold it, I know. He said you were all Third World brothers, right?"
Chiun nodded.
"And when he said this he put his arm around you in a sign of friendship, right? And it was then that you cracked his wrist. Right?"
"I did not kill him, because I know your fear of notoriety. But there are no thanks for that. There are no thanks for his believing that he just cracked his wrist against a chair. There are no thanks for my deep concern for you and your organization to whom I have shown infinite loyalty. No. There are only monstrous threats against my most valued personal property."
"Yeah, well," said Remo, folding the green kimono on top of the other clothes in the huge suitcase, then snapping shut the lid, "you're coming with me. I wouldn't leave you alone here."
Remo would have sent Chiun back to Folcroft, but Folcroft was compromised by now. That was his first problem. His second was wondering how Chiun would act when they got to Human Awareness Laboratories.
He could not ask. Chiun had never taken kindly to prying into his life, let alone his emotions.
The receptionist counsellor at the Human Awareness Laboratories assured Mr. Remo Donaldson and his physical education instructor that there was a very substantial reason why the two men could not register. HAL was booked for the next three years. Solid. But if Mr. Donaldson wanted to meet her after working hours and discuss possible enrolment in other similar awareness institutes, she would be happy to discuss it with him.
"More than happy, Mr. Donaldson." She was just shy of twenty and her thin white blouse barely disguised her hardening breasts. She ran her tongue over her clean young lips, letting her eyes drop below Remo's belt.
Remo leaned forward, where he could smell her subtle perfume. Her sleek brown hair hanging down to the nape of her neck brushed gently against Remo's lips at her ears, as he whispered very low in a voice that caressed her skin: "Look. You can register me. C'mon."
Simple words, slow and deep. Remo watched her face flush and felt her longing.
"I wish I could," she said weakly. "But Dr. Forrester registers all new participants. Oh, I wish, I wish I could."
"Get me Dr. Forrester. I'll speak to him."
"Her."
"Fine."
"If you see her, you won't want me."
"I'll always want you."
"Really?"
"No," said Remo and he leaned back and smiled at the vibrant young morsel.
"You're a bastard. A male chauvinist pig," she said.
"Yeah," said Remo. "A male chauvinist pig who's going to drive you up a wall."
"I'll phone but it won't do any good.'"
"Phone," said Remo, glancing around the spacious office. Everything about Human Awareness Laboratories was spacious, designed to be spacious, from the large plants in waist-high pots, to the roaringly large windows that opened the eyes to the sky and the earth and the trees in between. The young woman, her face still flushed with the excitement of the closeness of Remo, dialled the flat white phone at her glass-topped desk.
Remo strolled back to Chiun.
Chiun was absorbing the atmosphere, contemplating the openness of Human Awareness Laboratories. With looking at Remo, he said: "You are a male chauvinist pig. I've never seen a more inept approach."
"I got what I wanted."
"Why didn't you threaten her with a gun? That would also have convinced her to call."
Remo picked up a brochure from a low, polished-steel table. He glanced at it and chuckled. "You're going to have to take your clothes off in front of people. Read this, Chiun."
Chiun ignored the brochure. "I will come to all problems with their solutions," he said, staring out the window, absorbing space.
Remo shrugged. He had never seen Chiun out of robes or uniforms. When Chiun bathed, he would sponge himself beneath the flowing robes of his daily garb. When he changed robes, he did so with such precision that one robe was going on as the other was coming off. Remo could never duplicate it—to some degree because he had never wanted to.
Dr. Lithia Forrester was in consultation when her phone rang. She ignored it because she was sure the switchboard would shut it off after the first accidental ring. She ignored it through five rings and then, realizing it was not accidental, she answered it.
"I told you I am never to be disturbed during consultations. We are fully registered for three… Donaldson? Remo Donaldson? Well, yes, I'll interview him. Send him up in fifteen minutes."
She returned the phone to the receiver with a surprisingly quivering hand and emitted a long, glorious shriek: "He's here. He's here. He's here."
"Who is here?" asked the person she was with.
"Someone I was trying to figure out how to get here. The one man who could spoil the plan. And now he's here. Talk of good fortune."
"Every silver lining has a cloud," said the person Dr. Forrester was with. But Lithia Forrester was hardly listening.
Before Remo Donaldson was allowed to enter, she reviewed the case alone.
Only an hour before, when
he had failed to report, she had conceded Bannon's death. Careful, thorough, neat, orderly FBI Supervisor Bannon, who had managed to send so many government people to her. Probably dead. And his men too.
General Vance Withers. Dead.
The Special Forces Colonel, a professional group assassin, dead. And his men.
So now, Remo Donaldson, thought Lithia Forrester, welcome to my lair. Welcome to the game of the mind where your brain and your testicles work against your survival. I know what you are now. You are a human weapon. You are going to meet a target that will consume you. She had been afraid when she had first thought of Bannon dead, but she was afraid no longer.
Dr. Forrester could not know that, many stories below, and aged Oriental, basking in the sun pouring through a large window, was thinking also. And what he was thinking was this:
"I have trained you well, my son, Shiva, Destroyer of Worlds. Go without fear into this trap of the mind. For as great as the danger, no danger has yet stopped the force of man. Neither the flood, nor the storm, nor the sea. And now, from your people, neither the space to the stars. Go now, the spirit of the Destroyer's mind rises above the petty schemings of other mortals."
And to the receptionist counsellor who had told Mr. Donaldson "You can go upstairs now, and don't forget about tonight," the aged Oriental appeared to be a cute, frail sort of thing. She leaned toward him and said, "Pardon me, sir, I don't mean to be nosey, but how do you get your nails so long?"
She smiled sweetly, the kind of smile that got her a car from her father when she was sixteen.
The sweet old man smiled back.
"You are being nosey."
Upstairs, Remo Williams, alias Remo Donaldson, entered a double door and saw the most beautiful woman he had ever stood near, not like a creation of nature but of the dreams of man.
She stepped forward to meet him. "Hello, Remo Donaldson. I've been waiting for you."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Human Awareness Laboratories was "a workshop of human motivation, an in-depth exploration and re-functioning of the coping mechanism through relevant action experiences."
That was what the brochure said.
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