Once all of the crates were lined up amid the jutting branches of the fir tree, Remo dropped back to the sidewalk outside. He went back through the police lines, this time avoiding the police entirely. He found the paddy wagon parked where he'd left it.
The door was unlocked. Remo was ready to hotwire the truck-one of the few mechanical skills he had ever bothered to develop-but was surprised to find the keys dangling in the ignition. He also found a police officer's cap sitting on the passenger's seat.
Pulling the cap down over his eyes, Remo started the truck. Since he was not near the main gates, no one seemed to notice as he backed over to the rear wall.
At the wall, Remo let the engine idle as he sneaked back out of the cab. The rear of the truck was directly beneath the line of crates. Remo could see the lighter wood jutting from the shadows of the big trees.
Without hesitation, he scampered back up the wall.
He had opened the rear doors of the paddy wagon already. Atop the wall, he grabbed one crate at a time and flung it down into the open interior of the truck.
They should have made a racket when they landed, but Remo somehow managed to skim the huge boxes into the back of the police vehicle as easily as if he were skipping flat stones on the surface of a still lake. In less than a minute, he had loaded up all twenty-six.
He got back to the ground, closed the rear of the paddy wagon and was just putting one foot back inside the cab when his luck finally ran out.
"Entschuldigen Me?"
Remo was greatly tempted to just ignore the voice and get in the truck. He decided against it. No one-not Smith, not the Koreans, not Remo himself for that matter-wanted a repeat of the previous day's performance. Instead he turned, smiling amiably.
"Hi," Remo said to the lone policeman standing in the shadows behind him. "Lotta weather we've been having lately, wouldn't you say?"
The young man was far away from the rest of the cops that were assembled near the main gate. His face clouded when he heard the American voice coming from Remo's mouth.
The cop couldn't have been much out of his teens. His wide baby face was filled with uncertainty, even as he reached for his side arm. "You will stay still, bitte," he ordered, voice quavering.
"Sorry," Remo said, shrugging apologetically. "Nein can do. I've got places to go, heirlooms to smuggle."
The young officer had made the tragic mistake of stepping close to Remo as he issued his last order. He had not even unholstered his weapon before Remo shot forward.
Faster than normal human eyes could comprehend, Remo had slapped the gun back into the police officer's holster. Spinning the man in place, he grabbed a cluster of nerves at the base of his neck.
The cop's eyes grew wide in shock. Almost as quickly, his lids grew heavy. He sank gently to the sidewalk. Remo propped the sleeping officer up against the wall.
Hurrying forward to the truck cab, he got quickly inside. No one stopped him as he drove out through a weak point in the police lines. Remo was on the street with the embassy behind him in a matter of moments.
"And they make fun of the Maginot Line," he said.
Tossing off his policeman's cap, he steered the truck up a shadowy side street.
IN THE EMBASSY, the Master of Sinanju heard the car horn beep two times fast, three times slow.
It was about time. The stooges of Pyongyang were beginning to get on his nerves.
Rising like a puff of steam from the library carpet, he hurried outside.
FOUR MINUTES LATER, Chiun slipped in beside Remo in the dark cab of the parked paddy wagon.
"Took you long enough," Remo complained, pulling away from the curb.
"The police are more agitated than they had been," Chiun said aridly. "It seems some lout knocked unconscious one of their fellows without having sense enough to hide the body."
"Don't carp," Remo advised. "Because of me, your gold is safe."
"Only when it is in Sinanju will it be safe. Until that time, make haste."
"Fine," Remo said. "Just try not to kill any cops on the way to the airport."
"I make no promises," Chiun sniffed.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Remo sighed.
"And do not invoke the gods of Charlemagne," Chiun warned. "It is unseemly not only in the eyes of my ancestors, but in those of the greater deities.
Remo thought of a few things he would have liked to invoke. Instead, he held his tongue.
He drove slowly, and the taillights of the Berlin police paddy wagon turned back out on the main drag. The truck quickly disappeared in traffic, heading off in the direction of Tegel Airport.
Chapter 9
The unmarked private elevator whisked Michael Princippi up through the glass-enclosed atrium of Man Hyung Sun's exclusive Fifth Avenue apartment building.
Through smoky one-way glass, Princippi could see placid fountains gurgling soothing, colored water far below.
The centerpiece of the lobby area was a huge marble fountain that shot water four stories into the air. Princippi was above the apex of the spurting water by five stories and was moving swiftly toward the penthouse.
He hung away from the glass wall, huddling into himself near the closed elevator doors. Princippi never thought he could feel more miserable than he had back when he lost the 1988 presidential race. He was wrong.
The Loonie infomercial had hit the airwaves the previous day. Tongues were already wagging about his participation in the program-length commercial.
"The buying of American politics," FOX's Brit Hume had dubbed it. He had done a five-minute cable hit piece on the former governor that reopened all the old wounds of his failed campaign. The reporter had stopped just short of bringing up Mrs. Princippi's substance-abuse problem.
As far as his wife was concerned, it was a good thing she was already hospitalized when the news struck. She had been discovered that morning in a maintenance closet at the Betty Ford Clinic mixing a cocktail of Clorox and Pine Sol.
"If it wasn't over before, it is now," Princippi announced glumly. As if in response, the elevator doors slid efficiently open.
Sighing, Princippi stepped out into the hallway.
The hall was more a foyer. It stabbed off to the right, where the servants' elevator was located, and went equally far on the left, where it stopped at a fire door. Directly across from the elevator was a closed oak door. And standing directly in front of the door was the Loonie, Roseflower.
It was amazing how much bigger and more menacing he looked since the abduction. It was the soothing pink robes that had fooled him. Draping, they hid a lot.
The kid obviously worked out constantly. Crossed over his barrel chest, his huge bare forearms were like pale tree trunks. They could easily have lifted Mike Princippi into the air and snapped him like a twig.
"Good morning, Michael," Roseflower said.
The idiotic smirk again. For some reason, the smile was more disconcerting than if the Loonie had scowled at him.
"Hello," Princippi said, trying to smile, as well. As was usually the case, his smile lacked sincerity or warmth.
Roseflower didn't seem to mind.
"Reverend Sun is expecting you. Have a wonderful day."
The Loonie bodyguard stepped aside, allowing Princippi to enter the penthouse apartment.
Michael Princippi couldn't wait to close the door between him and the perennially perky lapdog.
"Come in," Sun's voice called from deep within the apartment before the door had even shut.
The cult leader's city residence was tastefully and expensively furnished. A broad curving staircase of highly polished wood led to an upstairs balcony lined on one side by a delicately carved balustrade.
Sun's voice had come from this direction. Princippi climbed the stairs, noting as he went the original works of art that were tastefully displayed along the wall.
Upstairs, the smell told him which way to go.
It was a sickly stench. Rotten eggs left too long in a garbage disposal. Sulfur.
Princippi had read before that particular odors were known to trigger specific memories, emotions of a time long ago. He had not really believed it until that moment. He now knew that it was abundantly true.
They were not so much memories that came to him now as he followed that sick sulfur stench to the far end of the hallway. It was more a feeling. Stirring awake after a long slumber. The emotion he felt was fear.
Princippi found Sun in a small room off of the cultist's opulent bedroom.
The room was only tiny in comparison to the rest of the apartment. Actually, it looked as if it was supposed to be a good-size closet. But the clothes were all gone. A few wooden hangers hung on empty racks.
Sun was in the middle of the room. The Korean sat on a plain three-legged stool.
The room was fetid. A greasy yellow smoke clung visibly to the foul air. It was not like smoke produced by burning. It was more a Hollywood interpretation of what smoke should be. A sort of dry-ice fog.
The stench was like a solid mass that Princippi had to push from his path as he stepped inside the room.
"Close the door," Sun ordered. His voice was muffled.
Reluctantly, Princippi did as he was instructed.
Sun's head had been invisible beneath a thick bathroom towel until now. Sitting on his low stool, he was bent forward, the towel draping across something at his feet. He was like a man fighting cold symptoms. Three humidifiers hummed incessantly around him.
Once the door was closed, Sun came up from beneath the towel. He was breathing deeply at the air of the room-a hiker catching his breath atop a mountain.
"What news have you for me?" Sun asked, draping his towel across the mysterious object at his feet.
"I, um, just talked to Bergdorf at Channel 8. The, uh, Sun Source infomercial has been distributed around the country as per your instructions."
Princippi was finding it difficult to speak. Sun's eyes held the same weird yellow glow they had taken on back at the Washington Guardian offices. It looked as if someone had screwed two yellow Christmas bulbs into his eye sockets.
"What of the switchboards? Do the people of this land seek out my oracular wisdom?" The yellow eyes flashed hypnotically.
"Switchboards?" Princippi gulped. "Um, yeah. Yeah, they're doing okay. I guess. You know, there are business people more suited to this. These psychic hotlines are a big deal. I'm sure you could lure someone away from Kim Smiley or the Amazing Mystico. Maybe even some of Dionne Warwick's old people might want to jump from that sunken ship."
"We have chosen you," Sun announced.
Man Hyung Sun had recently taken to speaking in the royal we. Michael Princippi was one of the few people who understood why.
"Okay, fine," Princippi said, forcing affability. "But could we maybe tone down my public participation a little? The press is having a field day with this. It's really going to put a hitch in my plans for the presidency."
"We have judged it should be so," Sun said, ending the argument. He pulled the towel off the hidden object on the floor, draping the rank fabric around his neck.
Princippi recognized the stone urn instantly. He hadn't seen it in almost a year. Chiseled Greek characters ran up the sides, worn with age. A thick yellow film rose from the heavy urn, inspired by the closeness of the humidifiers.
The former governor gulped nervously as he looked at the ancient piece of carved rock. Inside was a clumpy yellow crystalline substance. It sparkled in the wan room light. The color of the wet sand matched the fierce brightness in the cult leader's eyes.
"What of Boston?" Sun asked suddenly.
Princippi had to tear his eyes from the urn. "Huh?"
"Boston," Sun repeated. "Has the Sun Source program run there?"
"Uh, yeah," Princippi said, swallowing. His heart was pounding. "Just like you said. We bought more time there than anywhere else. A couple of stations are carrying it, morning and late night." Fear, coupled with the swirling sulfur smoke, was making him dizzy. He needed to go to the bathroom again. The ex-governor wished Sun would hurry up and cover the urn with his smelly towel.
"That is where we shall find them," Sun said in satisfaction. "And we shall finally have our revenge."
The smoke grew stronger. Squinting in displeasure, Princippi flapped one hand in front of his face as he covered his mouth and nose with the other. "Find who?" he asked.
But Sun did not answer. He had pulled the towel back over his head, draping the far end over the ancient urn. The cult leader breathed deeply at the sickly fumes.
Chapter 10
The cab from Boston's Logan International Airport dropped Remo and Chiun off on the sidewalk in front of their Quincy, Massachusetts, condominium.
They had taken the North Korean jet from Germany to England, switching to a commercial flight at London's Heathrow Airport. The private Korean jet flew east into the sunrise while Remo's 747 headed in the opposite direction across the Atlantic. They landed a little after 3:30 a.m.
It was the dead of night by the time they climbed the stairs to their home.
"You hungry?" Remo asked once they were inside.
"Rice," was all Chiun said in response. He left Remo to make their meal while he went off to the living room.
As Remo was rummaging through the kitchen cupboards in search of a pot, he heard the familiar blare of the TV coming from the other room. Fifteen minutes later, Remo set a bowl of steaming rice and a pair of chopsticks at the feet of the Master of Sinanju. He joined his teacher cross-legged on the floor before the big set.
"What are we watching?" Remo asked. Unlike Chiun, he used his fingers to eat his rice.
"Drivel," Chiun replied. He hauled a thick clump of rice to his papery lips.
"I guess TV hasn't changed much since we left," Remo observed.
On the television, a pudgy man who was-physical evidence to the contrary-trying to pass himself off as an exercise expert, screamed at an enthusiastic audience about something called the Butt Blaster. Said Butt Blaster was apparently the cureall to flabby derrieres around the nation. By investing only two minutes a day, the pudgy man promised that those who used his product would have bottoms as tight as a snare drum. He had models behind him to prove his case. They looked as if they exercised for breakfast, fasted for lunch and starved themselves while exercising for supper.
"How many of those things do you think broke during taping?" Remo asked, nodding to the strange exercise contraptions on the screen.
"How long is this program?" Chiun asked.
"Infomercials usually run half an hour," Remo said.
"One hundred and sixty-three," Chiun announced firmly. "See?" He aimed a long ivory fingernail at the action on the television. "The metal on that one gives even as the fat announcer blabbers on."
Remo instantly saw what he was pointing at. A stress fracture had appeared on one of the workout devices. Theirs were the only sets of eyes on the planet that would have seen the tiny crack. Long before it broke entirely, the scene changed. The actor sweating in the background of the shot suddenly had a brand-new Butt Blaster. It wasn't even the same color as the original.
"A great value at only $29.99!" screamed the raspy-voiced pitchman. "Plus $59.99 postage and handling," he said, suddenly speaking so low and quickly that the words were virtually indecipherable. His blond ponytail bobbed excitedly as he browbeat the studio and home audiences into purchasing his product.
"You want to know something, Chiun?" Remo said. "In spite of stuff like this, I'm glad we're home."
Remo meant it. They had spent a great deal of time traveling in the past few months. From Europe to South America to Asia and back to Europe. It had been a grueling, frenetic cycle. He wanted nothing more than to sit back and relax for a couple of weeks.
Chiun did not respond to Remo's comment. The half-hour-long exercise advertisement had come to an end. The Channel 8 Productions logo was followed by a burp of dead air before the too loud intro music of yet another infomercial began.
"...what we can do," said the insipid voice on the TV.
"It would help if we could somehow know the future," came the reply.
"Keep dreaming," said the dull voice.
Bowls in hand, Remo turned back to the screen.
The face was as he remembered it. Dull, gray. Giant black bushy eyebrows, more appropriate to a Muppet than to a politician, hung over beady, porcine eyes.
Remo scrunched up his face. "Isn't that Mike Princippi?" he asked uncertainly.
"Hush," Chiun instructed.
"I've always had trouble with the future," the TV Mike Princippi was saying.
"Knowing the future would not only help in politics, but in all walks of life," his television companion opined.
"No way," Remo said, sinking back to the floor. A light had begun to dawn. "This can't be what I think it is."
"The future is hard to predict," Princippi said. He was obviously reading from cue cards. "If I knew how, I'd be President right now." Even though he laughed along with the other men on the set, his eyes were sick.
"Dammit, I was right!" Remo enthused. "It's a psychic-hotline infomercial. I'll be goddamned if Mike 'the Prince' Princippi isn't on TV hawking some crackpot fortune-teller's 900 number." He positively bubbled with excitement.
Chiun turned a baleful eye on him. "Do I take it you do not approve?"
"Are you kidding?" Remo said. "This is great. I love when politicians have to sink even lower than politics. It's almost impossible to do."
"Why is it you believe he has sunk at all?" Chiun asked.
"Look at him!" Remo said happily. He flung out a hand at the TV. "The guy is on a psychic infomercial squirming like fish on a line. He looks about as happy to be there as the guy who beat him looked in the presidential debates four years later."
Chiun looked back at the screen. "Perhaps," he admitted. "It is also possible that he is ill."
"Of course he is," Remo said. "I'd be sick, too, if I had to endorse that check." His broad smile stretched so far across his face it threatened to spill beyond both ears.
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