"Late-model Ford coming at you at a high rate of speed. Two males in the front, no further description."
"Backup!" Snell barked, dropping into a crouch behind the concrete barriers on the curb. He set his walkie-talkie down at his feet and pulled his revolver, holding it double-handed.
The car squealed to a stop, fishtailing. Its doors banged open and two men in dungaree jackets and colorful kaffiyehs masking their faces exploded out of either side. They carried Uzis.
Agent Snell called for them to drop their weapons. That was his mistake.
A hand grenade arched up from one of the attackers' hands and landed behind him, bouncing twice before it detonated.
Snell felt nothing at first. Then there was a crushing noise and his top of his head seemed to squeeze in on itself. When he opened his eyes, he was on his back, his head somehow resting against a concrete barrier so that he was looking down at himself.
His legs resembled twin meatball sandwiches in the torn wrappers of his trousers. The right one was doubled under his thigh. he could not move either leg. He groped for his revolver, but it was nowhere to be found.
At that moment his backups arrived from around the corner. They stopped, took in the sight of agent Snell bleeding on the sidewalk, and their faces registered the shock of what they saw.
Snell tried to shout at them. Don't look at me, you idiots. Get the ones who did this. What's the matter with you? No words came.
Then two figures jumped from behind the barriers and cut both agents down.
The two attackers went for Blair House's massive double doors. They applied a plastic charge to the lock, jumped back, and waited for the explosion.
A mushy whoom came and the doors fell in.
The two terrorists followed the doors inside, their kaffiyehs protecting them against the smoke and swirling plaster dust.
On the ground, Orrin Snell tried to find his gun. His hand brushed something. Through pain-racked eyes he saw that it was his walkie-talkie. He fumbled it onto his chest.
"Two men . . . Uzis . . . inside front door. Stop them," he muttered painfully.
Static answered him. And there was no sound of returning fire from inside Blair House.
What was the matter with them? Snell thought dazedly. Why weren't the inner guards responding? Were they all asleep?
"Still asleep," said Remo, peeking into the room.
He rejoined Chiun in the hall. The Master of Sinanju sat on an antique chair. A long scroll lay in his lap.
"What's that you're working on?" Remo asked.
"Nothing," said Chiun absently, shifting in his chair so that Remo could not see what he was writing.
"Looks like one of your histories, but I know you left them all back in Sinanju."
"Correct," said Chiun.
"Then what?"
"It is none of your business."
"If it's not a history scroll, then it's gotta be a contract scroll."
"What makes you say that?"
"The ribbon you untied from it. It's blue. Aren't Sinanju contracts tied with blue ribbons?"
"So are the birth announcements of the offspring of Sinanju Masters."
"Then it's a contract," Remo said.
"Do not be so quick to assume," said the Master of Sinanju.
"You'd deny it if it weren't. Look, Chiun, I hope you're not cooking up some new scheme to keep us in America. I'm telling you right now that it won't work,"
"Why not? It worked last time."
"Aha! So you admit last time was a trick?"
"You are just catching on now, Remo my son? You are duller of mind than I thought. Perhaps you need more stimulating work to sharpen your skills. Weeding has made you soft-witted. "
"I only did that once. So what are you doing-looking over the last contract for loopholes?"
"I am trying, but the traffic noise is very bad."
"Yeah, I heard the tires screeching too. Teenagers, probably."
From the end of the corridor there came the dull whump of a muffled explosion.
"What was that?" asked Remo, stiffening.
The Master of Sinanju was on his feet, rolling the scroll and tying its ribbon with a complicated two-handed motion. He tossed it onto the chair.
"Intruders," he snapped. "Let us welcome them."
It had worked perfectly so far, thought Rafik. He and Ismat had penetrated Blair House with almost no resistance. As he bounded up the stairs, he could not believe how lax the security was. He and Ismat worked through the ground floor, room to room, reckless and ready to shoot. They found no guards on the ground floor and climbed the stairs to the second floor.
They found someone here.
There were two of them. A casually dressed white man and an older, almost tiny Oriental. Neither seemed to be armed.
"Look, Little Father," the taller one said conversationally. "Visitors."
"Shall I make tea?" asked the Oriental, just as casually.
"Let's see how many lumps of sugar they want, first."
"I will let you ask them, for I am an old man, frail in health, and I do not wish to tax myself walking down this long corridor to converse with them. Besides, you need the exercise and not I. "
Rafik decided to take them alive. They would tell where the American leader could be found and save him valuable search time.
"Stand where you are," Rafik ordered, pointing his weapon. In spite of the warning, the American walked toward him, while the Oriental disappeared through a side door.
"I said stop," Rafik repeated.
"Do we shoot him?" asked Ismat.
"No," hissed Rafik. "He is unarmed. We will take him easily. "
"How do you folks like your tea?" asked the American. His smile was cruel, almost arrogant in his wide-cheekboned face.
Rafik decided to shoot him once in the leg. That would cool his bravado. And get him talking. He snapped off a low shot.
A long rip appeared in the hall runner between the man's shoes.
"You missed," Ismat hissed. "I will not miss again."
And he did not, because even though the white American had been at the other end of the hall, suddenly he was in Rafik's face. It was as if Rafik had been looking at him through a camera and accidentally tripped the zoom lens.
Rafik knew he could not miss at this range. He pulled the trigger. And felt himself being turned in place. When he felt the recoil of the Uzi, he was no longer looking at the dead eyes of the white American but into Ismat's shocked face.
"You . . . shot . . . me," Ismat moaned. He fell to the floor, twitching.
"You made me shoot my comrade," Rafik spat at the white.
"There are worse things," the American said casually. In his hand he had Rakik's own Uzi and was methodically field-stripping it. The trouble was, he obviously did not know how to take apart a fine weapon like the Uzi because he removed whole sections without disengaging them properly. The Uzi made strange cracking sounds and then fell in pieces onto the rug.
Rafik knew that he was no match for hands that could dismember a pistol like that. He plucked a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin with his strong teeth, and yelled the words that usually quashed all resistance during airliner hijackings: "If I die, we will all die!"
Rafik had no intention of dying. He had not let go of the safety spoon. The grenade would not explode until he did. He expected the mere threat of the grenade to trick the man into letting him back out of the building to the car.
But before he could edge away, the man's hands clutched his upraised wrist. The other hand twisted his thumb in its socket. The safety spoon fell to the floor.
Rafik tried to let go of the grenade. He could not. His hand was frozen around it. Then the man slapped him down onto the floor. Rafik fell still clutching the grenade under him.
He tried to push himself up, but the man was standing on his back, holding him on the ground. The grenade dug into his stomach.
Then the grenade went off.
Under Remo's fee
t, the terrorist jumped. When he settled back on the rug, Remo stepped off the body. The man lay limp, but there was a pool of blood seeping from under him. His body had absorbed the force of the explosion.
The Master of Sinanju stepped out into the hall. "How many lumps?" he asked.
"None. They're not thirsty," said Remo. "That one is ruining the rug."
"Not my fault. He pulled a grenade. If I'd handled it any other way, the shrapnel would have ruined the hall, not just the rug."
Chiun approached. "Did he say who hired him?"
"No. He didn't have time."
"Then you bungled. Never dispatch a source of information until the source gives up what he knows."
"Yeah, well, if you're so smart, why didn't you handle it? I'm just along for the scenery this time out."
''I was making tea," Chiun said haughtily.
Jalid Kumquatti waited until Rafik and Ismat went in the front door before he came out of hiding in the car's back seat.
The street was empty of life. He vaulted the antiterrorist barriers and went around the back. There were no guards there. He had not expected to find any. They had all been drawn to the street, where his Hezbollahi brothers had eliminated them.
Jalid had waited long enough. When Rafik and Ismat did not return to the car, he knew that either they had run into trouble or the search for the Vice-President had taken longer than expected. He decided the situation needed his fine hand. He wondered if Rafik and Ismat were dead. If they were, it would mean more money for him.
Jalid went in through a window. He wrapped the tail of his kaffiyeh around his eyes to protect them from splintering glass and took a running jump. He went in headfirst. He rolled as he hit the floor and landed on his feet. He sprang for the door.
There was a tiny elevator immediately outside the hall. He leapt for it, and luckily the rickety doors opened when he touched the button. He rode the cage to the top and got out. It would be easier to work his way down, searching for his target, than to fight his way to the upper floors and then back down again.
The third door opened on a room full of sleeping men. Jalid knew they were American Secret Service agents because they wore sunglasses and gray suits even in slumber. He lifted his Kalashnikov assault rifle to spray the room, but on second thought realized that that would be a waste of bullets.
The agents were dead. They had to be. Six of them were stacked on a big canopied bed, their hands and feet dangling off the edges. Others lay about on the floor. There was no mark on any of them, which was odd because neither Rafik nor Ismat had carried any kind of gas. Perhaps, he thought as he closed the door, they had garroted the agents one at a time. Perhaps that was what had been keeping them so long.
Then it was only a matter of time before he would find Rafik and Ismat and their target, the Vice-President.
Jalid burst into the next room. Empty. He went on to the one across the hall. It too was empty. Outside the next room there was an antique chair on which rested a roll of parchment tied by a blue ribbon.
Jalid kicked the door in. The lock gave on the first kick. The room was dark. He swiped his big hands along the inside wall until he encountered a light switch.
The burst of illumination showed a very sleepy man suddenly sitting straight up in bed. Jalid recognized the famous boyishly mature face.
"Who? What?" the Vice-President said sleepily.
Jalid smiled. He would get the credit for this kill after all.
Remo heard the crash of glass. Chiun looked at him. "There are others," Chiun said. "Quickly, we must protect our charge, who is possibly our next employer."
"Let's go."
Remo dashed for the elevator. He pressed the button. Too late. The cage rattled past their floor without stopping. "Someone's on the elevator," Remo said.
The Master of Sinanju bounded for the stairs, Remo hot on his heels.
"If we fail, this will be your fault," Chiun said.
"Can it, Chiun. We won't fail."
On the top floor they saw that the Vice-President's bedroom door was open and spilling light into the hall.
From within there came the brief burst of automatic-weapon fire.
"Aaeeie!" Chiun wailed. "We are too late!"
A dungaree-clad man bounced backward out of the room. He slammed against the far wall, momentarily stunned. Recovering, he leaned into the wall and lifted his Kalashnikov to fire into the bedroom.
He never got off a shot.
A man leapt gracefully out of the bedroom, landed before him, and, spinning on one foot, sent the other shooting out at shoulder level. The terrorist's head snapped one way, then back the other when the kick reversed itself. The Kalashnikov clattered to the floor.
The terrorist stared stupidly for the space of a heartbeat, then an openhanded thrust snapped his neck. He slid down the wall into an inert heap.
The man who had vanquished the terrorist turned to face Remo and Chiun.
They saw that he was tall, with the broad, tanned face of a California surfer. His green eyes laughed. He wore a white gi, such as karate fighters wore, with the traditional black belt around his thick middle.
"Who are you supposed to be?" Remo asked.
"Call me Adonis. It is my official code designation. I am here to protect the Vice-President's life."
"And a great job you did of it, too," said the Vice-President, stumbling out of the bedroom in peppermint pajamas. He looked at Remo and Chiun. "Where were you two when all this was going on?"
"Taking care of the two terrorists who came in the front," Remo said defensively.
"Is that a fact? Well, if this fellow here hadn't crashed in through the window, I'd be dead meat now. The killer had me dead to rights." The Vice-President turned to his rescuer.
"I'd like to shake your hand," he said warmly.
The man called Adonis bowed deeply. When he came up, he shook hands heartily. The Vice-President noticed his broad shoulders and bronzed healthy face. He compared them against Remo's skinny physique and Chiun's diminutive stature.
"Now, this is my idea of a real bodyguard," he said.
"Don't forget we helped too," Remo pointed out. "We got the two downstairs."
"Yeah, right," said the Vice-President, turning his back on them. "That was some fancy footwork you did there, son. What was it-karate?"
"No, kung fu."
The Master of Sinanju spat on the floor. "Stolen from us," he said.
"Maybe so," said the Vice-President. "But it looks like he improved upon the original."
"A fluke," hissed Chiun. "Why, with my finger, I could render this pretty boy a writhing bag of suet. Look at him. He is fat."
"Looks like muscle to me," said the Vice-President. "Who sent you, my friend?"
"I will tell you later, when there is no one to overhear us," Adonis said, nodding in Remo and Chiun's direction. Remo and Chiun exchanged glances.
"Say the word, Little Father, and I'll settle this guy's hash," Remo growled.
The Vice-President said, "You'll do nothing of the kind. This man has been sent here to guard me. He's proven he can do it. You two get lost. I don't need you anymore."
"We are charged with protecting your person," said the Master of Sinanju, drawing himself up proudly.
"You're through, washed up. You're both has-beens. Tell Smith I said that. And tell him there'll be an investigation of this business. I don't think it's a coincidence that you two immobilized my Secret Service protection just before I was attacked. This whole thing smells like a setup to me. Take out my bodyguards with one hand while you let in the assassins with the other."
The Master of Sinanju puffed out his cheeks in anger. "He has insulted Sinanju!" he cried. "For that I will-"
Remo got in his way. "No, Little Father. Do you want to make things worse?"
"There, see! The little guy wants to kill me!" the Vice-President said triumphantly. "That's proof."
Adonis stepped in front of the Master of Sinanju. "Do not fear. He will not
harm a hair on your head as long as I'm here."
"The final insult," said Chiun, practically jumping up and down. "A kung-fu dancer threatens the Master of Sinanju!"
Remo took Chiun by his frail shoulders.
"Calm down, will you?" he pleaded. "Look, let's just go. We're not wanted here."
"You are not needed here, either," Adonis taunted.
"We'll see about you later," said Remo, guiding Chiun to the elevator.
"Be sure to tuck him in. He looks very old," Adonis called mockingly.
Remo had to use all his strength to get the Master of Sinanju into the elevator. He wondered how he was going to explain this to Smith.
Chapter 12
"We are disgraced," said the Master of Sinanju.
"Cut it out, Chiun. I don't want to hear it."
They were walking along Pennsylvania Avenue. Remo found a phone booth near the Treasury Building.
"Hold on," Remo said, slipping into the booth.
The Master of Sinanju looked at him critically. "What are you doing?"
"Reporting to Smith."
Chiun snatched the phone out of Remo's hands and severed the cord with a vicious fingernail slice.
"Chiun!" Remo said.
"Are you mad? Report to Smith!"
"What else do you want me to do? We report to Smith. He tells us what we should do next."
"Tell him! Tell him what?"
"Why, what happened, of course."
"The truth! You are mad. In the history of Sinanju, no Master has ever told the complete truth to an emperor. It is unheard of."
"You want me to lie?"
"No, but in situations such as this, one must be diplomatic. "
"You want me to lie, " said Remo, looking for another phone. There was one adjoining the first booth.
"I do not want you to lie," said Chiun. "But I think we should not jump into the truth too swiftly, like a foolish man who wades out into a treacherous surf, unaware of currents and drop-offs. "
Remo lifted the receiver. Then he remembered that he didn't have a quarter on him. In fact, he had no money at all. He turned to the Master of Sinanju and instantly dismissed the idea of asking him directly for the quarter.
"Tell you what, Little Father," Remo said solicitously. "You make the call."
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