"Someone is killing people who fly aboard aircraft. Now, you might think the number of deaths small-" Smith did not get a chance to finish the sentence because Chiun spoke first.
"The deaths themselves are unimportant. Robbers and murderers do not make roads unsafe or impassable. They kill only a few at worst. What makes a road impassable is that people believe it is. If travelers come to believe they cannot move with safety, they will cease to use your roads. And this country's roads are in the sky."
"It is a danger," Smith agreed.
"More than a danger," said the Master of Sinanju. "It is the end of civilization. Goods would not travel, and neither would ideas."
"We've just been lucky so far that the news media haven't picked up on it," Smith said. "Do you think you can get Remo to understand why this is important?"
Chiun said, "I will try, Emperor," but he did not know if he could. However, he did know he would not be the one to let this civilization die, because he was the Master of Sinanju who had been contracted to save it. Failing would be too much shame to bear and would humiliate him in the eyes of all the ancestors who had gone before.
Chiun would have to tell Remo something that he had hidden for all these years. He would have to tell him about the shame of Sinanju, about Master Wu, who lost Rome.
And then he would have to find out exactly what was bothering Remo.
A. H. Baynes liked to run a tight ship, and his staff had standing orders to show him any paperwork that was out of the ordinary. So when the request was received in the mail asking for a refund on the year-round consumer-fare ticket, he thought it was worth looking into. It was the only year-round consumer-fare ticket that had been sold by just Folks, and he looked at the letter and saw it had been bought by a small religious community in New Orleans.
He instructed his New Orleans area manager to find out why the refund was being sought.
A week later, the area manager had not been heard from. When his paycheck remained uncashed, this strange incident came up on Baynes's computer terminal.
For the first time, Baynes noticed the area manager's name, and wondered where he had seen it before. He checked it with his computer and found out.
The area manager had advised him once by note that he was going to track the stranglings just in case anyone tried to sue just Folks Airlines for the deaths.
Baynes was about to put it out of his mind and forget it when his attention was called to a news clipping. The area manager's body had been found. His face was blue from the last horrible moments without air, his pockets had been emptied. He left five-his wife, three children, and an ailing mother.
Another murder, and there had been nine others in the past few weeks of people who had not been flying just Folks. Quietly, Baynes programmed his computer to find out who had purchased tickets on overseas flights after which passengers had been strangled and robbed.
On every flight after which there had been a murder, Baynes saw the name of the same ticket purchaser: it was the little religious group in New Orleans that had just asked for a refund on its just Folks tickets.
It was immediately clear to Baynes. He had found the passenger killers. It was someone connected with that religious group. And what they had done was equally clear: first they had flown just Folks, killing passengers. And then they had moved up in the world, flying bigger and more expensive airlines, and killing and robbing richer passengers. Since the first death involving an overseas airline, there had been no more murders of just Folks's passengers.
He felt exultant. He had figured it out, and those two idiotic investigators from the NAA were still out there somewhere flying just Folks, and they hadn't figured out anything yet. So much for free enterprise versus government, he thought.
For a moment he considered letting the government know of his findings immediately, and then he paused and considered some more. He certainly wasn't going to rush toward some public acclaim before thinking everything through. He had not gone to Cambridge Business College so that he could forget its most important lesson: how can I make some profit out of this?
He phoned the ashram in New Orleans and asked to speak to its spiritual leader.
"We are most sorry. The Holy One cannot answer the telephone. He is communing in his holy office."
"Tell the Holy One that if he doesn't commune with me on the phone, he'll be communing with the police in person. I know what you people are doing to airline passengers."
"Hello," came the high-pitched voice of an Indian a few moments later. "How can the blessings of cosmic unity be bestowed upon your consciousness?"
"I know what you're doing with airline passengers," Baynes said.
"We bless the whole world with our mantras."
"I don't want your blessings," Baynes said.
"Have a mantra. No charge. I'll give you a free one over the phone and call it even."
"I want to know how you do what you do," Baynes said.
"Dear kind sir," said Ban Sar Din. "If I should be doing something of an illegal nature, I certainly would not discuss it over the telephone."
"And I certainly wouldn't put my neck within grasp of any of you people."
"Stalemate," said Ban Sar Din.
"The police can probably break the stalemate," Baynes said.
"We fear no police. We serve the cult of Kali," Ban Sar Din said.
"A religious thing?" Baynes said.
"Yes."
"Then you don't pay taxes. Everything above overhead is profit."
"How American to think of money in connection with holy work," said Ban Sar Din.
"How Indian to turn holy work into murder," said Baynes. "Do you know the number of the New Orleans police? Save me a dime."
A compromise was struck. Baynes would come to New Orleans and he would meet Ban Sar Din, alone, in a public restaurant, and they would talk.
Agreed. "Travel safely," Ban Sar Din said.
"You better believe it. I'm flying Delta," said Baynes.
In the restaurant, Baynes got right down to business: "Your gang is killing travelers so they can rob them."
And Ban Sar Din, who recognized a kindred spirit when he encountered one, said, "You think this is easy? You don't know what the hell I've been living with. These people are nuts. They don't care about anything except a statue I have in the ashram."
"They're your people, aren't they? They call you the Holy One."
"I can't control them. They don't care about money, they don't care about living well, or even, damn it, about living. All they want to do is kill."
"Why do you hang around, then?" Baynes asked.
"I do make a small profit, a living so to speak, sir," said Ban Sar Din.
"You mean you have people who will go out and kill for you, risk their lives for you, take money off corpses, and give it all to you."
"I guess you could say that," said Ban Sar Din. "But it is not all as rosy as it might seem to be."
"Ban Sar Din, you now have a partner."
"Someone tried that before. He said he was going to yell in their faces, and now he has earth in his face," said the Indian.
"I'm not him," said A. H. Baynes.
"You're going to get killed." Baynes gave him a tolerant smile.
"How much of the take do you want?" Ban Sar Din asked.
"It's all yours."
"You mean we're partners, but I get to keep all the money?"
"Yes. And I'll provide the plane tickets for your people too," said Baynes.
"Okay, partner," said Ban Sar Din.
The next day, fifteen thousand dollars' worth of first-class airline tickets arrived by courier pack. They were all for one airline, International Mid-America, a medium-size carrier that served the Midwest and South America.
At first, Ban Sar Din thought that Baynes must have gotten some incredibly reduced rate, but then, something on the tickets appeared odd. None of them had a name written in. Were they stolen? Was that why the American executive had given the
m to him free? A thing to think about, reflected the Indian.
He heard the chanting out in the ashram. He knew he had to go out there and pass out the handkerchiefs soon. They were beginning their frenzy.
Ban Sar Din had always lived in fear that one day the chanting would stop and they would come into his office after him. When he had forgotten the handkerchief the other day, he had thought he was done for. But it had all worked out for the best. Somehow Kali had told them-who could believe these American kids?-that since Ban Sar Din didn't have the rumal on him, he was the Holy One. The one who came with the rumal was going to be Kali's lover. Which was another word for dead. All in all, it had worked out well. He was stronger than ever in the ashram.
He stood up, ready to take some of the tickets outside, but stopped. Something was wrong with a stack of first-class airplane tickets as high as a phone book, and all without the purchasers' names.
He phoned International Mid-American Airlines, IMAA.
"I have some tickets that I think were stolen," he said.
"Just a minute, sir."
The chanting from the ashram grew louder. He could feel the walls hum with the name of Kali, and he could hear the joyous, almost orgasmic frenzy of the young people. Even his desk calendar was jumping. If they weren't all crazies, he would have liked to join them. But they might turn on him. Who knew with these people?
He watched his calendar jump and vowed that when he could afford it, he would line the walls and doors of his office with steel, put in a lock that could stop a tank, and build a secret rear exit to the alley and keep a very fast car parked outside. He would not necessarily have the motor running.
He heard a pounding on his door and changed his mind about the motor running.
IMAA finally came up with the right person. No, those tickets had not been stolen. They had been purchased the day before for cash. No, they did not know the name of the purchaser. Yes, anyone who had such a ticket could use it.
"Thank you," said Ban Sar Din, and stuffed two round-trip first-class tickets into two yellow handkerchiefs. He had the tickets, why not use them? At least it would keep the crazies busy a little longer.
They were thumping on his office door. He opened the door and with a flourish of his holy robes ducked the knocking motion of one of the followers and strode out in the ashram. He thought it was a bit crowded today. That accounted for the extra strength of the chanting.
Was the cult growing? Ordinarily, when he presented the sacred rumal, there were, at most, seven kneeling before him. Today there were closer to fifteen. There were faces he didn't recognize. Older people. Younger people. He was happy he had thought to bring double handkerchiefs and double tickets. He spoke in the Gondi tongue as he normally did and told them that Kali was proud of them but that She was hungry for Her offerings.
But before he had a chance to tell them that this day he had brought twice the normal instruments for the offerings, two phansigars presented themselves for the rumals.
"She knew. She knew. She knew," chanted the followers.
Ban Sar Din only nodded knowingly. Then he got out of there fast.
Numbers 120, 121, 122.
The Walford family was taking its first vacation trip outside the country and they found that international travel was more problem than pleasure, at least when they needed help with the baggage. IMAA personnel were absolutely worthless, they thought. Fortunately, some decent young people were there not only to help them but also to give them a lift to Acapulco.
Number 123.
Deeter Jackson was the only man ever to be selected by the Grain Society of Troy, Ohio, to visit the Argentina Feed and Utility Show with all expenses paid. Of course, he didn't expect someone as lovely as the passenger next to him on the IMAA flight to be interested in that. But not only was that beautiful young woman interested, she said she wanted to visit Troy, Ohio. It had always held a fascination for her. Maybe Deeter could take some time and tell her all about it. In her hotel room in Argentina.
Number 124.
Mrs. Pruella Nascento thought that if IMAA charged so much for a first-class seat, the least they could do was coddle an egg properly.
"She's right," a passenger across the way told the stewardess. "I hope you don't mind my butting in. But I think that I just wouldn't want to fly again in an airplane where they can't even coddle an egg correctly."
Mrs. Pruella Nascento did not mind the passenger butting in. She was found dead along a roadside the next morning and the time of her death was fixed at one-half hour after she left the aircraft. The coroner could tell because the yolk of the egg had been only partially decomposed by her stomach acid.
Number 125.
Vincent Palmer Grout did not speak to strangers on airplanes, did not like to discuss his business, did not even politely answer inquiries about his opinion of the weather. There was always some kind of weather and Vincent Palmer Grout saw no need to discuss this fact with strangers.
Oh, well, somebody was willing to give him a lift into the city? Well, he would accept that, if the person did not presume to be too friendly.
When they asked if they could put a handkerchief around his throat, he said, "Absolutely not. Who knows where it's been?"
When they did so anyhow, he became enraged and he would have given them a piece of his mind, but he couldn't very well talk if he couldn't get air into his throat, could he?
Number 126.
Who said there still weren't nice young people in the world who cared about the elderly and were willing to help also?
Number 127.
"Are you from Dayton too? Really?"
Number 128.
"I collect watch chimes. Wife doesn't think anybody else in the world would be interested in watch chimes. Boy, will she be surprised."
Ban Sar Din was ecstatic. The rumals were coming back stuffed with money and jewels. Better airlines produced better passengers, and better passengers produced better corpses with fuller wallets. He still did not know what was in it for A. H. Baynes, but he knew what was in it for him. It was only the best restaurants from now on.
He ordered nylon-reinforced rumals and he insisted on a full four-color picture of Kali on each one. He even ordered two gross, just in case, and threw out the old cheap ones.
He had contractors set steel plates around his office, install double-bolt locks, and cut in that secret exit door to the alley, where he parked his new Porsche 9115C.
A newspaper reporter at a wire service got a telephone call late one night, just before he was ready to go home.
"I have got the greatest story of your career. How would you like to hear about multiple murders, ritual murders? Huh? Is that a news story?"
"Who's this?"
"Someone who wants to help."
"I can't just take information over the phone. Who are you?"
"Someone who can tell you where to look. There have been a dozen murders recently. All of the victims had just gotten off an International Mid-America Airlines flight. All strangled after they left their airplanes. It's the airline of death. Do you hear me?"
"How do you know this? Why haven't I heard of it?"
"Because reporters cover a murder here and a murder there and they don't know it's one story. Now you do. One story. Many murders, all the same." And the caller gave the cities the deaths had occurred in.
"How do you know?" asked the reporter, but the caller hung up.
The next day, every newspaper on the wire-service line carried the story. IMAA became the Airline of Death. By the time the television news department got through with the story, a viewer got the impression that to fly on IMAA meant certain death by strangulation.
Reservations were canceled as people switched to other airlines. IMAA flew half-full flights, then quarter-full flights, then empty planes.
Then IMAA stopped flying at all.
It took two days, and in Folcroft Sanitarium, behind the one-way glass shielding him from the untidy outside world, Harold W
. Smith knew that what had happened to IMAA could happen to every airline in America. Every airline in the world.
So did the President of the United States.
"What's happening?" he asked over the special red telephone line that ran from the White House directly to Smith's office.
"We're on it," answered Smith.
"Do you know what this means?" asked the President.
"I do know, sir."
"What am I supposed to tell the heads of the South American countries? What about Europe? They know what it means too. If it spreads, are we going to close the airways to passenger travel? I don't care what you do. I don't care if you're exposed and have to go under, stop this. Stop it now."
"We're working on it."
"You sound like an auto mechanic," said the President disgustedly.
Smith held the red phone in his hand and stared out through his windows at Long Island Sound. It was a dark autumn day and storm warnings were up for all the boats. He put that phone away and took another and tried to reach Remo. He got Chiun instead.
Chiun was in the hotel room, and with relief Smith heard him say that Remo had not only been told about the serious problem but also now understood its magnitude and had come around again. Both he and Chiun were very close to putting the perpetrators out of business, all for the glory of Emperor Smith.
"Thank God," Harold W. Smith said, and hung up. Across the country in a Denver hotel room, Chiun gave a formal little bow to the telephone and set out to find Remo. Not only had he not spoken to Remo, he had not even seen him for a week. But he knew he could make him understand.
For now he was prepared to tell him of the greatest failure in the history of Sinanju, and he was not going to see it repeated here in a little 200-year-old country, doomed even before it began to grow up.
Chapter Eight
Remo saw the snow of the Rockies and did not care. He sat in a lodge by a fireplace and did not answer questions about what he did for a living or if he liked Vail this year or if he preferred Snow Bird in Utah. One of the young women flocking around him mentioned that she hadn't seen his skis.
"I ski barefoot," he said.
"Are you being insulting?" she asked.
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