"He's mine," said Consuelo as they entered what appeared to be the back of an exquisite town house. They could hear the Pacific on the other side. "I want this to be legal and official. No rough stuff. Do you hear me?"
"What does she mean by rough stuff?" said Chiun, who was never rough.
"She means that we can't help with the questioning. We have laws in this country about how you question people. She wants to get admissible evidence," said Remo.
There were three apartments in the town house condominium. Brewster's name appeared above one button on the brass entrance plaque. Chiun looked around. It was a modest dwelling which of course lacked the true Korean warmth.
Chiun considered Remo's incomprehensible explanation. "What is admissible evidence?" he asked, afraid he was getting into that strange unfathomable tangle of doctrine that made Americans act crazy.
"Well, you can't get evidence by violating the law. The judge won't allow it."
"Even if what you're trying to prove is true?" asked Chiun.
"It doesn't matter if the evidence is true or not or whether the person is guilty or not. If you don't follow the rules, the judge won't allow the evidence to decide the case."
"Truth does not matter, then?" asked Chiun.
"Well, yeah, it does. It does. But the people have to be protected from the police too. Otherwise you have a police state, a dictatorship, a tyranny," said Remo, who could have told Chiun this twisted justice was the whole reason for the organization's being, but Chiun would never have understood that one. He simply refused to.
"There have been some wonderful tyrants, Remo. Never speak against tyrants. Tyrants pay well. In the history of Sinanju, we have been honored by many tyrants."
"Tyrants have a bad name in this civilization," said Remo.
"Which is why we do not belong here. What are you doing running after this metal that has been stolen, like some slave guarding a storehouse? In a tyranny an assassin is respected."
"Shhh," said Consuelo. She rang the buzzer.
"No rough stuff," said Chiun, looking around for a sane person to share this absurdity with. Of course, there was none. Just Remo and Consuelo. Chiun was, as ever, alone in his sanity.
"Who is it?" came the voice.
"Hello," said Consuelo. "My name is Consuelo Bonner, and we are from the McKeesport facility."
"Who is the funny-looking guy?"
"His name is Remo," said Chiun.
"I mean the other," said Brewster. Chiun looked around. There was no one else in the lobby. But he knew that before he looked. Chiun examined the perfect fingernails that reflected his inner grace, reexamined his perfect presence, and knew without looking that his face was the true reflection of joy and health and nobility. They were dealing with a person suffering either sight or judgment problems. Possibly both.
"I'm busy," said Brewster.
Remo folded his arms. He remembered his days as a policeman. There were certain forms Consuelo had to adhere to, restrictions on what to ask, and most of all prohibitions against threats. He would let Consuelo have all the rope she wanted.
"I would advise you to talk to us."
"I'm not going to talk to you without my lawyer. I want my lawyer."
"We just wish to question you."
"No lawyer, no talk."
They waited by the buzzer until a young man in his mid-twenties arrived. He had dark curly hair and a frenzied look. He charged Remo and Chiun with brutality.
"We're down here. Brewster is upstairs. How can we brutalize him?" asked Remo.
"Brutality by threats of stance," said the young man. He wore a very expensive suit, jogging shoes, and the eager look of an up-and-comer just a few years out of law school. His name was Barry Goldenson. He gave Remo a card.
"We are just here to talk to your client," said Consuelo. "My name is Consuelo Bonner, and I am in charge of security for the McKeesport nuclear facility. Your client is a former dispatcher for us. We want to find out about certain uranium shipments."
"My client will not testify against himself."
Then why talk to him? wondered Chiun. Of course, that was a logical question; therefore, it was a question not worth asking. When one began trying to apply reason to these people, one began unraveling seaweed. Barry Goldenson led Consuelo, Remo, and Chiun up to a very small living room. There was a bedroom, and one bathroom and a small kitchen.
"You paid three-quarters of a million dollars for this?" asked Remo.
"He got in before the big price jump," said Goldenson. "This is a bargain for La Jolla."
"What do you get for a hundred thousand?" asked Remo.
"Parking," answered Brewster. He was of average height with a graying mustache and a new tan. He wore an open shirt with a gold chain nestled in a forest of gray chest hair. On the chain hung a gold pendant. He sat back in the full comfort of a man with every confidence in his safety.
"I could get everything you want out of him and his lawyer in thirteen seconds," Remo whispered to Consuelo.
Consuelo shot him a dirty look.
"Now, Mr. Brewster, you were the dispatcher who sent a shipment of uranium that disappeared. In fact, you sent several shipments that disappeared."
"My client does not have to answer that."
"We have his name on the order. We have his pay records. We have his countersigned receipts. We have statements from others in the plant."
"Are you persecuting him for doing his job?" said Goldenson.
"Would you care to explain how he amassed a half-million dollars on a salary that for most of his life was ten thousand dollars? It only rose above that in the last few years. Would you care to explain how on a pension of twelve thousand a year this man can buy a three-quarter-of-a-million-dollar condominium?"
"America is a land of opportunity," said Goldenson.
"So after sending several shipments along some very odd routes, like Kennedy Boulevard in Bayonne, New Jersey, he's suddenly able to buy this condominium? Come on, Mr. Goldenson-nothing of value is in Bayonne, New Jersey," said Consuelo.
"Perhaps that's why he sent them through there."
"Perhaps that is why he suddenly opened a gold-bullion account after the first shipment and received a deposit of one-quarter of a million dollars immediately. Perhaps that is why every time a shipment got lost his account rose by a quarter of a million dollars." Consuelo shot the questions at both Brewster and the lawyer. She was cold and professional.
Brewster sweated.
"A man has a right to prepare for his retirement. He has a right to his golden years," said Goldenson.
"Not that golden," said Consuelo.
"Are you placing limits on a person's aspirations? America is a land of hope," said Goldenson.
Remo tapped his feet, annoyed. He wanted to know who gave Brewster the gold payoffs for shipping the uranium on those strange routes. Once he got that he could get to the person behind it all. No matter how many layers of protection there were, he could always keep cracking them until he got to the source. He stepped out onto the balcony that overlooked a magnificent view of a benign, warm ocean. Chiun did not join him. He stayed inside with the lawyer, Consuelo, and the suspect. Remo was sure he didn't understand a word of the conversation.
At worst, maybe a few crooks got away. But basically in America, more than anywhere else in the world, the people were protected from their government. That would always be the difference between Chiun and him. To Chiun, a government, any kind of government, was only as good as its treatment of the House of Sinanju. Remo could understand that. Sinanju was poor. But Remo was not brought up poor. There was always food; and once you had food and shelter, you wanted something else. You wanted things that only America could give. It was a good country, Remo thought. He was glad he did what he did, even if sometimes it seemed as though he was really swimming against a strong current.
Expensive boats dotted the placid ocean. Out on the horizon, he noticed a glint of sun off glass. Somehow the glass was
steady on a rocking boat. Everything moved with the sea but that reflection. Remo glanced back into the room.
The lawyer seemed to be handling Consuelo rather well until Chiun stepped in. The Master of Sinanju started talking to the lawyer, asking him questions. Consuelo, losing her head, ordered Chiun to be quiet.
Remo stepped back inside the room. He tried to explain to Consuelo that that was not the right way to communicate with Chiun, that indeed she might get off the first sentence, but she might not get a chance to complete the second. Consuelo answered she could not be threatened.
Goldenson winked to his client. Chiun ignored Consuelo. He spoke directly to Goldenson.
"Does your mother know you are wearing sneakers?" asked Chiun. Remo looked out the window quite intently. He was pretending he didn't know this man. Consuelo almost threw her notes into the trashcan. Chiun ignored them both. Brewster smiled, confident. "Does she?" asked Chiun.
Goldenson looked to Consuelo and his clients as if to say, "Who is this lunatic?"
"Does she?" asked Chiun.
"I don't know if she knows what I wear for shoes," said Goldenson. There was a condescending smirk.
"If I may get on with the questioning," said Consuelo.
"Of course," said Goldenson.
"Does she?" asked Chiun.
"Please continue your questioning," said Goldenson, concentrating on ignoring the Oriental.
"Does she?" asked Chiun.
"Why don't you phone her and ask," said Goldenson. Brewster laughed and patted his lawyer on the back. Consuelo just sighed. In Korean, Remo said to Chiun: "Little father, this young man is obviously as good a criminal lawyer as money can buy. You can't get anywhere with him by speaking to him like a child. He's a tough legal adversary for Consuelo here. You don't know anything about American law. Please. Let her handle it. As a favor."
"What is her phone number?" Chiun asked Goldenson.
"Really," said Goldenson.
"Can I go out for a swim now?" asked Brewster. As far as he was concerned the danger was over.
"I cannot continue," Consuelo told Remo.
"What is her number?"
"Do you really want it?" asked Barry Goldenson. He adjusted his seven-thousand-dollar Rolex watch. Chiun nodded. Laughing, Barry Goldenson, Esquire, gave Chiun a number with a Florida exchange.
Chiun dialed the number.
"I am going to die of shame," said Consuelo. She didn't have to ask Brewster to hang around. He decided to stay for the amusement. There wasn't anything funnier than this going on in La Jolla, anyhow. This Oriental was phoning the mother of one of the top criminal lawyers in the state.
"Hello, Mrs. Goldenson?" said Chiun. "You don't know me and I am not important. I'm calling about your son ... No. He is not in any trouble or danger. No, I don't know what kind of women he is going with.... I am calling about something else. I can tell that such a fine boy has to have been raised with care. I understand that because I have had troubles with raising a boy myself."
Chiun looked at Remo. Remo was now rooting for the young criminal lawyer. Remo was also rooting for the woman to hang up on Chiun. Remo was happy to root for anyone but Chiun.
"Oh, yes.... You try and try, but when your loved one ignores your needs to fend ... Oh, yes ... The entire family treasure for generations back . . . missing and I only asked for a little help in looking ... but that's my problem, Mrs. Goldenson. . . . Your son can still be helped because I know you have taught him right . . . a nothing ... a little thing ... successful lawyer, Mrs. Goldenson, and such a success should not be wearing ... I hate to say it ... I won't say it ... you don't want to hear it ... sneakers."
Chiun was quiet a moment, then handed the telephone to Goldenson. Goldenson adjusted the vest of his three-piece suit and cleared his throat.
"Yes, Mother," he said. "He's not a nice man, Mother. I am on an important case and he is on the other side. They do things, anything to distract ... Mother ... he is not a nice man ... you don't know him ... you haven't seen him ... As a matter of fact, I happen to be wearing what many California businessmen wear for the comfort of their feet.... Do you know who wears jogging shoes in courtrooms? Do you know the famous . . ."
Goldenson clenched the receiver as his face flushed. He broke eye contact with everyone in the room. Finally he handed the receiver to Chiun.
"She wants to talk to you."
"Yes, Mrs. Goldenson. I hope I didn't cause you any worry. You're welcome, and if I ever get to Boynton Beach, Florida, I will be happy to see you. No, there is nothing I can do with my son. The treasure is lost but he thinks someone else's useless metal is worth more than the family history. What can you do?"
And then Chiun offered the phone to Goldenson, asking if he had anything more to say. Goldenson shook his head. He opened his briefcase and quickly wrote out a check. He handed it to Brewster.
"This is your retainer."
"Where are you going?"
"Shoes. I am going to get a pair of dark leather shoes. Thank you, Mr. Chiun," said Goldenson bitterly.
"What about me?" asked Brewster. "Who's going to look after me?"
"Try your former employer, Ms. Bonner."
"A good boy," Chiun said to Goldenson as he left. With Goldenson on the way it took Bonner exactly seven minutes to have Brewster sweating and making up alibis. Finally she warned him that anything further he said might be used against him and warned him not to leave La Jolla. An arrest warrant would be sworn out that very afternoon.
Before they left, Remo glanced back out at that strange reflection on the water. It hadn't moved. Other boat windows bobbed and pitched with the gentle swells of the Pacific. That reflection did not. And then Remo knew why.
On board the boat, beneath the deck, Francisco Braun checked the large gyroscope. The heavy spinning wheel kept his electron telescope balanced as steady as in a laboratory. The boat could pitch and rock, but the telescope set on that gyroscope would never move from the level created by the force of the motion.
This telescope could expand a thumbprint at two miles. It could also aim a small cannon.
Francisco Braun had seen all he had to see back in McKeesport. He had seen enough to know what would not work. A mere few hundred yards was not enough distance between Braun and his prey, against the white man and the ancient Oriental. The speed and reflexes of those two men were dangerous at that range. But launching a shell into a shorefront condominium from several miles out, where a boat was just a dot on the horizon, was like launching a shell from nowhere. If they couldn't see it, they couldn't avoid it. The key was staying beyond their awareness. And that meant distance.
He focused on the condominium until he could see the weathering on the wood, and then he lifted his sights to the second-floor balcony and the apartment of James Brewster. Consuelo and the two men should be there now.
Braun focused on the railing on the second floor. A hand rested on the railing. It was a man's hand. He had thick wrists, just like the white at McKeesport. Behind him, a kimono caught a breeze. The kimono was inside the apartment. That would be the Oriental.
Braun raised the level of the telescope. He picked up the buttons of the white man's shirt. He picked up the Adam's apple. The chin. The mouth. It was smiling at him. So were the eyes.
Francisco Braun did not fire his gun.
Chapter 7
Consuelo Bonner got a policeman, who got a judge, who gave an arrest warrant, and then she, Remo, Chiun, the policeman, and the warrant went to the condominium of James Brewster to read him his rights and place him under arrest. All according to the law.
"This is justice," said Consuelo. The policeman rang the buzzer.
The camera stared its one thick glass eye down at the foursome.
"Justice," said Chiun to Remo in Korean, "is when an assassin is paid for his work. Justice is when the treasures of those labors, stolen while the assassin is gone, are recovered. That is justice. This is running around with papers."
"I thoug
ht you said the real treasures of Sinanju were in the histories of the Masters, that it was not the gold or the jewels or other tributes but who we are and how we became that way that make us rich," said Remo in the same language.
"Will you two stop talking, please? This is an official act of the La Jolla Police Department," said the patrolman.
"No crueler blow than to have one's own words twisted and then thrown back."
"How are they twisted?"
"Badly twisted," said Chiun.
"How?"
"It will be recorded in the histories that I, Chiun, was Master when the treasures were lost. But it will be recorded most that you, Remo, did not aid in their recovery. Instead, you served your own kind during a moment of crisis in the House of Sinanju."
"The world was ready to go. If there is no world, if everything is in some form of nuclear winter, what would the treasure of Sinanju be worth then?"
"Even more," said Chiun.
"To whom?" said Remo.
"I don't argue with fools," said Chiun.
The policeman, having determined he could neither stop the two from talking in that strange language nor get an answer from the buzzer, did according to the rights of his warrant proceed to enter said domicile of one James Brewster.
But the door was locked. He was going to send for assistance in breaking into said domicile when Remo grabbed the handle and turned. There was a snap of breaking metal. The door opened.
"Cheap door," said the La Jolla patrolman. He saw a piece of the cracked lock on the other side of the door. He bent to pick it up and then quickly let go. It was hot. "Whadya do to the door? What happened here?"
"I let you in," said Remo. "But it won't do any good. He's not there."
"Don't be so negative. If there is one thing I have learned in criminology it is that a negative mind produces nothing. You have to think positive."
"If I thought it was snowing outside, it still wouldn't be snowing," said Remo. "He's not there."
"How do you know he's not there? How can you say he's not there?" ranted Consuelo Bonner. "How do you know until you go up and see? I am a woman but I am just as competent as any man. Don't go fouling my case on me."
The Last Alchemist td-64 Page 9
