Bloody Tourists td-134

by Warren Murphy

  "Yeah, I guess so."

  Howard's fingers spidered over the keys for a few more minutes until he sat back in the chair. "I just don't see a connection."

  "But it might be there," Remo insisted.

  "Might be." Mark clearly doubted it. "Tell me why all the secrecy."

  Remo shook his head. "Maybe later. Where's the Union group now?"

  "En route to North Carolina for a PR event in the town of Fuquay-Varina."

  "You better not be making that up."

  "There's a morning talk-show appearance scheduled for the president, then a chartered bus trip through the Smoky Mountains. There's an afternoon photo op for the media at a mountaintop hotel, then on to a late dinner hosted by the mayor of Knoxville, Tennessee."

  "Why the long drive? Why not just fly to Knoxville?"

  "Maybe they want to see the Great Smokies."

  "Yeah," Remo said. "Maybe I do, too."

  Chapter 15

  "I would appreciate knowing where we are going."

  "Uckfay-Farina, North Carolina," Remo answered as he balanced Chiun's chests on each shoulder and ducked to get them below the top of the airport door. "From there maybe to Tennessee."

  "You have not yet told me why we are doing this."

  "And I'm not going to. That's the deal if I let you tag along."

  "The Master Of Sinanju Emeritus does not 'tag along.'"

  The uncomfortable silence continued all the way to Raleigh.

  THE REAL PEOPLE HOUR out of Raleigh, North Carolina, was as amateur as any TV talk show got. Some folding chairs and a stage pounded together out of plywood. A couple of digital camcorders from Walmart. One of them had a tripod.

  The Real People Hour had been broadcast on the whim of a retiring station manager and met with unexpected success. Now, as it celebrated its one-year anniversary, The Real People Hour was seen in fifteen markets throughout the Carolinas, Georgia, Virginia, even Florida. And more stations were interested.

  "It's a barn," Remo said as they emerged from the rental car.

  "It sure is," said the boy in the orange vest who was waving cars into parking places on the flattened grass. "This was a working farm up until a year ago. My mom's the one who started the show and my daddy does the production work. Tickets?"

  "No, thanks."

  "We flew in an airplane to come to this place?" Chiun sniffed. "They raised pigs in this place."

  "Yeah. And never bothered to clean out the sty when they made the switch to showbiz," Remo observed. The kid in the orange vest hustled past and chatted seriously with a pair of older boys at the barn entrance. The pair stiffened and eyed them as they checked ticket stubs, then closed ranks on Remo and Chiun.

  "You'll need tickets to see the show," the taller boy declared. He had a face full of patchy whiskers. His younger brother had the girth of a gorilla and was even hairier.

  "Shouldn't you be in school?" Remo asked.

  "Don't go to school. We got a TV show to run," the taller one explained scornfully. "Now, you got a ticket?" Remo extracted an ID from the front pocket of his Chinos.

  "Remo Rottweiler, Secret Service, foreign diplomats detail. Let's see some ID."

  The tall one went slack-jawed, then turned and gestured frantically into the barn. A moment later a beerbelly and its owner emerged. The man had the same scruffy whiskers as his sons.

  "You the man in charge here?" Remo demanded before the tall kid could get out an explanation. He pushed his ID in the man's face. "I assume you've got federal diplomatic access clearance for all employees?"

  "I never heard of federal diplomatic access clearance," the father responded, unable to decide if he should be belligerent or agreeable.

  "You've got heads of state on the premises. You'll need FDAC on all personnel."

  "Nobody told me that." The beer belly and its owner swung pendulously at them. He apparently decided on belligerence.

  "Sorry. You can start the show when you have them. Phone the Department of Justice, and they'll take care of it."

  "Oh. Okay. I'll phone right now. How long it'll take, you think?"

  Remo shrugged. "Eight weeks is what they'll tell you, but really it'll take twelve."

  "What? We got a show to do in ten minutes! You can't make us stop the show!"

  "Wouldn't dream of it. But we will be required to escort your guest away from the premises immediately."

  "But then we got no show!"

  "Then maybe you tell Scruff and Scruffier to cough up some ID. You, too."

  Remo glared at the IDs, then ordered Scruff the Youngest and the car-parking kid to go to school. Scruff the Youngest began sobbing. Remo reluctantly allowed the show to go on, under his supervision, and he and Chiun took seats in the audience. The Real People Hour got under way just fifteen minutes late.

  "Don't worry about it folks. We're on tape anyway, and we want everything perfect before we get the show on the road!" The host was Missy Glosse, whose complicated hair design and makeup contrasted with her rumpled farm-wife dress and the cheap set. In fact, the only change made to the show since the very first program was the host's new hairdo and several new folding chairs.

  After a few handshakes and bad jokes, Glosse disappeared into the curtained livestock stalls that now served as dressing rooms. Minutes later the house lights dropped and the show started with a blare of music from a portable stereo. Missy Glosse came on stage and brought out her guest without delay.

  "Who is this whelp?" Chiun asked in a voice so quiet only Remo could hear it.

  "Don't let his age fool you. The kid is an elected government leader."

  Chlun shook his head sadly. "I am not surprised. You elect felons. You elect actors. You elect professional wrestlers. Why not elect a playground brat? Democracy inspires idiocy."

  "Well, he wants out of our particular democracy," Remo explained. "He wants Union Island to go independent."

  "Ah. Emperor Smith opposes this."

  Remo shook his head. "I don't think Smitty give two hoots in a holler about Greg Grom or Union Island."

  Chiun's face pinched. "Then why are we here?" Remo ignored the question. Missy Glosse was effusing to the audience about her recent vacation on Union Island.

  "President Grom, your island is just the most beautiful tropical paradise! I have never experienced anyplace like it!"

  "Thank you very much, Ms. Glosse. You know, we can only try to protect our beautiful country from the ravages we know are coming-no less than total destruction of the entire island."

  "What?" demanded a mortified Missy Glosse.

  "You know the poor people of Puerto Rico have been terribly inconvenienced by the military exercises on their out-islands," the youthful-looking Greg Grom recited. "The political backlash has been tremendous and the U.S. is looking for another site-one without a minority population. We have it on good authority that Union Island has been designated. It's close, it's a U.S. property and the population is more than fifty-percent white, so the military can't be accused of racial discrimination."

  "But what about that beautiful island and those shining, happy people?" Ms. Glosse wailed.

  Greg Grom hung his head. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked up a moment later.

  "I am sorry. It just makes me so sad to talk about."

  "I can't believe anybody falls for this guy," Remo muttered.

  "Most of the charlatans vying for ballots in this failing democracy have some crude acting skills, if nothing else," Chiun observed. "This young faker is entirely insincere."

  Grom was looking straight at the camera now. "Our friends in Washington says there is a lockdown on these plans, and we've met with nothing but falsehoods and denials from federal officials. They do not even have the guts to tell us the truth."

  "I haven't seen acting this bad since we did Gift of the Magi in fifth grade," Remo complained. "Come on."

  "What? Going?" Chiun said. "The show has just begun."

  "There's more to se
e and it's not in here. You coming?"

  "Not until I know where."

  "Suit yourself."

  The entrance had a hand-lettered sign that forbade opening the door during the taping of the show. A padlocked steel bar kept the door firmly closed. Standing guard was another family member-in fact, his age suggested he might be the progenitor of the Glosse species.

  "Terlet's in the rear. Can't be opening this door while tape is rolling."

  "Terlet's on the stage, if you ask me," Remo replied as he tapped the padlock and it cracked like brittle glass. It clanked noisily on the wooden plank floor. Remo handed the steel crossbar to the dismayed old-timer, but the weight of the bar carried it right out of the old man's fingers. The racket was tremendous. By then taping had come to a stop and Producer-Director Beerbelly Glosse was yelling about "a closed set" and "federal meddlers!"

  "I see you are now abusing all the elderly, and not just me." Chiun had slipped through the door of the old pig barn just before it slammed shut.

  "I don't know what President Grom is up to, but he's sure telling a tall tale about the U.S. using his island for target practice," Remo commented. "I wonder why."

  "There are many other questions one must ask at this time," Chiun said. "Why did we come here? Why did we leave? What insidious plot do you conceal from your Father-in-Spirit?"

  Remo led them to the customized tour bus parked in the rear of the barn. The engine was running, and a uniformed driver stretched out on the steps in the open door. He smiled easily but made no move to get up.

  "We need to check out the vehicle," Remo flipped out the badge and stalled on the name and agency du jour. The driver waved the badge away.

  "Whatever. Coffee's in the pot."

  The driver scooted to one side so the Masters of Sinanju could use the steps. Inside they gazed at a vast suite of living spaces created out of compact furniture and built-in appointments.

  "Remo!" Chiun exclaimed. "What is this place?"

  "The Lost Naugahyde Graveyard?"

  "It is beautiful," Chiun enthused, strolling through a small parlor made by a tight grouping of sofas. He descended a few steps into the media center with theater seating and a huge, flat television display mounted in the wall. "Look how carefully it is crafted! See how they have used the finest fabrics and design to create compact living spaces inside a truck!"

  "It's a sleazy Vegas hotel room on wheels," Remo said.

  "No, it is a palace on wheels!"

  Remo didn't like the sound of that one bit. "Help me look, will you?"

  "How can I help when I do not know what I am looking for? This kitchen is a miracle-small and yet complete down to the smallest detail. There is even a warming drawer!"

  "We eat rice, fish and more rice. What would we warm in a warming drawer?"

  "The drawers are made with a tiny catch to keep them from sliding open while the vehicle is in motion!"

  "Wait," Remo said. He stopped and looked around the room. He sniffed. Chiun creased his eyes at the young Master.

  "Smell anything?" Remo asked.

  "I smell a thousand aromas. I assume you smell something out of the ordinary."

  "Not yet, but I'll find it." He sniffed loudly.

  "Pah. You smell like a horse-and I mean that in every sense," Chiun said. "Tell me what we are attempting to locate, if sharing the secret is not too troublesome."

  "Well, I don't know exactly. Some sort of a drug or chemical or something that would make people act crazy."

  Chiun's white mouth drew up in a hard line. "As in violently maddened? Is that why we are here, Remo, to hunt down the source of the tavern brawl troubles?"

  "Yep. That's the reason."

  "Why did not Emperor Smith inform me of this purpose?"

  "Emperor Smith doesn't know we're here, okay?" Remo said. "It was my idea to come here. I'm the one who started thinking that maybe this bunch of Caribbean nincompoops was making all the bad stuff happen. The only person I told was Prince Junior and only because I needed to get some of my facts straight."

  Chiun nodded, uncharacteristically thoughtful. Remo tried to ignore him as he opened cabinets and sniffed under coffee tables.

  "What did the Prince Regent think of your deductions?"

  "You know what he thought, Chiun! He thought-I was grasping at wild geese and I am sure you do, too. So what do you say we skip all the sarcastic remarks this time."

  Remo felt the Master Emeritus watching him. The old man was just standing there. Remo hated it when Chiun acted all quiet, as if pondering weighty matters-such as the magnificence of the ignorance of the man who was now Reigning Master.

  "Well, like it or not, here we are," Remo announced finally. "So why don't you humor me and see if you can find anything suspicious."

  "Very well," Chiun replied quite agreeably.

  For the next ten minutes they ransacked the customized touring bus and went through the two bedrooms in the rear. They found prescription bottles, several stocked liquor cabinets and a plastic bag of Mary Jane's Delight Brand Legal Pipe-Blend. Even in a sealed plastic bag Remo could tell it was only catnip and oregano.

  "I do not believe we will find what you are seeking, my son," Chiun said as they finished their rounds. Remo said nothing, just stood in the small dining area with a realistic-looking electric-log fireplace. His freakishly thick wrists twisted absently.

  "Any bombs?" asked the driver with a smile as he strolled through the curtains that partitioned off the driving area. He made for the kitchenette, where he refilled his insulated mug.

  "Can't be too careful," Remo replied as his wrists stopped twisting.

  "I 'preciate your thoroughness."

  As soon as the driver left, Remo went to the kitchenette. He snatched open the doors of the golden oak cabinets.

  "I have already searched the kitchenette," Chiun said.

  "Maybe it's in the coffee. They used to try to hide cocaine in coffee shipments because the drug dogs couldn't sniff it out that way."

  "My sense of smell is superior to that of any drug-sniffing dog. If there were drugs in the coffee I would have found it "

  "I know you would, Little Father," Remo said through gritted teeth-as he opened a five-pound can of Folgers and plunged his fingers into it. He scooped up several handfuls of coffee.

  Just coffee.

  Chapter 16

  "All right, let me have it," Remo said after an hour of excruciating silent treatment.

  "Let you have what?" Chiun asked.

  "You're mad at me, and you're dying to tell me about it."

  Sitting with legs crossed, Chiun modestly adjusted the skirts of his kimono. Every loose bit of silk fluttered in the wind. "I do not know what you are talking about."

  "Overpass," Remo announced, nodding his head low on his chest. The big tour bus rumbled at sixty-five miles per hour under the concrete supports of a county highway that had been routed over the interstate. There was just an inch of clearance between the windwhipped tips of his close-cropped dark hair and the underside of the overpass. Chiun didn't even bother to bow his head. At about five feet tall, he was already as low as his adopted son was ducking.

  The overpass was left behind in a flurry of rushing air.

  "I didn't trust you or I second-guessed you or something when we were in the bus. You told me the drugs were not in the coffee and I went and looked in the coffee anyway. You're mad about that."

  Chiun said nothing. The white tufts of hair decorating each of his shell-like ears looked as if they would fly off any second.

  "Well, I guess I can understand why you'd be mad. I don't know why I checked the coffee. Even I could smell that it was just coffee. Aw, crap."

  A state trooper, lying in wait behind the viaduct, was now speeding up behind the tour bus.

  "Why couldn't he be sleeping?" Remo complained.

  "You did not expect to ride half the morning atop this vehicle without being noticed," Chiun said. "Besides, the first two police were sleeping."
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  They stood and walked to the front of the bus, which alarmed the trooper into sounding his siren. They stepped off at a point near the front where they would be unseen by the trooper and bus passengers, then jogged alongside as the bus slowed. Finally they veered off into the wildflower field that encroached on the two westbound lanes.

  "I guess I really wanted to find the stuff in the damn bus," Remo continued as the two of them stepped up into a comfortable looking tree and watched the trooper clamber all over the tour bus. They heard the derision cast on the trooper by the bus driver and several of the occupants, who had debarked to watch the entertainment. The trooper's face was bright pink by the time he crawled onto the roof himself and searched it, expecting to find a trapdoor or a hiding place.

  "Is that why we are staying with the bus? Because you cannot stand the thought of being mistaken?"

  "No, because I don't think I am mistaken," Remo said. "I've got a strong intuition that there's a link between this entourage and the outbreaks of violence. Like when I was in Boston putting the screws to Jorge Moroza. The TV was on in the restaurant to a Spanish language station, and they showed one of the news items with Greg Grom. Then we saw him on the news again in Nashville. And I think I saw him at the Big Stomp-remember the limo that pulled in right after we got there? I saw half a face inside it. Just the eyes. And it was through the dark glass. But I think it was him. Grom."

  Chiun looked at him as if waiting for a punchline. "I had this sort of feeling that I was missing something, you know. I couldn't put my finger on it, but for some reason I kept smelling pork tamales in my head." Chiun looked more interested, and slightly pitying. "Crazy, maybe, but I couldn't shake it out. Then I was just sitting there on the plane, not even trying to think about it, and that's when I remembered smelling pork tamales. It was when I questioned Jorge Moroza. He must have eaten thirty of them. That was when I remembered that I had seen Grom on the TV when I was with Moroza. Everything clicked into place."

  "You equate an obsession with pork tamales with investigative insight?" Chiun pondered. "Pork tamales no less, Remo. Pig fat and corn. There must be no more appealing food on the planet to one with your bizarre and degraded pedigree."