"Thank you, Remo," Smith said quietly.
"Can you really drive like this?" Remo asked solicitously as he slammed the door closed.
"My legs will not support me just yet, but I can manage the pedals." Smith started the car up. "Please keep me informed," he said, and pulled away.
Remo watched him go, his face sad.
" I feel sort of sorry for him, you know. Even after all he's put me through.
"And me," Chiun said. "Do not forget his base trickery."
"That's Smith for you," Remo said. "Okay, let's get a move on. The corporate jet awaits . . . ."
Chapter 13
The private estate of P. M. Looncraft was a two-story manor in the Great Neck section of Long Island. Designed by a Welsh architect, it was built of firebrick inside and out so that in the event of a fire the ashes could be hauled away, the indestructible walls hosed down, and the old furniture replaced with new literally overnight. The house was also as earthquake-proof as it was possible to make a house. It was built to withstand hurricanes, tornadoes and any other natural cataclysm short of a direct nuclear strike.
A lead-lined fallout shelter fifty feet below the basement awaited that eventuality.
P. M. Looncraft had no more fear of fire than any homeowner, but he treasured his orderly, well-regimented life. He saw no one and engaged in no activity that would inhibit his six-day work week. And in its baronial splendor, his home was designed to shield him from outside intrusion.
Time was money to P. M. Looncraft. But his privacy was sacred.
So when the soft wind-chimelike tinkling of his front doorbell filtered into his cheery living room, P. M. Looncraft's long face collapsed in a disapproving frown. He detested visitors-especially unannounced ones.
Looncraft's butler padded out of the pantry and said in precise Oxbridge English, "I shall see who it is, master."
Looncraft said nothing. That in itself signaled that he neither expected nor welcomed whoever was at his door.
Taking a pinch of snuff from a monogrammed box, Looncraft put the unwanted visitor out of his mind as he delicately inhaled it through each nostril. His butler, Danvers, was a product of the finest English butlering school. No one entered Looncraft's firebrick castle unless Danvers allowed him in.
Danvers' low-pitched voice drifted in from the foyer, politely and precisely informing the visitor-whoever he might be-that Mr. Looncraft was not in to callers. Danvers' voice repeated the sentence in a slightly more insistent voice, and then again in a kind of high girlish skirl.
"Gentlemen, please! You are tresp-"
The abruptness with which Danvers' voice was cut off shocked P. M. Looncraft to his feet. He started for the fireproof safe that occupied one corner of the room. It covered a trapdoor that connected to the bomb shelter with a fire-pole. P. M. Looncraft was keenly aware of the threat kidnappers presented to the modern businessman.
Looncraft got halfway across the room before a cool and casual voice asked him a question.
"Where do you want him?" the voice said.
Looncraft turned. A lean young man of indeterminate age was coming into the room. He carried Danvers, all six-foot-one and 211 pounds of him, under one arm as if carrying a goose-feather pillow.
Even more remarkable, Danvers did not resist. He simply hung there, his arms and legs and neck frozen as if from sudden rigor mortis.
"Danvers! Good God, man! What's happened to you?" P. M. Looncraft called in his precise New England voice.
Danvers' mouth was locked in the open position. His tongue squirmed as if trying to make consonants, but the only sound came from his nose. It buzzed. Rather like a fly.
"What have you done to Danvers?" Looncraft said coldly.
"Long story," the intruder said unconcernedly. "So where do you want him?" He was dressed in his underwear, Looncraft saw to his horror. He wore a white T-shirt and chino pants. "C'mon, I haven't got all night."
"On the divan," Looncraft said. And because he pointed, Remo Williams, who didn't know a divan from Saran Wrap, knew enough to put him on the sofa.
Danvers settled on the cushions in a kind of upended-beetle position. He didn't move, even when he started to tip over. The man pushed him back with a casual if contemptible gesture.
"What is the meaning of this?" Looncraft asked stiffly. He took a step backward. The intruder appeared to be unarmed, but Looncraft knew that certain kinds of men, like other predators, would chase you if you ran from them. Looncraft would not run. He was a Looncraft. Except, of course, to preserve his life.
"Someone wants a meet with you."
"I am going nowhere with you, you interloper."
"That's fine. Because he's come to you."
Then a fantastic figure stepped into the room. He was a little man, of doubtful Asiatic heritage, Looncraft saw. He wore an outlandish blue-and-gold ceremonial garment. His hands were linked like an old-fashioned postcard Chinaman's in his touching wide sleeves.
"I am Chiun," he said formally, his hazel eyes glittering. "Chief of Nostrum, Ink."
"You have some nerve intruding upon my home," Looncraft said, curling his thin upper lip disdainfully.
"I will overlook your impertinence in not accepting my calls, white," the one called Chiun said as the other man folded his arms like some skinny eunuch in a high-school production of The King and I. "For I have come to make peace with you."
"Peace?"
"You covet Nostrum," said Chiun, stepping closer. His sandals made no sound on the bare brick flooring. "Yet I have reason to believe that it is not Nostrum you truly desire, but these."
The joined sleeves parted like a train uncoupling, to reveal a sheaf of folded papers clutched in one ivory claw. Looncraft recognized them as stock certificates.
"And what, pray tell, are those?" Looncraft wanted to know.
"I told you he sounded almost English," the lean man put in suddenly.
"He does not sound at all English," Chiun retorted, not looking away from Looncraft's gaze. "But he speaks like an inhabitant of Gaul."
Looncraft emitted a barking laugh. "Gaul! My dear heathen. "
"Do not call me that," Chiun said coldly. "My ancestors were known throughout the civilized world when yours were painting themselves blue and wearing animal skins."
Looncraft's disdainfully curled upper lip almost disappeared as it locked with his lower lip.
"I offer these stocks to you," Chiun continued, "because I have been advised that it is the prudent thing to do."
"At market or-?"
"In gold," Chiun returned. "No checks."
"I'm afraid I have no gold on hand," Looncraft said in an amused voice.
"Take cash," the man in the T-shirt put in.
Chiun hesitated. His clear eyes narrowed, and Looncraft wondered if he was some kind of half-breed. He detested people of diluted heritage.
"Very well," Chiun said unhappily.
"One moment," Looncraft said, going to his safe. He knelt and twirled the tumblers. Opening a box, he withdrew a stack of hundred dollar bills, broke the bank's paper band, and counted out a precise number of bills.
"If you are surrendering your entire holding," Looncraft said after he closed the safe, "this should cover the transaction."
The two men exchanged sheafs of paper. Chiun ran his fingers along the top of the stack of bills, his eyes focused.
"Not going to count it?" Looncraft said. "Trusting sort, eh?"
"You are right. I should recount," Chiun said. He fanned the bills again and, satisfied, tucked the money in one sleeve.
"These certificates seem to be in order," Looncraft said after going through the surrendered stock. "I trust that concludes our somewhat unorthodox transaction."
"You have what you covet, businessman," Chiun intoned coldly. "Now you will leave Nostrum alone."
"I am a businessman, as you say. I do only what is good for business. And I see you are very serious in your own way."
"So be it," Chiun said, turning o
n his heel and leaving the room. He called over his shoulder, "Come, Remo."
"Wait! What about Danvers?" Looncraft demanded.
Remo paused at the door. "Stick him next to the fire for a while. His muscles should soften up in no time."
"But-"
The outer door closed and P. M. Looncraft walked over to his arthritic nightmare of a butler.
"Danvers," Looncraft said shortly. "I expect a full explanation of this dereliction of duty from you."
Danvers only buzzed.
Outside, Remo held the car door open for Chiun, who settled into the passenger side like blue smoke rolling into a cave.
"What do you think, Chiun?" Remo asked as he climbed behind the wheel.
"I think that man is not to be trusted."
"He's got what he wants."
"Such men as he never get what they want. Their appetites are too large."
"Takes one to know one," Remo said, pulling away from the palatial estate. "If you don't mind, I'm going to drop you off at the hotel."
"And where are you going?" Chiun squeaked.
"I got a date. With Faith."
"I am not certain I approve of my employees fraternizing."
"Who are you, Simon Legree?" Remo asked. "She used to work for Looncraft. I'm just going to get the inside story. In case we have more problems with him."
"Very well," Chiun sniffed. "Just remember-no fraternizing. "
"Scout's honor," Remo said.
Remo Williams felt good as he entered the lobby of Faith Davenport's upper Manhattan apartment house. He had showered, shaved, and changed into a fresh T-shirt and chinos.
As far as he knew, he didn't smell at all like a bear, but the pickled expression that came over the blue-blazered lobby guard's face as he approached the reception desk made him wonder.
"Remo Stallone to see Faith Davenport," Remo said with a straight face.
"Is she expecting you?"
"None other," Remo fired back confidently.
"One moment." The guard went to a typewriter and rattled the keys. Pulling the sheet from the roller, he inserted it into a copier-type device and pressed a button that said "Send."
"Computer?" Remo asked, curious.
"Fax machine."
"Isn't that a phone next to it?" Remo asked, pointing to a desk phone.
"You are very observant," the guard said coolly.
"I happen to be corporate secretary to Nostrum, Ink," Remo told him smugly.
The guard looked at Remo over his glasses wordlessly. His expression was a supercilious: Oh, really?
As they waited for a reply, Remo asked, "Why not just pick up the phone and announce me?"
"We do not intrude upon our guests in this building," the guard sniffed.
The fax machine hummed and a new sheet of paper rolled out. The guard read it and looked up, disappointment writ large on his face.
"You may go up," he said. "It's the twenty-first floor. Apartment C. That's Twenty-one-C," he added smugly.
"Thanks," Remo said, glad to get away from the distasteful look on the guard's face.
On the twenty-first floor he buzzed twice. Faith Davenport opened the door, a smile on her face and a gleam in her blue eyes.
Almost at once her face fell, matching almost line for line the downstairs guard's expression.
"Oh," she said in a disappointed tone.
Remo blinked. "Something wrong?"
"I thought you were taking me out."
"I am. My car's downstairs."
Faith's gaze raked his fresh T-shirt. "Which did you have in mind-McDonald's, or were you going to splurge and take me to Charley O's?"
Remo forced a smile. "We'll go wherever you want."
"I'm used to eating in places that require proper dress. And ties."
"I don't wear ties," Remo said, feeling his mood sink.
"Or shirts either," Faith said, stepping back with studied reluctance so Remo could enter.
Remo was surprised at the elegance of Faith's apartment and said so as the door closed behind him.
"How do you afford all this on a secretary's salary?"
" I play the market. I'm hoping to go back to school. Can I fix you a drink? Some Zinfandel or Grenache?"
"Actually, I don't drink," Remo admitted.
Faith used tongs to clink ice into two glasses, and looked over at him.
"You don't drink or wear business clothes," she wondered, "so what are you doing working for Nostrum, Ink?"
"What's with you?" Remo asked, suddenly annoyed. "I was dressed like this when you first met me."
"When I first met you, I didn't know you were an employee. And it is Saturday. We sometimes dress down on Saturdays. Evian water okay?"
"Sure," Remo said, suddenly feeling like he'd shown up at a formal affair in Halloween costume.
Faith came over and handed him a drink. She sat down and took a sip of Scotch. When her mouth came up, it reeked of alcohol fumes. Remo's eyes left her no-longer-quite-delectable lips and shifted to her eyes. They were veiled.
Faith took another sip. "Maybe we could order out."
"If you want," Remo said, thinking that he had hoped to end up back at this apartment, and not going out turned that possibility into a certainty.
" I know this wonderful Italian place," she said, putting down her drink. "Their pesto is superb." She twisted around and picked up the phone. She dialed as she put a pencil to a piece of paper and began checking off boxes.
"Want me to order for you?" she asked. "Everything's good."
"Actually, I have a lot of food allergies," Remo said quickly. "I'm on a strict rice-and-fish diet. Sometimes rice and duck."
"I never heard of an Italian restaurant that served duck," Faith said, frowning, her pencil poised. " I guess we'll have to go with fish."
"Fine with me," Remo said, noticing the chilliness creep into her voice.
Faith inserted a slip of paper into a fax and pressed "Send. "
" I don't know what I did before the fax," she said as the machine hummed.
"I usually made do with the telephone, primitive as it is."
"But with phones you have to actually talk to people. This is so much more efficient."
"It is quieter," Remo admitted.
Faith retrieved her drink. "Well, what shall we talk about while we're waiting?"
"Tell me about Looncraft," Remo suggested. "You worked there once."
Faith made a face. "Don't remind me. It was a cold place. I had to get out or I was going to go crazy."
"I hear Looncraft is called the King of Wall Street."
"Make that Prince," Faith said, making quote marks with her fingers. Remo hated it when people did that. "The chief is already being touted as the new King of the Street. "
"No kidding?" Remo said, ignoring his mineral water. "Where'd you hear that?"
"It's all over the street. Everyone is talking about him. Before that, everyone was wondering why Looncraft sold off his Global holdings."
"He did?"
" 'Did' is the word," Faith said, making quote marks again. "I hear that during the early hours of the meltdown he liquidated his position. Hours later, he bought it all back, and more, at a higher price than he'd first sold it."
" I don't know the market, but that doesn't sound logical to me."
"It's not. Even if Looncraft had suddenly gone contrarian."
"What's that?" Remo said, relieved that her fingers didn't dance with the unfamiliar word.
"A contrarian is an investor who swims against the tide. When everyone is selling, he buys. And vice versa."
"Sounds fishy."
"Enough of Looncraft. Tell me more about the chief. I find him fascinating."
"What about me?" he said, flashing his best boyish grin.
"Oh, you're nice too," Faith said dismissively. "But men in authority have always fascinated me."
"Is that so? Well, Chiun is eighty years old, grew up in a fishing village in Korea that smells like a tho
usand-year-old dead clam, and has a major crush on Cheeta Ching."
"He does?" Faith's voice dropped like a stone.
"Absolutely," Remo went on, warming to the subject. "He hates white people. Especially women."
"Oh," Faith said, taking an extra long sip from her drink. Then, deep in thought, she drained it and went back to the wet bar.
She returned with the tumbler filled almost to sloshing over. Her eyebrows knit into one slim unhappy eyebrow.
Son of a gun, Remo thought. She has a crush on Chiun.
The food came while Remo was attempting to revive the conversation.
Faith let the deliveryman in, paid him by credit card, and set the Styrofoam package on the dining-nook table. Her face was pouty as she set plates.
"Help yourself," she called to Remo as she gathered together silverware.
Remo opened the package, and his sad expression turned to revulsion.
"I think they made a mistake," he said. "Unless you ordered squid over rice."
"It's supposed to be octopus. And it's yours."
"Yeah," Remo said, looking again, "the eyes do kinda look octopussy."
"You did say fish," Faith reminded him as she sat down.
"I said fish, not octopus. Octopus is something else."
"Octopus is very chic this season."
"Fine," Remo said, pushing his plate away. "Give mine to the sheiks. I don't eat octopus."
"Must be terrible to be allergic to food," Faith said unconcernedly. " I don't know what I'd do without good food and drink-and excellent sex."
Remo looked up from the mess on his plate, his face hopeful. But Faith was looking out the window at the Manhattan skyline, not at him.
He decided to take a shot at salvaging the night. "Excellent sex is my specialty," he said through his best smile.
"Mmm? What's that?" Faith asked, her eyes refocusing as they swept back toward him.
"I said excellent sex is my specialty."
"Is that so?" Mild interest came to her face. "What kind of visualizations do you use?"
"None," Remo said, surprised at the question.
" I think of money," Faith said dreamily. "Actually, power really makes me horny-but how do you visualize power? I mean, it's an abstract, right?"
"Not to me," Remo said in a sincere voice. "To me, power is very, very concrete."
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