"So? We knew that."
"There is an old saying that Times Square is the crossroads of the world. If one were to seek a specific person, you have only to stand on that corner long enough and that person will almost certainly appear there. Because sooner or later everyone passes through Times Square."
Remo grinned. "Somebody should set a trap for Saddam Hussein, then."
Smith shook his humorless gray head. "Our man first showed up in Times Square. - Perhaps he might return."
"Yes, he will return to the scene of his depredations, for he must," said Chiun firmly.
"You don't expect us to stand on a freaking street corner for the rest of our lives until he turns up again," said Remo.
"No, I will put the FBI on it."
"Good," said Remo.
"Not good," said Chiun. "For we must be the ones to vanquish this prince of Byzantium."
"You go, then. I have a date with a rich girl," Remo said.
Chiun started. "Jean is rich?"
"Won the lottery. Seven million bucks."
"Rich?" squeaked Chiun. "And you have not yet married her?"
"I don't marry for money."
"Then you are a dunderhead," spit Chiun. "She comes from the illustrious Rice family and swims in wealth, yet you stand there in your ignorant bachelorhood. For shame."
"I'll get around to her. Business comes first."
"See that you do," said Chiun.
Chapter 43
In a hotel room overlooking Times Square, a man calmly unpacked his suitcase.
It was a very large suitcase. It had to be to accommodate its contents.
Folded neatly inside was a black-and-yellow spandex uniform. The upper portion was jet black, while the legs were banded in alternating yellow jacket bands.
Standing in his boxers, he drew this on, carefully Velcro-ing and zippering the striking uniform that was his badge of identity.
The gauntlets of rubberized fabric fitted over his long, strong fingers. He stepped into the gleaming black boots, which squished when he walked, thanks to the honeycomb of suction cups on the bottoms of the thick soles.
Finally, he drew over his head the cybernetic helmet with its compound locust green orbs and retractable antennae. The helmet gleamed like a bee's skull forged of polished copper.
"I," he said in a deep, commanding voice, "the avenger of insects, am now ready to go forth and face my destiny."
Squishing with each step, he took the elevator to the lobby floor and, oblivious to the gawking and staring of common mortals, stepped out into the bustle of the crossroads of the world for his rendezvous with destiny.
OFFICER ANDY FUNKHAUSER had thought he had seen everything.
He was directing traffic when he happened to look at the corner of Seventh Avenue and East Forty-fifth Street.
There, standing calm as could be, was a man tricked up like a human yellow jacket, for Christ's sake.
The man crossed the street and came striding down as big as life and twice as stupid looking. Some pedestrians stared at him, while others just ignored him. This was New York. It took a lot to get a rise out of New Yorkers.
The man seemed not to be bothered by the attention. If anything, he walked with his shoulders squared and his stride more jaunty. He looked like the jackass to beat all jackasses, but he was the last to know it.
"Probably some kind of goofy Fox stunt," Funkhauser muttered, returning to his duties. Ever since that Rand guy died, people kept expecting killer bees to descend on Times Square.
It had only been a few days since the eyeless stiff had been carted off. And yesterday a beekeeper had come to lure away the swarm of bees that had congregated around the streetlight when it had all happened. Funkhauser had watched. It was amazing. The guy had put on protective gloves and net veil pith helmet and shinnied up the pole.
Once he'd gotten close, the bees just took to him like honey. They clung to his well-protected body like glued-on popcorn.
He'd come down, got into the back of his van that said Bee Busters on the side, and when he'd come out again, there hadn't been a bee in his bonnet. Or anywhere else on him, for that matter.
Times Square had quieted down since then, if Times Square could ever be said to quiet down, and Officer Funkhauser went about his duties when he heard the high, shrill humming.
His eyes went to the light pole, thinking the swarm had returned. But there was no swarm. What there was was an earsplitting buzz that swelled and swelled, sounding as if it was all around him.
Then a man screamed.
Funkhauser tried to fix the sound. It seemed to be all around him. A zit-zit-zit, like tiny air pellets zipping by.
A black-and-yellow figure jumped into traffic, clutching his coppery green-eyed head and twisting as if stung by a million bees.
No bees were visible, Funkhauser saw. There was just the guy, and he was screaming to beat the band.
He ran across Broadway, reversed himself and pitched to his left. That didn't shake whatever was eating him. So he dropped to the ground and rolled up into a tight ball.
There, he curled up like a bug set on fire, as the life quickly went out of him.
Funkhauser was at his side by that time. The droning had fallen quiet. It seemed to pour up into the sky. It was only a distant, fading ziii now.
If it hadn't, there was no way Funkhauser was going to get near the dead guy.
There was no question the yellow jacket man was dead. Nobody screamed like that just from pain. This guy made as if to scream the lining out of his throat.
One look, and Funkhauser decided against mouth-to-mouth and CPR.
The guy's mouth hung open, and there was no tongue.
"Oh, Jesus, not again."
He got the weird helmet off, and it was no surprise that the eyes were hollow caverns. Funkhauser replaced the helmet. That spared the gathering crowd the horrible sight of the dead man's eyes. Or lack thereof.
Jumping to his feet, Funkhauser blew a shrill blast on his police whistle. Impatient traffic was inching closer to him like a line of hungry tigers.
"Can't turn your back for a minute in this crazy town," he growled.
Chapter 44
Harold Smith took the call from B. Eugene Roache of the USDA Honey Bee Breeding Center in Baton Rouge.
"I have the results you requested," he said breathlessly.
"Have you been running?" asked Smith.
"No, I've been working."
"Then why are you so out of breath?"
"Because," puffed Roache, "I have just gotten off the wildest roller coaster of my professional life."
"Explain," prompted Smith.
"First, I attempted to examine the detached wing. Inadvertently, I held it too close to a high-intensity desk lamp. The wing shriveled up from the heat."
"That was inexcusably careless."
"Not all of it was burned," Roache went on urgently. "I saved a corner of it. When I projected it onto the wall, I saw something that almost gave me a heart attack."
"Yes?"
"This bee has a death's-head on its thorax. It's almost perfect. You couldn't get a more perfect skull if an artist painted it."
"I understand that," said Smith, voice growing impatient.
"I should have suspected it from that evidence alone. But I had no idea. Who would have thought it."
"Thought what?" Smith snapped, wondering why the man hadn't gotten to the point.
Roache's voice sank to an awed whisper. "In the corner of the wing was a machine-perfect black T in a circle."
"A marking you recognize?"
"A marking a five-year-old would recognize. It's a trademark symbol!"
Smith's unimaginative brain caught on. "Trademark?"
"Yes, a trademark. I examined the whole bee, and its right wing also showed the same marking. This bee is trademarked!"
"Then there is no question that the death's-head bee was created by some genetic program," said Harold Smith. "Just as certain enzymes a
nd bacteria can be trademarked for commercial use."
"That was my thinking, too. Until I dissected the bee."
Smith's ears registered the low, amazed tone of the entomologist's voice, and he felt the first tingle of anticipation.
Chapter 45
By the time Remo and Chiun reached the street, it was over.
They had stationed themselves atop the Disney Store overlooking Times Square, watching the surging crowds below. The sun was going down. Lights were coming on all around Times Square. They had been at their post a little more than two hours when Remo spotted the man with the yellow jacket legs and green-eyed helmet.
"I don't believe this," Remo exploded.
On the opposite corner of the roof, the Master of Sinanju was watching a different quadrant of the square. His tiny ears were protected by padded earmuffs to ward against the brain-attacking insects.
"What do you not believe?" Chiun said thinly.
Remo pointed to the street below.
"Bug-eyed man at six o'clock low."
"The hour is not yet five. Why do you say six?"
Looking over, Chiun saw Remo's arm leveled at a comical figure striding down Broadway. He was dressed like a black-and-yellow insect. His step as he walked was springy. The antennae on his shiny forehead bounced happily.
"There's our Bee-Master!" Remo shouted. "Come on."
Remo raced to the door to the roof. Sensing the Master of Sinanju was not behind him, he paused. "Shake a leg, Little Father."
Chiun shook his head in the negative. "No. That is not him."
"What do you mean, it's not him?"
"Look at his legs. He is dressed as a wasp."
"Yeah. So?"
"A yellow jacket is a wasp, not a bee."
"That makes him a not-bee, right?"
"No," Chiun said stubbornly. "A not-bee is a thing entirely different. Go without me. For you go on a fool's errand."
Remo hit the stairs, flashing to street level faster than an elevator could carry him. By the time he got out into the rushing river of New Yorkers, there was no sign of his quarry.
Remo looked up Broadway. Then down. Then he heard the high, anxious droning filtering down from the sky.
Above him, Chiun gave a warning hiss. Remo knew that sound. He ducked back into the building and held the glass-and-brass door shut with both hands, and started wishing he had accepted that extra pair of earmuffs from Chiun.
The weird sound came and went quickly. When it was gone, Remo stepped out cautiously.
Moving with every sense alert because he had no defense against the voracious insects that were too small to see, Remo worked toward a gathering knot of people.
They were crowding around a dead man lying in the middle of stopped traffic. The dead man was dressed like a yellow jacket wasp. A cop was kneeling over the body. When he got the man's golden helmet off, the eyes behind the green compound lenses looked as if they had been gouged out.
Remo looked away from the dead man toward Chiun, still stationed several floors above, and shrugged his shoulders elaborately.
Chiun ignored him. Remo waved him down. Finally, the old Korean disappeared from the parapet edge.
When Chiun joined Remo a few minutes later, Remo was saying, "This doesn't make any sense. Look at him. Bee-Master's own bugs killed him."
Before Chiun could speak, a small voice at their side said, "That isn't Bee-Master."
Remo looked down. A boy of about thirteen with blond hair cut in a mushroom fade stood there.
"Who asked you?" said Remo.
"Nobody. But you called him Bee-Master. Everybody knows Bee-Master wears a silver cybernetic helmet with infrared goggles. That's Death Yellowjacket."
"Death Yellowjacket?"
"Yeah. He's much cooler."
"Not anymore," said Remo. "He's dead."
"That's not the real Death Yellowjacket, just some guy dressed like him for the convention," the buy said.
"What convention?" asked Remo.
The boy puffed out his chest. On his T-shirt's front was a legend of Day-Glo green and red: New York Comic Collectors' Spectacular.
"The comic convention," the boy said. "At the Marriott. I just came from there." He held up a fat sheaf of comic books sealed in clear Mylar envelopes.
Noticing this, Chiun asked, "Do you have any Donald Duck?"
"Naw. Nobody reads about ducks anymore. It's all superheroes."
By now, an ambulance was pulling up, and the police were pushing the crowd back.
"Did you see this guy at the convention?" Remo asked the kid.
"No. But there's a costume contest at six. He was probably dressed for that. Too bad he died. Bet he'd cop first prize."
Remo and Chiun swapped looks. Remo's was puzzled, and Chiun's was bland.
"Tell me, kid," said Remo. "Why would Bee-Master want to kill Death Yellowjacket?"
"He wouldn't. Bee-Master wouldn't kill anyone. He's old-fashioned that way. On the other hand, Death Yellowjacket kicks butt and takes no names."
"Humor me. If Bee-Master wanted to kill Death Yellowjacket, what's his motive?"
"That's simple. Death Yellowjacket outsells Bee-Master two to one. And bees and wasps hate each other anyway."
"Told you so," said the Master of Sinanju in a serenely smug tone of voice.
At the Marriott Marquis, they were told that the man in the yellow jacket costume was registered under the name of Morris Baggot.
They were about to leave when Chiun happened to look up and noticed a man in black spandex descending in one of the capsulelike glass elevators. His head was encased in a stainless-steel helmet mask with glowing red eyes.
"Observe," Chiun hissed.
Remo looked up. "Uh-oh." He called the desk clerk's attention to the descending elevator. "You wouldn't happen to know who that is, would you?"
The desk clerk did. "That's Mr. Pym," he said.
"Pym? Not Peter Pym?"
"That's right. Do you know him?"
"Only by reputation," growled Remo. "What's his room number?"
The clerk looked it up on his reservation terminal. "Room 33-4."
"Where's the comic-book thing being held?" Remo pressed.
"Ballroom."
"Thanks," said Remo, pocketing his FBI ID.
Taking Chiun aside, he said, "That's gotta be our guy. He's operating under Bee-Master's alias. Looks like he's headed to the comic-book show, no doubt to capture first prize in the costume contest now that Death Yellowjacket is out of the picture."
"We will vanquish him and avenge the stalwart wasp," vowed Chiun.
"First, let's check out his room."
They grabbed an elevator.
THE DOOR to room 33-4. opened easily after Remo stunned the electronic lock with the heel of his hand.
Inside, they found stacks of sealed comic books, with the price tags still on the Mylar envelopes. Remo whistled at some of the prices.
Under the bed, Remo found a carrying case with an ID tag in the name of Peter Pym, along with an address in Johnstown, Pennsylvania.
"This guy takes his Bee-Master pretty seriously," said Remo. Setting the box on the bed, he forced it open. Inside was a purple plush shelf like a jeweler's display case except that in each depression sat a fat death's-head bumblebee instead of a precious stone.
Remo blinked. In that blink, his hands became pale blurs. When they stopped moving, the bees were so much mangled mush scattered at his feet.
"Whew! That was close," he said.
"You were in no danger," Chiun said dismissively.
"Only because I stung them first."
Chiun shook his head "They slept the sleep of things that do not live-except at the will of their master."
And stooping, the Master of Sinanju plucked one of the mashed bees from the rug and raised it to the level of his pupil's eyes.
"Look more closely, blind one. And behold the true nature of the not-bee ...."
Chapter 46
"What di
d you discover when you dissected the bee?" Harold Smith asked.
"At first," said B. Eugene Roache, "I was interested in taking measurements of the thorax, wings and legs. It never occurred to me to enter the body cavities and explore."
"Go on," said Smith, his voice growing tense. This entomologist's nervous urgency was infectious.
"The body parts of course did not correspond to the Bravo bee. I ascertained that from a casual examination. There is no such species as an Africanized bumblebee. But I wanted to record the measurements for future reference. As I was doing that, I felt the detached wing between my fingers. It felt wrong to the touch."
"Wrong?"
"I've handled many bee wings in my career. I know how they feel against naked skin. These were too slick, too smooth. A bee's wing feels something like old cellophane, if you know that texture. This was entirely different. So I did an analysis of it."
"What did you find, Dr. Roache?"
"I found," Roache said in a disturbed voice, "that the bee's wing was composed of Mylar."
"Mylar!"
"Yes. A man-made substance. At that point I attacked the bee's interior structure. What I found gives me the shivers. This bee is not a bee. It's man-made."
"Man-made!"
"Yes. Isn't that fantastic? Someone has engineered a replica bee. That means he's discovered the secret of how bees fly. We've been trying to crack that one for decades! Isn't that incredible?"
"Dr. Roache," Harold Smith said tightly. "Whoever created that bee has devised one of the most deadly killing tools ever unleashed on this nation. Against that threat, the secret of bee aerodynamics is unimportant."
"There's more. Its stinger is a tiny hypodermic needle. The entire abdomen is a reservoir for Africanized bee neurotoxin. It's not an Africanized killer bee, but it carried the same toxin. Isn't that ingenious?"
"Insidious," Smith said.
"And I'm not sure about this part, but the head seems to contain a scanning mechanism. I would have to examine it under an electron microscope, but I have the feeling there's a miniature television camera in there."
"In other words," said Smith, "the bee is a combination of flying spy and assassin in a single package?"
"This bee can do anything an ordinary bee can do except pollinate flowers. And I wouldn't doubt for a minute it could perform that function, as well."
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