Winarsky and Tracy eyed Chiun. Remo shut the door. Bannon looked deep into his own navel. Remo saw Tracy and Winarsky exchange glances.
“Oriental,” said Supervisor Bannon. “The man is Oriental.”
“Shhh,” came the voice—from Chiun who sat slide-rule straight and quiet, poised two body lengths across the gray carpeting from Supervisor Bannon. Remo patted downward in the air, indicating that Supervisor Bannon should lower his tone.
“Oriental,” said Supervisor Bannon.
Winarsky said to Remo: “You’re Remo Donaldson, correct?”
“Right,” said Remo.
“Remo Donaldson,” said Bannon, looking up from his stomach. “Why did you kill those Special Forces people in Florida? Why did you kill General Withers? Why did you do those terrible things, Remo Donaldson?”
Remo shrugged and appeared confused. He looked to Winarsky and Tracy.
“We have reason to believe you may be connected with the death of some government people in Florida,” Winarsky explained. “We want to talk to you about it.”
“We want justice,” said Supervisor Bannon. “That’s what it’s all about.”
“Actually, Mr. Donaldson, Justice is a function of the courts. We just gather information. We don’t even indict anyone. We’re just here for some information. The information you give us about yourself could just as easily clear you.” Winarsky’s voice was even and controlled. He looked directly at Remo.
Bannon looked to the ceiling. “Justice,” he said. “If not justice, then what?”
Tracy leaned over and whispered into Bannon’s ear. Bannon pushed at Tracy’s shoulder and yelled: “I will not be interfered with. When you’ve spent as much time as I have rooting out injustice, then you can tell me how to interrogate a suspect. Then, Tracy, you can tell me about my job. Until then, Tracy, stand clear.”
He turned to Remo. “Mr. Donaldson. Have you ever been to confession? Have you ever confessed your sins against the United States government? Against decency? Against democracy? Against the flag?”
“Sir,” said Winarsky. “I think we had better leave Tracy here and you and I return to headquarters.”
Bannon began to hum softly to himself, a tune which Remo couldn’t make out. But he thought he had heard it before. Somewhere.
“We’re not leaving anywhere,” said Bannon. “We’re not leaving our nation to injustice or… ” Bannon stared up at the ceiling and then at Remo.
He hummed some more. He looked at Remo almost without seeing him. Then he slipped a .38 caliber snub-nosed revolver from a holster under his coat in a very nice motion. Much better than most FBI men drew. It was more relaxed than most men going for a gun, and thus its fluidity gave speed and command. Most likely the draw was an accident because Bannon had not looked that good when he walked in.
Bannon pointed the gun at Tracy, who instinctively raised his hands. The room was silent but for a woman on television exclaiming the virtues of the disposable diaper. According to the message, the diaper could not only keep baby dry but could make happy marriages. Since it was a commercial and since Chiun could sense the drawing of weapons—the sudden silence in the room tipping him off—he turned around to see what weapon was drawn on whom.
When he saw it was the fat meat-eater in the soft chair pointing a pistol at the overweight meat-eater standing, Chiun returned his gaze to the set and watched how Lemon Smart non-phosphate soap could make a wash sunshine fresh. Chiun had contempt for men who would use weapons at close range. As he had said: “You might as well push buttons. A child could kill like that.”
“Sir,” said Winarsky loudly.
“Shhh,” said Chiun.
“Quiet the Oriental,” said Bannon pointed the gun at Tracy’s stomach, then waving it toward Chiun. Tracy was nearest to Chiun.
“Wait,” said Remo. “Don’t go near the old man. Not now. Just stay where you are.”
“Move, Tracy. Or I will put as big a hole into you as I plan to put into the injustice-maker, Remo Donaldson. I am judge and executioner, Donaldson. And my justice is keen.”
“Sir,” said Winarsky. “That’s… that’s not regulation.” Remo could tell Winarsky knew it was weak when he said it. But then, in a crisis, man’s ultimate values always surface, values he might not even know he had.
“Move, Tracy, or you are dead,” said Bannon, whose gaze became vacant again as he hummed. What was that song? Remo could not make it out.
Bannon blinked. He focused. He brought his right hand flush to his hips, so the pistol could not be knocked away. A snub-nosed gun was perfect for this.
He pointed the little cannon, with the poised slug capable of making a grapefruit-sized gouge in flesh, at Tracy’s stomach. Perspiration formed on Tracy’s forehead. Remo saw him swallow.
Bannon was a quick one step and a simple stroke away. Remo could take the gun away whenever he wanted. But then Tracy began to move toward Chiun and Remo faced a new target line.
He tried. “Don’t move,” said Remo. “Don’t go near that old man now. Don’t go near him.”
“Mister,” said Agent Tracy. “There’s a .38 being pointed at my stomach now and I can feel the slug in me already, so with your kind permission or without it, I am going to quiet this little old man.”
“I’ve seen men survive bullet wounds,” Remo said.
He could say no more before Tracy, in his nervousness, grabbed the wisp of white hair on Chiun’s balding yellow head.
Tracy did this with his left hand as he kept his eye on Bannon, still believing the pistol was the major threat against his life. Probably, he did not feel his wrist snap. First the wrist, and Tracy’s body was going down into the floor as the golden-robed old man used its mass to rise on. Remo didn’t even see the skull blow that killed Agent Tracy who had placed unreal fear in the efficacy of guns and paid the ultimate price for his miscalculation. The body bumped on the rug, dead before grounding.
Bannon was in pre-shoot, that just-about-a-second length of time between the recognition of danger and shooting. He did not have that just-about-a-second. A frail foot went through his right eye into his brain, which never got off its signal to squeeze the trigger.
Remo could see the foot because of the golden flowing robes floating violently around it. Winarsky moved a hand to his holster on his hip, a compendium of bad habits, exposing his heart, his chest, his throat, his head, as if he were posing to be killed. Winarsky undoubtedly thought reaching for a pistol like that was a good move. Maybe his best move. Remo would remember that white shirt, big and open and incredibly vulnerable. He would remember all motion stilled… the white open shirt… the hand moved away from any blocking action… the hand on the hip.
And the golden robes as Chiun seemed hung in the air, a red spot on the rug behind him where his big toe, having punctured an eye socket, had touched the gray carpet after killing Bannon, and Chiun seemed poised in mid-air forever as if unable to decide in what spot he should kill Winarsky.
He narrowed the choices to one, and then it was over. Chiun had taken him with an off-angle right hand stroke just over the right temple above Winarsky’s gun hand. Confronted with so many obvious targets and moves, he had taken an obscure angular attack.
Winarsky stood in his official FBI crouch, the one all agents are taught when they are taught how to draw their revolvers from their hips. He stood that way while a red splotch formed just above his right ear. He stood that way while he was dead.
When Agent Winarsky hit the floor, the Master of Sinanju was back at the problems of Middle America, being discussed by Middle America ad infinitum. Chiun, as he had often said, respected America’s true art form.
Remo was left with two dead men on the floor and one in a chair.
He and Chiun might have to move rapidly. Then again, knowing how organizations worked, they might not have to move that fast at all.
Remo dialed FBI headquarters and asked for Supervisor Bannon, giving the name of a supervisor in Newark, N.J. Bannon
was out to lunch, his secretary said.
“What about Agents Winarsky and Tracy?”
“Out to lunch with him.”
“Do you know where I can reach him? It’s urgent.”
“Yes, the Plymouth Luncheonette. That’s where he said he was going,”
“Thank you,” said Remo. So much for the trace from FBI headquarters. Remo dialed the desk clerk.
“Anyone been looking for me in the lobby? I’m expecting people.”
“No,” said the clerk.
So much for the FBI identifying themselves to the hotel clerk. Obviously Bannon had been doing his own number outside regular channels. And he had done it without leaving a trace.
Remo moved the bodies to the bathtub, then dressed quickly in slacks, sports shirt and soft Italian shoes. He wanted to look casual to attract less attention where he was going.
Just before he left, he said to the straight golden-robed body with the wisps of hair flowing down.
“Don’t let anyone in, Chiun.”
“Shhh,” said the Master of Sinanju, who did not like beauty to be interrupted.
“You know, Chiun,” yelled Remo. “If you weren’t so magnificent, you’d be a shit.” Then he slammed the door. Chiun never cleaned up his own bodies.
Never.
· · ·
The gardening supply store assured the handsome young homeowner that even though his leaves were soggy, the Super Garb was not about to leak. It was tested, the owner assured the man who moved so smoothly, so it could hold—without tearing—250 pounds.
“Give me three,” said Remo.
The young homeowner moved so smoothly, did he ever participate in ballet?
“Wrap the Super Garbs,” Remo said.
“Oh,” said the owner, who frittered away to impose his will on a clerk who was overworked, over-abused and heterosexual.
· · ·
That afternoon, Remo learned that the Duralite extra-large suitcase was made of stanislucent poly-chromide.
“Thanks, give me three,” said Remo to the clerk in the luggage shop.
“It also has the scratchproof, virtually scratchproof, exide exterior, with, and this is a prime feature, the new low-line snap buckle.”
“Three,” Remo said.
“It is guaranteed,” said the clerk, “for eight years. That’s an eight-year guarantee.”
“Give me three before I grind you into a puppy biscuit remnant,” Remo said, smiling.
“What did you say?” said the clerk who restrained himself from pounding the customer through the door because he knew he had a sale. Besides, if he had another incident at this store, then he would never again be able to get a job as a salesman.
“Three, please,” said Remo. “Deliver them immediately,” and he gave his room number at the hotel.
“Immediately,” he said, “Or I won’t pay for them.”
“You have a half hour,” he added smiling.
When the customer had left, the salesman said: “I hope I see him again. Preferably in a dark bar.”
· · ·
Did the gentleman want the valises insured? “Of course,” said Remo. “These valises hold very valuable possessions. Priceless. Insure them for $2 each.”
“Jewelry and things?”
“No. Manuscripts. Priceless to me.”
“Oh, very nice. We will have our man pick them up in an hour in your hotel suite.
· · ·
“Here,” said Remo to the men picking up the three valises. “Here’s a tenner for you and your partner. They’re kind of heavy, so be careful with them. And don’t disturb the little fellow watching television. Please.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
REMO HAD TO TAKE CHIUN with him.
That was the first problem. Chiun had done it again, or rather, as Chiun explained it, he was minding his own business when it was done to him. Chiun, if you took literally what he said, was always minding his own business. Then he was abused, then a little something happened and that was it.
“I would not expect it all to be understood by a man given to dilly-dallying as you did with those imbeciles before,” Chiun said.
“Now let’s go over this again,” said Remo, packing his one valise with two throws of underwear and a neat folding of one extra suit, then moving on to Chiun’s wardrobe.
“You were sitting peacefully in the downstairs restaurant, correct?”
“Correct.”
Chiun motioned with one long finger that he wanted the white kimono folded outside in and the blue one folded inside out. Remo could have let Chiun pack his own luggage but they would not be out of the hotel for at least another day.
“And this person at the table next to you was talking about the Third World?”
“Correct.”
“And you did not intrude yourself on their conversation?”
“Correct.”
“Then what happened?”
“I will not be questioned like a child. The green robe is on top.” Remo put the green robe on the bed for last.
“I’ve got to know for my report to Smith,” Remo said,
“Of course. I had forgotten that I am dealing with a person who spies on me. I had forgotten that all I have taught you means ought. I had forgotten that truths that save your life are forgotten because you know them now and I, after all, do not rank in your wonderful organization. I do not even know the purpose of your organization. That is how little I am valued. I am just a poor teacher of the martial arts, a lowly, lowly servant. Put the sandals in a bag.”
“May I remind you, little father, that it was you who told Smith I could function when I’m not at peak? I never risked your life,” Remo said.
“If it makes you feel better to bring up old wounds, then indulge yourself. I am just a poor servant.”
“Dammit, Chiun,” said Remo, stuffing the first of eight pairs of sandals into the first of eight plastic bags, “When one of the most famous heavyweight contenders gets knocked on his ass by an eighty-year-old man, we have some explaining to do.”
“No one saw it,” Chiun said.
They saw Ali Baba whatever-his-name-is go on his ass. They saw that.”
“They did not see my hand, nor did the young gentleman, whom I might add would probably make a much finer pupil than you. I could tell in his eyes. His basic balance was better. But Dr. Smith did not bring me a fine specimen like that to train. No, he brought me flotsam from the sewers of America, smelling of beef-eating and alcohol-drinking, his mind in constant haze, his balance never evoked, and from that nothing, I made a master. A true master.” Then Chiun caught himself, and added quickly, “at least by American standards.”
“All right. How did it happen?”
“I was concerned only with my own affairs when he cast unwarranted aspersions upon me. I ignored the insult because I wished no undue disturbance. I know your squeamishness and unwarranted fears.”
“Then what happened?”
“I was insulted again.”
“What did he say?”
“I do not wish to open old wounds.”
“That was an hour and a half ago, Chiun, and the poor bastard is in the hospital. Not that long ago, Chiun. Now what happened?”
Chiun stared from the window in regal silence.
“Your taping machines are not indestructible, little father,” Remo said, “and I know you wouldn’t lay out your own money to buy replacements.”
“I have created a monster,” sighed Chiun. “so be it. This is my punishment for trusting too much. I shall bear it. He cast aspersions on my mother. But I said nothing at first until he attacked me.”
“What did he say about… hold it, I know. He said you were all Third World brothers, right?”
Chiun nodded.
“And when he said this he put his arm around you in a sign of friendship, right? And it was then that you cracked his wrist. Right?”
“I did not kill him, because I know your fear of notoriety. But there ar
e no thanks for that. There are no thanks for his believing that he just cracked his wrist against a chair. There are no thanks for my deep concern for you and your organization to whom I have shown infinite loyalty. No. There are only monstrous threats against my most valued personal property.”
“Yeah, well,” said Remo, folding the green kimono on top of the other clothes in the huge suitcase, then snapping shut the lid, “you’re coming with me. I wouldn’t leave you alone here.”
Remo would have sent Chiun back to Folcroft, but Folcroft was compromised by now. That was his first problem. His second was wondering how Chiun would act when they got to Human Awareness Laboratories.
He could not ask. Chiun had never taken kindly to prying into his life, let alone his emotions.
· · ·
The receptionist counselor at the Human Awareness Laboratories assured Mr. Remo Donaldson and his physical education instructor that there was a very substantial reason why the two men could not register. HAL was booked for the next three years. Solid. But if Mr. Donaldson wanted to meet her after working hours and discuss possible enrollment in other similar awareness institutes, she would be happy to discuss it with him.
“More than happy, Mr. Donaldson.” She was just shy of twenty and her thin white blouse barely disguised her hardening breasts. She ran her tongue over her clean young lips, letting her eyes drop below Remo’s belt.
Remo leaned forward, where he could smell her subtle perfume. Her sleek brown hair hanging down to the nape of her neck brushed gently against Remo’s lips at her ears, as he whispered very low in a voice that caressed her skin: “Look. You can register me. C’mon.”
Simple words, slow and deep. Remo watched her face flush and felt her longing.
“I wish I could,” she said weakly. “But Dr. Forrester registers all new participants. Oh, I wish, I wish I could.”
“Get me Dr. Forrester. I’ll speak to him.”
“Her.”
“Fine.”
“If you see her, you won’t want me.”
“I’ll always want you.”
“Really?”
“No,” said Remo and he leaned back and smiled at the vibrant young morsel.
Death Therapy Page 7
