Remo and Chiun listened in.
"They've still got him treed on top of South Station, Tammy," a voice said.
"Tammy?" said Remo.
"Shh," Tamayo hissed, turning toward the car window. "Is he saying anything?"
"Only that he's disgruntled."
"Maybe I can talk him down."
"If you can, you're better than the FBI Violent Postal Worker Task Force."
"See you in ten," said Tamayo, clicking off.
"Violent Postal Worker Task Force?" said Remo as Tamayo shoved her cell phone into her purse.
"It's new."
"It's an idea whose time has come, I guess," said Remo.
"Are you two going to tell me who you're with?"
"Fraudulent Japanese Squad," sniffed Chiun. "We are new, too."
"There's no law against coaxing a person's recessive genes to the surface."
"There should be," said Chiun. "Christmas cake."
"Christmas cake?" Remo said.
"It is what one calls a Japanese woman who is not married by a certain age, Remo. A very deep insult, which is lost upon this imposter."
"I don't know why you're being so peppery," Ta- mayo said. "You and my maternal grandmother could be related."
Chiun made a shocked O with his papyrus lips. "Remo, I have been insulted."
"Inadvertently," said Remo.
"Stop this vehicle and deposit this tart-tongued witch."
"No time."
"Then I am getting out," Chiun snapped, grasping the door handle and opening the door a crack.
Reaching over, Remo pulled it shut again. "For Christ's sake, we're almost there."
And then they were there. Because of the crowds, the cab had to drop them off at Atlantic Avenue near the tall aluminum washboard that was the Federal Reserve Building.
It was dusk now. State-police helicopters crisscrossed the sky. Searchlights made hot circles in the ornate sandstone facade of Boston's South Station at the intersection of Atlantic and Summer Street. As they got out, one light fell upon the big green copper- faced clock, which showed exactly 8:22, and then moved up to the resting stone eagle at the roof comb.
A huddled figure in blue and gray withdrew from the light, slipping behind one outstretched stone wing.
"Looks like our man," said Remo.
Chiun nodded. "It will not be a simple thing to capture him living."
"Not with all these witnesses. Let's check in with Smith."
Remo was about to start off when the cabbie demanded his fare.
"Here's our share," said Remo, handing over a twenty.
"I'll need the other one's share, too."
Remo looked around. "Where'd she go?"
"Took off."
"How about that, Chiun? Tammy stiffed us for cab fare."
"We will have our revenge on her and all of her blood," Chiun vowed.
"Not over a twenty," said Remo, handing over another bill.
At a pay phone, Remo checked in with Harold Smith. "Smitty, he's still up on the train-station roof."
"I know. I am monitoring the situation."
"It looks like a parade route here. And that's not counting the FBI, police and media. Any suggestions?"
"According to early reports, the terrorist escaped through the rear exit of the South Postal Annex to the train terminal. From there, he was pursued to the roof."
"Ever hear of the FBI Violent Postal Worker Task Force?"
"Are you making this up?"
"I hear they're trying to talk him down." "They will fail. They are dealing with a hardened terrorist, not a disgruntled postal worker."
"We go in with all these TV cameras, and we'll be all over the evening news."
"Try the rear route."
"Why not?" said Remo, hanging up.
Skirting Summer Street, they slipped to the South Postal Annex, which was still open but deserted except for a solitary mail clerk. Bypassing the lobby, they walked to the rear of the building. A short path took them to the Amtrak platforms at the rear of South Station.
They scrutinized the blank back end of South Station. Except for a few police officers preoccupied with listening to their shoulder radios, the field was clear.
"Looks like we're in luck," Remo said. "I see a couple of blind spots we can climb."
Chiun looked at his jade nail protector and made a face.
"Can you climb with that thing on?" asked Remo.
"Of course," Chiun said, his voice unconvincing.
"Maybe you should stick it in your pocket so you don't lose it."
"I have no pocket."
"Let's go, then."
Moving to a place where the rude sandstone came all the way to the ground, they started their ascent.
Remo went first. Laying his hands against the rough-textured blocks, he made his palms into shallow suction cups. Then, moving one hand up, he got a toehold. The toe pushed him along. And his other hand suctioned a higher spot on the facade. After that, he was a silent spider moving vertically.
Chiun, following, used his fingernails to gain purchase, assisted by the toes of his sandals. He quickly came even with Remo. Then, in a flutter of plum- colored skirts, he pulled ahead.
"This isn't a race," hissed Remo, noticing that the Master of Sinanju had crooked the nail protector against his palm to keep it safe.
"Then you will not mind losing," Chiun retorted.
They gained the coping at the same time, slithered over and crouched down so they wouldn't be spotted by the rattling helicopters overhead.
A pair of local news helicopters orbited at a much wider periphery, obviously under orders not to venture into sniper range.
Across the roof, a mailman hunkered down behind the spread-winged sandstone eagle, an Uzi cradled in one hand.
"Stay away!" he shouted at the crowd below. "I am disgruntled. I am feeling very disgruntled today. There is no telling what I am capable of in my present state of disgruntledness."
Chiun whispered, "Did you hear that, Remo? He is disgruntled."
"He's going to be a lot worse after we're done with him," Remo growled, starting forward.
They moved like two shadows, avoiding the searchlights of the hovering police choppers, pausing, resuming, backtracking until they were almost on their quarry.
could not believe his evil luck.
He had been sorting mail in his hideous pink cubicle when the two Westerners with bad ties and stone faces came and announced their intentions.
"Mr. Mohamet Ali?" asked one.
"Yes. That is I."
"FBI. We need to speak to you."
Mohamet Ali froze inside. Outwardly he kept his composure. After all, these were not Muslims, but dull Westerners. It would be easy to outwit such stone- headed ones.
"I am speaking to you," he said.
"You'll have to accompany us to headquarters."
"I am very busy here. Can this not wait until I am finished for the day? The mail must go through. Do you not know this?"
"Now," said the senior of the two FBI agents.
"I must get permission from my supervisor. They are very strict about such things here."
"It's been cleared. Let's go, Mr. Ah."
They were taking no nonsense. So, containing his nervousness, Mohamet Ali shrugged and said, "If I must go with you, I must go with you—although I do not not why."
"We'll talk about it downtown."
On the way to the front exit, they walked on either side of him. They did not handcuff him. That was a mistake. For as they approached the exit, Mohamet Ali took his USPS-issue pepper spray from his pocket and turned on the man behind him.
One squirt, and the infidel's godless eyes were stung blind.
The other FBI unbeliever spun in time to accept the bitter taste of defeat in his face, as well.
Mohamet Ali left them shouting and cursing their unjust God as he returned to his work area, took up his Uzi from his locker and ran out the back door- right into the train platform as people were boarding.