Remo had raised himself to his knees. Momentarily, during the pounding on his neck, he thought he could perhaps get a sideband crack at Chiun's jaw, but abandoned the notion. So he let Chiun slap away until Chiun was satisfied that Remo was breathing properly again.
"And what do you do? After all my careful teaching? Hah. You eat like a white man."
"It was really great beef in oyster sauce."
"Pig. Pig. Pig." The word came with the slaps. "Eat like a pig. Die like a dog."
Remo saw the old man lying face down in a layer of blood, that was already darkening about the edges.
"You do the old man?" he asked.
"No. He was smart."
"He looks it," Remo said.
"He understood what would happen. And chose the wise course."
"Nobody as smart as you Orientals."
With a last ringing slap, Chiun finished his work. "Stand up," he ordered. Remo rose, feeling like the pavement during the Indianapolis 500. He blinked his eyes, breathed deeply a few times. And felt quite fine.
"Ecch," he said, noticing the stains of vomit on his shirt. "They must have had knockout drops in the food."
"It is lucky for you," lied Chiun, "that it was not a deadly poison. For if you thought you could survive poison, you would never end your foolish eating ways."
"It -was deadly poison, then," Remo said smiling.
"It was not," Chiun insisted.
Remo smiled broadly, straightened Ms tie, and glanced around the room. "This the basement of the restaurant?"
"Why? Are you hungry?"
"We've got to find Mei Soong. If she's with the general, she might be trying to kill him right now. She's one of them, remember. And the general's in danger."
Chiun gave an abrupt snort, opened the door, and stepped over the two bodies lying outside in a hallway that smelled of musk. Remo noticed that the wooden door had been splintered away from its lock.
Chiun moved like silence in the dark, and Remo followed as he had been taught, in sideways steps along the corridor, in perfect rhythm with the old man before him.
Remo stopped when Chiun stopped. In electric fast movement, Chiun's hand snapped against a door which flung open, momentarily blinding Remo with the light from within. On a plain cot, the hard, yellow, muscled back of a man was on the rise. Two young legs wrapped around his waist. His black hair was crossed with white. Remo saw the soles of Mei Soong's feet.
"Quick, Chiun," he said. "Think of something philosophical."
The man's head spun around in shock. It was General Liu.
"Uh, hello," Remo said.
Chiun spoke, "Have you no shame? Get dressed."
General Liu unplugged with speed and lunged for a.45 caliber automatic on the plain wooden chair. Remo was at the chair in a flash, catching General Liu's arm at the wrist and righting him so he would not fall.
"We're friends," Remo said. "That woman has betrayed you. She is in league with those who captured you and held you prisoner."
Mei Soong rose on her arms, a look of surprise, then of terror on her face. "Untrue," she screamed.
Remo turned to her, and since the movement x"f the.45 automatic was not to him, he did not respond with automatic movement, but then heard the crack as he saw the top of her head blasted into the stone wall, splattering blood and gray matter, leaving her brain like a coddled egg about to be eaten from the shell of her skull.
He snatched the gun from General Liu.
"She betrayed me," said General Liu, trembling. Then he fell down and sobbed.
It would not be until he strolled a Peking street that Remo would realize that the general's tears were from relieved tension, and that indeed, Remo had been a very poor detective. He watched Liu fall to his knees and bring his hands to his face, heaving, sobbing.
"Poor bastard. All this and then his wife betraying him too," Remo whispered to Chiun.
Chiun responded with a phrase carrying a very special meaning. "Gonsa shmuck," he said.
"What?" said Remo, not really hearing.
"In English, that means very much a shmuck."
"Poor bastard," said Remo.
"Shmuck," said Chiun.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The President's heart was lighter as he watched the newscast. His closest advisor watched also, twisting an index finger through his kinky blond hair.
They sat in the office in deep leather chairs. The President's shoes were off and he twiddled his toes on the hassock. To the right of his left big toe was the advisor's face on the television screen, saying that he would make a trip to Peking and accompany the Premier back to the United States.
"The trip is carefully planned and thorough. Everything will be routine," the voice intoned on TV.
"A routine bit of incredible luck," the President interjected.
A reporter asked the TV face a question. "Will events in China now influence the trip?" he said.
"The Premier's journey is proceeding according to schedule and plans. What is happening in China now influences it in no way."
The President framed his advisor's face between his two big toes. "Now that General Liu is returning with you."
The advisor smiled and turned to the President: "Sir, just how _did we find General Liu? The FBI, the CIA, Treasury, everyone says they had nothing to do with it. The CIA wants to guard him now."
"No," the President said. "They will all be busy trying to track down those two men who kidnapped the general. The General will go back to Peking with you. He will be with two men. They will take the rear of your plane."
"I take it you have some special agents I know nothing about."
"Professor. Once I could have answered that question. Today, I'm not even sure. And that's all I can say." The President glanced at his watch. "It's almost eight o'clock. Please go now."
"Yes, Mr. President," said the aide, arising with his briefcase. They shook hands and smiled. Perhaps peace, a realistic peace, might yet be achieved by man. Wishing or running rampant in parks with peace symbols would not bring it, however. It would come if one worked and schemed and plotted for peace, just as one did for victory in war.
"It looks good, Mr. President," the aide said.
"It looks good. Good night."
"Good night sir," said the aide and left. The white door shut behind him. And the President listened as various people spoke of Phase Two of his economic Policy. There were five people with five different opinions. It sounded like a meeting of his economic advisors. Well, it was a great country and no President could do it much harm.
The second hand on his watch circled the six and headed up past the seven and nine and eleven, then met the twelve, and there was no ring. God Bless you, Smith, wherever you are, thought the President.
Then the special line rang, like a symphony of bells, and the President hopped from his chair and soft-footed it to his desk. He picked up the receiver on the special phone.
"Yes," he said.
"In answer to your question of two days ago, sir," came the lemony voice, "we will continue but under different circumstances. Something didn't work. I will not tell you what, but it did not work. So in the future, do not even bother to ask for the use of that person."
"Is there some way we can let him know of his nation's gratitude."
"No. As a matter of fact, he is incredibly lucky to be alive."
"I have seen pictures of him from agents tailing Mei Soong. One of them was killed in a karate school. Your man was seen."
"It will not matter. He will not look like that any longer after he returns."
"I do wish there was some recognition, some reward we could give him."
"He's alive, Mr. President. Is there anything else you wish to discuss?"
"No, no. Just tell him thank you from me. And thank you for letting him deliver the general safely to his destination."
"Goodbye, Mr. President."
The President hung up the phone. And he chose to believe, because he wanted to believe, that America still had men like Smith and the man who worked for Smith. The Nation produced men like that. And it would survive.