"I can't do that," said Smith.
"Then I've got to kill him."
"I knew these things had to be done, but…"
"You wipe me out, sweetheart. What do you think those numbers I phone in mean?"
"I know. But they were numbers."
"They were never numbers."
"All right. Do what you must do. World peace."
"It's always so easy to say," said Remo. He looked into the driver's black eyes. "I'm sorry, companero."
The roan's addled mind began to sort the fact of the gringo still alive, and he said: "You deserve to live, gringo. You deserve."
"Good night, companero," Remo said softly.
"Good night, gringo. Perhaps another time over a drink."
"To another time, my friend." And Remo saluted the driver with death.
"Are you sure he's dead?" Smith asked.
"Up yours," Remo said, and pushed the driver's body out of the car and got behind the wheel. "Get in," he said roughly.
"You don't have to be rude."
Remo started the car and backed over a few bodies in steering around the two parked cars, back onto the black road. He picked up speed and turned onto the road to the airport. He did not drive as other men did, either too quickly or puttering slowly along. He maintained a computer-even pace on springs he did not trust and with an engine in whose power he had little faith.
The car smelled of death. Not decayed death but a smell Remo had learned to recognize. Human fear. He did not know if it had come from the driver, or if it came now from Smith who sat quietly in the rear seat.
When he pulled up to the airport, Smith said, "It's a business that makes you sick sometimes."
"They would have done the same to us. What makes you sick is that we live on others' deaths. I'll see you again, or I won't," Remo said.
"Good luck," said Smith. "I think we're starting without the element of surprise."
"Whatever would make you believe that?" Remo asked, and laughed out loud as Smith took his luggage and departed.
Then Remo drove back to the Nacional.
He would still have to face Chiun. And it might have been easier for him to die on the side road.
But again, as the little father had told him: "It is always easier to die. Living takes courage."
Did Remo have the courage to tell Chiun that he would be instrumental in bringing about peace with China?
CHAPTER SEVEN
She was a very little girl in a very big gray coat from which her delicate hands poked out, lost in the immensity of the cuffs. The two hands clutched a little red book.
She wore big rimmed round eyeglasses that reinforced her oval eggshell face and made it appear even more frail and more loveable. Her black hair was neatly combed back and parted in the center.
She appeared no older than 13 and was definitely airsick and probably frightened. She sat in the front of the BOAC jet, not moving, determinedly looking forward.
Remo and Chiun had arrived at Dorval Airport in Montreal less than a half hour earlier. Chiun had gone onto the jet first, hiding behind a business suit and a gold badge of identification. As soon as they had brushed past the stewardess, Chiun pointed to the sick little girl and said:
"That's her. That's the beast. You can smell them."
He went to the girl and said something in what Remo assumed was Chinese. The girl nodded and answered. Then Chiun said something that was obviously a curse, and showed his identification to the girl.
"She wishes to see yours also, this little harlot of the pig sty. Perhaps to steal it. All her people are thieves, you know."
Remo showed 'his identification and smiled. She looked at the picture on his ID, and then at Remo.
"One can never be too careful," she said, in excellent English. "Would you please show me to the room for women? I am rather ill. But I shall overcome it. Just as I overcome the rudeness and reactionary vilification of your running dog."
"Dung of dung," answered Chuin. His hazel eyes blazed hate.
The girl managed to lift herself up and Remo helped her down the gangway steps as she struggled under the coat. Chiun followed uncomfortably. He wore black American shoes and his beard had been shaved close. He had shocked Remo back at the National in San Juan when Remo had first posed the question. But Remo should have known that by now he should not be shocked by Chiun.
"I can read English also," said the girl. "To destroy imperialism, one must know its language."
"Good thinking," Remo said.
"You may be an iron tiger in the short run, but you are a paper tiger in the long run. The people are the iron tiger in the long run."
"Can't argue with that," Remo said. "That's the ladies room," he said, pointing to a sign she had missed on her march from the gangway.
"Thank you," she said and handed him the little red book. "Treasure this with your life."
"Sure thing," Remo said, taking the plastic bo›und book. Then she spun as if on parade and, still entrapped in the large gray coat, marched into the ladies room. Remo could have sworn he saw her take toilet paper from her pocket before she entered.
"You are already reading the propaganda of that little wanton seducer," said Chiun, looking triumphantly and at the same time disdainfully at the book.
"She's just a kid, Chiun."
"Tiger cubs can Mil. Children are the most vicious."
Remo shrugged. He was still grateful that Chiun had come. And still surprised. After all, there was the San Francisco incident.
They had been bringing Remo's mind and body along slowly after an overpeak that almost became a burnout, when the President announced the impending visit by China 's Premier.
Chiun was already disturbed because the Wonderful World of Disney had been preempted for the President. Remo was working on his deep breathing, looking out at the Golden Gate Bridge, trying to see himself running across its suspension bands and breathing accordingly.
Chiun had worked Remo back into shape very well and very quickly, which was not surprising since he had devoted his life to that sort of thing, starting his own training at 18 months. When he had begun training Remo, he had informed him that he was 26 years too late to do anything serious but he would do the best he could.
Mentally, Remo was going down the far side of the Golden Gate bridge, when he heard a shriek.
He quickly floated into the living room. Chiun was making hostile, oriental sounds at the television set from which the President spoke in his usual dull and precise manner, always appearing more sincere when he abstained from trying to show warmth or joy.
"Thank you and good night," said the President, but Chiun would not let the image escape, and he fractured the picture tube with a kick of his foot, the main tube imploding on itself before showering the room with splinters.
"What did you do that for?"
"You fool," said Chiun, his wispy beard quivering. "You pale faced fool. You imbecile. And your president. White is the color of sickness and you are sick. Sick. All of you."
"What happened?"
"Stupid happened. Stupid happened. You are stupid."
"What did I do?"
"You did not have to do anything. You are white. That is deed enough."
And Chiun returned to the console to smash the wood top of the set with his left hand, and with his right hand caved in the right side, leaving the left corner of the cabinet rising like a steeple. For that, he smashed his elbow down, shattering it into splinters.
He stood in front of the split wiring and wood and shards of glass and triumphantly spit down upon it.