Remo did. He picked up the tailpipe emission from Zorilla's car a quarter-mile back. It went off to the left.
Remo spotted the crushed-down kudzu on one side of the artificial road.
"Must have missed it in the darkness," he said.
They moved into the kudzu. The carbon monoxide vapor, odorless to most noses, was heavy in theirs, so they switched to breathing through their mouths. It made their thoughts heavy.
Against a low hillock, they found it. A concrete bunker, nearly buried in the dirt and obscured by kudzu. The door was a big slab of steel, painted brown and green to blend in with the surroundings.
There were no signs. No guards, no anything.
"Looks military," Remo said quietly.
Chiun nodded. "We have found the lair of the plotters."
"All we have to do is get in."
"All we have to do is get in," came the voice over the overhead loudspeaker.
"Director, we have a security breach."
The Director looked up from his console, where he had been wireframing three touching circles. He was in the act of commanding this remarkable newfangled computer to "draw" a pair of eyes in the large bottom circle when the word came.
He turned in his swivel chair to the overhead monitor, cursing the eye patch that restricted his vision and adding another for the stupid doctor who could have saved the eye-if only he had had the gumption to stick to his guns.
He saw two men moving through the stark highcontrast image transmitted from the infrared scanner.
"Who the hell are they?" he demanded in a gravelly voice.
"Unknown, Director."
"The little guy looks like he strayed out of a bad Saturday morning cartoon."
The Director picked up the telephone handset at his elbow, inadvertently hitting the dial buttons embedded in it.
"Damn these things! What was wrong with the rotary dial?"
He hit the switch hook and tapped the pound key.
"Yes?"
"Get me that weasel Drake," he snapped.
"At once, sir."
A cautious voice came on the line.
"You wanted me, Director?"
"There are two of them, and they're sniffing at the back door like a couple of hound dogs at a fireplug."
"I'm patching into the visual feed now."
"Good for you," the Director said acidly. The man was a toady.
"Director, they fit the description of the pair Zorilla encountered earlier this evening."
"That idiot must have let them follow him. Where is he?"
"On his way to my office for debriefing and reassignment."
"Decruit him."
"Yes, Director. What about the intruders?"
"I'm going to have them let in."
"Director?"
"Well, we can't very well let them go running back to the CIA or the Cuban DGI, now can we?"
"No, Director. We can't."
"You deal with Zorilla. He's your speed. I'll handle these two."
The Director hung up abruptly. He turned to a blank-faced uniformed figure, standing guard at the door.
"You, flunky. Open the door for our curious guests."
"Yes, Director."
"And have them interrogated and processed out with the rest of the trash."
"Yes, Director."
The Director went back to his computer screen. He tapped a key and the eyes drew themselves. He added a smiling mouth and a button nose.
"Not bad," he murmured contentedly. "Not bad, if I do say so myself."
He added his famous signature with the tap of another key.
"We are being observed," intoned the Master of Sinanju.
"Infrared?" Remo asked.
"I feel warm rays."
"Infrared," Remo said.
They were crouched in the rank kudzu, studying the massive portal.
Remo's dark eyes raked the structure. The ground under his feet thrummed and throbbed, as if from mighty machinery.
"Think they can hear us, too?"
"It does not matter," said Chiun.
"I don't see any way in except through that huge bulkhead, but there's gotta be a vent shaft or something."
Just then whining servo-motors cut the air, and with a metallic uncoiling the great door began to rise.
"Looks like we've been invited in," Remo said doubtfully.
The Master of Sinanju stood up. His hands going to his wrists and both disappearing under closing sleeves, he said, "Then let us be gracious and accept this kindness."
Face calm, he started forward. Remo followed, not looking happy at all.
Chapter 13
Comandante Leopoldo Zorilla walked the cavernous walkways, which were scrubbed clean with military spotlessness.
Two soldiers in insignia-less uniforms came along driving a rubber-tired utility vehicle, like a golf cart on steroids. It was an unmilitary turquoise.
The driver said, "Hop on, sir. Drake will see you immediately."
"Gracias," said Comandante Zorilla, getting in back. He sat facing away from the driver. The rubber-tired utility vehicle turned smartly and zipped back the way it had come.
The tunnels were a bewildering maze of alabaster conduits and ivory corridors. Overhead pipes and aluminum ductwork of all descriptions clustered against the high ceilings. It is a wondrous place, Zorilla thought to himself, marvelous for all the things that are controlled down here.
Along one long stretch the air reverberated with a rushing like a vast vacuum, and the ceiling appeared to be one huge pipe.
"What is this roaring pipe?" Zorilla wondered.
"Waste-disposal," the driver said. "Takes all the trash and debris from topside and dumps it into trash-compactors for removal."
"Ah, brilliant," said Zorilla admiringly.
The utility vehicle came to a dead end and stopped, with but an inch between its rubber bumpers and a steel sliding door.
Zorilla was taken to the door and the driver inserted a magnetic card into a chrome-mouthed slot. The door rolled back, revealing a common elevator interior.
"The lift will take you where you need to go," said the driver.
"Gracias, " said Zorilla again, stepping aboard. The door rolled shut. The lift rose.
The ride was short. The doors slipped open, and he was looking into a conference room rich in woods and indirectly lit.
When he had stepped off, a cherry-wood panel rolled back into place, concealing all traces of the lift.
"Please be seated, Comandante," said a voice. It was coming from a lonely-looking speakerphone atop the long conference table.
Zorilla took the seat at the end.
"Comandante, I have been in touch with the Director. He sends his sincere regrets. The loss of Ultima Hora was an avoidable tragedy. They are the worst kind."
"Gracias, Senor Drake," said Zorilla in a thick voice.
"The organization commends your bravery under fire and your willingness to execute distasteful duties."
"I am a soldier of the Americas," Zorilla said simply.
"We know you are. And we know that you would never willingly betray the operation, as Dr. Revuelta has."
"Revuelta?"
"He was in touch by phone. The two who followed you here approached him. Revuelta gave you up under torture."
"Followed me here? What do you mean, followed me here?"
"Dr. Revuelta has offered his sincere apologies."
"I accept," Zorilla said quickly. "But by what do you mean, 'followed me here'? No one followed me here."
"The two unknown unfriendlies did," Drake's voice said flatly. The tonality of the speakerphone was perfect. There was no distortion. It was as if the man were in the room, but invisible.
"I do not believe it," Zorilla said bitingly.
A frosted wall panel glowed into life. On the oversized screen appeared corridors similar to the ones Comandante Zorilla had just traveled. The lean Anglo and the ancient Korean were visible, examining a line of trucks.
"Impossible," he hissed.
"But as you can see, true."
"What would you have me do?"