"Thanks a bunch, Little Father." Into the telephone, he said, "What's going on, Smitty?"
"One of the candidates for governor of California has survived an assassination attempt tonight."
"Ripper or Black?"
"Neither. Esperanza."
"I never heard of Esperanza."
"Nor had I," Smith admitted frankly. "He is barely registering in the polls, yet someone is trying to kill him. I want you and Chiun to look into it."
"Any suspects?"
"None. There is an outside chance that this attempt might be some repercussion from the Nogeira scheme, perhaps some sleeper hit team that has activated in spite of the death of its mastermind, Nogeira."
"I still have a hard time believing that toad-faced ogre could have caused that plane crash from jail," Remo muttered.
"The FAA investigation continues," Smith replied crisply. "We may know something soon. In the meantime, I want you to look into this event."
"How?"
"Join the Esperanza campaign, to start."
"Hold the phone, but isn't he the victim?"
"I want you and Chiun in place if there's another attempt. If one comes, you know what to do."
"And if there isn't?" Remo wondered.
"By that time," said Harold Smith, bathed in the pale radiance of his station wagon dome light, "I hope to have developed some concrete leads for you to follow."
"Great," Remo said dryly. "And here I was just getting settled in sunny Seattle."
"I am not aware that Seattle is particularly sunny."
"Funny," Remo said acidly. "Neither am I. It hasn't stopped raining since we hit town."
"I will expect progress reports every twelve hours," Smith said thinly.
"You can expect them," Remo returned. "But getting them is another thing. You have to make progress to report on it."
"We shall see," said Smith, hanging up.
Closing up his briefcase, Harold Smith shut off the dome light and resumed his drive home. He was in his third week without medication of any sort and, while he did not feel like a new man-his burdens precluded such a renewal of spirit-it was good not to have his stomach churning with excess acid, and his brain throbbing with persistent headaches.
He wondered how long it would last. In this job, he thought ruefully, probably not very long.
Chapter 8
The first thing Remo did upon disembarking at LAX airport was to buy a newspaper from a vending machine.
"You have no time to read the comic strips," Chiun sniffed as they walked toward the cab stand. He wore a royal blue kimono.
"I'm not," Remo said, tossing the business and entertainment sections into a trash can. "I want to read up on Esperanza."
"Esperanza," said Chiun thoughtfully. "It is a worthy name."
"It is?"
"In the Spanish tongue, it means hope."
"I guess he knows it too. Because it says here he's holding a 'Rally for Hope' tonight. Maybe we should catch it."
"I would prefer to catch this man today," Chiun retorted.
"What's the rush?"
"The air smells bad. I would not linger in this so-called 'City of Angels.' "
The Master of Sinanju said this as the automatic glass doors slid apart and they were hit by a wave of dry heat and smog.
Remo, feeling his lungs begin to rebel, said, "This is worse than Mexico City."
"Nothing is worse than that foul place," Chiun sniffed, his hazel eyes looking to the brownish layer of clouds.
The first cab in line, they discovered, was not air-conditioned.
"No thanks," Remo said. "We'll take the next guy."
"You gotta take me," the cabby said. "It's the rules."
"Whose?"
"The Drivers' Association."
"We don't belong," Remo pointed out in a reasonable voice.
"Then you don't ride."
The Master of Sinanju took this in without a change of expression. He drifted up to the rear tire, pretending to scrutinize the low-lying smog.
One sandaled foot bumped the rear tire.
The rubber popped a rip, and air hissed through the ragged eruption.
The cab settled at its southern corner.
"It is okay, Remo!" Chiun said loudly. "We will ride with this man!"
"We will?" Remo blurted.
"He is desperately in need of our business." Chiun pointed. "Look. His wheels are in a sad state."
The driver came out and looked at his tire.
"A flat?"
"It is too bad," clucked Chiun, "but we will wait for you to repair it." He beamed. Remo looked at him doubtfully.
The cabby shook his head. "Can't. The rules say you take the next one in line."
"Then my son and I will take the next conveyance in line with sorrow in our hearts," the Master of Sinanju said magnanimously.
"Yeah, yeah," the driver grumbled, popping his trunk and removing a tire iron and jack.
The second cab-this one air-conditioned-took them out into traffic. They got all of sixty yards out before they hit a traffic jam. It didn't last long. It was just that they encountered so many on the way into the city.
As they drew cool, filtered air into their lungs, Chiun folded his kimono skirts delicately and said, "Remo, tell me of this assignment."
Remo shrugged. "What's to tell? Someone killed the governor and lieutenant governor. Now there's a special election to replace them."
Chiun nodded. "Typically debased," he said.
"What is?"
"The American approach to democracy. Not that the Roman brand was any good. It lasted but four centuries."
"A mere tick of the Korean clock," Remo said, smiling.
Chiun's button nose wrinkled up. "Koreans did not have clocks until the West introduced them as a form of slavery. "
"Slavery?"
"When one is watching clocks, one is not attending to one's proper business."
"I won't argue with that," Remo allowed, looking out the window. They were approaching the city. He saw business signs in an amazing variety of languages, including the modern Korean script called hangul.
"In Roman times," Chiun went on, "the governors were appointed by the emperor."
"Well, we elect ours."
"The Romans voted for their consuls. That was in their early primitive period, before they came to embrace the sweet serenity of rule by emperor."
"Like Caligula, I suppose?"
Chiun frowned, transforming his wizened face into a dried yellow apricot. "He has gotten bad press," he sniffed, watching the palm trees whip by. "It is no wonder the trees grow as they do here," he added.
"How's that?"
"The bad air. It makes the trees grow naked, except for their heads. Trees should not possess heads. It is unnatural. Like elections."
"Look, Chiun. Since we're going to volunteer our services to the Esperanza campaign . . ."
Chiun's head whipped around. His thin eyes went wide.
"Volunteer? Sinanju-volunteer!"
Remo nodded. "That's how it works. People who support a candidate volunteer their services."
"Then they are fools and worse," Chiun said harshly. "I will dispatch no enemies for no gold."
"Sounds like a cute campaign slogan," Remo remarked. "But volunteers are what Smith wants us to be. So we do it."
"We do not!"
"We who are loyal to our emperor do," Remo pointed out dryly.
The Master of Sinanju absorbed this example of white logic without comment. His eyes narrowed. Perhaps, at the next contract negotiation, he would find a way to make Smith pay for any enemies of Esperanza he was forced to dispatch without pay. With interest, of course.
They finally pulled up before a Wilshire Boulevard hotel, where Remo understood from The Los Angeles Times Enrique Espiritu Esperanza had taken the penthouse suite for his protection.
Remo paid the cabby, after a brief argument over the tip. The driver insisted the tip was insufficient. Remo pointed out the undeniable fact that it was ten percent of the fare.