He said nothing. There was no gasp of surprise, no outburst or expression of shock.
But when he looked up from the lens, his grayish face was drained bleached-bone white.
"The mind that created this hellish thing," he said thickly, "is that of a twisted genius who must be stopped. This infernal insect has been bred to be a combination flying shark and multilimbed buzz saw capable of ripping through flesh, grain and wood in an instant. There is no defense against it. All it has to do is enter the human ear and attack the brain. Death is almost instantaneous. No wonder the various medical examiners found nothing." Smith actually shuddered.
"What's the latest on the farm crisis?" asked Remo.
"The swarm-and it appears to be a swarm-has reached California. There is considerable crop damage. But again, it is fiendishly selective. In this case, citrus growers experimenting with a new pesticide have been hit."
"Don't all farmers use pesticides?" asked Remo.
"Yes, of course," said Smith, uncapping a bottle of Zantac 75 and swallowing two dry. "But these-these vermin seem to be targeting only the latest or most advanced insect-resistant crops."
"Why not get them all?"
Smith considered. "To make a statement. Perhaps this is just the first wave."
"If this guy is so big on bees, he's not going to kill every crop. Bees pollinate crops. Take crops out, and bees are out of work."
Smith considered. "Very good, Remo. That is an excellent observation."
"But it still doesn't get us anywhere," Remo muttered.
Smith was about to acknowledge that unfortunate state of affairs when his computer beeped a warning of an incoming message. He called it up, read it and his jaw sagged.
"What is it?" asked Remo.
"It is the latest psychological profile from FBI Behavioral Science."
"I thought they gave up on that stuff after they fingered Wurmlinger."
"This particular profiler is the Bureau's top man. He has never been wrong. Until now."
"He still flogging the Wurmlinger theory?"
"No, he has revised his profile. It is radically different." Smith's voice grew marginally excited. "We may have something here."
Remo looked over Smith's gray-flannel shoulder at the buried desktop screen and frowned the longer he read.
"Smitty, that's Bee-Master he's talking about."
"Yes, of course."
"No. That's the story of how Peter Pym became Bee-Master, right down to being stung by a swarm of radioactive bees."
"I don't see the word radioactive."
"He left that out," said Remo. "Look, he's even claiming the guy has the initials 'P.P.' How can he know that from the facts of the case?"
Smith frowned. "He is the best. These profilers can perform miracles of induction."
"He's pulling your leg. You're just too stiff to see-"
Smith frowned. Remo looked out the window, and the Master of Sinanju paced the room. Back and forth, back and forth, in incredible concentration.
"What are you doing?" asked Remo.
"I am attempting to conjure up a vision of the wretch."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yes. This thing you call profiling is known to Sinanju, only it is called Illuminating the Shadow."
"Illuminating the Shadow?"
"Yes, from time to time, Masters of Sinanju were called upon to divine the identities of shadowy persons who plotted against thrones or had struck in vain against those thrones only to escape into the shadows. I am attempting to divine the identity of this man by piercing the shadows that surround him."
"Feel free," said Remo. "But if it turns out to be Lamont Cranston, we're no better off than we were before."
But Smith looked interested.
"I envision," Chiun said at last, "a Byzantine prince."
"Byzantium no longer exists," Smith argued.
"Told you it was a crock," muttered Remo under his breath.
"A prince of Byzantium who conceals his face from view with a crown of great complexity," added Chiun.
"Sounds like the Man in the Iron Mask," said Remo.
Smith hushed him. Remo subsided.
"This prince rules over a kingdom of subjects who are not of his flesh."
"Bee-Master rules over the insect kingdom," Smith said.
"But these subjects that are not of his flesh are not of any flesh," continued Chiun.
"Insects are not made of flesh, but of a material like horn," said Smith. "Very good, Master Chiun."
"I don't believe you two are doing this ...." Remo moaned.
"Can you envision where this person can be found?" asked Smith.
Chiun continued pacing. His face was twisted up in concentration, his eyes squeezed to the narrowness of walnut seams. "I know that this prince is drawn back to the scene of his depredations."
"Sure," said Remo. "The criminal always returns to the scene of the crime."
"No, that is not it," said Smith. "That is an old adage, but it is not exactly true. Criminals are not drawn to the scene of their crimes so much as they feel compelled to insinuate themselves into official investigations. It is very common that the chief murder suspect is the first person to offer eyewitness testimony or suggestions on how to solve the murder. It is a control issue with them."
"That's Wurmlinger again," said Remo.
"No, it is not Wurmlinger," said Chiun. "But another prince."
Smith was at his computer again.
"What are you doing, Smitty?" asked Remo.
"Calling up the facts in the Rand killing, the one that started this chain of fantastic events."
Smith skimmed the report carefully. "Here is something."
"What?" asked Remo.
"I hadn't noticed this before, but the killing of Doyal T. Rand occurred in Times Square at the intersection of Broadway and Seventh Avenue."
"So? We knew that."
"There is an old saying that Times Square is the crossroads of the world. If one were to seek a specific person, you have only to stand on that corner long enough and that person will almost certainly appear there. Because sooner or later everyone passes through Times Square."
Remo grinned. "Somebody should set a trap for Saddam Hussein, then."
Smith shook his humorless gray head. "Our man first showed up in Times Square. - Perhaps he might return."
"Yes, he will return to the scene of his depredations, for he must," said Chiun firmly.
"You don't expect us to stand on a freaking street corner for the rest of our lives until he turns up again," said Remo.
"No, I will put the FBI on it."
"Good," said Remo.
"Not good," said Chiun. "For we must be the ones to vanquish this prince of Byzantium."
"You go, then. I have a date with a rich girl," Remo said.
Chiun started. "Jean is rich?"
"Won the lottery. Seven million bucks."
"Rich?" squeaked Chiun. "And you have not yet married her?"
"I don't marry for money."
"Then you are a dunderhead," spit Chiun. "She comes from the illustrious Rice family and swims in wealth, yet you stand there in your ignorant bachelorhood. For shame."
"I'll get around to her. Business comes first."
"See that you do," said Chiun.
Chapter 43
In a hotel room overlooking Times Square, a man calmly unpacked his suitcase.
It was a very large suitcase. It had to be to accommodate its contents.
Folded neatly inside was a black-and-yellow spandex uniform. The upper portion was jet black, while the legs were banded in alternating yellow jacket bands.
Standing in his boxers, he drew this on, carefully Velcro-ing and zippering the striking uniform that was his badge of identity.
The gauntlets of rubberized fabric fitted over his long, strong fingers. He stepped into the gleaming black boots, which squished when he walked, thanks to the honeycomb of suction cups on the bottoms of the thick soles.
Finally, he drew over his head the cybernetic helmet with its compound locust green orbs and retractable antennae. The helmet gleamed like a bee's skull forged of polished copper.