The merchant sighed. "Five dollars. That is my very last and best price and the memory of those starving children will be on your head, not mine."
"Sold," Terri said. "But you must promise never to r,eveal to my friends the outrageous price I paid for this or they will begin to doubt my sanity."
"I'll wrap it," the merchant said. "Although even the price of the wrapping paper makes this transaction a loss to me."
He took the shawl to the counter in the center of the store and measured off a piece of paper to wrap it. He seemed intent on making sure he did not use one millimeter more paper than was absolutely necessary.
Meanwhile, Terri reached in her purse. She was watching the merchant and feeling into her purse with her hand, when suddenly the pocketbook was yanked away from her.
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She shrieked and turned to see a small boy holding the purse, running toward the front of the tent-topped shop.
She turned to run after him, but then stopped. A big man reached out a big hand and grabbed the little boy's shoulder. The boy stopped as if he had run into a wall. The big man removed the purse from him, then gave him a paternalistic and not unkind rap on the rear end. The boy ran away without looking back.
The big man in the tan poplin suit looked at Terri and smiled and she felt her heartbeat speed up.
The man stepped forward and handed her the purse.
"Yours, I believe." The accent was British.
Terri just gaped, open-mouthed, for a second, at this quintessential man of her dreams. Then, flustered, she said, "Yes. Thank you."
She took the purse, nodded to the man, and turned back to the merchant, who was still measuring the wrapping paper.
"How much are you paying for that shawl?" the Briton asked.
"Five dollars," Terri said.
"Very good. A very fair price for a fine piece of work. Congratulations."
"She stole it from me," the merchant said.
"I know," the Briton laughed. "And tonight, children will be dying of starvation all over Madrid."
The merchant looked down to hide his smile.
It was love at first sight. Terri had never believed in it because it had never happened to her. Until now.
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"Thank you," she mumbled to the man.
"Spot of tea when you're done here?" the man said.
Terri nodded dumbly.
"Well, then, I really should have your name, shouldn't I?" the man said.
"Errr, Terri. Terri Pomfret," she said.
"A lovely name for a lovely lady. My name is Neville," said Neville Lord Wissex.
"Bad news, Little Father," Remo said.
"You're still here," Chiun said.
"If you think that's bad, try this," Remo said. "Smitty wants us to go to Hollywood right away. That's where CURE's records wound up. I told him we needed a vacation."
"Never argue with the emperor," Chiun said. "We will go to Hollywood."
"Hold on, you're up to something. That was just too agreeable and too fast."
"We must go where duty call takes us," Chiun said.
"I got it. You think you can con some producer into making your movie about Sinanju, don't you?"
"I really don't wish to discuss this with you, Remo. You are of a very suspicious turn of mind and it is not flattering to you at all."
"I'll fix you. Every producer I see, I'm going to kill on sight," Remo said.
It was the day she would remember all her life, spent with the man she had wanted to be with all her life.
Terri Pomfret found herself wishing she had a
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camera so she could record just the way it had gone. Having tea at a small cafe and then strolling along the riverfront. Spending a long, leisurely, wonderful hour inside a historical chapel, looking at seventeenth-century murals and frescoes.
And now here she was, following Neville, sweet, kind, handsome, charming, cultured Neville, up the steps toward his hotel room. How like him the hotel was. Not flashy or gaudy or tacky. A quiet, genteel building, in a quiet corner of the city, elegant, old-world charming.
She put her hand on the small of his back and Wissex stopped on the stairs and looked down into her eyes. His eyes were the brightest blue she had ever seen. Not dark and hard like Remo's but soft and gentle and caring.
"I've always dreamed of a man like you," she said. He smiled, the smile of one neither embarrassed nor patronizing; the smile of a sharer of the heart's deepest emotions. The smile of a man who understood; who would always understand.
As soon as they entered his room, Neville locked the door behind them, and then drew her into a clinch.
She felt his hands around her back, unbuttoning her blouse, as he steered her into the room, toward the bed. The bed seemed to be beckoning her, calling. She felt her heart pound and her breath catch in her throat and she closed her eyes tightly and buried her face in his neck.
"Oh, take me. Take me," she whispered.
Neville Lord Wissex smiled, and said, "I intend to."
And then he pushed her into a large steamer
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trunk at the foot of his bed, slammed the lid and locked it.
At first she shouted, then screamed, but the sound was muffled by heavy styrofoam insulation on the inside of the chest.
Wissex walked to the phone in the room, dialed a number, and said:
"That package is ready."
Remo was wondering where Terri was and when a knock came on their hotel room door, he grumbled, "It's about time," and yelled out, "It's open."
A smartly uniformed bellhop opened the door and stepped inside. To Remo, he said, "Pardon, Senor. There is an old gentleman in this room?"
Remo was lying on the couch. Without rising, he jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward where Chiun stood in a corner of the room, looking out the window.
The bellhop approached the old Korean.
"Senor?"
Chiun turned and the bellhop handed forward a small package wrapped in plain brown paper.
"This was left at the desk. I was told to give it to you," the bellboy said.
Chiun took it and nodded his thanks. The bellhop lingered a moment, as if expecting a tip, then turned and left. Chiun inspected the package, turning it over in his hands.
"What is it?" Remo said, raising himself to a half-sitting position.
"I will not know until I open it," Chiun said.
"Then open it."
"Whose package is this?" Chiun asked.
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"Yours, I guess."
"You guess? You didn't guess when that vicious little creature barged in here and asked for an old man. You pointed to me. Old? Since when am I an old man?"
"Since you were eighty years old," Remo said.
"That is old?" Chiun said. "Maybe it is old for a turnip, but for a man, it is not old. Never old."
"Why are you getting all bent out of shape?" Remo asked.
"Because I cannot rid your mind of your Western nonsense, no matter how I try," Chiun said. "Are you always going to go through life, thinking people are old, just because they have seen eight full decades?"
"All right, Chiun, you're young," Remo said. "Open the package."
"No, I am not young," said Chiun.
"What are you then? Christ, help me. I want to know so I don't offend you again."
"I am just right," said Chiun.
"Good," said Remo. "Now we've got that squared away. If we ever get a bellhop asking for the just-right man, I'll know right off it's you."
"Don't forget," said Chiun.
"Open the package," Remo pleaded.
Chiun delicately slit the paper with the long nail of his right index finger. Inside was a small box which he opened and took out a golden object.
"What is it?" Remo asked. "It looks like the handle of a knife."
"It is the handle of a knife. It is a challenge. They have the woman."