"You . . . shot . . . me," Ismat moaned. He fell to the floor, twitching.
"You made me shoot my comrade," Rafik spat at the white.
"There are worse things," the American said casually. In his hand he had Rakik's own Uzi and was methodically field-stripping it. The trouble was, he obviously did not know how to take apart a fine weapon like the Uzi because he removed whole sections without disengaging them properly. The Uzi made strange cracking sounds and then fell in pieces onto the rug.
Rafik knew that he was no match for hands that could dismember a pistol like that. He plucked a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin with his strong teeth, and yelled the words that usually quashed all resistance during airliner hijackings: "If I die, we will all die!"
Rafik had no intention of dying. He had not let go of the safety spoon. The grenade would not explode until he did. He expected the mere threat of the grenade to trick the man into letting him back out of the building to the car.
But before he could edge away, the man's hands clutched his upraised wrist. The other hand twisted his thumb in its socket. The safety spoon fell to the floor.
Rafik tried to let go of the grenade. He could not. His hand was frozen around it. Then the man slapped him down onto the floor. Rafik fell still clutching the grenade under him.
He tried to push himself up, but the man was standing on his back, holding him on the ground. The grenade dug into his stomach.
Then the grenade went off.
Under Remo's feet, the terrorist jumped. When he settled back on the rug, Remo stepped off the body. The man lay limp, but there was a pool of blood seeping from under him. His body had absorbed the force of the explosion.
The Master of Sinanju stepped out into the hall. "How many lumps?" he asked.
"None. They're not thirsty," said Remo. "That one is ruining the rug."
"Not my fault. He pulled a grenade. If I'd handled it any other way, the shrapnel would have ruined the hall, not just the rug."
Chiun approached. "Did he say who hired him?"
"No. He didn't have time."
"Then you bungled. Never dispatch a source of information until the source gives up what he knows."
"Yeah, well, if you're so smart, why didn't you handle it? I'm just along for the scenery this time out."
''I was making tea," Chiun said haughtily.
Jalid Kumquatti waited until Rafik and Ismat went in the front door before he came out of hiding in the car's back seat.
The street was empty of life. He vaulted the antiterrorist barriers and went around the back. There were no guards there. He had not expected to find any. They had all been drawn to the street, where his Hezbollahi brothers had eliminated them.
Jalid had waited long enough. When Rafik and Ismat did not return to the car, he knew that either they had run into trouble or the search for the Vice-President had taken longer than expected. He decided the situation needed his fine hand. He wondered if Rafik and Ismat were dead. If they were, it would mean more money for him.
Jalid went in through a window. He wrapped the tail of his kaffiyeh around his eyes to protect them from splintering glass and took a running jump. He went in headfirst. He rolled as he hit the floor and landed on his feet. He sprang for the door.
There was a tiny elevator immediately outside the hall. He leapt for it, and luckily the rickety doors opened when he touched the button. He rode the cage to the top and got out. It would be easier to work his way down, searching for his target, than to fight his way to the upper floors and then back down again.
The third door opened on a room full of sleeping men. Jalid knew they were American Secret Service agents because they wore sunglasses and gray suits even in slumber. He lifted his Kalashnikov assault rifle to spray the room, but on second thought realized that that would be a waste of bullets.
The agents were dead. They had to be. Six of them were stacked on a big canopied bed, their hands and feet dangling off the edges. Others lay about on the floor. There was no mark on any of them, which was odd because neither Rafik nor Ismat had carried any kind of gas. Perhaps, he thought as he closed the door, they had garroted the agents one at a time. Perhaps that was what had been keeping them so long.
Then it was only a matter of time before he would find Rafik and Ismat and their target, the Vice-President.
Jalid burst into the next room. Empty. He went on to the one across the hall. It too was empty. Outside the next room there was an antique chair on which rested a roll of parchment tied by a blue ribbon.
Jalid kicked the door in. The lock gave on the first kick. The room was dark. He swiped his big hands along the inside wall until he encountered a light switch.
The burst of illumination showed a very sleepy man suddenly sitting straight up in bed. Jalid recognized the famous boyishly mature face.
"Who? What?" the Vice-President said sleepily.
Jalid smiled. He would get the credit for this kill after all.
Remo heard the crash of glass. Chiun looked at him. "There are others," Chiun said. "Quickly, we must protect our charge, who is possibly our next employer."
"Let's go."
Remo dashed for the elevator. He pressed the button. Too late. The cage rattled past their floor without stopping. "Someone's on the elevator," Remo said.
The Master of Sinanju bounded for the stairs, Remo hot on his heels.
"If we fail, this will be your fault," Chiun said.
"Can it, Chiun. We won't fail."
On the top floor they saw that the Vice-President's bedroom door was open and spilling light into the hall.
From within there came the brief burst of automatic-weapon fire.
"Aaeeie!" Chiun wailed. "We are too late!"
A dungaree-clad man bounced backward out of the room. He slammed against the far wall, momentarily stunned. Recovering, he leaned into the wall and lifted his Kalashnikov to fire into the bedroom.
He never got off a shot.
A man leapt gracefully out of the bedroom, landed before him, and, spinning on one foot, sent the other shooting out at shoulder level. The terrorist's head snapped one way, then back the other when the kick reversed itself. The Kalashnikov clattered to the floor.
The terrorist stared stupidly for the space of a heartbeat, then an openhanded thrust snapped his neck. He slid down the wall into an inert heap.
The man who had vanquished the terrorist turned to face Remo and Chiun.
They saw that he was tall, with the broad, tanned face of a California surfer. His green eyes laughed. He wore a white gi, such as karate fighters wore, with the traditional black belt around his thick middle.
"Who are you supposed to be?" Remo asked.
"Call me Adonis. It is my official code designation. I am here to protect the Vice-President's life."
"And a great job you did of it, too," said the Vice-President, stumbling out of the bedroom in peppermint pajamas. He looked at Remo and Chiun. "Where were you two when all this was going on?"
"Taking care of the two terrorists who came in the front," Remo said defensively.
"Is that a fact? Well, if this fellow here hadn't crashed in through the window, I'd be dead meat now. The killer had me dead to rights." The Vice-President turned to his rescuer.
"I'd like to shake your hand," he said warmly.
The man called Adonis bowed deeply. When he came up, he shook hands heartily. The Vice-President noticed his broad shoulders and bronzed healthy face. He compared them against Remo's skinny physique and Chiun's diminutive stature.
"Now, this is my idea of a real bodyguard," he said.
"Don't forget we helped too," Remo pointed out. "We got the two downstairs."
"Yeah, right," said the Vice-President, turning his back on them. "That was some fancy footwork you did there, son. What was it-karate?"