"That can't be."
"They're saying it's so, sir."
"Tell them to get us a visual, but don't trust it entirely. This could be some trick."
"By whom? They're all our men."
"Anyone can be bought," came the voice.
"But we are the experts. We would have spotted something. No one knows better how to buy people than you, sir. "
"Still, check the visuals. Have them give us a camera angle."
"Or we could just look," said the man at the open door.
"No. Shut the door."
The door clanked shut with such force that the jet trembled on its rubber tires.
Remo could still hear them talk.
"If someone is really up there, we will take off again and do maneuvers."
"'But if he lasted the flight, how are we sure the maneuvers will shake him off?"
"Because we flew smooth before. It certainly is worth a try, wouldn't you say?"
"Yes, Mr. Diaz."
So Diaz was aboard. Remo hadn't known that. He was just told that since a large amount of money was being transported, Diaz had to be close by. That was how counters worked. They counted where people would be.
Remo had climbed on the roof just before takeoff. He had dressed as a ground mechanic, and then as soon as the blocks were removed from the wheels, he had slipped onto the roof at the tail, carefully compressing himself so the sudden weight wouldn't shake the plane and alert those inside. During the takeoff he hid himself on the far side of the plane's skin. Out of sight of the control tower. He had known the money was inside, but not that Diaz was. Until now.
That was really all he needed. As the people inside the plane worked the electronics to receive the television signal from the tower, Remo pressed the fingerpads of his right hand into the alloy skin of the plane. The metal, still cold from the flight at thirteen thousand feet, became sticky and warm under the increasing pressure from Remo's fingerpads. Pressure that flowed with the very atoms of the metal itself in rhythms with the electrons moving around the nuclei, collecting the metal within itself until the skin of the plane melted like ice cream on a hot day. As the hole enlarged, vaporized metal rose into the air in a cloud. Remo peered down into the airplane.
"Hi, I'm up here. Don't settle for the replay. I'm live from America."
"Who are you?" said one of the bodies ducking away from the hole, as others scrambled to the cabin or aft. Remo tore off a bigger piece of the cabin and slid down, removing a firing automatic along with the wrist that fired it. He threw the garbage out of the plane as the bodyguard collapsed from shock.
"Would you believe the spirit of Christmas Past?" asked Remo. Which one was Guenther Largos Diaz? You couldn't tell the millionaries nowadays because they dressed in jeans and leather jackets like teenagers.
In fact, it was very hard to tell who was who, although Remo did assume that the man behind the instruments was the pilot. He was going to have to save him. That might be difficult because there were lots of bullets going off now from all directions. Apparently Christmas Past was not the answer these people wanted.
Remo saw the source of each bullet flash while he used other bodies as sandbags. It might have been more confusing if he didn't see everything so slowly, if he had not slowed the world and all its actions to a drowsy universe by slowing himself. The secret of speed, as athletes knew, was being able to slow down the perceptions of the world. A flash could be seen and recognized much faster than the bullet, signaling that the bullet was on its way, announcing it as a matter of fact, and then the bullet would be there.
Of course, one did not duck, because that was the easist way to put the body into a receiving position for death. One had to let the body understand its role, and to do that, one moved alongside one slug while deflecting another with lesser bodies. Those were the bodyguards.
Someone was screaming "Stop" long before the trigger-happies stopped, or, to be more precise, before Remo stopped them.
The cabin was filthy with blood and torn metal.
One man in a once-white suit stood proudly at the cockpit door, unyielding.
"Excuse me, Christmas Past, but my men panicked. I assume you are of sterner stuff. Sit down."
"Where?" asked Remo. "This place is a mess."
"It would have been much neater if you hadn't torn your way inside and dismembered my employees."
"I didn't know they were your employees. I was looking for you."
"Well, you've found me. How can I be of service?"
"Actually, Mr. Diaz, you don't have to do a thing. I do everything. I kill you. No work on your part whatsoever." Diaz was cool to the marrow.
"Before I die, may I ask why?"
"I think it's drugs and buying people. Or something," said Remo. "Whatever it is, nobody else can get to you, so here I am."
"My most reasonable young man, may I ask what your name is, and why you would not care to reason with me a bit before I die? I could make you very wealthy, just for a few moments of talking with me. A bank account would be set up for you, and for, say, one minute of talk, provide you with a million dollars. I am not even buying my life, mind you. You can do your duty as you see fit. But for one minute of conversation, you will get one million dollars and of course remove this scourge you believe me to be. What do you say?"
"Nah. I don't need a million."
"You are rich then?"
"Nah," said Remo.
"A man who does not want money. What a rarity. Are you some kind of saint?"
"Nah. I just don't need money. I don't have a real home. I don't have anything."
"Ah, then you must want something."
"I'd like transportation out of here after I kill you. I don't know how well this plane will work with its roof torn off and bullets peppered into the cabin."
"Agreed," said Diaz with a smile of arrogant grace. The man certainly knew how to give up his life.
"Okay, you've got twenty seconds left."
"I thought I would get a minute."
"I've given you talking time. I mean, if I'm getting paid at the rate of a million dollars a minute I'm not throwing away hundreds of thousands of dollars. You've got fifteen seconds left."
"Fifteen?"
"Twelve," said Remo.
"Then of course all I can do is say good-bye and express my felicitations."
Guenther Largos Diaz nodded and clicked his heels, folding his arms together and waiting for his death as others would for a glass of champagne. Remo was impressed by this dark-haired man of calm and grace. "Where's my plane out?" he asked. "You certainly don't look like the type who would bother to lie."
"But my time is up, sir. I don't even have the pleasure of your name."
"Remo. How many minutes do you want for the plane?"
"A lifetime," answered Diaz. The pilot peered around from behind him and then quickly looked back to the controls when he saw the thin man with the thick wrists smiling back at him. What was so chilling to the pilot was not the dark-haired, high-cheekboned handsomeness of the man standing in so much blood, it was the casual, almost friendly way the man looked at him with those dark eyes that seemed oblivious of the carnage.
And especially the answer he gave when Mr. Diaz asked for a lifetime.
"Don't worry. Whenever you give me that plane and pilot out of here, it will be your lifetime."
Diaz laughed. The pilot looked to his copilot. Men worked for this ruler of an illegal empire out of respect almost as much as money. But this was more than Mr. Diaz's legendary courage. This was sheer folly. The pilot cringed when he thought of the strange way the bodies had been strewn around the cabin. He looked straight ahead at the landing strip, as his stomach screamed for him to run and his legs sent up signals that they would refuse to move in such a dangerous situation.
And Mr. Diaz was still laughing.