It was Friend's younger enemy. The Caucasian who had chased Robbie MacGulry from New York. It was the same digitally created picture Friend had supplied MacGulry in the hope that Remo could be eliminated in Harlem. Only now did MacGulry realize why that computer printout had looked so ...computerized. It was straight out of Friend's memory. "We haven't been able to confirm if that image Cindee Maloo sent us from America is the same man," Adler said. "I've never seen anyone able to mask his features like that. That footage she sent was useless. Your associate told us to use the original we used twice in New York. He faxed us another picture."
Adler pulled another photo from the envelope. This one was of the old Korean. Like the picture of Remo, it had a not-quite-real quality. A computerized version of a police sketch.
"What are you doing with those?" MacGulry asked.
"Well," Adler began anxiously, "we've been beaming them out subliminally all over New South Wales for the past twelve hours. Ever since your friend called. The Wollongong station has been set to automatically include them in all broadcast signals with instructions to kill on sight. If they show up in the area, the entire population that has been exposed to the cryptosubliminal images will tear them to pieces like a pack of wild dogs." A nervous smile exposed crooked teeth. "Does that not fit in with your plans, sir?"
MacGulry held a picture in each hand, glancing from Remo to Chiun. He shoved the photos back in Adler's hands.
"It fits in with his plans," the Vox CEO said, dropping into the back of the Rolls-Royce. "And with any luck, they'll be as good as he thinks they are and I'll have that stickybeak computer bugger right where I want him."
His driver slammed the door on the heat and mosquitoes.
Chapter 28
"I think you should probably sit this one out, Little Father," Remo warned.
The two men had just climbed aboard the military aircraft that would take them to Australia. An Air Force lieutenant guided them to their seats.
"You may think of that and new ways to dishonor me when we are in the air," the Master of Sinanju sniffed. He swept past the offered seat, settling in the one behind it. It looked out over the left wing.
"I'm not dishonoring you, I'm worried about you," Remo said. "There, I said it. The big dirty word. I'm worried about you. Damn, I'm a crummy son, aren't I? I'm actually worried about you. And why wouldn't I be? We haven't even talked about what happened in MacGulry's office."
Remo's face held a look of deep concern. Chiun turned once to his pupil. His own expression was bland.
"You may talk to your heart's content," the old Korean said. "Just do not involve me in your jabbering."
And with that the Master of Sinanju turned away. For the better part of a day, for the duration of their trip to Australia, Remo's view was of the back of Chiun's age-speckled head. The old man studied cloud and sea, not once so much as glancing at his pupil. Only when the plane started to descend over Sydney did he turn from the window.
"I must warn you about Australians," the old man announced unhappily.
Remo noted his teacher's lack of enthusiasm. He didn't care. He was just happy Chiun was talking to him after so many hours.
"What about them?" Remo asked.
"Watch them," Chiun said. He turned back to the window.
"That's it? Watch them? Watch them do what?" But Chiun didn't reply. He said nothing more as the plane landed and they got off. He remained silent all the way through customs when Remo asked for the tenth time why he should watch Australians and Chiun finally released a little exasperated sigh.
"A good pupil would just do as he's told-he would not question."
"Good pupil, good Nazi, good dog. I'm none of those. Why watch Australians?"
"Because if you do not, they will steal the marrow from your bones and sell it to the butcher."
"Wait, I thought the Chinese were the thieves. Sometimes the Japanese. Now Australians are, too? How do you expect me to keep the racism straight if you're just gonna tar everyone with the same brush?"
"I am not," Chiun said. "More than one people can be the same thing. Just because the French stink, it does not mean that the Filipinos do not. Believe me, they do. Australians are more than just common thieves. They are murderers and pirates and insurrectionists. This is where England sends all its riffraff who are not royalty."
"Chiun, that hasn't been going on for a hundred years."
"See? Just yesterday. My father warned me about Australians. If they like your sandals, they will steal them from your feet while you are walking and then come back for your feet."
"We walked through Harlem, we can walk through Australia," Remo said.
But in the next moment even he wasn't sure of his own argument. As they walked out into the terminal, Remo felt a hundred sets of eyes lock on him and the Master of Sinanju. Men who had been sitting stood. A hush fell over the crowd.
"Oh, crud," was all Remo managed to say before a murderous howl rose up from the airport concourse. The crowd surged toward Remo and Chiun.
"It's a mugging!" the Master of Sinanju cried, twirling on his heel. "Guard your purse!"
The old man bounded down the hall, back in the direction they'd just come.
"A hundred people aren't rolling two guys, Little Father," Remo said, running to catch up. Passengers who had just deplaned from a commercial flight jumped angrily from their path.
"If you knew Australians like I knew Australians, you would not be so naive," Chiun replied.
Behind them, the mob gained strength. Remo and Chiun darted up an escalator, across a railing and jumped down into the main terminal. The crowd doubled back in hot pursuit.
In the terminal, Remo wasn't surprised to see some familiar hypnotic pulses flashing on the arrival and departure monitors that hung from the ceiling.
"Don't look at the screens, Chiun," Remo warned. But Chiun was already out the door. Remo flew out after him. The Master of Sinanju was bounding into the rear of a waiting cab. When Remo slipped in after him, the driver tried to gouge out his eyes with his keys.
Remo smacked the cabbie unconscious and snagged the keys on their way to the floor.
"Just once it'd be nice to go somewhere where everyone isn't trying to kill me," he groused as he dumped the driver to the sidewalk. He hopped behind the wheel.
"It is not you and your offensive personality for once-it is this floating prison," Chiun squeaked. "Hurry and drive, while my virtue is still intact."
Remo managed to drive ten feet before a speeding car crumpled his bumper. The driver had the dead-eyed look of Vox's other subliminal victims. When Remo tried to go around it, another cab hopped the curb and slammed them from the other side. They were pinned in a V of crashed cars as the mob from the terminal began swarming into the sunlight.
The crowd swamped the cab, smashing windows and pounding fists on buckling metal.
"Any ideas, Little Father?" Remo asked as he leaned away from hands that were trying to strangle him.
When he got no response other than the animal roar of the mob, he glanced in the back seat.
Chiun was gone.
"Why didn't I think of that?" Remo muttered. He popped the door and slipped out.
The crowd surged. Remo surged with it. As it continued surging, he bled back through it, leaving the mob to crush to death the empty space where he no longer was.
Their backs were to him as he hurried along the row of cabs. He kept to pillar and shadow to avoid detection.
He found the Master of Sinanju three cabs down. The driver of this taxi didn't have the look of a Vox viewer in his eyes. He seemed baffled by the activity up ahead.
"You wanna kill us, too?" Remo asked the driver as he slid in the back seat next to the Master of Sinanju.