"The system is running through all news feeds," Smith explained, "seeking any Chiun-configuration pattern."
"What if he hasn't made the news?"
"The key search will run until he does," Smith said flatly.
"Then why are we waiting like we expect an instant answer?"
"Because we may get one."
The screen stopped flashing. The message SORT COMPLETE appeared. Under that was a blinking BUBBLE SEARCH Y/N?
"What's a bubble search?" Remo wanted to know, as Smith tapped the Y-for-yes key.
"A brute-force search. The key search has isolated over six hundred possible Chiun sightings."
"That many?" Remo said in surprise.
"I did say 'possible,' " Smith returned coolly. "I've assigned probability numbers to each sighting. The bubble search will cause the high-probability sightings to bubble to the surface and the low-probability ones to sink back into memory for later retrieval."
Remo watched. He saw no bubbles. Instead, there was a SEARCH COMPLETED message, and in numerical order, text digests of various sightings appeared.
They read them together.
Twenty minutes later, they reluctantly concluded that none of the high-probability sightings were of the missing Master of Sinanju.
"Where could they have gone?" Remo wondered.
"Anywhere. That is the problem."
"No, I mean where could he have gone that he didn't dismember a stubborn cabdriver, annoy a waitress, or nearly kill a bellboy for dropping one of those damn trunks of his?"
"I do not know," Smith admitted glumly.
"Then I guess we wait until he causes the inevitable ruckus," Remo said, folding his lean bare arms.
Smith returned to the key search.
"No time. I will attempt to locate Zhang or the masked chauffeur."
"Don't forget the tall guy in back."
"Description?" Smith asked, fingers poised to input.
"Oh, about six foot, maybe taller. He was bending to get in when I first saw him. Wore a long coat, and later, a purple silk gown."
"Knee- or ankle-length?"
"Lower," Remo said thoughtfully. "Almost like one of Chiun's kimonos. I don't remember seeing his feet."
"You mentioned a fur cap." Smith prompted as they keyed.
"Hat. One of those Russian-style things. What do they call them?"
Smith thought a moment. "Ah, astrakhan," he said, inputting the word. His fingers stopped in mid-word.
Remo leaned closer. "Yeah?"
"Odd. You've described a person very familiar to me, but I cannot recall who it is."
"He didn't look familiar to me. The chauffeur, yes. Zingzong, too, but only from the back-if that makes any sense."
"I am not surprised. No one in the West knows what Zhang looks like from the front, but he may have the most famous back in modern history."
"Care to clue in an intrigued assassin?" Remo wondered. "One moment. Would you assume the tall man in the astrakhan hat was Asian?"
"I assume so, yeah, but I don't know that I can cite you any reason to think that. Come to think of it, he's pretty tall for an Asian, if he is one."
"Hair and eye color?"
"Got me. Didn't catch either."
Frowning, Smith completed the sparse description and initiated another key search.
"So who is he?" Remo asked as Smith leaned back, watching the search.
"We won't know until the search is completed," Smith said.
"I mean Zingzong."
"Zhang Zingzong is-or was-a student at the Beijing School of Iron and Steel."
"Sounds charming. I'll bet finals are pretty noisy."
"He escaped to the West only a few weeks ago, after months of being sheltered by Chinese citizens sympathetic to the pro-democracy forces over there."
"One of the student leaders?"
"No. In fact, his role in Tiananmen was insignificant. Do you recall, Remo, the Chinese man who stopped that line of T55 tanks a few days after the massacre?"
Remo blinked. "Him! That was Zingzong?"
"Yes. He escaped China to Hong Kong and from there to the West."
"Are you sure? I mean, I hate to say this, but I wasn't impressed by the guy at all. He reminded me of a scared rabbit. How do you know it's the same guy?"
"Our intelligence resources within China identified him early on. We facilitated his escape from the mainland. He is very brave. It was a dangerous escape."
"I'll take your word for it," Remo said vaguely. "So why are we so interested in him?"
"He is a global symbol of Chinese resistance. One who, if the old-guard regime falls, may be in a position to be inserted into the leadership vacuum. We are keeping him safe until that time."
Remo grunted. "Great job you did."
"Word must have leaked. There were several attempts to abduct Zhang, which I find very odd."
"Not to me," Remo shot back. "Chinese leaders who would crush their own with tanks wouldn't exactly hesitate to kidnap a defector."
"That is the odd part. This has not their stamp on it. I would have expected an execution or assassination, not abduction. Ah. "
Smith leaned forward, seeing the SEARCH ENDED message.
The subsequent bubble search assigned a number-one priority to an obituary for a Chinese restaurant owner.
"Dead end," Remo grunted.
"No, we have another avenue. The owner of the New Rochelle house. But that will have to wait until tomorrow."
"Why tomorrow?"
"Because the registrar of deeds for Westchester County is not open on Sunday," Smith said crisply.
"You don't have that stuff in your computer?" Remo asked in surprise.
"The Folcroft data banks are massive, but they do not contain data not accessible through computer hookups," Smith said with more than a trace of regret.
"This doesn't make sense," Remo said. "How did those guys know Zingzong was stashed in my house?"
"No doubt the same sources that betrayed the three previous safe houses. You have to understand, Remo, that the Chinese have the largest espionage apparatus in the world. Their eyes are everywhere. The FBI has been unable to trace their leak."
"You're giving up too soon."
"The key search is running. Something will turn up."
"Chiun can't cross the street without attracting attention."
Smith frowned. "I agree, but . . ."
"What is it?" Remo asked.
"That boat of his," Smith asked. "Where is it moored?"
"The junk?" Remo said. "I asked him about it once, and he said he'd gotten rid of it."
Smith's face fell. "Too bad."
"I didn't believe him, though."
Smith reached for a blue telephone.
"What are you doing?" Remo demanded.
"I am about to call every marina on the eastern seaboard, until I locate that junk. What is its name?"
"Jonah Ark. That was the name when we got it. Someone told Chiun it was bad luck to change a boat's name, so he kept it."
It took four calls until Smith found a lead.
"The Jonah Ark?" the Port Chester harbormaster asked him. "Yeah, sure. She set out this morning."
"Did the captain say where he was going?"
"No. But they couldn't go far. Had only a crew of two. One an old fella. Asian. That ship needs a six-man crew, minimum."
"Thank you," Smith said, hanging up. He returned to his computers, saying, "The ship left this morning. I'm ordering a satellite search." "Through this cloud cover?" Remo said, nodding to the picture window behind Smith. The clouds were like a lead blanket hanging in the sky.
"No choice."
It took an hour for the transmission from the orbiting KH-11 recon satellites to travel from space to a relay point on the continental US and, by a circuitous route, to Harold Smith's computer screen. The results were not encouraging.
"Nice overhead shot of these clouds," Remo said bitterly. "Oh, look! There's a break. Is that Cuba?"