"Tough," Remo said through a mouthful of rice.
"Tell her, Remo," Chiun said suddenly. "Why-"
"Because I am eating and I would rather suffer through your words than her nagging."
"What is 'nagging'?" Lupe demanded.
"What you were just doing," Chiun replied. "Remo."
Remo put down his rice. "All right," he began. "Years ago there was this crazy female NASA scientist. She liked to drink and she liked to make robots almost as much. Her dream was to create a thinking robot to send on long-distance space flights. Instead of sending people, NASA would send robots. Or androids. I guess Gordons is an android."
"I know this word 'robot,' but not 'android,' " Lupe admitted.
"It's like a robot, except it looks and acts almost human," Remo explained. "Linda like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Well, this woman scientist invented Mr. Gordons. This was after Mr. Seagrams and Mr. Smirnoff didn't work out."
"Those are liquor brands," Guadalupe said doubtfully.
"Didn't I mention she liked to drink? Well, that's what too much Gordon's gin will do for you. Gordons walks and talks like a man. He thinks like a six-year-old. But he knows how to do one thing well--survive. That's what he's programmed to do, and that's what he does."
"Survive . . . ?" Lupe repeated. Remo nodded. "Survive. That's where the real trouble with Gordons all began. When NASA funding was curtailed back in the seventies, the Gordons project was defunded. Gordons figured he'd be turned off, so he escaped. He's been on the loose ever since. "
"He is a menace?"
"Menace and a half," Remo said ruefully. "For a guy who's only interest is getting through the day, he's caused a junkyard's worth of trouble. We chased him to hell and gone in the U. S., all the way to Moscow, where the Russians shot him into space. We thought that was finally the end of him. He came back as a Russian space shuttle, later turning up, variously, as a car-wash machine and an amusement park. "
"You are making no sense," Lupe said.
Remo snapped his fingers. "Right. I forgot a step. Gordons is an assimilator. He assimilates things in order to survive. That means he becomes them. Any object, inanimate or living, that he can get his plastic hooks into-bingo, it becomes Gordons. That's how he was able to look like the Vice-President. That's how he survived falling sixteen stories. He's selfrepairing. He just picked himself up and lit off. He must have become the statue of Tito as camouflage.'
"This is an incredible story-too incredible to be believed. "
"We've got Gordons as the Vice-President on that videotape over there," Remo said, jerking a thumb back to a nightstand. "And you were the one who talked to Tito, not me."
Lupe closed her eyes. " I still shake when I hear that statue speak in my mind," she said hollowly.
"Wish I'd been there," Remo said fiercely, picking at his rice. " I would have ripped his head off."
"And the secret of the true President's fate would have perished with him," Chiun pointed out. "Unless his brain is in his little toe this time, in which case your attack would have been for nothing."
"Touche," Remo said. And seeing Guadalupe's puzzled brows knit together, added, "It's French."
"Meaning what?"
"Search me," Remo said.
"You want me to search you? What will I find?" Remo closed his eyes. "Never mind. Look, we've only got another couple of hours before we go to . . . What is it called again?"
"Teotihuacan. It is a ruin."
"Unlike Mexico City, which is only a disaster," Remo muttered. "Right. So we've got to get orders from home."
"From Smith?"
"We don't know any Smeeth," Remo said blandly.
"You are making fun of me," Guadalupe accused. She pronounced it "fon."
"Anyway, we have to make a private phone call," Remo continued. "Mind waiting outside until we call you back in?"
"We who are working together should have no secrets. May I stay?"
"Can you say 'juniper juice jelly is yummy' three times fast without making a mistake?" Remo asked.
Guadalupe got to her feet stiffly. Such rudeness, she thought. These Americans ordered people around in their own nation like they were the landlords of the earth.
"Yust as you say," she said with studied formality, " I will go." She backed away from them, plucking the videotape off the nightstand while they were engrossed in their rice.
She left the room without another word.
After the door shut behind her, Remo finished the last of his rice, washing it down with mineral water.
"She is not coming back, you know," Chiun said pointedly.
"Better for us. Better for her," Remo said, reaching up for the telephone. He wondered how Smith would take the news.
Chapter 22
Jorge Chingar, alias El Padrino, arrived in Mexico City in a Lear private jet that was waved to a private hangar by the ground crew.
Mexican customs inspectors were already waiting for him as the hatch of his Lear dropped, revealing the lambskin-carpeted steps on its underside.
El Padrino stepped off the plane, grinning darkly.
"Buenos dias, muchachos," he cried, flinging out his arms grandly.
He came off the plane before his personal guard. Although he was a wanted man back in Colombia, and technically here in Mexico, El Padrino was unafraid.
The customs officers stepped forward, their faces very serious, as is the way of customs men the world over.
"Have you anything to declare, senor?" one asked.
"Any weapons? Any drugs? Any illegal contraband?" asked the others.
El Padrino reached into his silk Versace jacket, extracted an alligator-skin wallet, and began peeling off American hundred-dollar bills.
He presented two to each of the customs men and then handed the leader a sealed envelope.
"For your amigos," he said graciously.
"Muy bien, senor," said the chief customs officer.
They nodded their heads politely and, their duty fulfilled, left the hangar.
El Padrino clapped his bejeweled fingers, bringing his personal guard.
They came carrying weapons and looking fierce.
"Guard the plane. No one comes in or out. You cannot trust these Mexicans, no matter how much you pay them."
His men deployed around the hangar with military precision, as well they should. They had been trained by Israeli mercenaries.
El Padrino turned on his heel and reentered the cabin. In his private cabin he worked the phone.
El Padrino played the telephone like a master musician, his voice smooth almost to the point of unctuousness. He never overdid it. And so received quick polite answers.
But they were not answers he liked. Comandante Odio was dead, the DFS told him. It was most regrettable. No, there were no further details available at this time.
"This is unfortunate," said El Padrino to the primer comandante of the DFS. "Comandante Odio was a very valuable man. I fear I cannot replace a man so valuable as he."
"Perhaps we could work something out," suggested the primer comandante.
"Ah, I was hoping you would say that," said El Padrino, who understood that in Mexico, at least, money did not talk. It beguiled.
"If you would like to discuss this further, you may come to my office," the primer comandante was saying.
"I would much prefer that you experience the hospitality of my fine aircraft. The wines are French and the food is Andalusian."
"I shall join you directly," said the primer comandante. The phone went click.
Yes, thought El Padrino. These Mexicans were so very easy to do business with. Perhaps in a few years, if business continued to expand, he would move his operation to Mexico City. Colombia was more refined, but the government very, very entrenched. In Mexico they were more flexible. They even had a saying that governed their code of behavior: "Money does not stink."