The light was better here. It shone directly up onto the sleeping face of the woman's bedmate.
He was a man in his sixties, although he looked at least ten years older. Big ears, bulbous nose and drooping jowls.
The instant he saw that famous face, Remo realized where he'd seen the woman before. She had been on television many times hosting White House functions.
He blinked in shock. It all made sense. The extra guards, the Texas ranch. In a flash of fear-fueled clarity, Remo realized he was standing in the bedroom of the former President of the United States.
They were at the bedside. Remo tugged at Chiun's kimono sleeve. "That's the President," he hissed. "He rules no longer," Chiun replied in a voice so low it barely registered to Remo's straining ears.
"But what's he doing here?" Remo stressed.
Chiun gave him a baleful look.
"Right," Remo said. "What are we doing here?"
"The former king possesses knowledge that endangers my emperor," the Master of Sinanju replied. Remo had heard plenty about Chiun's emperor in the past few months. Although he had never met the man himself, the mysterious figure was MacCleary's immediate boss at CURE. Whoever he was didn't matter. He had finally given an order Remo Williams would not allow to stand.
"No, Chiun," Remo said softly. His words were like cold thunder in the dark room. "You're not killing a United States President. No way. Not while I'm in the room."
In the bed the woman stirred. She gulped uncertain air before tugging the blankets snugly up under her sharp beak.
Chiun shot Remo a toxic look. "Put away your fife and drum," he whispered acidly. "I am here to remove this one's knowledge, not his life."
Remo's whispering had registered on the slumbering ears of America's former chief executive. With a snort his eyes began to flutter open. Quickly, before the man could fully awaken, Chiun reached out. Slender fingers pinched a cluster of nerves on the sleeping man's shoulder.
The President's eyes sank peacefully shut.
Chiun brought his lips close to one big ear, whispering in a voice so soft Remo couldn't hear. When the Master of Sinanju straightened a moment later, the former President's face was a sagging mask of calm contentment.
"What did you say to him?" Remo whispered. "I told him that I am a prisoner of lunatics who wish me to teach a sloth to be a swan," Chiun said blandly. "He has promised to send your cavalry to rescue me."
Turning from the bedside, he headed back across the room. Remo followed.
"You know, I'm not thrilled with the way this guy ran the war when he was in office," Remo said quietly as he held the door open for the Master of Sinanju.
Behind them, the President had resumed his snoring.
Chiun shrugged as he slipped by. "You are the one who did not want to kill him."
Remo didn't immediately follow. He lagged behind at the half-open door. When he saw the conflicted look on his pupil's face, the old Korean patted Remo's hand.
"Do not worry," Chiun assured him. "Listen to his breathing. He'll be dead in a year. Two at most." Remo felt little comfort in the knowing wink the old Korean gave him. Chiun marched out into the hall.
"What have I gotten myself mixed up in?" Remo muttered to himself.
With a last look at the slumbering former President, he gently shut the door.
Chapter 11
He woke with a start at 5:00 a.m.
It was still dark. In the small space between the muslin curtains and frilly white valance, he could see the gloomy night sky. The winter stars had not yet bled away.
In the bed beside him, his wife snored lightly, the quilt pulled in a knotted bunch around her peaceful face.
The old politician lay there for a few moments, not completely sure whether he was awake or still dreaming.
The dream had seemed so real. Like no dream he'd ever experienced before.
In his dream he had awakened briefly. The dreamworld wasn't some exotic locale. He was in his own bedroom, in his own bed. His wife was beside him. The night in the dream was a night just like this one. Except he wasn't alone.
Someone was in the room with him.
It had been very real. Almost as if he had actually awakened and had actually seen someone for a split second. Even now there was a sense that someone had been here, in this very room. Standing right beside him in the dark.
As his addled mind began to clear, he even seemed to remember a face. Mostly he remembered the eyes. They were flat, hooded. A killer's eyes.
The man in his dream was Oriental, which was strange because he didn't know that many Orientals. Odd that he'd be dreaming about one. But, he realized, in spite of what the psychiatrists might think, dreams rarely made sense. They were just a lot of hooey. Like this one.
In spite of the eerie feeling he knew it couldn't have been real. No one could have been in his bedroom.
The old politician pushed himself to a sitting position. The chill of early morning made him shiver. No surprise. At this point in his life he was rarely warm.
In the weak gray light he felt around the nightstand for his wristwatch. It wasn't there. Odd. He could have sworn he'd left it there the night before. The watch had been a gift from his wife on their fortieth wedding anniversary. He'd catch hell if he'd lost it. No. His wife would find the watch when she got up. She was good at those things.
His cold feet found his slippers. He was pulling on his robe as he tiptoed from the room into the hallway. He met no mysterious strangers on his way downstairs. Just the same staircase with the same banister and the same third step that squeaked when you stepped on it just right.
In spite of many grueling years in politics, he was still an early riser. Even at his age this was generally his favorite time of the day. But today the dream had ruined it. For some reason he couldn't shake that uneasy feeling.
On shuffling feet he went to the front door. When he pulled it open, he was so startled by the sight that greeted him he almost had a heart attack right then and there.
There was a kid standing on the steps. Just standing there. Alone and calm at five in the morning.
It wasn't the paperboy. At least not the one he knew.
The politician was about to ask the kid if he was filling in for the regular paperboy when he noticed the morning paper already rolled up on the bottom step. And this kid-whoever he was-didn't have a bag for papers.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?" the politician demanded as he squinted beyond the fairhaired boy.
There wasn't a bicycle on the sidewalk. No place for him to have slung his paper bag.
The kid said nothing.
"If you thought you were going to steal my paper, you've got another think coming, young man," the politician warned. "You young people will drive this country to ruin."
He glared at the boy. The boy stared back. There was no glimmer of emotion in his electric-blue eyes. "Are you on the drugs?" the politician queried. "All right, then. Give me your father's telephone number. I'm sure he'll want to know you're hepped up on goofballs and standing out on people's steps in the middle of the night."
The voice that answered came not from the boy on his steps, but from the front walk.
"His father is dead," a thin voice answered.
On the walk was a man. When he saw who it was, the politician took a shocked step back.
It was him. The Oriental from his dream. Only this time he was real and he was standing calmly on the politician's sidewalk, just as he had stood calmly beside his bed to make sure he had the right man.
The politician had been right all along. Someone had been inside. In his own home, in his own bedroom.
And even as the politician blinked away his shock, the Oriental continued speaking.