Remo released Tell's arm. "I guess you get to live."
Deputy Director Bernard Tell beat a hasty retreat. As the CIA man went one way, Remo and Chiun headed out the door and into sunlight.
"Upstairs rented us a car," Remo said as he sorted through the documents. "That's a relief. That Smith doesn't exactly look like a big spender. I figured we'd be hoofing it to the Capitol."
Outside, Remo asked a passing stewardess where the car rental agency was. While telling him, the woman continuously licked her lips and batted her eyelashes provocatively. When she was through, Remo gave her a buck for Chap Stick and Visine. She, in turn, gave him her apartment keys and told him he could follow her in his rental. Remo waited for her to get in her car, then tossed her keys down a storm drain and hightailed it for the rental office.
"Did you get a load of that?" he asked as he and the Master of Sinanju hurried along. "And did you see the way the stewardesses were fawning all over me on the plane?"
"No," Chiun replied dully. "From my vantage I could not see past the udders thrust in your drooling face."
"That's what I'm talking about. And they're not the only ones. There was a receptionist at MacCleary's hospital who reacted to me the same way. It's bizarre. I mean, you told me that women might find me more attractive with all this training, but I figured you were full of it."
Chiun's eyes narrowed at the unfamiliar expression. "I am full of many things. Love and niceness and brilliance and beauty, to name just a few. To which of these are you referring?"
"None of the above. You know, full of it. Shit, crap. Like that. But you were spot-on with the women one. I can't wait till this assignment is over and I can take this sucker out for a real road test."
The Master of Sinanju made a disgusted face. "I don't know which is worse," the old man said. "That you are a pervert, that you insult me or that, even after all this time wasted in training, you fail completely to observe the most obvious things in your surroundings."
"Hmm?" Remo questioned absently. He was back to looking over the papers that Smith had supplied. So engrossed was he in the stack of papers he hadn't noticed the man who was about to attack them. The man was barely taller than the Master of Sinanju, just a little over five feet in height. He had spotted Remo and Chiun in the terminal and had trailed them outside. Hurrying to circle around, he waited between an airport bus and an empty guard booth, a pistol in his hand.
Chiun glanced at his pupil. Remo was oblivious. "By the looks of it, I'm some kind of special Secret Service agent and you're a security adviser," Remo said. Leafing through papers, he passed Chiun a badge with the seal of the United States Department of Treasury.
Ten yards.
The fool was going to get himself killed. He didn't see the little man at all.
Five yards.
That was it. Chiun would let him die. Remo couldn't be the Destroyer of legend. Chiun had come here with a fool's hope. Free of this burdensome white, the Master of Sinanju could return to his village. Twice in his life he'd had his chance to take a student and failed. His nephew could have the world. Chiun would return to Sinanju in disgrace.
Two yards. The little man was well hidden. The gun was raised. Finger tensed on the trigger. Remo, still preoccupied.
Idiot. Chiun would have to save the dullard's life. It had nothing to do with the pupil. Nothing at all. It had everything to do with honor. He had made a pledge to his emperor, who, while crazed, had retained the services of Sinanju. The pupil didn't matter. Oh, there were some nice things about him. But mostly not. Chiun would save the loutish pupil from his own stupidity this one time and put off his dumb death to another blockheaded day.
One yard.
The Master of Sinanju began to sweep forward, about to intervene, when something unexpected happened.
Remo came up beside the short man. Unaware of the attacker's presence, he was still going through his documents, in a world all his own.
Then all at once, without any telltale signs signaling a blow, Remo's hand flashed out.
One instant both hands were clutching papers, the next all of the papers were in one hand and Remo's free hand was buried up to the knuckles in the forehead of his tiny would-be attacker. They came back out so fast they didn't have time to be smeared with brain matter.
"Hey, boy, howdy," Remo said. He jumped back, shocked, as the attacker dropped to the pavement. The gun clattered away. Remo wheeled on Chiun. "Did you get a load of that? That little guy had a gun. Damn, I didn't even see him. He had a gun and he was gonna shoot me and I knew it. I just knew it without even thinking about it."
"Of course not," Chiun sniffed. "If you thought about it, you wouldn't have known it and you would be dead."
"Sweet Gazoo," Remo said, looking in awe at the body.
"Beginner's luck," Chiun said.
"Holy freaking crap," Remo said.
"Oh, shut your mouth and get rid of the body," Chiun grumbled, fussing with the cuff of his business suit. "People are starting to stare."
Fresh concern. Remo glanced sharply around. There was no one in the vicinity. No one had seen what he had done except for Chiun, who didn't seem impressed.
Remo came to his senses. He quickly dumped the body of Anthony "Tiny Tony" Meloni into the empty guard's shack.
"We better get out of here," he said, shutting the door.
Flushed with victory, Remo headed off to the car rental office.
Chiun looked once in the window of the guard shack.
The assassin had been short.
A short man. Not a thin man, as Chiun had expected. A betrayal of tradition, calculated to insult. Turning from the booth, he padded after his pupil, a hard look on his weathered face.
WHEN THE PHONE RANG, the President of the United States was in the middle of getting dressed for a very public wake.
At first the ringing startled him. It wasn't the usual sharp ring of his nightstand phone. That ring he was accustomed to. This was more a muted jangle.
Only on the second ring did he realize it was coming from his bottom bureau drawer. Although he had used it to call out once, he had never heard the phone ring before.
The President sat on the edge of the bed in his black suit trousers. His shirt was unbuttoned over a crisp white T-shirt. His coat was on a rack by the door. A somber striped tie was laid out at the foot of his bed near the quilt with the presidential seal.
He rolled open the drawer and brought the dialless red phone to his ear.
"What is it?" the President asked worriedly.
"We have a problem, sir," Harold Smith announced tartly. "I believe your life is in danger." The chief executive's shoulders relaxed.
"I'm the President of the United States, Dr. Smith," he said. "Have you looked at a paper the past couple of years? My life's in danger every day and twice on Sunday. You'll have to get a hell of a lot more specific than that."
As he spoke, he picked up his tie one-handed, pulling it around his neck. He had to thread it past the phone.
"I believe the threat comes as a direct result of this agency's involvement in New York," Smith said. "You were the one, sir, who pressed the cleanup of organized crime there prior to the arrival of the Senate committee."
The President stopped fussing with his necktie. "Yes," he said questioningly.
"There have apparently been consequences as a result of that action. It is likely that Senators Bianco, O'Day and Pierce were murdered because of our stepped-up campaign. A warning to us to back off. There are indications that this private war is not over. According to my sources, you have now been targeted for assassination by the Viaselli crime syndicate."