"Oh, my god," Smith groaned. "Talk to him and find out how much he wants to throw it away."
"You're a philistine, Smitty. You'll never understand that us artists just can't be bought and sold that way. I'm surprised at you."
Smith sighed. "I'm not surprised at you. Not anymore. Not at anything."
"Anyway, Smitty. Just leave the whole thing to me. I'll take care of it for you. Now why did you bring us to a graveyard?"
Smith led them toward a slight rise in the ground. Down in a small hollow, a fat-faced minister, sweating despite the January chill, was mumbling prayers next to a casket, surrounded by two dozen persons.
"This is the funeral of Vincent Angus," Smith said. "He was one of our contacts in the meat industry. Of course, he didn't know he was reporting to us. Now we figure he was on to something because he was murdered. They found him dead in a tree. The flesh peeled off his body. That's why you're here."
"I didn't do it. I was in North Dakota," Remo said. He looked toward Chiun but the Oriental was listening to the prayers below.
"I know you didn't do it," Smith said. "Now this is complicated but pay attention. Someone has been trying to work out a way to introduce poison into America's food supply. That convention load of veterans at the hotel who all died. That was from the poison. Now under the guise of the swine-flu program we've managed to inoculate a lot of Americans, and we think the vaccine is 100 percent effective."
"So that solves your problem," Remo said.
"No, that doesn't solve our problem. One. We don't know if the vaccine is perfectly effective. Two. We can't give the vaccine to everybody because the swine-flu program's not mandatory."
"Why not?"
"Political reasons."
"Then let me talk to the politicians," Remo said.
"Remo," cautioned Smith.
"Ahhh, it's always like this, Smitty. I know what you're going to tell me. Find out who's doing the poisoning and stop them. That's always how it is. Find this and find that and find out how it works and find out how to stop it. I'm an assassin, not a scientist. Can't you just aim me at somebody?" He looked around for support to Chiun, but Chiun had drifted down the hillside and was now standing among the band of mourners, listening to the booming voice of the Rev. Titus Murray, whose three chins bobbed with the effort.
"And so we say farewell to Vincent Anthony Angus, good husband, father, skilled craftsman. A boon to his community, his family, and his church."
Rev. Murray took a moment to compose himself and wiped his face with a handkerchief.
"Rest in peace," he finished. "May God have mercy on your soul."
"What did this guy tell you before he got killed?" asked Remo.
"He reported a shortage of flank beef."
"Oh, well. That explains it. The giant flank cartel had to silence him before their secret got out."
"And he complained about the Department of Agriculture stamp on the meat in his restaurant. Said it was too thick and tinny tasting. I reviewed the tape last night."
"That's no help," Remo said. "Where'd he get the meat from?"
"Meatamation Industries. A salesman named O'Donnell."
"Okay. We'll see about him," Remo said.
He looked up to see Chiun coming up the hill with an attractive dark-haired girl in a long black dress.
Chiun bowed to Smith. "Emperor, knowing your great interest in this matter, I have arranged for this child to tell you all about the death of this poor man."
Smith looked shocked.
The young woman spoke. "I'm Victoria Angus. Are you really an emperor?"
Smith sputtered. "Chiun, did you… have you…?"
Chiun raised a consoling hand. "You need not worry yourself. I have told her nothing about your secret duties in Rye, New York, or the roles that Remo and I play in your plan to make America a better nation. Perhaps someday you can do me a favor in return."
"Report regularly," Smith said. He walked rapidly away.
"He's a very strange emperor," Viki Angus said.
"He can't stand funerals," said Remo.
"What's your name?" the woman asked.
"Remo."
"Remo what?"
"That's right. Remo Watt. Chiun you already know."
"Yes. Were your friends of my father's?"
"Associates," Remo said.
"You don't look like people in the meat business," said Viki.
"Well, actually we work with O'Donnell. At Meatamation?"
"Oh, yeah. The salesman. Surprised he wasn't here."
"He and your father were close, I understand," said Remo.
"Close enough so he should have come to the funeral." She looked at Smith's figure walking briskly away across the cold dead-grassed surface of the cemetery. "Will he be coming to the house? Mr… what's his name?"
"Jones," said Remo.
"Smith," said Chiun.
"Mr. Smith. Will he be coming to the house?"
"I don't think so," Remo said. "He can't stand parties any more than funerals."
But Viki Angus was not really listening. She was thinking about her father's final phone call and the computer that answered. These three men might have something to do with that computer.
The man called Smith might be the brains, this Remo the muscle, and the Oriental… well, the Oriental could wait for classification.
They could be the "Bureau of Agriculture" men. They might be the men who murdered her father.
Viki Angus decided to call the father's reporting number and record the computer clicks.
Then she would break the clicks down into its unique computer code.
Then she would trace the code.
Then she would find the computer's central location.
Then she would find out who ran it.
And then she would kill him. Or them.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mrs. Ruth Angus was moving uncertainly around the house with her dusting cloth when the doorbell rang.
Mourners already?
She casually tossed the dust rag behind a potted plant and moved toward the basement playroom to reassure herself that the hors d'oeuvres were ready and the punch indeed mixed.
A cluster of liquor bottles and soda mixes was on the table next to the punchbowl and Mrs. Angus nodded in satisfaction. Just as well. If their friends were half as shaken as she by Vinnie's horrible murder, they would want their refreshments as powerful as possible. She herself had sneaked four fingers of scotch along with her valium.
The doorbell rang again and Ruth Angus checked her coiffure on the stair mirror. She touched a curl here and a wave there, smoothed her long black dress, then leaned closer to see if the tracks of her tears through her heavy paste makeup were still visible.
Good, she thought, and went to the door. She turned the big copper knob which always seemed to give guests difficulty and pulled open the heavy wooden door.
Outside the screen door with the sheet metal "A" cutting across the lower panel were six Oriental men in long red robes.
Mrs. Angus gulped again and tried to stifle a light-headed giggle.
"Hello," she said.
The Orientals did not speak.
"Are you friends of my hus… my late husband's?" she asked lightly, but with, hopefully, the proper solemn tone for the occasion.
Five yellow men in the red robes remained motionless, but the man at the head of the group slowly nodded yes. Then he too joined the ranks of the motionless.
"Well," said Mrs. Angus, wondering about her late husband's taste in friends, "come in."
That got a reaction from the group. The two in back moved their heads quickly from side to side, as if surveying the neighborhood.
Mrs. Angus hoped they were not thinking of moving in, even with the two green-and-brown houses at the end of the block up for sale. The Ladies' Alliance for Woodbridge Neighborhoods, also known as L.A.W.N., had done much to insure that the West Haven blacks would not buy property piecemeal. And she was sure they would not like to start the whole process over again with Orientals.