"I will take your word on the latter," the Mountie said frostily. "But in the former you are seriously deficient."
"Thanks," said Remo. "Is your red suit at the cleaner's today?"
"The red serge is strictly ceremonial," the first Mountie said stiffly.
"Really? I didn't know that."
"Tell your damn friends," both Mounties called after him.
In the lobby Remo met the Master of Sinanju, who was wearing a placid expression.
"Have any trouble?" Remo asked.
"I was well treated."
"You must have used your Korean passport."
"Of course. I would not wish to be mistaken for a fish-stealing pharisee."
"Cut it out."
They grabbed a cab, and the driver accepted them on the proviso that they pay in advance, which Remo did because strangling this cabdriver would only mean having to find another who might be even more insufferable.
Other than the bilingual French-English signs and the profusion of green copper roofs on Parliament Hill, Ottawa might have been any American city. On the way into the city, Remo noticed the only thing that was unusual.
"Check it out, Chiun. The squirrels are black."
Chiun spied a squirrel sitting on a snowy branch of an oak.
"I have never seen a more sinister rodent. No doubt he is a fish hoarder."
"Doubt it. Squirrels are strictly nuts. Like Canadians."
Chiun peered out his window at the snow-covered buildings that marched by. As they got closer to the heart of the city, it looked more and more European, like a theme park of stone and green copper roofs.
"Ottumwa lies fat under its snows. Fat and easily sacked," intoned Chiun.
"It's Ottawa, not Ottumwa, and we're not in the sacking business," said Remo.
The cab let them off in front of the Chateau Laurier, and Remo handed the driver twenty dollars for a fifteen-dollar fare.
"Thank you," said the driver, pocketing the bill.
"Hold up. What about my change?" Remo demanded.
"What about my tip?"
"I like to tip from my change."
"Your change is my tip," the driver countered.
"Normally I'm the judge of that."
"Normally you tip American taxi drivers. You are in Canada, and we like to take our gratuity this way, owing to the muddled manner in which Americans confuse U.S. and Canadian dollars."
"I'm not confused."
"Very well."
Back came a handful of coins.
"What are these?" asked Remo, staring at the one gold and two silver coins.
"Coins. They constitute your change."
"I want bills."
"They are legal tender, out of which I expect a generous tip."
"Here's a tip," said Remo. "Don't tick off a paying fare."
And Remo took the silver coins between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. He performed a double squeeze, and the coins went scrunk. Remo returned them in the form of silver Tootsie Roll bits.
"What is this?" demanded the cabbie.
"Four bucks' worth of warning," said Remo, getting out.
The driver started to protest, but the rear passenger door slammed shut in a way that shook the car on its springs. It bounced so badly that the driver got out, thinking it was an earthquake.
By that time the two peculiar passengers had vanished into the hotel.
INSIDE, REMO DECIDED on the direct approach.
Walking up to the front desk, he asked a supercilious-looking desk clerk, "We understand the Secretary-General of the UN is staying here."
The clerk looked up, frowned at Remo's casual, out-of-season dress and sneered, "You understand imperfectly."
"Oh, but I beg to differ," said Remo, adopting a similar tone.
"Sir, you are mistaken."
Remo was about to take the clerk by the tail of his tie, the better to yank him out of his polished shoes and equally polished attitude, when the Master of Sinanju squeaked, "Remo, behold!"
Remo turned.
A stone-faced man of sprightly sixty years floated past, wearing a gardenia in his lapel and trailing a vaguely effette after-shave scent. He went through the revolving door and stepped into a waiting car.
Remo turned to the desk clerk, saying, "Caught you fibbing."
"You are mistaken. That was an untruth."
Remo gave the man's reservation terminal a friendly pat, knowing from past experience that the screen display would turn to an unreadable electronic jigsaw puzzle. From the horrified look that came over the man's face, it did exactly that.
The car was pulling away when Remo and Chiun reached the street.
As it happened, the cab that had brought them to the hotel was still bouncing on its springs, the cabbie looking on with vaguely fearful eyes.
Beside it a rainbow-striped white car with a blue horseman symbol on its rear fender was pulling up. A man in a crisp uniform stepped out.
"If you don't mind, we're going to borrow your cab," Remo said, brushing past the man and taking the wheel.
"I mind very much," the man said.
So the Master of Sinanju seized him and flung him into the back seat, there to join him.
"I won't stand for being kidnapped," the driver demanded as the cab left the curb. "This is Ottawa. And this happens to be an official RCMP vehicle, not a taxicab."
"My mistake," said Remo. "How do you feel about riding in the trunk?"
"In that case, I will do my best to persevere," the Mountie said.
Remo fell in behind the car carrying the UN Secretary-General. They could see the back of the man's iron gray head through the back window. He was primping like an old maid.
The two cars moved through Ottawa traffic, leaving the historical heart of the city and entering a neighborhood where old snow lay in the gutters, dirty and unplowed.
"This is not a good area," the Mountie warned.
"What is wrong with it?" Chiun probed.
"The snow is dirty."
"Is it dangerous?"
The Mountie scoffed. "This is Canada. We do not have violence here."
"That's about to change," Remo growled.
"Are you gentlemen assassins?"
"No," said Remo.
"Yes," said Chiun in an overlapping voice.
"Well, which is it?" the Mountie asked in subdued horror.
"We're assassins, but we're on vacation," Remo told him. "We're not here to waste anyone."
"Then why are you following that vehicle?"
"You take it, Little Father," Remo said to Chiun.
"To see where it goes," answered the Master of Sinanju.
The cab carrying the UN Secretary-General took them to what looked to have once been an electrical substation or power-generating plant on the fringes of the Canadian capital. It was a grimy brick box, and over the main door was a faded sign that at one time said Ottawa Electric, but now said, Otta a Tric. A single red light bulb made the front door smolder.
The taxi pulled up before it, and the UN Secretary-General stepped out and paid the fare with a stiff bow. Adjusting his tie, he walked up to the main entrance and smoothed his waistcoat before pressing the doorbell.
The door opened inward, and he vanished inside.
"We're going to stop here," said Remo, "but we may need the car later."
"I do not object," said the cowering Mountie. "Simply call dispatch when you are ready."
"We'd rather you wait."
"In that case, kindly turn off the engine."
"No problem," said Remo, who left the engine off and the Mountie curled up in the locked trunk while he and Chiun went to the building entrance.
Remo looked around. "Looks like the kind of place where a UN official would meet up with a Canadian minister when they don't want witnesses."
"Possibly," said Chiun.
"This should be a piece of cake."
"Do not count your salmon before they spawn," warned the Master of Sinanju darkly.
"What could happen? We're in Canada. Even the Mounties don't put up a fight."
Chapter 31