His eyes were on the floor. Mistress Kali gave the leash a sharp tug, and he raised his head.
"Allow me to present the minister of fisheries and oceans, Gilbert Houghton," said Mistress Kali in a voice that mocked the two dignitaries.
"Er, pleased," gulped Anwar Anwar-Sadat.
Through the clenched rose, the Canadian official growled low in his throat.
This was not going as expected ....
Chapter 33
At Folcroft, Harold Smith was watching the global conflict unfold.
"This is unbelievable," he said to himself. "It is as if the entire seafaring community has descended into a feeding frenzy."
In the North Atlantic the renegade U.S. fishing fleet had retreated to a closed fishery called the Flemish Cap, where they were taking Canadian cod and yellowtail in a feeding frenzy that defied fishing regulations of both nations. Coast Guard cutters were moving to rendezvous with them in an effort to persuade them to abandon Canadian fishing waters.
In the Pacific the U.S. destroyer Arkham was prowling the waters between Alaska and Washington in search of the Canadian submarine Yellow-knife/Couteaujaune before it could surface in the midst of American salmon-fishing craft.
Meanwhile Canadian coastal-defense vessels were trying to collect transit taxes and taking small-arms fire from disgruntled U.S. salmon fishermen.
From Ottawa there was silence both official and unofficial. But from Quebec emanated semiofficial rumors that in the U.S.-Canadian fishing war, Quebec intended to side with Washington.
And so Harold Smith saw the first seeds of Canadian civil war. The choosing of sides.
Already in the U.S. media, old memories were being dredged up. The depredations of one French and Indian war. The Deerfield raids. Louisbourg. How during the War of 1812, Canadian and British forces had burned the White House to the ground.
In Oregon a paramilitary force called the Unconstituted Oregon Militia had slipped across the Fortyfifth Parallel and hung three Mounties from fir trees and called for the repeal of the treaty that had given much of the original Oregon territory to Canada.
Along the Vermont-Canadian border, tensions were running extremely high. It appeared there was a library that straddled the border in a town that existed half in Canada and half in the U.S. Hotheads on both sides of the border had begun to lay concertina wire straight down the middle of the humanities reference aisle, and the library was being hotly contested, chiefly with thrown encyclopedias. It was only a matter of time before the first shot was fired.
In Lake Champlain a long-simmering controversy over the spread of a thumbnail-sized mollusk, the zebra mussel, from U.S. waters into Canadian territory was flaring up again.
Tiger-striped Canadian air-force F-16s were patrolling the Alcan Highway, which had been sealed off at Alaska's border with Canada. All U.S. traffic was being turned back. Alaska had been cut off from the continental U.S. except by air.
From Parliament Hill came threats of withdrawal from NORAD and other mutually beneficial treaties.
On Capitol Hill the provisions of the Treaty of Ghent, which ended the War of 1812, were examined for loopholes and unfinished business.
In the meantime the President of the United States and his advisers were making the Sunday-morning talk-show circuit trying to placate all sides and cool the growing war fever.
Smith knew that open warfare was but hours away. If it erupted and Quebec sided with Washington, a rift deeper than any would develop. And U.S.Canadian relations would be poisoned for a century to come.
And all because Man needed more and more fish to live.
Chapter 34
Remo rang the bell. His supersensitive fingers sensed the electric current so he knew it was wired up.
There was no answering buzzer.
Remo rang it again.
"You know," he said to Chiun while they waited, "in the old days a red light like this meant a house of ill repute."
"All houses are of ill repute. Besides our own," Chiun intoned.
"You have a point there," said Remo, leaning on the bell. It was an old push bell, a small black nub in a rusty brass bell.
Whoever was inside refused to buzz them in.
"Guess we do this the hard way. Wanna split up or go in together?"
"We will go in together, for what danger would a house of such ill repute have for two fish-eating Masters of Sinanju such as we?"
"Good point," said Remo, stepping back to lift one Italian loafer. The fine leather gleamed under the lurid light for a moment. Remo kicked once, hard.
The door was painted steel, but it caved in as if it were tin. The panel bent in the middle from the kick, but actually gave at the hinges.
Remo jumped in and caught the thick slab of steel before it hit the floor. Pivoting, he directed the downward impetus to one side and set the door in one corner. He gave it a spin. It twirled in place like a square top, wobbled then gyrated as if possessing a waking mind, and leaned itself obediently against one wall, making no more sound than a basket settling.
"Pretty slick, huh?"
"Hush," said Chiun, lifting a quelling hand.
Remo listened. Under his feet he sensed a vibration. It was familiar. Vaguely electric, but not electric in the man-made sense. It was the electricity of something living.
He looked down. Chiun was regarding the floor at their feet.
It was black. Not ebony black or obsidian black, but a shiny black that was like a mirror. The floor looked as if it were possible to see through it. Their eyes narrowed.
"I never saw a floor like this," Remo muttered.
"Nor I," said Chiun.
"It's like I should be able to see through it, but I can't somehow."
"It is black. One cannot look through something that is so black."
"So why do I think I can?" Remo pressed.
"I do not know, but I feel the same way as you, Remo."
From under their feet a sudden sound came unbidden. A gurgle, followed by a noisy splash. Other smaller splashes sounded.
"Sounds like a sewer pipe down there," Remo said.
"If that is so," said Chiun, "in the sewer dwell living things."
"Not our problem. Let's go where this takes us."
They advanced in the dim back-glow of the red entrance light.
The walls were marble, but broken by a mirrored section. The mirror shone of quicksilver.
And on either side two shadowy statues stood sentinel.
Chiun's quick intake of breath made Remo freeze in place. "What is it?" he hissed.
"Behold."
"Behold what?" said Remo, peering behind the statues for hiding enemies.
"The figures on either side of the door, Remo."
"I see them. Statues. So what?"
"How many arms does the statue on the right possess, my son?"
Remo's eyes dispelled the clotting shadows. "Four."
"And the statue on the left?"
"Four."
"They are no mere statues, but Shiva and Kali, the Red One and the Black One."
"Big deal. Two statues."
"Remo, why are they here in pagan Canada?"
"Decoration." And Remo advanced.
With a flutter of silken skirts, Chiun got in his way. Two hands came up and pressed themselves into Remo's chest. The Master of Sinanju's hazel eyes were pleading. "I do not like this. Why would such Eastern gods guard this Western place?"
"They look pretty naked. Maybe this is a cathouse."
"Remo, you may remain here. I will go in. Do not follow."
"Cut it out, Chiun."
"What if she is here?"
"She who?"
"Do not trifle with me, Remo Williams."
Remo sighed. His mind went back to other times.
He couldn't recall the year, but it had started with a statue of the Hindu goddess Kali, patron demon of the cult of Thugee, who strangled travelers for their money. When airline passengers started popping up throttled by yellow silk scarves, Harold Smith had sent Chiun and Remo to look into it. They found more than they'd bargained for. The modernday Thugs were controlled by an ancient statue that held the power to exert an evil influence upon its followers and upon Remo, who was, according to Sinanju legend, the dead white tiger destined to be the avatar of Shiva on Earth.