"We've determined the first explosion was a post office relay box. A piece of shrapnel was stamped US. Mail. The later explosions showed the same MO. Every explosion took place on an open sidewalk. Olive drab shrapnel everywhere. I'm still trying to get a handle on the dead."
Smith was sharp. He jumped right on the money. "Relay boxes are not accessible to the public. It is virtually impossible for a letter bomber to orchestrate a series of closely spaced explosions in relay boxes and have none of the devices go up in postal-service hands or at the destination address. We may be dealing with a postal employee."
"Exactly. Some letter carrier gone postal."
"That theory does not fit the psychological profile of postal offenders," said Smith.
"What doesn't?"
"Postal employees invariably direct their anger at their superiors and co-workers, not the general public."
"There was an incident a few years ago up in Boston. A disgruntled postal clerk grabbed his AK-47 and buzzed the South Postal Annex in a stolen light plane, sniping at random."
"Exactly," said Smith. "He fired at his place of employment"
"And everything else in sight," the commissioner countered.
"I assume you have the names of the postal employees who had access to the destroyed boxes?"
"They're stonewalling that."
"Who is?"
"The postmaster."
"What!"
"Won't take my calls. Says it's a federal matter. I don't suppose you FBI boys have any pull with the postal service?"
"I will get back to you on that," said Smith, picking up his briefcase and storming to the door.
"What about the briefing?"
"I have had my briefing," said Smith, slamming the door.
THE HEAD Of the port authority arrived ten minutes later and accepted a cup of black coffee and a seat. Then came a knock at the door.
"Who is it?" asked the police commissioner.
"FBI."
"Smith?"
"No, Rowland."
The commissioner threw open the door and said, "Smith told me you couldn't make it."
"Smith?"
"Special Agent Smith. You know him?"
"Do you have any idea how many Smiths there are with the Bureau? What did he look like?"
"He was-" the commissioner frowned "-gray," he said.
"That fits a lot of Smiths, too."
"Over sixty. Banker's gray. Gray eyes. Rimless glasses. Gray hair. Thin as a rail."
Special Agent Rowland looked doubtful. "That doesn't fit any of the Smiths I know. You certain he was with the Bureau?"
"That's what he claimed."
"Claimed! You saw his ID, didn't you?"
The commissioner of NYPD blanched. "I-he didn't show any."
"You didn't ask for ID?"
"It slipped my mind. Christ, he could have been-"
"Media."
"My God, if the media has penetrated the White Room, I'm going to look like a fool."
"Let's concentrate on the crisis at hand before we start worrying about job security," said FBI Special Agent Rowland, flint in his voice.
The commissioner of police sat down like a log dropping. He wore the approximate expression of a crosscut tree stump-flat and spinning in concentric circles.
Chapter 6
When the helicopter skycrane landed in an Osaka field, the pilot jumped out and came at the Master of Sinanju with a knife.
"Don't do it," Remo said in English.
"It is too late," said Chiun, stepping out. "I have been challenged."
"I was talking to the idiot," said Remo.
The Japanese pilot lunged for Chiun's midriff. Chiun separated his hands as if to clap them together. Then he did. They came together flatly, with the thrusting steel blade between them. Chiun twisted both wrists, redirecting the knife thrust. The pilot's wrists were carried along for the ride. The hapless pilot, too.
Chiun left him holding the broken bits of his blade in his hands and a stupefied expression on his gaping face.
"You know," Remo said as they walked away, "I don't blame him for being upset. They're going to hang this on him."
"Let him commit hara-kiri, then. I do not care. It is nothing to the pain inflicted upon my august person."