"We're all expendable on this bus," said Remo with a thin grin.
Face tightening, the Master of Sinanju took his right wrist in his left hand and his left wrist in his right hand. His kimono sleeves slid along his forearms and came together, concealing both hands and the jade nail protector that Chiun wore like a badge of ignominy. He composed his features into bland inscrutability.
A low growl from Smith's throat caught their attention.
"Find something interesting?" asked Remo.
"This appears to be a recipe for a homemade ammonia-fertilizer bomb similar to the one that destroyed the Alfred P. Murrah building in Oklahoma City."
"Big surprise there."
"A bomb whose chief stabilizing ingredient is junk mail," added Smith.
"No kidding."
"And here are plans to fill up a mail truck with the concoction."
"A mail-truck bomb?"
"Yes. And I would wager such a weapon was responsible for the disaster at the General Post Office."
Smith's eyes suddenly jumped behind his glasses. "My God!"
"You keep saying that. How many times can you be surprised at what these guys are capable of doing?"
"I am looking at one of the claims faxed to the FBI in the wake of this afternoon's mailbox bombings."
"So?"
"Several were received. Some came from the usual terror and jihad groups. A few were organizations never before heard from, such as the Eagles of Allah and the Warriors of God."
Remo looked to Chiun. "W.O.G.?"
The Master of Sinanju shrugged. "Are messengers of Allah not usually wogs?"
"It is very likely that these new groups are in fact one and the same," Smith went on. "It is common practice among Middle Eastern terrorist groups to operate under multiple names in order to confuse the issue and make themselves seem more numerous and threatening than they really are. One new group called themselves the Islamic Front for the A.P.W.U. This is the name on this fax file."
"What's 'A.P.W.U.' stand for?"
"See for yourself."
Remo did. He looked. Then looked again. "Isn't that-?"
"The eagle graphic we saw before, yes. I recognize it now. It is the new emblem of the United States Postal Service. But look below it."
Remo's eyes went where Smith's bony finger pointed. He read aloud. "'Islamic Front for the American Postal Workers' Union.' A terrorist group has infiltrated the postman's union?"
"No, it is far graver than that."
Abruptly Smith turned in his chair. It swiveled to the big picture window. Smith looked past them at Long Island Sound, which was turning fiery orange in the dying afternoon light.
"A terrorist cell has infiltrated the United States Postal Service," he said, his words like flint being scraped. "That means they could be operating in every city and town and village in the nation, unknown and unsuspected. Wearing mail-carrier uniforms, they can enter any public building unchallenged and unquestioned, from the most public office building to the most secure federal facility. No one can question a mailman. I doubt if many security guards bother to ask them to walk through metal detectors. Certainly no one can look into their bag. The mail is protected from casual scrutiny."
Smith's voice was hollow. He was staring into space, looking at nothing. He was talking, but not to them. It was more as if he was thinking out loud.
"There are an estimated four hundred thousand postal employees in the nation. In some towns, the postmaster is the only representative of the U.S. government. Virtually every town and city has its own post office. There are more post offices than military bases in this country. These terrorists have theoretical bases in every corner of the nation. They have government vehicles at their disposal. On virtually every street in America, there are relay boxes just like the ones that exploded today. And these devils have the power to booby-trap any one of them. No one is safe. No building is secure."
"So what are we waiting for? Let's get them."
Smith snapped out of it. "How?"
"Can't you trace them through the Internet?"
"They communicate through an automatic anonymous server, which relays their communications to the final server site, this Gates of Paradise entity. All these e-mail files are stored there, not in the systems the terrorist cells used to access them."
"Can you trace this server?" asked Remo.
"I already have. It is near Toledo, Ohio. But I cannot follow the audit trail to the Gates of Paradise host site without accessing the Toledo site."
"So let's get a move on."
"I have already instructed the FBI to get on it. I need you for the serious work that lies ahead."
"Just point us in the right direction, and we'll do what we do best," said Remo.
Chiun made a grandiose gesture with the ornate jade nail protector. "Yes, O Smith. You have merely to instruct us, and Muslim heads will fall at your feet like so many pomegranates, and equally as red."
"No doubt Al Ladeen was the driver of the mailtruck bomb that destroyed the General Post Office, covering his tracks and killing himself in the process. That is what these people do. It is one of the others who will act next."
"Yeah. If only we knew their real names."
The system beeped again, and Smith leaped on the keyless keyboard.
"Here we go again," said Remo.
The bulletin was a follow-up to an earlier one. Smith scanned it, instantly judging it as not mission critical. "It is just more on the Oklahoma courtroom shootout," said Remo.
Smith scanned the text with eager eyes. "We may have a lead," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"According to this, the shooter in Oklahoma City is believed to be a disgruntled postal employee."
"Not another one."
"They have all gone mad," said Chiun.