They looked at her.
"It's just riddled with psychotics," hissed Tamayo.
"Where do you get that?" demanded Remo.
"From this book. According to this, psychotics are drawn to regimented and highly structured environments. Like the police, the military and the post office."
"Yeah?"
"These guys all look, act and behave normally. Until you hit their specific area of paranoia. Then they go off. We psych majors call them land-mine personalities because they suffer from explosive personality disorder. Say an ordinary postal worker is on his rounds and he keeps stepping in dog pooh. It can happen once in a blue moon, and he'd be okay. But when it happens every week over three months, then, say, every two weeks, and then one day he steps in two different dog turds. Snap! Just like that, he suffers a psychotic break. Completely decompensates. Grabs up his trusty shotgun and blows away all his coworkers."
"Why not shoot dogs?" Remo wondered aloud.
"Because he's a postal worker, and once they go off, all rationality flies out the window. Don't you watch the news?"
"Sounds farfetched," said Remo, looking around for a pay phone.
"Did you know that Son of Sam was a postal worker?"
"I think I heard that."
"And that creepy fat guy on 'Seinfeld,' he's a postal worker, too."
"That isn't reality."
"And Son of Sam was? The man took his orders from a dog that wasn't even his. Think of it. The way they run the postal service these days, they're practically breeding Son of Sams. If America doesn't get a grip on the mail system, we could all be massacred. Is that a story or what?"
"It's a load of crap."
"Yes," said Chiun, "it is bullock manure. You are speaking idiocy. None of these things explain what has happened."
"Then you explain it," retorted Tamayo.
"Muhammadans have-"
"Don't say it, Chiun-" Remo warned.
"-infiltrated the post office."
"Muhammadans? What are they?"
"For us to know and you to find out," said Remo, pulling the Master of Sinanju away.
Down the street, Remo found a pay phone. "Did you have to spill the beans?" he complained.
Chiun composed his expression. "They are true beans. Why should I not spill them?"
"We don't want her to cause a nationwide panic by going on the air with that story."
"Why would Muhammadans cause more panic than gruntless mailmen?"
"Actually it might cause less," Remo admitted. "But we don't want to blow our investigation." Dialing Folcroft, Remo got Smith on the line. "Smitty, you'll never believe this. The local post office is feeding its employees Prozac to calm them down. They got the walls painted pink, too. And we know how that works."
"What about Joe Camel?" asked Smith.
"Can your computers take that blank face and superimpose another? Kinda morph them into a human face?"
"Yes."
"Good. Take one of those Joe Camel cigarette ads, paste the camel's face into the blank spot, then try to make him look as human as you can"
The line was dead for possibly fifteen seconds. "That is not funny," Smith said tartly.
"And I am not joking. We showed the blank FBI poster to the local postal manager, and all he could remember was that the guy had a nose like a camel. That was when Chiun whipped out a magazine, and the manager said-I swear to God-'That's him.' Hey, Chiun, where'd you get that ad anyway?"
"From a magazine on the airplane."
"Are you telling me that Yusef Gamal looks like the Joe Camel of the cigarette advertisements?" Smith asked.
"At least close enough to give us something to work with. Try what I said and give it to the FBI. How's it going on your end?"
"I have alerted FBI branch offices to the identities and whereabouts of the other conspirators on the Gates of Paradise bulletin board. The roundup has begun."
"How'd you find them so quick?"
"Their Gates of Paradise user names turn out to be the names by which they are operating in this country."
"Yeah ... ?"
"Most of them are listed in their local phone directories," added Smith.
Remo grunted. "Sounds like the World Trade Center screwups all over again."
"We cannot underestimate these people," Smith warned.
"Think picking them up will be as simple as that?"
"We can only hope."
Just then a single beep came over the line.
"Hold the line, please," said Smith, his voice turning tense. Remo recognized the sound of Smith's computer issuing a warning bulletin.
Smith's tone was urgent when it came back. "Remo, it appears that we have something. A SWAT team has cornered one of the suspect terrorists near the South Postal Annex in Boston. The man is up on the roof of South Station and will not come down. He is heavily armed."
"Can't they just pick him off?"