"I have no pocket."
"Let's go, then."
Moving to a place where the rude sandstone came all the way to the ground, they started their ascent.
Remo went first. Laying his hands against the rough-textured blocks, he made his palms into shallow suction cups. Then, moving one hand up, he got a toehold. The toe pushed him along. And his other hand suctioned a higher spot on the facade. After that, he was a silent spider moving vertically.
Chiun, following, used his fingernails to gain purchase, assisted by the toes of his sandals. He quickly came even with Remo. Then, in a flutter of plum- colored skirts, he pulled ahead.
"This isn't a race," hissed Remo, noticing that the Master of Sinanju had crooked the nail protector against his palm to keep it safe.
"Then you will not mind losing," Chiun retorted.
They gained the coping at the same time, slithered over and crouched down so they wouldn't be spotted by the rattling helicopters overhead.
A pair of local news helicopters orbited at a much wider periphery, obviously under orders not to venture into sniper range.
Across the roof, a mailman hunkered down behind the spread-winged sandstone eagle, an Uzi cradled in one hand.
"Stay away!" he shouted at the crowd below. "I am disgruntled. I am feeling very disgruntled today. There is no telling what I am capable of in my present state of disgruntledness."
Chiun whispered, "Did you hear that, Remo? He is disgruntled."
"He's going to be a lot worse after we're done with him," Remo growled, starting forward.
They moved like two shadows, avoiding the searchlights of the hovering police choppers, pausing, resuming, backtracking until they were almost on their quarry.
could not believe his evil luck.
He had been sorting mail in his hideous pink cubicle when the two Westerners with bad ties and stone faces came and announced their intentions.
"Mr. Mohamet Ali?" asked one.
"Yes. That is I."
"FBI. We need to speak to you."
Mohamet Ali froze inside. Outwardly he kept his composure. After all, these were not Muslims, but dull Westerners. It would be easy to outwit such stone- headed ones.
"I am speaking to you," he said.
"You'll have to accompany us to headquarters."
"I am very busy here. Can this not wait until I am finished for the day? The mail must go through. Do you not know this?"
"Now," said the senior of the two FBI agents.
"I must get permission from my supervisor. They are very strict about such things here."
"It's been cleared. Let's go, Mr. Ah."
They were taking no nonsense. So, containing his nervousness, Mohamet Ali shrugged and said, "If I must go with you, I must go with you—although I do not not why."
"We'll talk about it downtown."
On the way to the front exit, they walked on either side of him. They did not handcuff him. That was a mistake. For as they approached the exit, Mohamet Ali took his USPS-issue pepper spray from his pocket and turned on the man behind him.
One squirt, and the infidel's godless eyes were stung blind.
The other FBI unbeliever spun in time to accept the bitter taste of defeat in his face, as well.
Mohamet Ali left them shouting and cursing their unjust God as he returned to his work area, took up his Uzi from his locker and ran out the back door- right into the train platform as people were boarding.
His machine pistol was not noticed at first. But his blue sweater with the blue eagle of the USPS was immediately recognized.
The first people he encountered shrank back. A woman screamed. Someone yelled, "Look out, another one's gone postal!"
That was enough to start a panic.
Mohamet Ali found himself caught in a frantic boil of people, all running in different directions, including unwittingly at him.
Like a man who faces a herd of charging elephants, Mohamet Ali lifted his Uzi and triggered a stuttering skyward burst.
"Back! Back away, I tell you!"
That changed the direction of the human herd. People leaped into the empty train track bed and hunkered down.
Mohamet Ali fled into the great concourse of South Station—right into the approaching police officers.
"Stay back!" he cried. "I am disgruntled. I am very disgruntled!"
The police came to a halt, hands on service pistols.
One made calming gestures with his empty hands. "Stay cool, buddy. We won't hurt you. Just lay down your weapon. Okay?"
"I am feeling very disgruntled today. I will not lay down my weapon for any of you."
All shrank from his fearsome words.
"Look, we don't want this to get any worse than it already is."
"Then let me pass. The mail must go through. You cannot impede me, for there are laws against such things. Have you never heard of the crime of interferrag with the mail? It is federal. A federal crime— which is the worst of all."
"Gone nuts for sure," one of the policemen muttered.
"Let's talk about this. My name's Bob. What's yours?"