NYPD CHIEF OF DETECTIVES Walter Brown walked up the granite steps and through two of the phalanx of Corinthian columns of the General Post Office on Fifth Avenue in midtown Manhattan. It was the most impressive building in the entire city that wasn't a skyscraper. It occupied a full city block and looked as solid as the bedrock under Manhattan. Over the lintel was carved the motto of the United States Postal Service:
Neither Snow Nor Rain Nor Heat Nor Gloom Of Night
Stays These Couriers From The Swift Completion Of Their Appointed Rounds
Inside he was directed to the office of the postmaster of New York City, where he flashed his badge and announced himself.
"Detective Brown. Urgent business."
"One moment," said the secretary. A moment later, Brown was ushered through a door with pebbled glass panel and the words Myron Finkelpearl Postmaster in gilt letters. It was a substantial door, as befitted the office of the man who oversaw the flow of mail through the most important city in the world.
The postmaster waved Brown to a maroon chair. "A half an hour ago," Brown began, "an explosion took place at the corner of Eighth and Thirty-fourth."
"I heard."
"We've determined the object that exploded was one of your relay boxes."
The postmaster turned pale. He actually wove on his feet like a drunken man. Out of his pocket came a white linen handkerchief. He ran it across his forehead, sat down and said, "Thank you for bringing this to my attention."
It was Brown's turn to look dazed. "We'll need the names of all postal employees with access to the box in question."
"Impossible."
"Don't give me that. Generate the list from payroll."
"Relay boxes are locked with what we call a master key. Tens of thousands of master keys are carried by postal workers all over the country. Any key can open any box anywhere."
"Let's start with your people."
"Sorry. This is a federal matter."
"Federal? There was an explosion!"
"Of federal property. I will launch a full investigation and relay the findings to your superior."
"With all due respect, I can't accept that answer. There are casualties. Destruction of property. Not to mention the possibility that the individual responsible may have planted more bombs in other relay boxes."
If possible, the postmaster turned even more pale. And Detective Brown figured he'd gotten through the man's thick, bureaucratic skull.
"I will get right on it, I assure you."
Brown lost it then. "Are you crazy!" he barked, slamming a fist on the postmaster's big desk. "This isn't a jurisdictional matter. A mass murder took place not three blocks from here. It falls under police jurisdiction."
"It's federal. Now I must ask you to leave." Detective Brown glared at the postmaster for a full minute.
The postmaster's return glare was opaque. Neither man looked as though he would budge an inch. "You'll be hearing from us," said Brown, storming out.
AS HE CLATTERED DOWN the wide granite steps, Brown wore his face like a stone mask. The brass of that guy. So what if he was federal. Did he think he could sweep this under the rug? Already the corner of Eighth and Thirty-fourth was surrounded by news crews. By 6:00 p.m. this would be the lead story. They were already breaking into afternoon programming with updates.
Brown was pulling open the door of his sedan when he was knocked off his feet. He landed on his back, the air driven out of his shocked lungs from the impact.
He lay there dazed a moment, his ears ringing, then found his wits and his feet.
Down Fifth, a worm of black smoke was coiling upward in the aftermath of the detonation. Then the screaming began.
Detective Brown started for the sound when he heard another boom. This one farther away. Then another. Then, as if fireworks were going off, a string of detonations reverberated through the canyons of Manhattan.
Over the skyscrapers and high-rise office buildings, thin threads of smoke lifted, darkened and became a pall. All in the space of a minute-the time it took Detective Brown to reach the scene of the first explosion, cursing the delays, the bomber and most of all the postmaster of New York, who now had the biggest headache in the greatest city on earth sitting on his desk like a ticking bomb.
And it served the fucker right.
Chapter 4
At Osaka International Airport all the Japanese passengers got up simultaneously, blocking the aisle. They seemed in a rush to deplane. Remo figured it might have had something to do with the Master of Sinanju's trips to the bathroom. He managed to hit every one of them. After which the doors refused to open. This led to a lot of squirming passengers and a few unpleasant accidents.
"Guess we wait," said Remo.
"You may wait," said the Master of Sinanju, getting out of his seat.
As Remo watched, Chiun started forward. His hands were tucked into the joined sleeves of his kimono when he started. Yet Japanese passengers began jumping back into their seats, making a path as if stung by a very busy bee.
The way clearing before him, Chiun padded up the aisle like an apricot apparition. Red-faced Japanese faces glared at him in passing. A few held themselves and looked desperate.
Remo hurriedly followed.
As the Master of Sinanju stepped off the plane, the Japanese stewardesses in their traditional geisha-style kimonos blocked Remo's way.
"You are not staying, gaijin?" one asked.
"Osaka is my destination," Remo pointed out.
"We are coming back to Osaka. You may stay with us. Fly back to America, then come back. We will make it very pleasant for you, gaijin. "
And they all smiled their geisha smiles.
"Thanks," said Remo. "But my friend will make it very unpleasant for me if I don't get off in Osaka." The Japanese stewardesses all made pouty faces and one asked, "You know of Japanese hara-kiri custom?"
"If you're trying to blackmail me into staying by threatening to commit suicide," Remo said, "it's been tried."
"It has?"
"Many times."
"Did the girls open their bellies for you?"
"I never stick around long enough to find out," said Remo, brushing past.