"No," the skinny guy said. "Wait here."
And even though he never returned, the bellboy obeyed.
He was still standing watch over the bodies when the FBI came in en masse and sealed off the hotel.
The bellboy didn't get a chance to see his mother that night, but he was allowed to call her to say that he'd be home after the debriefing. He made it sound important. It was. Before it was all over, the world would edge toward the brink of a sinkhole of sand from which there was no return.
Chapter 9
Harold Smith accepted Remo Williams' telephone report without any expression of regret. The loss of the Iraiti ambassador was not exactly an affront to humanity. But the political fallout could be significant.
"If it wasn't for all the strangled maids," Remo was saying grimly, "I'd say it was a kinky lovers' tryst gone bizarre."
"The ambassador was quite a ladies' man," Smith was saying in a half-audible voice that usually meant his attention was divided between his conversation and his computer.
"Who do you think this girl in yellow is?" Remo wondered.
"The possibilities are endless. A Kurani spy out to avenge her homeland. An Isreali Mossad agent out to send a message to Abominadad. Even the U.S. CIA is a possibility, but highly unlikely. If this were sanctioned, I would know about it."
"The bellboy had her pegged as a call girl."
"That is my thought as well. I am checking my file on Ambassador Abaatira even as we speak. Yes, here it is. He is known to prefer the services of the Diplomatic Escort Service."
"Good name," Remo quipped. "You know, you might have mentioned this before."
"I hadn't thought the ambassador's sexual appetites would play a role in this."
"Believe me, Smitty," Remo said airily, "sex was uppermost in the guy's mind when he cashed out. He had a ringside seat to his last hard-on. In fact, if you get to see the morgue photos, you'll notice he had his eye on the ball right to the bitter end."
Harold Smith cleared his throat with the low, throaty rumble of a distant thundercloud. "Yes . . . er, well, those details are unimportant. Listen carefully, Remo. The FBI is going to suppress this entire matter. For the moment, the Iraiti ambassador is still on the missing-persons list. His death would cause who-knows-what reaction in Abominadad. We cannot afford that."
"Screw Abominadad," Remo snapped. "After all the hostages they've taken, how much of a stink can they raise over one flagrante delicto diplomat?"
"The stink I am thinking of," Smith said levelly, "is not diplomatic. The stink I fear is the stink of nerve gas in the lungs of our servicemen stationed in Hamidi Arabia."
"Point taken," Remo said. "I still say you should let me cash out Mad Ass. I'm sick of seeing his face every time I turn on the TV."
"Then do not turn on the TV," Smith countered. "Investigate the Diplomatic Escort Service and report on what you find. "
"Could be an interesting investigation," Remo said with relish. "I'm glad I brought my credit cards."
"Remo, under no circumstances are you to procure the services of-"
The line clicked dead.
Harold Smith returned the receiver to its cradle and leaned back in his ancient executive's chair. This was worrisome. This was very, very worrisome. It would be better-although not good-if the Iraiti ambassador had fallen victim to a common criminal, or even a serial killer. If this had an intelligence connection, no matter what nation was involved, the unstable Middle East was about to become even more precarious.
Remo Williams found a yellow police-barrier tape in front of the office building that was the base for the Diplomatic Escort Service. It was the same yellow as the silk scarf around the late Ambassador Abaatira's neck, he noticed without pleasure.
"What's going on?" Remo asked the uniformed cop who stood by the main entrance.
"Just a little matter for the D.C. detectives," the cop returned without rancor. "Watch the evening news."
"Thanks," Remo said. "I will." He continued on his way, slipped around the corner, and looked up at the dingy facade.
The side of the building wasn't exactly sheer. But it wasn't a ziggurat of brick and gingerbread, either.
Remo walked up to the facade, placing his toes to the building's base as Chiun had taught him so long ago. Raising his arms, he laid his palms flat against the gritty wall.
Then, somehow, he began ascending. He had forgotten the involved theory, the complicated movements, just as he had his old fear of heights. He had mastered ascents long, long ago.
So he ascended. His slightly cupped palm created an impossible but natural tension that enabled him to cling and pause while he shifted his footholds and used his steelstrong fingers to obtain increasingly higher purchase.
Remo wasn't climbing. Exactly. He was using the vertical force of the building to conquer it. There was no sensation of going up. It felt to Remo as if he were pulling the building down, step by step, foot by foot. Of course, the building wasn't sinking into its foundations under Remo's practiced manipulations. He was going up it.
Somehow, it worked. Somehow, he found himself on the eighth-floor ledge. He peered into a window. Dark. He walked around the six-inch-wide ledge with a casual grace, pausing at each grimy window-sometimes scouring pollution particles from the glass the better to see inside-until he found the office window he wanted.
The medical examiner was still shooting pictures. He was shooting into a closet. Remo could smell, even through the glass, the odors of death, sudden perspiration, now stale, bodily wastes, both liquid and not. But no blood.
He took that to mean the bodies-there were at least two because the M.E. turned his camera toward the hidden desk well-had been strangled.
Remo listened to the idle talk of the M.E. and two unhappy detectives.
"Think it's a serial creep?" the M.E. asked.
"I hope not. Damn. I hope not," one detective said.
"Face it. Johns don't happen to walk around with a pair of yellow kerchiefs, lose their cool, and strangle two hookers-"
"Call girls," the first detective said. "These were high priced broads. Look at those clothes. Designer clothes for sure."
"They smell just like dead hookers to me," the other grunted. "Worse. Like I was saying, no one happens to strangle two hookers with identical scarves. If it was a crime of passion, he'd have cut or bludgeoned one. No, this is a kinky hit. The worst kind. Who knows what this guy had eating away at him to do all this?"
"You think it's a guy?" the M.E asked, changing a flashbulb.
"I know it is. Women don't do serial killings. It's not in their nature. Like lifting the toilet seat when they're done."
"We don't know it's a serial thing yet."
"This is the fourth corpse wrapped this way in less than a week. Trust me. If we don't find more like these in the next few days, it'll be because whoever did this ran out of yellow silk."
Deciding there was nothing more he could learn, Remo started back down, taking the side of the building in hand and using gravity to return him to the sidewalk.
As he walked away, he thought about yellow scarves.
And he thought about how much he missed Chiun, and wished more than ever that the Master of Sinanju were still around.