At last Harold W. Smith spoke.
"As long as you are with the organization," he said coldly, "you will do as instructed. Go to Washington National. Allow yourself to be picked up by this woman. Interrogate her, and if she is the sole cause of these strangulations, liquidate her. Otherwise, call for further instruction. I will await your report."
"You gutless bas-"
Harold Smith hung up the phone on Remo's reply. If there was one thing he had learned in his many years as an administrator, it was how to motivate employees.
Whatever he had become under Chiun's tutelege, Remo Williams was still an American. He would heed his country's call. He always had. He always would. That was why he had been selected in the first place.
Chapter 11
"Screw you, Smith!" Remo shouted into the dead receiver. "You're on your own."
Remo slammed the phone on its hook. The hook broke off, taking the receiver to the floor with it.
Remo started away from the pay phone. Outside, he hailed a Checker cab.
"Airport," he told the driver.
"Dunes or Washington National?" the cabby asked.
"Dulles," Remo said, thinking no sense tempting fate. He had been willing to go to the mat one last time for Smith, but only if Smith would do it his way. He had been doing it Smith's way for too damn long. No more.
"Going anyplace interesting?" the cabby asked.
"Asia," Remo said, cranking down the window against the heat of the warm July day.
"Asia. That's pretty far. Better there than the Middle East, huh?"
Remo perked up. "What's going on there now?"
"The usual. Mad Ass is rattling his scimitar. We're rattling ours. But nothing happens. I don't think there'll be a war."
"Don't count on it," Remo said, thinking that what went on in the Middle East wouldn't matter much to him once he was back in Sinanju. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised to find a job offer from Mad Ass himself waiting for him. Of course, he wouldn't take it. He was going to be particular about who he worked for. Unlike Chiun, who would work for anyone as long as their gold took tooth marks.
The ride to Dulles was short. Remo paid the driver and entered the main terminal. He went to the Air Korea booth, bought a one-way ticket to Seoul, and then went in search of his gate.
As he approached the metal-detector station, he noticed the blond woman loitering outside the ladies' room.
The first thing Remo noticed was that she had the largest chest he had ever seen. It projected out like a triangular form straining to burst the yellow fabric of her dress. He wondered how she kept from tipping forward.
Evidently they were quite a burden, because she picked at her brassiere straps with careless fingers.
Remo noticed her yellow nail polish. His eyes flicked to her throat.
"Uh-oh," Remo said, his pupils dilating at sight of the tastefully tied yellow silk scarf.
Remo ducked into the men's room. Bending over a sink, he splashed water onto his face. He patted himself dry with a paper towel. Had she been waiting for him?
"Maybe she won't be there when I get back," Remo muttered. He went to the door. With a single finger he eased it open a crack. She was still there, leaning against a white wall, her eyes darting to the line of passengers coming down the walkway, laden with luggage and shoulder bags.
Remo swallowed. She looked very young. Not dangerous at all-unless she fell on top of you and crushed you with her sharp chest, Remo thought with forced humor.
Words the Master of Sinanju had told him long years ago echoed in Remo's ears.
"Know your enemy."
Remo took a deep breath and stepped out onto the walkway. He went directly to the girl in yellow. His legs actually felt rubbery. He sucked in a double lungful of oxygen, held it in his stomach, and released it slowly, releasing also the tension in his chest and the fear in his belly.
He was in control enough to smile as he approached the blond.
"Excuse me," he said.
Her head turned. Her blue eyes fell on Remo. They were curious. Almost innocent eyes. Maybe he had been mistaken. "Yes?" she said in a sweet, breathy voice.
"Are you Cynthia?" Remo asked. "The office said they'd send a gorgeous blond named Cynthia to meet me."
Her red mouth parted. Thick brows puckered tentatively.
"Yes, I'm Cynthia," she said. "You must be-"
"Dale. Dale Cooper."
"Of course, Mr. Cooper." She put out a hand. "Nice to meet you."
Remo smiled. She had taken the bait. "Call me Dale."
"Dale. Let's get your bags together."
"Sure," Remo said. He let her lead him to the luggage carousel, where he made a pretense of picking his luggage from the revolving conveyor.
"This is mine," Remo said, grabbing a brown over-the-shoulder bag and a black leather briefcase. "Shall we go?"
"Yes. But we'll have to take a cab."
"You don't look like you have much driving experience," Remo remarked lightly.
"Oh, I'm older than I look. Much older."
She led him to the first cab waiting in line. The driver got out and opened the trunk. Remo saw that he was the same driver who had brought him here.
"What happened to Asia?" the cabby asked gruffly.
"Search me," Remo said, forcing a smile. "Last I heard, it was still in the Pacific."
The driver scratched his head as he jumped back behind the wheel.