"For the president of the He-Man Woman Haters Club that's old-for president of anything bigger it's young."
"Doesn't mean he can't do his job," Mark protested. "He might actually achieve his goal."
"The independence thing? Just because he's got Puerto Rican go-it-aloners on his side?"
"That's strictly part of the PR campaign to generate sympathy for the cause. What counts is he's getting congressional support."
"How's he doing that? What's the angle?"
Howard shrugged. "I haven't been following it too closely, but it's all kind of confusing. I haven't heard anyone come up with a real reason Union Island should want independence, let alone why anybody on the Hill would support it. But it's happening."
"Is there any possible way they could benefit from all this killing?" Remo asked.
"That's what I'm looking into," Howard said as he typed furiously. "None of the people involved in the killing have ties to Union Island. There's never been known drug trafficking through Union, so there doesn't seem to be a logical organized-crime link."
"But if they were independent they could run drugs through the place," Remo suggested.
Howard shook his head. "Independence wouldn't help them there. Even if they set up the island as a distribution hub, we'd find out, blockade them and shut them down."
"Yeah, I guess so."
Howard's fingers spidered over the keys for a few more minutes until he sat back in the chair. "I just don't see a connection."
"But it might be there," Remo insisted.
"Might be." Mark clearly doubted it. "Tell me why all the secrecy."
Remo shook his head. "Maybe later. Where's the Union group now?"
"En route to North Carolina for a PR event in the town of Fuquay-Varina."
"You better not be making that up."
"There's a morning talk-show appearance scheduled for the president, then a chartered bus trip through the Smoky Mountains. There's an afternoon photo op for the media at a mountaintop hotel, then on to a late dinner hosted by the mayor of Knoxville, Tennessee."
"Why the long drive? Why not just fly to Knoxville?"
"Maybe they want to see the Great Smokies."
"Yeah," Remo said. "Maybe I do, too."
Chapter 15
"I would appreciate knowing where we are going."
"Uckfay-Farina, North Carolina," Remo answered as he balanced Chiun's chests on each shoulder and ducked to get them below the top of the airport door. "From there maybe to Tennessee."
"You have not yet told me why we are doing this."
"And I'm not going to. That's the deal if I let you tag along."
"The Master Of Sinanju Emeritus does not 'tag along.'"
The uncomfortable silence continued all the way to Raleigh.
THE REAL PEOPLE HOUR out of Raleigh, North Carolina, was as amateur as any TV talk show got. Some folding chairs and a stage pounded together out of plywood. A couple of digital camcorders from Walmart. One of them had a tripod.
The Real People Hour had been broadcast on the whim of a retiring station manager and met with unexpected success. Now, as it celebrated its one-year anniversary, The Real People Hour was seen in fifteen markets throughout the Carolinas, Georgia, Virginia, even Florida. And more stations were interested.
"It's a barn," Remo said as they emerged from the rental car.
"It sure is," said the boy in the orange vest who was waving cars into parking places on the flattened grass. "This was a working farm up until a year ago. My mom's the one who started the show and my daddy does the production work. Tickets?"
"No, thanks."
"We flew in an airplane to come to this place?" Chiun sniffed. "They raised pigs in this place."
"Yeah. And never bothered to clean out the sty when they made the switch to showbiz," Remo observed. The kid in the orange vest hustled past and chatted seriously with a pair of older boys at the barn entrance. The pair stiffened and eyed them as they checked ticket stubs, then closed ranks on Remo and Chiun.
"You'll need tickets to see the show," the taller boy declared. He had a face full of patchy whiskers. His younger brother had the girth of a gorilla and was even hairier.
"Shouldn't you be in school?" Remo asked.
"Don't go to school. We got a TV show to run," the taller one explained scornfully. "Now, you got a ticket?" Remo extracted an ID from the front pocket of his Chinos.
"Remo Rottweiler, Secret Service, foreign diplomats detail. Let's see some ID."
The tall one went slack-jawed, then turned and gestured frantically into the barn. A moment later a beerbelly and its owner emerged. The man had the same scruffy whiskers as his sons.
"You the man in charge here?" Remo demanded before the tall kid could get out an explanation. He pushed his ID in the man's face. "I assume you've got federal diplomatic access clearance for all employees?"
"I never heard of federal diplomatic access clearance," the father responded, unable to decide if he should be belligerent or agreeable.
"You've got heads of state on the premises. You'll need FDAC on all personnel."
"Nobody told me that." The beer belly and its owner swung pendulously at them. He apparently decided on belligerence.
"Sorry. You can start the show when you have them. Phone the Department of Justice, and they'll take care of it."
"Oh. Okay. I'll phone right now. How long it'll take, you think?"
Remo shrugged. "Eight weeks is what they'll tell you, but really it'll take twelve."
"What? We got a show to do in ten minutes! You can't make us stop the show!"
"Wouldn't dream of it. But we will be required to escort your guest away from the premises immediately."