"Oh," said Pedro Ramirez, who knew the U.S. government wanted him, but didn't know they wanted him quite tkat badly.
"I can't seem to find it," Remo was saying.
"Too bad," said Pedro Ramirez. "Why don't you just go away?"
"Ah," Remo said suddenly. "Here it is." Out of his right pants pocket he brought out his fist. He held it in front of him as if about to throw a punch. His arm was bent at the elbow.
"That's your fist," Ramirez pointed out.
"Keep your scales on," Remo said. "I haven't cocked it yet." Remo pulled back the thumb of his fist. He made a little click of a sound with his tongue, and his index finger popped out like a gun barrel.
"There," Remo said with a satisfied smile. "Now-last chance. Put your hands up."
Pedro Ramirez did not put his hands up. He spread his arms. "Go ahead, cockroach. Shoot! Shoot!" he howled. Remo shrugged. He dropped his thumb like a falling hammer and said, "Bang!"
Pedro Ramirez guffawed inside his protective square helmet. His eyes closed with laughter. He didn't see the index finger, pointing at him, move for the center of his chest. He wouldn't have seen it move even if his eyes had been open. For the finger was coming for him at supersonic speed.
The coroner's official verdict was that Pedro Ramirez died of hydrostatic shock. Because Pedro Ramirez was at the top of the FBI's Most Wanted list, he was forced to explain hydrostatic shock to a flock of reporters at the FBI news conference.
"Hydrostatic shock, gentlemen," the coroner said carefully, "is a phenomenon wherein the human body is subjected to a noninvasive impact so great that it results in a chain reaction of internal stress which quite literally disrupts the body cells. This man's mitochondria were destroyed. The result was instantaneous death. We see such a phenomenon when the wearer of a bullet-proof vest is struck by a bullet of sufficiently large caliber-a .357 Magnum round for example-where even though there is no penetration of the protective garment, the impact is as lethal as if penetration was achieved. "
One reporter wanted to know what kind of bullet-proof vest Pedro Ramirez wore.
The coroner replied that it was not a vest, but an armored body suit.
Another reporter asked the question that the coroner feared.
"What caliber was the murder weapon?"
"That I am unable to answer at this time," he admitted. "No shell fragments were found at the scene, but the size of the dent in the suit's chest is consistent with a .38 slug."
The coroner was relieved that the logical follow-up question-how could a mere .38 slug cause hydrostatic shock?-was drowned out by a journalist asking him to speculate on which of Pedro Ramirez's many enemies had finally gotten to the drug kingpin.
When the news conference finally ended, the coroner went back to his lab and sat down to put the finishing touches on the official death report. He decided to simply state the details as they existed, and not try to explain how a .38 slug had wrought such havoc-especially when no corresponding slug could be found and the impact point bore a strange indentation.
The coroner lifted the plate to the light. It was bent. And the impact point was unmistakable. Also unmistakable were the tiny rills at the impact site. He couldn't get over how much like the ridges of a man's fingerprints they were. There was even a little slice of a line above the ridges that corresponded to the edge of a fingernail.
But what kind of fingernail could score a Kelvar-Teflon-titanium sandwich?
No kind, he decided. His final report would simply not mention those imponderable details. Some lines of inquiry were better off not pursued.
Chapter 3
Remo slammed the door behind him and announced, "I'm home."
A peculiar odor greeted his sensitive nostrils.
"You are just in time," a squeaky voice called from the kitchen. Remo followed the odor. It smelled vaguely familiar. It was a food odor, that much was certain, but for the twenty years that he had been a disciple of the art of Sinanju, he had learned to shut out what used to be tantalizing smells. His olfactory organs now only responded to the Sinanju version of the five basic food groups-rice, fish, duck, nuts, and berries.
"Sit," said Chiun over his shoulder as he hunched over the gas stove. The Master of Sinanju, who was barely as tall as the stove, stood on a footstool. He wore a thin white kimono with shortened sleeves appropriate for cooking with fire.
The table was set for two. Remo sat.
"What's cooking?" he asked, sniffing the hauntingly-familiar aroma.
"A celebration dinner."
"Great. But what is it'?"
"A surprise," squeaked Chiun.
"Close your eyes." Remo did as he was told. He even folded his hands. He waited. He sensed rather than heard Chiun's sandaled feet slither in his direction. Something hot was poured into the great celadon bowl that dominated the center of the table. Remo sniffed harder. He felt his stomach juices stir as they had not in many years.
The opposite chair scraped back and the Master of Sinanju spoke up.
"You may open your eyes, my son."
Remo did. The wise eyes of the Master of Sinanju looked at him with crinkled amusernent. Merriment lay in their hazel depths. They dominated a face that was the color of aged ivory, making the myriad of wrinkles look somehow akin to youth and not age. Twin puffs of wispy white hair decorated the hollows over his small ears. A fragile beard was stirred by the steam coming from the great bowl. Such was the countenance of Chiun, latest Master of Sinanju, heir to the longest and most celebrated line of assassins in history, and Rerno's trainer and adopted father.
"This is a great day for us," he said softly.
"Amen," said Remo. "But what's this? Duck soup?"
"No duck today. Nor fish. And rice we will do without. For this is a day of celebration. I have waited long for this golden hour. "
"Great. But what is it? It smells great."
"Patience," intoned Chiun, raising a long-nailed finger. The nail was pointed and slightly curved. "Perfection is fleeting. Do not hurry the moment."
"Tell my mouth. I'm practically drooling. What is this stuff?"
"Egg-lemon soup," whispered Chiun. His voice was reverent.
"Egg-lemon?" Remo said, staring at the steaming bowl.
"Reserved for full Masters only. Oh, this is a glorious day. "
"Egg-lemon soup." Remo looked into the steam as if the *..s,cies were parting to reveal their innermost secrets for his eyes alone.
"Savor this moment, Remo."
"I'm savoring. I'm savoring," Rerno said. It had been over twenty years since he had come to Sinanju, the sun source of the martial arts. Twenty years since he had learned the skills that made its practitioners the most feared warriors in history. Twenty years since he had eaten his last steak. Twenty years since sugar, coffee, processed foods, and alcohol were forbidden to him. Twenty years since his body had been made one with the universe, until his diet had shrunk to rice, duck, and fish, with the occasional organically grown vegetable thrown in for vitamin content. And twenty years since his tongue had touched an unfamiliar food.
"Ah," said Chiun. "I see it in your eyes."
"Steam?"