The hall turned into a sea of panic.
On the podium, Enrique Espiritu Esperanza called for calm.
Belatedly, Harmon Cashman lunged for his candidate, threw him to the floor.
"Stay down!" he hissed, surprised at his own personal courage.
"I am not afraid," said Enrique Espiritu Esperanza, his voice as calm as a sultry breeze. "Those asesinos cannot harm Esperanza. Esperanza is hope."
It sounded corny, but coming from the lips of his candidate, it brought proud tears to Harmon Cashman's eyes.
The police got the crowd under control. The gunmen had escaped in the confusion. After the situation had stabilized, and people had been questioned, the weapons were found taped to the undersides of a pair of folding chairs.
"They are very clever, these men," Enrique Esperanza said, when he was shown the weapons. "Without these incriminating tools, they were able to blend with the crowd and simply walk out the doors unchallenged."
"They'll be back," Harmon Cashman said, when the police were through with their questions and had left. "Guys like them never give up."
"I am not afraid," said Enrique Espiritu Esperanza, who sounded as if he meant it. "I am Esperanza."
Chapter 7
Harold W. Smith received the report of the attempt on the life of gubernatorial candidate Enrique Espiritu Esperanza the same way most of America did. Through the media.
Smith was driving home when the bulletin broke over the radio. Smith had been listening to a classical music program on National Public Radio. Smith liked National Public Radio-when they broadcast music. The minute someone who was not an announcer spoke for more than ninety seconds, he either turned off the radio or switched stations.
The bulletin was brief:
"UPI is reporting that an attempt was made on the life of the Hispanic dark horse candidate for governor of California, Enrique Espiritu Esperanza, within the last hour," the metallic announcer's voice said. "Details are sketchy at this time, but initial reports are that Esperanza was unhurt. The unidentified assailants are believed to have escaped in the confusion."
In the darkness of his battered station wagon, Harold W. Smith voiced a question:
"Who is Enrique Espiritu Esperanza?"
There was no followup, so the question went unanswered.
Smith pulled over to the side of the road and turned on the dome light. A well-worn briefcase, its edges peeling and thus unlikely to be stolen by a casual thief, sat on the seat beside him. Smith threw the safety latches, so the briefcase would not detonate a gram of plastique embedded in the lock, and opened it.
Revealed was a minicomputer with a cellular telephone handset attached.
Smith brought the system up and dialed into the Folcroft mainframes. He had not been following the California race for two weeks now. Once the uproar over the deaths of the governor and lieutenant governor had subsided, and there had been no activity that seemed suspicious, Smith had concluded that whatever had been General Nogeira's motives in assassinating the officials, the plan had died with him.
The President of the United States had agreed, and pending the National Transportation Safety Board crash report, they decided to let the matter rest.
And now this.
Smith had been completely unaware of the existence of a candidate by the name of Enrique Espiritu Esperanza.
Smith punched up the name. The liquid-crystal display began emitting a brief file. Smith's gray eyes absorbed the data with interest.
He learned that Esperanza was an independent candidate for the governorship. A Napa Valley wine-grower by profession, he had become wealthy and had entered the race as a dark horse. He was barely a blip in the polls, which were dominated by Barry Black, Junior and Rona Ripper.
His message was not so radical that someone was likely to attempt to do him in, Harold Smith concluded. Yet obviously someone had tried.
Smith called up Remo's current contact number. Normally, it was something he would simply have committed to memory, but Smith's memory was not as sharp as it once had been, and lately Remo had been changing residences so often that it was harder to keep track of his whereabouts.
As Smith hit the autodial key, he thought wistfully that there had been advantages to having Remo reside here in Rye, near Folcroft. But recent events had forced Remo and Chiun back into the nomadic lifestyle they had once practiced. It was a situation not to anyone's liking.
The phone rang once. The receiver was lifted, and a squeaky voice said, "Speak."
"Master Chiun. It is I."
"Hail Emperor Smith, the Infallible," Chiun said in an excessively loud voice. "Your wisdom exceeds that of the pharaohs. Sinanju lives to serve you well-despite certain embarrassments that have occurred of late."
Smith cleared his throat. "If you are referring to the Nogeira incident, once again, I do not hold it against you."
"As you should not. It was Remo's blunder."
"Nor do I hold it against Remo," Smith added quickly. "It was just one of those things."
Chiun's voice grew conspiratorial. "The true perpetrators. You have their names at last? I will attend to them myself, so as to atone for my pupil's blunder."
"No," Smith admitted. "Washington gave up on that angle weeks ago. The perpetrators have melted into the shadows. It is possible they never left the country at all, which would explain why they have not been intercepted at the usual international points of departure."
"Obviously they are cunning beyond words," Chiun mused. "Otherwise they would not be hiding within your very borders after their brazen, cowardly attack."
"Er, yes," said Smith uncomfortably. "That is all in the past now. I have an important assignment."
"Your generosity knows no bounds."
"Excuse me?" said Smith, for a moment wondering if it was once again contract-renewal time. Chiun tended to speak of America's generosity only on those annual occasions.
"Your faith in Sinanju must be great indeed to give Remo a second chance," Chiun went on. "It is not misplaced. Whoever must be dispatched, Sinanju vows his hours are numbered."
"I don't want you to, ah, dispatch anyone. There is a gubernatorial candidate who is in peril."
"I will let you speak with Remo," Chiun said, his tone noticeably cooling.
The sound of a hand covering the mouthpiece came to Smith's ear. Still, Chiun's squeaky voice could be heard, although muffled.
"It is Smith," Chiun said.
"What does he want?" Remo's voice, very distant and not at all happy.
"I am not certain. He has lapsed into that patois of his that is not English. I think he wants you to take out the garbage."
"Garbage?"