"No," Remo said.
"Whatever it means, it is beneath my dignity as Reigning Master to deal with it. Since you have yet to atone for your recent misdeeds, I give Smith to you."
The sound of the hand coming off the microphone was like a suction cup popping free of window glass. Remo's voice, clear and filled with acid, came again.
"Thanks a bunch, Little Father." Into the telephone, he said, "What's going on, Smitty?"
"One of the candidates for governor of California has survived an assassination attempt tonight."
"Ripper or Black?"
"Neither. Esperanza."
"I never heard of Esperanza."
"Nor had I," Smith admitted frankly. "He is barely registering in the polls, yet someone is trying to kill him. I want you and Chiun to look into it."
"Any suspects?"
"None. There is an outside chance that this attempt might be some repercussion from the Nogeira scheme, perhaps some sleeper hit team that has activated in spite of the death of its mastermind, Nogeira."
"I still have a hard time believing that toad-faced ogre could have caused that plane crash from jail," Remo muttered.
"The FAA investigation continues," Smith replied crisply. "We may know something soon. In the meantime, I want you to look into this event."
"How?"
"Join the Esperanza campaign, to start."
"Hold the phone, but isn't he the victim?"
"I want you and Chiun in place if there's another attempt. If one comes, you know what to do."
"And if there isn't?" Remo wondered.
"By that time," said Harold Smith, bathed in the pale radiance of his station wagon dome light, "I hope to have developed some concrete leads for you to follow."
"Great," Remo said dryly. "And here I was just getting settled in sunny Seattle."
"I am not aware that Seattle is particularly sunny."
"Funny," Remo said acidly. "Neither am I. It hasn't stopped raining since we hit town."
"I will expect progress reports every twelve hours," Smith said thinly.
"You can expect them," Remo returned. "But getting them is another thing. You have to make progress to report on it."
"We shall see," said Smith, hanging up.
Closing up his briefcase, Harold Smith shut off the dome light and resumed his drive home. He was in his third week without medication of any sort and, while he did not feel like a new man-his burdens precluded such a renewal of spirit-it was good not to have his stomach churning with excess acid, and his brain throbbing with persistent headaches.
He wondered how long it would last. In this job, he thought ruefully, probably not very long.
Chapter 8
The first thing Remo did upon disembarking at LAX airport was to buy a newspaper from a vending machine.
"You have no time to read the comic strips," Chiun sniffed as they walked toward the cab stand. He wore a royal blue kimono.
"I'm not," Remo said, tossing the business and entertainment sections into a trash can. "I want to read up on Esperanza."
"Esperanza," said Chiun thoughtfully. "It is a worthy name."
"It is?"
"In the Spanish tongue, it means hope."
"I guess he knows it too. Because it says here he's holding a 'Rally for Hope' tonight. Maybe we should catch it."
"I would prefer to catch this man today," Chiun retorted.
"What's the rush?"
"The air smells bad. I would not linger in this so-called 'City of Angels.' "
The Master of Sinanju said this as the automatic glass doors slid apart and they were hit by a wave of dry heat and smog.
Remo, feeling his lungs begin to rebel, said, "This is worse than Mexico City."
"Nothing is worse than that foul place," Chiun sniffed, his hazel eyes looking to the brownish layer of clouds.
The first cab in line, they discovered, was not air-conditioned.
"No thanks," Remo said. "We'll take the next guy."
"You gotta take me," the cabby said. "It's the rules."
"Whose?"
"The Drivers' Association."
"We don't belong," Remo pointed out in a reasonable voice.
"Then you don't ride."
The Master of Sinanju took this in without a change of expression. He drifted up to the rear tire, pretending to scrutinize the low-lying smog.