"Has candidate Esperanza requested police protection?" one reporter asked.
"No comment."
"Who is behind this attempt, and what is his motive?" another demanded.
"That is still under investigation."
"I insist upon being allowed upstairs," a sharp-voiced woman said, in a screeching voice that could have sharpened razor blades at fifty feet.
Remo, hearing that voice, said, "Uh-oh."
The Master of Sinanju, hearing that same voice, squeaked, "Remo! It is Cheeta!"
"It is not," Remo said quickly, taking Chiun by the arm and attempting to pull him out of the lobby.
The Master of Sinanju looked no more sturdy than a sapling. Yet all of Remo's efforts couldn't budge him. In fact, when Chiun breezed toward the elevator, Remo found himself being dragged along. He let go, barely finding his feet in time.
Horror on his face, Remo got in front of the Master of Sinanju, blocking him.
"Look, you'll blow our cover!" he said urgently.
"But it is Cheeta Ching!" Chiun squeaked. "In person."
"I know who it is," Remo hissed. "And that barracuda represents one of the biggest TV networks in the country. You cozy up to her and our cover will be blown. And we know what that means, don't we? No more work. No more Emperor Smith. And no submarine full of gold offloading in Sinanju every November."
The Master of Sinanju drew himself up proudly. "I am not a babbler of secrets. I will tell her nothing, of course."
"That's good. That's good. Tell her nothing. Period. Because if she gives you the time of day, she will ask you a zillion questions, none of them her business."
At that moment, Cheeta Ching's voice rose again. "I'm going to stay here until someone from the Esperanza campaign agrees to come down to talk to me!" she screeched.
Chiun's eyes narrowed. For a horrifying moment, Remo thought he was going to rush in and announce, prematurely, that he was the official assassin of the Esperanza campaign.
Instead, the Master of Sinanju turned in place and hurried out into the street. Hands disappearing into his kimono sleeves, he floated around to the back of the building and gazed upward.
The hotel was California modern. Not much in the way of gingerbread, ledges, or handholds.
The Master of Sinanju stepped up to one corner and laid hands on each joining wall, then began rubbing them in small circles, as if drying his palms. Abruptly, his sandals left the pavement.
It was one of the most difficult of Sinanju ascent techniques: the employment of converging pressure to gain purchase. His spindly legs working, the Master of Sinanju pulled himself up like a poisonous blue spider.
Remo let him get a few floors ahead and followed, thinking that Chiun was obviously showing off on the rare chance that Cheeta Ching might spot him. Remo knew that the Master of Sinanju had been infatuated with the Korean anchorwoman eyer since he had discovered her when she was a mere local anchor back in New York.
Once she had gone national, she had become Chiun's obsession. No amount of common sense, such as their undeniable age difference and Cheeta's subsequent marriage to the cadaverous middle-aged gynecologist Chiun had dubbed "that callow youth," could dissuade the old Korean from his delusion that Cheeta was fated to be his one true love.
"I'm glad you see things my way!" Remo called up, as he drew under the Master of Sinanju's scuttling form,
"It is better this way," Chiun answered.
"Absolutely."
"Once I have gained the confidence of this 'Esperanza,' I will convince him to grant Cheeta a special audience."
"Maybe," Remo said cautiously.
"And she will be eternally grateful to me," Chiun added.
"Not likely," Remo muttered.
"And so will consent to have my child," Chiun finished. "Which is her great destiny."
"What!"
Chiun halted at the twelfth floor. His stern face peered down and his voice was cold.
"It is her destiny, Remo. I warn you not to interfere."
"Little Father," Remo said sincerely. "I would not get between you and Cheeta Ching for any amount of money."
"Good."
"Especially," Remo murmured, "when she's in heat."
Chiun resumed climbing. Remo followed, his face worried:
They expected the penthouse to be guarded, and they were right.
The wide patio promenade surrounding the penthouse itself was patrolled by security guards. They could hear their feet crushing the gravel. The sound was specific enough to tell Remo what kind of weapons they carried. Most had sidearms. From the sound of his swaggering, wide-legged walk, one toted a rifle openly. Since it was designed for long-range use, that weapon represented the least threat to them.
"We will take the rifle first," said Chiun.
"You got it," Remo said.
They got to a narrow strip of ornamental metal and, using it for a tightrope, worked their way to the north side of the building, where the rifle-toter was walking back and forth and sounding anxious.
Carlos Lugan was muy anxious. He had joined the Esperanza campaign only two days ago, walking off his security guard job without even bothering to turn in his uniform. The march of migrant workers shouting "Esperanza! Esperanza!" had been like the summons of some smiling siren. Carlos was from El Salvador. His mother still lived in San Salvador-and only because Carlos Lugan sent her a check every month. Without it, she would starve like her friends, whose family could not get to America.
So when Carlos followed the chanting migrants to a Rally for Hope, and heard that the Esperanza campaign was paying seven dollars an hour for help, he did not hesitate. That was two dollars more than his job paid. He became a loyal Esperanza supporter.
Carlos was not disappointed to find himself, in the wake of the failed assassination attempt, performing much the same menial tasks as he had in his previous situation. He was proud to be a servant of Esperanza. In truth, he hoped someone would make another attempt on his life. That way, Carlos Lugan would gladly throw himself in the path of the bullet. He fantasized about the moment. About martyring himself for the man who had offered him such hope, and provided him with the wherewithal to increase his monthly check to his mother by an incredible twenty dollars.
Unfortunately for Carlos Lugan, it was not a bullet he had to face in the defense of his candidate. It was something older, more accurate-and virtually indefensible.
Carlos was standing at the edge of the parapet, which was waist-high. There had been a time he was afraid of heights. But working for Esperanza, he was afraid of nothing.
He failed to see the hand that reached up for his rifle muzzle.