Remo shook him back to consciousness.
"For . . . smoke . . ."
"For smoke?"
"Smokers," Perrin hissed.
"This is a concentration camp for people who smoke?" Remo said incredulously.
"It was . . . completely . . . humane. We had . whole program. Nictone . . . transdermal patches. Aerobics. Shots."
Remo pulled out one of the Band-Aids he had found in the storeroom. "Is this one of the patches?"
"You . . . put it on . . . person's skin and . . . it makes them allergic to . . . tobacco. By the year two thousand California would be smoker-free."
"Smoker-free? What about people's rights?"
"Smokers . . . have . . . no . . . rights," coughed Blaise Perrin. His head went limp. This time, no matter how much Remo shook him, he didn't come around. He would never come around again.
Remo used a heavy boulder to scoop out a fire trench, so the blaze wouldn't spread, then reclaimed his car, which was intact. The TV van had protected it. Its tires were smoking and melting slowly.
As Remo drove away the gas tank caught, and the van shot ten feet in the air and came down with a rattling thud.
Remo found a phone booth at a gas station in the Santa Monica foothills. He called the local fire department and reported the fire. Then he called Folcroft.
"Smith. Bad news."
"What?"
"Rona Ripper has a secret plan, too."
"Is it legal?" Smith asked.
"Definitely not. Her secret plan insures a smoker-free California."
"You mean smoke-free."
"That too. I just came from a concentration camp for smokers her people had built in the Santa Monica Mountains. Once she was elected, if you smoked, you'd go through the program."
"That's insane," Smith said sharply.
"This is California."
Smith's ragged breathing came across three thousand miles of telephone line.
"Remo, as you know we do not interfere with elections."
"Right."
"It is against everything CURE stands for. We are above politics. Above the process. Outside the Constitution, yes. But only because the Constitution has been subverted by elements which wish to repeal it."
"Right."
"I myself do not vote."
"Right."
"I personally do not care who governs California so long as they are legally elected."
"Right. Right," Remo said impatiently. "Cut to the chase, will you?"
"Remo, we are forced to take sides. Barry Black, Junior is committing voter fraud. Rona Ripper intends to force her personal beliefs on the citizens of that state, without recourse to lawful legislation. Neither candidate can be allowed to assume the governorship under these circumstances."
"So we help Esperanza get elected?"
Smith's tone was flat. "I see no choice in the matter."
"I'm not looking forward to facing Chiun."
"I would think he would be pleased."
"Not when I tell him Cheeta Ching just went up in a ball of fire," Remo said wearily.
"What is this?"
Remo explained the circumstances leading to Cheeta Ching's apparent demise.
Smith was thoughtful. At last he said, "Is there any trace she was in the camp when it exploded?"
"Not unless they dig up her blackened shark's teeth."
"Say nothing of this to Chiun. Or anyone. The election is less than a week away. After that, the chips can fall where they may. Our task will be done."
"Gotcha. I'm on my way. Where is Esperanza now?"
"San Diego." Smith's tight voice softened slightly. He sounded tired. "Good luck, Remo," he said.
Chapter 25
FBI Forensics specialist Dick Webb hated the Everglades. Even with his legs encased in crotch-high fisherman's boots, he hated the Everglades. It was too hot. It was too humid. It was too muddy. And then there were the alligators.
It was because of an alligator that the central lab in Washington had sent him down to this hellhole.
An alligator had eaten no less than General Emmanuel Alejandro Nogeira, while in FBI custody. It was a major embarrassment. And it landed right on the Bureau's lap.
Which is why agent Webb was stuck with body-recovery duty.