From the other direction, a car slithered up to the open gate, and through it unchallenged.
"Did you see that?" Remo said. "There's no one at the gate!"
"And I recognized the man who was driving," Chiun said, low-voiced.
"Yeah?"
"He is a member of a rival camp."
"Yeah? Whose?"
"The loud fat woman."
"I knew it!" Remo said, breaking into a floating run. "I knew it!" Chiun followed, his pipe-stem arms pumping.
They entered the grounds, which were lavish. An arbor-shaded circular driveway wound up to the looming mansion.
The car had pulled into the shadow of a guest house in the shadow of the great hacienda, and two men got out. They slipped up to the guest house door.
"Recognize the other one?" Remo asked.
"No," said Chiun.
They reached the house and found a window that was spilling light.
Remo snapped the driver's-side mirror off the car and, hunkering down under the window, used it to spy on the house's interior.
"Saw this in a movie once," Remo said, grinning.
"What do you see?" asked Chiun, standing off to one side.
"The other guy," Remo said. "Hey! I know him! He was a Black campaign aide. I saw him at debate."
Remo and Chiun exchanged dumbfounded glances.
"They're both in it together!" Remo hissed in surprise.
The Master of Sinanju frowned. "In political intrigues," he said slowly, "one plus one does not always equal two."
"Let's take them, and they can run the numbers for us," Remo suggested, dropping the mirror.
They slipped around to the front. Remo knocked the door off its hinges with a simultaneous kick to the lower hinge and a hard bat to the upper one. The door ripped free of its deadbolt lock.
"Tremble, amateur assassins!" Chiun shouted. "Your betters have come for your worthless heads!"
Feet scrambled up a flight of steps. Chiun surged in, Remo following.
They came around the bannister in time to see a pair of feet disappearing from view. Upstairs, a door slammed loudly. They went up the stairs, making virtually no sound at all.
"We were followed!" a frightened voice called out.
At the top of the stairs, Remo and Chiun hesitated. Remo's eyes raced along a row of closed doors. One still vibrated infinitesimally, from having been slammed shut.
"That one," Chiun hissed, pointing.
They hit the door running. It popped inward.
Inside, three startled faces looked in their direction.
Two were brown faces. Hispanic. Their eyes were widely luminous, and frightened.
The third face was also Hispanic in complexion.
"You are just in time!" cried the owner of the third face, Enrique Espiritu Esperanza. "These men are attempting to assassinate me!"
"No we're not!" protested the other two, fumbling machine pistols from under their clothing.
It was the last words they were destined to speak.
Remo and Chiun moved in on them. Remo shot between the pair, took Enrique Esperanza by his terrycloth robe and pushed him behind a long, low item of furniture that was awash in bric-a-brac.
Remo turned, saying, "Don't kill-"
The sound of two grinding spinal columns cut off the rest. The two Hispanics fell from the Master of Sinanju's inexorable grip, their heads lolling crazily, their eyes bulging and glassy.
They gurgled once after they collapsed on the rug. That was all.
"Nice going, Little Father," Remo complained. "They could have told us something."
"Their faces told all," Chiun said coldly. "They were conspirators. In league with our political enemies."
Enrique Esperanza stepped up, adjusting his disordered robe on his broad shoulders. "You did well to come here," he said softly, "for you were just in time to save me from certain death."
Chiun bowed. "When you have Sinanju, you need nothing more."
Looking around the room, Remo asked, "What kind of setup is this?"
Chapter 32
Harold W. Smith stared at the computer screen. It was dark now. It was very dark.
Smith had searched his database all night for any connection between Nogeira and Rona Ripper. He had found none. Not one.
It was during this scanning that his computer had beeped an alert. Key buzzwords were routinely input into the system on a regular basis, and the CURE mainframes constantly scanned all databases within their telephonic outreach for new information on those mission-sensitive key words.
Smith pressed a key. In the corner, the screen displayed: TRACEWORD: NOGEIRA.