"Okay," Remo said. "Put the scrambler on top speed. Here goes."
Remo rattled off his report. At the end of it, he added, "There is one consolation."
"And that is?"
"Nogeira never did get baptized."
Smith was silent a moment. "You say you are not clear on the identities of these assailants?"
"Take your pick," Remo said. "Either they were Colombians out to kill him, Bananamanian Army forces out to kill him, or his own people out to kill him. Whoever they were, they were out to kill him. And they definitely contributed." "I think we can leave the Bananamanian Army out of this," Smith mused. "It was in their interest to let American justice run its course."
"If that means they wanted to see Nogeira punished,"
Remo inserted, "I'd say they go back to the top of the list. Because American justice was being run into the ground by this guy, not the other way around."
"Point taken," said Smith, his voice losing its distant, reflective quality.
"You think Nogeira was behind the plane crash?" Remo asked, after the pause on the line had grown lengthy.
"I am certain of it."
"Well, whatever he was up to, the secret died with him."
"He may have had confederates."
"The guys who wasted him?" Remo suggested.
Smith's response was thin. "Perhaps."
Remo asked, "What do you want me to do?"
"Nothing. I will have Federal agents cover the airports, highways, and train stations."
"I think you can save your breath."
"Why is that?"
"From the way those guys shot up the FBI down there, I think the word's already been put out."
"Of course. Then I must confer with the President."
"Before you do, do me a favor, Smitty?"
"What is that?" Smith said, wincing at that bit of familiarity. He hated to be called "Smitty"-the more so because it usually meant Remo was about to ask a favor.
"Call Chiun first and tell him that even though I didn't do the hit, I did right."
"You did neither," said Harold Smith, who was too busy now to bother with trivial disputes between his field operatives.
He hung up the phone without another word and took hold of the red telephone, wondering what the President's reaction to his discovery would be.
Chapter 4
In the lobby of the Fontainebleau Hotel overlooking the Miami waterfront, Remo hung up the pay phone.
He glided to the bank of elevators. "Glided" was the perfect word to describe the way Remo moved. He wore a white T-shirt and tan chinos. His feet were encased in hand-made loafers of Italian leather. Quality shoes. Still, they should have left impressions in the deep nap of the lobby carpet. But they did not. His soles seemed just to caress the nap, like constantly moving brushes.
Remo's casual attire should have gotten disapproving looks from the lobby staff. It did not. He might have been invisible. In a way, he was.
The elevator door dinged and opened. Remo stepped aboard, punched the seventh-floor button, and folded his lean arms. His deep-set brown eyes were clouded with worry.
Maybe Chiun won't ask me how it went, Remo thought.
Yeah, and maybe he'll have cooked dinner for us both.
Neither was very likely, Remo knew.
He came off the elevator with his hands in his pockets and his mouth an unhappy downward curl on his face.
He pushed open the door to his room.
Instantly, his nostrils were greeted by the fresh, sweet smell of boiled white rice-his favorite-and the tang of baked fish.
Remo grinned. Maybe the day would be saved, after all. Something had caused Chiun to break down and cook dinner.
He started toward the kitchenette of their suite of rooms.
"I smell good eating," Remo said.
"And I smell failure," came a squeaky, querulous voice.
"Uh-oh," Remo muttered. In a brighter voice he said aloud, "Do I smell dinner?"
"No, you do not."
"No? Why?"
"Because I smell failure."
This time, Remo's "Uh-oh" was audible.
He paused on the threshold of the kitchenette. The Master of Sinanju was in the act of pouring the contents of a stainless-steel pot into the sink. He reached down and touched the garbage-disposal button. It rumbled. The steam emanating from the sink was quickly drawn from sight. The fresh smell of steamed rice went away with it.
"You're throwing away perfectly good rice," Remo pointed out.
"I am no longer hungry," said Chiun, next taking a tray of baked fish from the oven.