Dilkes went to his computer. He found Mohtat in his detailed files of the shadow world. At the moment, there was no confirmation from his sources that this had to do with the contest. None was needed for Benson Dilkes. He just knew.
Another thumbtack. This one in the Thames River. Four dead in a matter of hours.
Still standing at the Europe map, Benson Dilkes suddenly wondered if he had enough thumbtacks. He might have to run out to an office-supply store to pick up some more.
He glanced absently over at the nightstand where the open case of tacks sat. It was only then that he noticed the man standing in the bedroom with him.
A sliver of shock. Quickly overtaken by instinct honed from years of experience.
Dilkes didn't panic, didn't run. His gun was on his bureau.
Duck, slide, grab. Out of a crouch, his fingers closed around the butt of the automatic. Spin. The gun was up. Smoothly, efficiently. Aimed squarely at the narrow chest of the small man who stood in his bedroom doorway.
"How did you get in here?" Dilkes demanded. The man in the black business suit didn't react to the gun. His eyes remained locked on those of Benson Dilkes. A spider eyeing a twitching fly.
"Your defenses are elaborate," the intruder admitted. "However, doors are made to be opened. If there is a right way and a wrong way, one merely has to use the right way."
If Dilkes was the sort of man who made mistakes, he would have been racking his brain to think of what he did wrong.
Maybe he left the door ajar, maybe he hadn't flipped the switch when he came home, maybe he hadn't wired the damn thing up right. But the door had been wired perfectly, he had closed it tight and he had made certain to reset the charges when he entered the apartment.
This man couldn't be here. Yet here he was. And that face. It couldn't be.
Benson Dilkes began to get a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. His bowels turned to water.
The stranger seemed to sense his apprehension. "Yes," the intruder said, nodding. "You are wise, Benson Dilkes. You understand that all doors yield to me."
It was true. It had to be.
Benson Dilkes was shaking. He lowered his gun. If he was right, it was pointless to even try to aim it. "Are you-?" Dilkes began weakly. "That is, who are-? I thought you were ...older. "
The intruder smiled a smile devoid of warmth. His hazel eyes remained as flat and lifeless as his Asian face.
"I am what you think I am, yet not who," he said. "Names are but air formed by lips that inevitably turn to dust. They are fleeting, forgotten things. However, if you must call me something-" the Asian smiled, this time with wicked pleasure "-you may call me Nuihc."
Chapter 15
Mark Howard was waiting anxiously by the window when he finally spied Dr. Smith's station wagon turning through Folcroft's main gates. Mark rushed down to the fire doors. When the CURE director came hustling upstairs a few moments later, his office keys were already in hand.
Smith didn't stop. "Did you trace the call?" he demanded as he hurried down the hall.
"Yes," Howard said, falling in beside his employer. "You were right."
Nodding crisply, Smith ducked into his office suite. Mrs. Mikulka's desk was empty.
"You are certain it was Chiun's number in Sinanju?" Smith asked as he unlocked the inner door, ushering his young assistant into his Spartan office.
"Double-checked," Mark said. "It was his. A clean line. No one tapped it. How did you know?"
"This is not without precedent," Smith explained. He shut the door tightly and hurried across the room, settling in his cracked leather chair. He booted up his computer.
"Should I have called back?"
"No, I'll handle this," Smith insisted.
Mark sighed relief. "Just as well," he said, taking up a post beside Smith's desk from where he could better see the canted monitor. "It sounded like she didn't speak English. I couldn't understand a word she was saying."
"That in itself is odd," Smith said. "Not the fact that you couldn't understand the language, but that it was a woman. I was led to understand that Chiun's caretaker is the only individual with access to the village phone line."
"She sounded like she was in hysterics," Howard said.
Frowning, the CURE director attacked his keyboard with certain hands. Amber letters burst soft in the trailing wake of his drumming fingers.
"After we spoke I tried tracking down Remo and Chiun," Howard offered as Smith typed, "but they're missing in action right now. Remo used his Visa card at a restaurant about two hours ago." He snapped his fingers. "Oh, I forgot. The French assassin is gone."
"That isn't unexpected," Smith said as he worked. "Master Chiun told me that this trial Remo is undergoing is merely a formality. Historically there is no real risk to the Apprentice Master of Sinanju. Remo shouldn't have any problems with any of the assassins he is scheduled to meet. It is more a demonstration of technique to potential employers, as well as a reminder that Sinanju is in the world. It is also a nuisance I could do without at this point in my life. But I learned many years ago the futility of arguing with the Master of Sinanju. As long as their activities remain below the world's radar, that is the best I can hope for." He finished typing. "There, we're tied in."
He picked up the blue contact phone. It was the line Remo used to call in. There was no dial on the phone. That didn't matter. The moment he picked up the receiver, the CURE computer was already dialing Chiun's special 800 number.
The phone rang a dozen times before someone finally picked up. Even away from the phone Mark recognized the desperately wailing woman.
"Hello," Smith said. "Master Chiun is not available at the moment. Is there something wrong?" There was more crying, more babbling. As the woman spoke, Smith eyed his computer.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand," the CURE director said. He spoke slowly and loudly, knowing full well the futility of doing so for the benefit of a person who obviously spoke no English. "May I speak with Master Chiun's caretaker? Please put Pullyang on the phone. Pullyang."
This drew a reaction from the woman. The crying turned into shrieks of agony. The woman wailed as if in pain for a few minutes, shouting her anguish into the phone, before hanging up amid a series of pitiful sobs.
Smith quickly cradled the phone. Spinning back to his computer, he tapped a few keys and then leaned back.
"I tapped the line and dumped her voice directly into the mainframes," he explained. "The translation will not be perfect, but we should at least see-"
The computer beeped and a window opened. Through narrowing eyes, Smith scanned the text. As he read, his lips thinned to razor slits of tight concern.
When he was finished, he leaned back in his chair. Mark Howard was still scanning the monitor, absorbing the data.
"Am I reading this right?" Howard asked. "This looks like she was saying her father was murdered."
"Apparently she is Pullyang's daughter," Smith said, his voice perfectly even. He adjusted his wireless glasses. "The mainframes are unable to translate all of the dialect peculiar to Sinanju, but that would seem to be the reason for both her calling here and for her emotional state."
"Wow," Mark said, shaking his head slowly. "This isn't going to sit well with Chiun. He must have told me a hundred times how the village is safe because of him. And this was the guy he trusted to watch his stuff? I'd hate to be in the shoes of whoever did it."
Smith could not disagree with his assistant's assessment. On a few occasions over the years Sinanju had been vexed by outside forces, invariably involving meddling by representatives of the Communist North Korean government. Since Pullyang was in charge of keeping watch over Chiun's treasure, Smith wondered if yet another North Korean agent had allowed greed to overcome wisdom.
The other option was a murderer among the citizens of Sinanju itself. To Smith's knowledge in the thirty years he'd known the Master of Sinanju there had not been a murder in the tiny fishing village on the West Korean Bay.
There was no doubt about one thing. This crossed a line none before had ever dared venture past.