"But these subjects that are not of his flesh are not of any flesh," continued Chiun.
"Insects are not made of flesh, but of a material like horn," said Smith. "Very good, Master Chiun."
"I don't believe you two are doing this ...." Remo moaned.
"Can you envision where this person can be found?" asked Smith.
Chiun continued pacing. His face was twisted up in concentration, his eyes squeezed to the narrowness of walnut seams. "I know that this prince is drawn back to the scene of his depredations."
"Sure," said Remo. "The criminal always returns to the scene of the crime."
"No, that is not it," said Smith. "That is an old adage, but it is not exactly true. Criminals are not drawn to the scene of their crimes so much as they feel compelled to insinuate themselves into official investigations. It is very common that the chief murder suspect is the first person to offer eyewitness testimony or suggestions on how to solve the murder. It is a control issue with them."
"That's Wurmlinger again," said Remo.
"No, it is not Wurmlinger," said Chiun. "But another prince."
Smith was at his computer again.
"What are you doing, Smitty?" asked Remo.
"Calling up the facts in the Rand killing, the one that started this chain of fantastic events."
Smith skimmed the report carefully. "Here is something."
"What?" asked Remo.
"I hadn't noticed this before, but the killing of Doyal T. Rand occurred in Times Square at the intersection of Broadway and Seventh Avenue."
"So? We knew that."
"There is an old saying that Times Square is the crossroads of the world. If one were to seek a specific person, you have only to stand on that corner long enough and that person will almost certainly appear there. Because sooner or later everyone passes through Times Square."
Remo grinned. "Somebody should set a trap for Saddam Hussein, then."
Smith shook his humorless gray head. "Our man first showed up in Times Square. - Perhaps he might return."
"Yes, he will return to the scene of his depredations, for he must," said Chiun firmly.
"You don't expect us to stand on a freaking street corner for the rest of our lives until he turns up again," said Remo.
"No, I will put the FBI on it."
"Good," said Remo.
"Not good," said Chiun. "For we must be the ones to vanquish this prince of Byzantium."
"You go, then. I have a date with a rich girl," Remo said.
Chiun started. "Jean is rich?"
"Won the lottery. Seven million bucks."
"Rich?" squeaked Chiun. "And you have not yet married her?"
"I don't marry for money."
"Then you are a dunderhead," spit Chiun. "She comes from the illustrious Rice family and swims in wealth, yet you stand there in your ignorant bachelorhood. For shame."
"I'll get around to her. Business comes first."
"See that you do," said Chiun.
Chapter 43
In a hotel room overlooking Times Square, a man calmly unpacked his suitcase.
It was a very large suitcase. It had to be to accommodate its contents.
Folded neatly inside was a black-and-yellow spandex uniform. The upper portion was jet black, while the legs were banded in alternating yellow jacket bands.
Standing in his boxers, he drew this on, carefully Velcro-ing and zippering the striking uniform that was his badge of identity.
The gauntlets of rubberized fabric fitted over his long, strong fingers. He stepped into the gleaming black boots, which squished when he walked, thanks to the honeycomb of suction cups on the bottoms of the thick soles.
Finally, he drew over his head the cybernetic helmet with its compound locust green orbs and retractable antennae. The helmet gleamed like a bee's skull forged of polished copper.
"I," he said in a deep, commanding voice, "the avenger of insects, am now ready to go forth and face my destiny."
Squishing with each step, he took the elevator to the lobby floor and, oblivious to the gawking and staring of common mortals, stepped out into the bustle of the crossroads of the world for his rendezvous with destiny.
OFFICER ANDY FUNKHAUSER had thought he had seen everything.
He was directing traffic when he happened to look at the corner of Seventh Avenue and East Forty-fifth Street.
There, standing calm as could be, was a man tricked up like a human yellow jacket, for Christ's sake.
The man crossed the street and came striding down as big as life and twice as stupid looking. Some pedestrians stared at him, while others just ignored him. This was New York. It took a lot to get a rise out of New Yorkers.
The man seemed not to be bothered by the attention. If anything, he walked with his shoulders squared and his stride more jaunty. He looked like the jackass to beat all jackasses, but he was the last to know it.
"Probably some kind of goofy Fox stunt," Funkhauser muttered, returning to his duties. Ever since that Rand guy died, people kept expecting killer bees to descend on Times Square.
It had only been a few days since the eyeless stiff had been carted off. And yesterday a beekeeper had come to lure away the swarm of bees that had congregated around the streetlight when it had all happened. Funkhauser had watched. It was amazing. The guy had put on protective gloves and net veil pith helmet and shinnied up the pole.
Once he'd gotten close, the bees just took to him like honey. They clung to his well-protected body like glued-on popcorn.