"Poison. That has been what has been killing the bug-eaters. Poison spiders, not dunderbugs. Just as I foretold."
"That doesn't explain HELP. People who catch it take forty-eight hours to die. Magarac died instantly."
"Details," sniffed Chiun.
Remo snapped his fingers in the air. "Hey! There was an army of these things moving in on the Harvesters when we left Nirvana West."
"No doubt they have all succumbed."
"Why do you say that?"
"The wicked ones are through with their tools and wish to be rid of them."
"Nalini, you mean?"
"And Clancy the clown."
"No way, Chiun. The guy's plastered most of the time. "
"Who else then?"
"Maybe Thrush Limburger. Maybe Jane Goodwoman. Hey, she was here before Nalini. Maybe she left the spiders, not Nalini."
"You are a fool who has been blinded by the irresistible scent of the Spider Divas, which still clings to your selfindulgent body."
"Yeah, well, I saw Jane Goodwoman naked, and if there was ever a Spider Diva, she wins the blue ribbon. Her legs belonged on a tarantula."
"Then why did the Tamil harlot steal away in the night? What woman, when she encounters the power of Sinanju, can abandon the bed in which she was pleasured beyond her wildest imaginings?"
"You got a point there," said Remo, reaching for the phone. "We'd better call Smith."
"Emperor Smith will be pleased at our progress."
"He's going to strangle us when we tell him the guy behind HELP may be a U.S. Senator. You know how he is about domestic political messiness."
Chapter 19
In his office overlooking Long Island Sound, Harold W. Smith listened in silence, the color going out of his pinched patrician face. There was not much color in it to begin with. It was a gray face. Smith was a gray man. After he had listened to Remo's report, his face was the color of ashes, in which the gray color of his eyes resembled dark stones.
"These ants," he croaked. "How many legs do they possess?"
"What does that have to do with anything?" Remo wondered.
Smith fingered the too-tight knot of his hunter green Dartmouth tie. "Please."
Remo went away and came back.
"Eight legs," he reported.
"It is not an ant. They are called hexapoda because they possess six legs. Spiders, which are arachnids, possess eight. What you have there is some exotic form of arachnid capable of mimicking an ant."
"Never heard of such a thing."
"One moment, Remo."
Smith went to his computer. He punched in some key words, and moments later he was scanning an on-line encyclopedia with wireframe illustrations. The illustration showed a many-segmented antlike insect whose bulbous nose could separate and reveal extremely vicious curved fangs.
Smith picked up the receiver again. "Remo, I have it."
"You do?"
"Yes. It is called Myrmarachne plataleoides. It is a species of jumping spider, indigenous to Sri Lanka. They do not dwell in webs, but in trees from which they leap upon their prey, trailing a thin strand of silk which enables them to ease themselves to the ground with their catch."
"That's gotta be it."
"Except that my information is that they are not poisonous," said Smith.
"It's a sure bet this one is," said Remo. "But what about the real problem, Clancy?"
"We have no proof Senator Clancy is behind this. The finger of guilt clearly points to his mother's nurse, Nalini, who must be this mysterious Eldress."
"But what would a nurse be doing orchestrating a fake viral plague?"
"What would Clancy get out of it?" countered Smith. "He is at the pinnacle of his political career right now. In fact, it is widely rumored that Clancy is contemplating retirement after his current term in office expires."
"Who knows?"
"Remo, proceed with your investigation, but tread carefully. Make no moves that might expose you or endanger Clancy."
"You got it."
Smith disconnected. He looked to the dialless red telephone that was the dedicated line to the White House. He would not apprise the President of these facts. The situation was still fluid. All might not be as it seemed. It might not even be necessary to order his agents to quietly terminate a United States senator.
But if it was, Harold Smith was capable of giving the order. It was his job.
Chapter 20
Senator Ned J. Clancy heard the sound of the ringing telephone through a fuzzy alcoholic haze.
"Answer the phone," he mumbled, rolling over in the big hotel bed. The spring groaned in complaint.
A muffled voice he mistook for his wife's mumbled something he couldn't quite make out.
"I said, answer the telephone," Clancy repeated.
The phone kept ringing. The muffled voice kept trying to say something, and between the two sounds, Ned Clancy surfaced from sleep like a submarine breaking the surface.