"Put him on ice until we get back."
The old Oriental was still holding on to Rair Brashnikov's aching wrists, pinning them together as irremovably as shackles. Now he manipulated his long bony fingers, transferring both wrists to the unshakable grasp of one amber hand.
All around him, the bodies of the many Russian agents sent to recapture Brashnikov lay still and waxy as a Disco museum after an earthquake.
"What means 'on ice'?" Brashnikov asked.
Silence.
"Does 'on ice' mean dead? I must know. Am I allowed a final prayer? I know some very short ones."
The cold-eyed Oriental reached for his throat.
Down the corridor the elevator doors rolled open. Remo called, "Shake a leg, Chiun!"
Then came Cheeta Ching's voice. "Grandfather Chiun! Where are you?"
Chiun started. "Cheeta?"
But the corridor was suddenly filled with the tramping of heavy footsteps.
"We can't leave him now," Remo hissed. "That's either the IRS or the cops."
The Master of Sinanju stepped toward the open doorway. The helpless Russian came with him, unable to free his pinioned arms.
Then the tiny Korean lifted one foot. A simple gesture barely noticed. Remo moved to the edge of the door, hands high, ready to strike if need be.
A clot of Manhattan's finest clopped up the corridor, guns drawn.
"Grandfather Chiun!" Cheeta shouted. "It's all right! I brought the police!"
"Some one shut her up," a voice growled.
And the Master of Sinanju pivoted on his one planted foot.
The thick-soled white boots on Rair Brashnikov's feet buzzed the rug, as sudden centrifugal force brought him around in a standing arc.
Incredibly powerful fingers released his wrists.
By that point, momentum had set his legs at right angles to the walls. His feet flew through the bullet-gnashed doorway, taking the rest of him with it.
The Russian bowled over four policemen before they could react or retreat.
Remo and Chiun jumped out into the corridor, their feet busy. Their heels stamped pistol muzzles flat and broke cylinders from their frames.
"Remo!" Chiun squeaked. "See to the Krahseevah!"
"Right."
Remo reached into the tangle of blue and white and came within a hair of grabbing the Krahseevah by its rubbery neck.
That hair made all the difference. For Rair Brashnikov had fumbled for his belt rheostat. Remo's reaching hand dipped into a sudden blur of white shine.
"Damn!"
Chiun turned. "What?"
"Lost him."
"Idiot!"
Rair Brasnikov remembered his KGB training. In his disembodied state, he had to be careful. Only micron-thick wafers in the bottom of his boot soles enabled him to stand on solid ground when the vibration suit was operation. He could not use his hands to lever himself up.
He could only unbend himself until the boot soles found traction.
Unfortunately, that was not as easy at it sounded.
He realized that his rear end was sinking through the hall carpet, when all around him dazed American policemen recoiled and shouted hoarse curses.
Rair Brashnikov decided to go with the flow.
The flow was taking him through the floor, much to the frustration of the Caucasian American agent, who frantically tried to grab him by any handy extremity.
The level of the floor soon crept up to Brashnikov's chin, his nose. Then he shut his eyes-and did not open them until the subatomic darkness had gone away and he could see pink light through his closed lids.
Remo was taking his frustration out on the hapless police.
"You guys couldn't have waited another lousy minute," he said, grabbing ankles and pulling the police into his inexorable grip. Remo put them all to sleep with simple nerve pressure, while the Master of Sinanju confronted a shocked and wide-eyed Cheeta Ching.
"It is all right, my child. This was not for your eyes."
"My God!" Cheeta gasped. "That witch-bitch was right. It is a night-gaunt!"
"No, it-"
Remo straightened. "Exactly. A night-gaunt. And we want you to spread the word. Tell the world that the night-gaunts have broken loose into the waking world. You're the only one who can convince people."
"Yes, yes, I must!"
"But leave us out of it."
"But . . . but you're part of the story."
"Chiun," Remo said.
The Master of Sinanju took Cheeta Ching's cold hands in his.