Smith took another gulp of Alka-Seltzer and examined the charges line by line.
In the card that was issued to Remo Buttafuoco, he noticed a round-trip airlines ticket for two. He wondered where Remo and Chiun had gone. Then he saw on the very next line a two-day car rental from a Los Angeles franchise of a well-known agency. The next item indicated the car had been serviced in Malibu.
Smith frowned. Malibu. Malibu. Why did Malibu ring a warning bell in his memory?
And then he remembered. The attempt on Squirrelly Chicane three days before in Malibu, and the waves of suspicious dead Chinese bodies that had been washing up on the beach ever since.
"What on earth..."
Face slack with concern, Smith went to his computer and checked the Bunji file.
Six bodies now. As he read the latest reports, he realized that the dead men had been killed in ways that were consistent with both Remo and Chiun's methods of operation. The disemboweled man might as easily have been eviscerated by a superhard fingernail as a knife. And those who had been found with crushed larynxes and faces jellied beyond recognition bore Remo's hallmarks. He should have recognized the signs before, Smith realized grimly.
Harold Smith picked up the phone and dialed Remo's contact number.
A sleepy voice answered, "I'm not home. Go away."
"Remo. This is Smith."
"Smitty, what's the good word? Or in your case, the bad one?"
"The word," Smith said stiffly, "is that I know you and Chiun were involved with the Chinese deaths in Malibu."
"Okay," Remo said without skipping a beat. "It's too early in the morning to lie. We were."
"Please explain the situation to me, Remo," Smith said coldly. "This was not an authorized operation."
"You'd better talk to Chiun. It was kinda his operation."
"I would like to hear it from you first."
Remo's voice turned away and lifted. "Hey, Chiun! Smitty's on the phone for you!"
"Remo, I said-"
"Chiun! You up?"
Silence.
Remo's voice came back. "Damn. Hold the phone, Smitty."
Smith gripped the telephone receiver with unshakable tightness as he listened to the faint sounds of doors opening and closing and Remo returning.
"He's gone," said Remo.
"I will hear your explanation first."
"You don't understand, Smitty. Chiun's really gone. Two of his trunks are missing, but the freaking gold's still here."
"Gold. What gold?"
"The freaking gold he got off those Mongols."
"Mongols? What Mongols? Remo, start at the beginning, please."
"How about I just cut to the chase and let's see where that takes us," Remo said unhappily.
"Go ahead."
"You know the story about the Tibetan monk who showed up on Squirrelly Chicane's doorstep and proclaimed her the Bunji Lama?"
"Yes."
"Well, first he showed up on my doorstep. Along with that Mongol, Kula. Remember him from the Gulf War?"
"Go on."
"Well, they asked Chiun to help them find the Bunji Lama!'
"Find? You mean-"
"Yeah, Chiun led them straight to Squirrelly. He went through a lot of hocus-pocus to set them up for the scam, but in the end he just turned on 'The Poopi Silverfish Show' and there she was."
"Poopi Silverfish?"
"No, Squirrelly Chicane. She was into one of her past-life rags, and Lobsang just lapped it up."
"Lobsang was the Tibetan monk?"
"You got it."
"Where do you fit into this, Remo?"
"Me? I was just along for the ride. Carrying luggage and collecting abuse. When the Chinese tried to hit Squirrelly, Chiun and I were there and we hit them first. That's about the only good thing that came out of the trip."
"I disagree," Smith said in a cold voice. "It would have been far better had Squirrelly Chicane been assassinated than she go through with her ridiculous scheme to insert herself into the Tibetan situation."
"Don't look now, but I think Chiun's gone and introduced himself into the Tibetan situation, too."
"You may be right, Remo," said Smith in a tight voice. "He called me yesterday and requested a sabbatical."
"He say where he was going?"
"Back to the village of Sinanju, was my understanding."
"That should be easy to check. Just dial 1-800-SINANJU If he's not there or expected, he's off to Tibet."