"Then he has no excuse not to treat with me," replied the Master of Sinanju, grasping the doorknob. It resisted his thin fingers. Locked. The Master of Sinanju increased the pressure, and the knob squealed, coming off in his hand. He handed it to the secretary, who reached out for it by reflex.
The Master of Sinanju left her juggling the friction-heated brass doorknob from hand to hand, squealing, "Whoo whoo whoo. My goodness, it's hot!"
BASIL HUME Loop up from his desk and saw the tiny Asian in the riotous costume. His hand snaked to the guard buzzer, then froze momentarily in indecision. The figure confronting him, while dramatically gaudy, was impossibly old and frail, and therefore no conceivable threat to him.
"Yes?" he said.
"No," said the tiny Asian, who cleared the considerable length of the office with a graceful leap in which his wide-flung arms resembled the outspread wings of the monarch butterfly. His hand smacked down on the buzzer and the buzzer should have gone off from the impact. It did not. When the yellowed claw of a hand lifted, instead of a brass bump on the desktop, the buzzer button was now a crater.
Blinking, Basil Hume looked down. He could see the black button deep in the pit of the tiny brass-lined crater.
It seemed impossible for a sturdy buzzer housing to go from dome to crater under the force of one light smack, but there it was. So Basil dismissed the problem with a casual, "And how may I assist you, my good fellow?"
"You may die and save me the trouble," the old man squeaked.
"The trouble of what?"
"Dispatching you."
Basil Hume blinked. "Do I take that to mean what I believe it means?"
"Your death warrant has been signed."
Now Basil Hume's blood pressure was rising. Trying to keep the man occupied, he let his finger creep toward the buzzer crater. Perhaps the electronic connection still functioned.
"By whom-if I may ask?"
"The emperor of America has called for your extinction. For you have lost funds entrusted to you."
"America has no emperor," Basil Hume pointed out.
"He is a well-known secret."
Basil Hume said, "Ah, I see," and his fingers touched the brass lip of the buzzer. "Well, my good man, if you are here to dispatch me-" he lifted his other hand airily "-then dispatch me by all means. I am guilty as charged." And he laughed selfconsciously while his finger found the black enamel button deep in his desktop.
A fingernail nearly as long as the finger it grew from circled upward before his eyes to lash out like a slim asp.
When it withdrew, it did so with such speed that Basil Hume at first did not comprehend that he had been struck and if so where. He examined the front of his coat. His tie was intact. There was nothing unsightly fouling his pearl white shirt. His coat buttons were still in place.
It was only when he looked toward the buzzer crater that he noticed the blood. It was filling the depression like an inkwell. He wondered where the blood had come from and examined himself again.
When Basil Hume brought up his left hand, the one that had slipped into the buzzer, he felt the blood falling down his sleeve. He examined his left wrist, and it was a wash of red. His wrist veins had been severed so quickly and cleanly he had felt nothing.
"My word," he said.
"Your last word," said the old Asian. "To ensure your silence."
And the fingernail that had cut with sure purity inserted itself into his Adam's apple, disconnecting his voice box.
Basil Hume knew this for a fact when he tried to speak and managed but an inarticulate gurgle.
Rising from his chair, he began thrashing about him in annoyance. Whereupon his right wrist suddenly opened up. It fountained blood. The hand that had done this was less than a blur in motion.
Dimly he heard a squeaky voice cry out, "Come quickly! Come quickly! This man had gone mad!"
Basil Hume's secretary thrust her head in and saw all the blood. Surprisingly she didn't faint. She turned guppy green and walked unsteadily to the ladies' room, not leaving until many hours later.
"What's going on here?" a man asked indignantly.
"I only asked him where my money was and he slashed his wrists," explained the cunning old Oriental, stroking his wispy beard in feigned agitation.
"Mr. Hume, is this true?"
Basil Hume thrashed around his desk, spattering blood everywhere. He tried to speak but could not. He tried to point an accusing finger at the old Asian, but he moved about so cleverly Hume's shaking finger could not indicate him with any accuracy.
"My God. It is true!"
The cry went out. "Call an ambulance."
The ambulance arrived inside of ten minutes. By that time the guards had all swarmed in to lay Basil Hume on the fine nap of his imported rug and tried to administer first aid. All of them at once.
Basil Hume was trampled, kicked and spent the last futile bits of his life giving new vibrancy to the maroon of his office rug and realizing he had underestimated the anger of the United States government. And its mighty secret emperor, whoever the cold uncaring bastard was.
No one saw the Master of Sinanju leave the Grand Cayman Trust, just as they failed to see him arrive.
Not long after, a taxi driver pulled over the main street of Georgetown upon being hailed.
"Convey me to the airport," a familiar squeaky voice insisted.
The driver stuck his head out. "Not you again!"
"I have never seen you before in my life," said Chiun in an injured tone.
"Pay me for the last fare, or I take you nowhere."
"How much?"
"Thirteen dollars American."
"Too much."
"Then you can enjoy the stink of my exhaust, you can."
The driver took off. He never heard the sound of his rear door open and close, nor did he notice that he had acquired a passenger. Not until he stopped at a traffic light near the clock monument to King George V and the door opened.
The driver looked back. To his astonishment, the tiny Asian had stepped over to an adjoining cab-which was also stopped at the light-and entered.