The wastepaper basket was overflowing with crumpled sheets of paper. The top of the desk looked like the overflow from the wastebasket.
But one sheet was squared neatly in front of deJuin. On it was written one neat word, printed in red block capitals: INFILTRATE.
When he went back into the drawing room, a dozen men were there, sitting quietly. They were mostly middle-aged men, wearing business suits with vests buckled down by university chains, straight-legged pants, and the highly polished leather shoes favored by practical men who can afford any kind of shoe they wish and choose the same kind they grew up wearing.
All rose as he entered the room.
Uncle Carl rose too from his chair near the window.
"Gentlemen. Our king. Jean Louis deJuin."
The dozen men sank slowly to their knees.
DeJuin looked at Uncle Carl questioningly, as if for the command that would bring the men to their feet. But Carl too had gone to his knees, his bowed head extended toward deJuin.
"The name of Uctut cannot be defiled," said deJuin. "It is all holiness and beyond the dirtying touch of men. But for those who have tried, Uctut calls for sacrifice, and we of the Actatl shall provide that sacrifice. This I vow-this we all vow. On our honor and our lives." He paused. "Rise."
The men got slowly to their feet, their faces illuminated with an inner glow, and came forward to shake deJuin's hand and to introduce themselves.
DeJuin waited, then waved the men to seats on the couches and chairs in the room.
"Our first goal is to get close to these two, this American and the aged Oriental. From them we will move against their organization and expropriate its power. The question is, how 'do we infiltrate? How do we get close to these two men?"
He looked around the room. He had expected puzzled looks, but instead he found smiles that showed satisfaction. He looked to Uncle Carl.
Carl rose. "We have ways of getting to those two."
He smiled.
"Two ways," he said.
CHAPTER NINE
Remo carefully addressed the large trunk to an oil company operating in Nome, Alaska. By the time the trunk reached the company, it would be winter in Nome. The trunk would go into the warehouse, and not until summer would someone notice the funny smell and eventually the body of the Justice Department official. Who had almost caught Remo off guard. But in this business, "almost" meant flying to Nome in a trunk because you kept better till next summer.
"Return address, sir?" said the clerk at the railway station.
"Disneyworld, Florida," said Remo. The clerk said he had always wanted to go to the place, and asked if Remo worked there, and Remo said he was president of the Mickey Mouse union.
"Mickey Mouse for short," said Remo. "Actually it's the International Brotherhood of Mickey Mice, Donald Ducks, Goofies, and Seven Dwarfs of America, AFL-CIO. That's dwarfs, not dwarves. We may go on strike next week over our mistreatment by cartoonists. Not enough lines."
"Oh," said the clerk suspiciously. But he nevertheless sent William Reddington III, assistant director, northern district, New York, on his Nome vacation with two loud pounds of a rubber stamp.
Reddington had been the strangest assault. He came padding in to Remo's hotel suite in a four-hundred-dollar blue striped suit with vest, a Phi Beta Kappa key, and light brown hair immaculately combed to casualness.
He was sorry to bother Remo at that hour, and he knew the tension everyone in the room must be suffering, but he had come to help.
Chiun was asleep in one of the bedrooms. Remo had not been sure the two women would be safe if he just turned them free after the slaughter at the museum, so he told them they must stay with him for a while. Valerie had started sobbing at that moment, and when Reddington arrived, she was still sobbing, staring straight ahead in a state of shock. Bobbi Delpheen watched the late late show, starring Tyrone Power as a handsome but destitute Italian nobleman. She had also watched the late show where Tyrone Power had starred as a handsome but destitute French nobleman. Power had died, Bobbi commented, while making the greatest picture of his life-the story of a handsome but destitute Spanish nobleman.
Remo nodded for Reddington to enter.
"I'm from the Department of Justice," he said. "I hear you've been having some trouble."
"No trouble," said Remo, shrugging.
"Whaaaaa," said Valerie.
"Are you all right, dear?" asked Reddington.
"Oh, my god," said Valerie. "A sane person. Thank God. Thank God. A sane human being." And her gentle sobs released in a heave of tears, and she stumbled to Reddington and cried into his shoulder as he patted her back.
"She's all right," said Remo. "You're all right, aren't you, Valerie?"
"Drop dead, you freaking animal," cried Valerie. "Keep him away from me," she said to Reddington.
"I think someone is trying to kill you," said Reddington. "And I don't even know your name."
"Albert Schweitzer," said Remo.
"He's lying. It's Remo something. I don't know the last name. He's a lunatic killer. You don't even see his hands move. He's murderous, brutal, cold, and sarcastic."
"I am not sarcastic," said Remo.
"Don't listen to that broad," called out Bobbi. "She doesn't even play tennis. She sits around and cries all day. She's a punk loser."
"Thank you," said Remo. Bobbi raised her right hand in an okay sign.
"He kills people with his hands and feet," said Valerie.
"I take it you're a karate master of some sort," said Reddington.
"No," said Remo, and in this he was honest. "I am not karate. Karate just focuses power."
"And you use it for self-defense?" Reddington asked.
"He uses it on anyone in sight," said Valerie.
"I haven't used it on you," said Remo.
"You will."
"Maybe," said Remo, imagining what Valerie would look like with a mouth removed from her face. It would be an improvement.
"As I said," Reddington explained, "I've come to help. But first I must see your weapons. Are your hands your only weapons?"
"No," Remo said. "Hands are just an extension of the weapon we all share. That's the difference between man and animals. Animals use their limbs; man uses his mind."