"Don't press it," Remo said.
"But what will happen to me?"
"Jail, probably. And a lot of interrogation by the cops."
"Jail? Imprisonment?" Hassam moaned. "But that is terrible! It is the end of my life. Is it not bad enough that I am impoverished? A convict in the land of the free... oh, it is most unbearable..."
"Think of it this way," Remo said. "Jail's for singles only."
Hassam gaped, his mouth flopping open occasionally like a fish. "No Yasmine?"
"Not for twenty or thirty years, anyway."
"Twenty or thirty years." Hassam relished the words.
"Or I could call Yasmine right now and take you both to an uncharted tropical island where there aren't any other people. It's your choice."
"Please," Hassam said shakily. "Do not even joke about such ideas. I am not a strong man. Jail it is."
"Deal," Remo said. He rose. Hassam smiled gently at him. Crook or not, Remo thought, he liked the guy. Who knew what crimes a woman like Yasmine could drive a man to. "I'm going to give you a present," Remo said.
"Yes?" Hassam asked politely.
And Remo showed him exactly how to hold his fingers when pressing a certain spot on a woman's back.
"Yes, very good, but what will this do?" Hassam asked, experimenting with the unusual position.
"I'll let you find out for yourself. Sandy's going to visit you in the pokey. I'll see to it. When she does, you push on the place on her back the way I showed you. She'll come every visiting day, I promise."
"Very strange," Hassam said.
"So long, Squirt."
?Chapter Five
"Hassam's got a freighter full of dope -in Miami Harbor," Remo told Smith. "The Maid of Mallecha is the name of the ship. Hassam's at home, waiting to be picked up."
"Again? Remo—"
"That's just the way it is," Remo said flatly. "I'm not going to kill anyone, no matter what."
Smith sputtered for a few moments. "All right," he said finally. "There isn't time to argue. How was Hassam getting the heroin to the public?"
"He wasn't. He's broke, like all the other drug dealers."
"You mean you don't have a clue?"
"Oh, I've got a clue all right. The stuff's in coffee. I just don't know how it's getting there."
"Coffee?" A mechanical whirr sounded in the background. Smith mumbled to himself while making entries into the computers. "That would explain the widespread proliferation of the drug. But which coffee? And how does the heroin get into the coffee? In the packing stage, or earlier? What city does it originate from? How can one dealer infiltrate every coffee operation in the country? Who has access to so much heroin? And why would anyone want to do it?"
"Hell, I don't know, Smitty—"
"It doesn't even seem that it would be profitable," Smith rambled on, oblivious now to Remo. The background clicks and beeps whipped to a frenzy, then died away. "None of that computes," Smith said wearily. "Are you sure it's coffee?"
"Pretty sure."
"I'll have some tests run. Be where I can reach you this evening."
It was 7:30 when Remo arrived back at the motel. The only sound in the place was Chiun's quill pen scratching furiously at a piece of parchment.
"Sorry I'm late," Remo said breezily. "What's for dinner?"
The old man's head lifted slowly, revealing a pair of hazel eyes glinting with rage. The white wisps of hair on top of Chiun's head raised and lowered rhythmically with the clenching of his jaws.
"Dinner?" he asked innocently. "One does not eat dinner in the middle of the night. At least civilized people do not. When a civilized person is invited by his elder and superior to dine at a proper hour, that person arrives when he is due. Not two and a half hours later."
"I'm sorry, Chiun," Remo said. "It couldn't be helped."
"Of course not. Uncivilized oafs can never prevent their true nature from revealing itself. Especially white men. It is their genetic duty to be rude and crude."
"Okay, okay. I deserve that. But I'm starving. Isn't there any duck left?"
Chiun tilted his head. "Duck? Of course there is duck."
Like a puff of smoke, he seemed to rise off the floor unaided by muscle bone. He walked serenely into the tiny kitchenette and emerged a moment later holding a platter. The platter was heaped with a lumpy black substance.
"Here is your duck, o prompt one." With his fingers he snapped the platter in two. The charred mass clunked onto the floor.
"All right, I get the picture. How about the rice? Is there any rice left? I don't mind if it's cold."
"Rice?" The old man padded back into the kitchenette and out again. In his hands was a smoke-blackened pot, which he upended over the blackened duck. A brown pancake composed of hard, crisp granules flew out. "There is your rice, o industrious assassin who is too busy not killing to return for dinner. Is there anything else I may serve you?"
Remo sighed. "No. No thanks, Chiun. I'll make some tea."
"Tea?" Chiun asked acidly.
"Water, then. Don't worry, I won't soil any of the plastic glasses here with my undeserving lips. I'll just hold my head under the faucet and slurp."
"Mockery. Count on an unmannered white lout to make mock of the graciousness of others," Chiun grumbled.
"Little Father, I know you went to a lot of trouble—"
"Silence," the old Oriental said, picking up his quill. "I have no time to bandy about words with you. My writing now is of utmost importance."
Remo peered over Chiun's shoulder at the parchment. On it he saw the Korean characters for "lout" and "ungrateful."