The Master of Sinanju snapped him back by his long hair. Just in time. He deposited him on the ledge.
"I do not wish your death, only to see you helpless forever," Chiun said.
"I am never helpless," said the Dutchman. "You forget my mind."
Suddenly the Master of Sinanju stood, not on a ledge, but in the hand of a monster of steel and chrome. The building shook under his feet. The windows on either side of him turned into square eyes and focused cross-eyed upon him.
A hand made of concrete and reinforced steel and larger than an automobile reached up for him.
The Master of Sinanju knew it was an illusion. Buildings do not become monsters of metal. But he could not make his eyes see behind the illusion. He clutched the Dutchman's hair frantically. If Purcell fell, he would die. And so would Remo.
Then the burning began. Blue flame-real flame-erupted at the tips of Chiun's long-nailed fingers on one hand. Chiun windmilled his burning hand, putting out the fire. He jumped to avoid the huge concrete paw swiping at him, and clung to the building. He could feel that, at least. It was his rock of safety. He could still feel the Dutchman's hair in his other hand. It jerked suddenly. Chiun's fist clenched tighter.
When the illusions stopped, the discordant music died too. Chiun blinked. His hand still clutched the Dutchman's blond hair. But only the hair. It had been shorn off by sharp fingernails.
Chiun was alone on the ledge. He scurried to the next floor, where the governor was holding his meeting. Peering in through the window, Chiun saw that the meeting went on undisturbed.
Climbing down, he searched the street with frightened eyes. But there was no crumpled figure in purple lying in the street. The Dutchman had slunk off, alone, vanquished, to lick his wounds once again. Good. Perhaps this would truly be the end of it, Chiun hoped.
In Atlanta the Vice-President's motorcade pulled up at a Holiday Inn for the night.
Remo got out of the trunk as soon as the car was left alone. He called Smith from a pay phone.
"Remo, I'm glad you called in," Smith said. "Chiun reports that he thwarted an attempt by the Dutchman to kill Governor Princippi. But Purcell got away. Chiun believes he's going to try for the Vice-President next."
"I'm ready for him."
"Sit tight. Chiun is on the way to join you."
"Tell him to knock three times on the trunk of the Vice-President's limo. "
***
The Dutchman limped for several blocks, searching. He was in a run-down business district in East Los Angeles. Somewhere there would be a hardware store. When he found one, he broke in through the back. Every hardware store had a vise. There was a big one in the back room, bolted to a workbench. He flopped his right forearm into the vise and closed it painfully with his other elbow. Setting himself, he yanked. The right shoulder strained, bringing sweat to his brow. The ball joint popped back into the socket. The pain was incredible. But he could use the arm now. That made resetting everything else that much easier....
Herm Accord waited in the bar for nearly an hour. He was about to leave when the man walked in, briefcase in hand.
He was a youthful guy with a dissipated face. His hair was like cornsilk, and cut in a punk style that made it look like the blond locks had been sheared by the ruthless swipe of a sickle.
"You Dutch?" he asked.
"Yes," said the blond man, limping to the table. He waved the waitress off.
"What's the job?"
"Tomorrow night the two presidential candidates are going to debate on national television."
"Yeah, so what?"
"I want it to go down in history as the unfinished debate. "
"Like the unfinished symphony, huh? It's doable. But it's a little late to do anything with explosives. That's my specialty. "
"Your specialty is death. You are ex-CIA. A renegade. And you have a reputation for doing the impossible. I don't care how you do it. Here," Dutch said, lifting the briefcase to the table with tired hands. "There's one million and fifty thousand dollars."
"I said a million over the phone. What's the extra fifty grand for?"
"You own a private plane. I need you to fly me someplace. "
"Where?"
"Home," said the Dutchman.
***
Remo paced the roof of the Holiday Inn. Two floors below, the Vice-President worked on last-minute preparations for the great debate. There had been no sign of the Dutchman all night, and now morning was brightening the sky. The Master of Sinanju came up through a fire door. "Anything?" Remo asked anxiously.
"No," said Chiun. "There are no suspicious persons in the lobby. Here, I brought you a newspaper. Perhaps if you focus your limited attention upon it, you will cease your incessant pacing."
"At a time like this?" asked Remo, taking the paper without thinking.
"We may be in for a long wait."
"What makes you say that?"
"The Dutchman has a long journey to this city. It will not help him that he now limps."
"The four blows."
"Three, actually," corrected Chiun, looking over the edge of the roof to the front entrance below. Remo noticed that Chiun seemed less alert than he should have.
"I guess you figured if the Dutchman was crippled, I'll have a better shot at taking him alive," Remo suggested.
"That possibility might have crossed my mind," Chiun admitted in a distant voice. "But my duty was to protect the governor. I could not kill Purcell, so I did the next best thing. "
"I still want him."
"I will let you know the moment he sets foot in this building," said Chiun.
And because he was bored, Remo flipped through the newspaper. On page four, a boxed item caught his eye. Remo tore it out and called to Chiun.
"Forget the entrance," said Remo. "The Dutchman isn't anywhere near here."
Chiun asked, "How did you know that?" Then he caught himself. "I mean, how can you say that, Remo?"
Grimly Remo gave the article to Chiun.