"I can't tell you how he gets his powers of divination," the former governor said. "But they really are remarkable. Always right on the money. And speaking of money, he told me a little something this morning about the way you financed your first campaign for mayor."
A tiny squeak came from the mayor's chair. His eyes were dead, unreadable. "I conform to all of the rules of New York's election commission," he said.
"Of course you do."
"The finances are all out there for everyone to see. Even you. And I resent you coming into this office proxying for a thief like Sun and suggesting that anything I've done isn't aboveboard. This meeting is over."
Rather than buzz his secretary, Mayor Gillotti stood abruptly. Sweeping around the desk, he stepped briskly across the wide room, flinging open the door. In the outer office, the eyes of aides and secretaries looked up at the mayor in surprise.
Back near Gillotti's desk, Princippi stood. Slowly, he stepped across the room to the door.
The mayor's jaw was firmly set. He intended to say not another word to the former governor.
As he stepped past the mayor, Princippi paused, as if considering something. All at once, he whispered a few quick words, too soft for anyone in the outer room to hear.
Although no one outside heard what was said, they all witnessed their boss's reaction. Mayor Randolph Gillotti's eyes grew wide in shock and anger. But he did not turn away.
When he slammed the office door violently a moment later, Mike Princippi was still inside.
Chapter 12
"Where are all the cops?" Remo asked. As he walked, he was glancing around the grimy parking lot of New York's Yankee Stadium. He didn't see a single blue uniform.
"Perhaps they have journeyed inside for an audience with His Holiness," Chiun suggested, strolling beside him.
"This guy's not the pope, for crying out loud," Remo griped.
"Perish the thought," Chiun said, horrified. "Seer Sun must guard against papist influence. I will advise him so when he honors me with an audience."
Not wanting to get into another pointless Charlemagne-Church of Rome argument, Remo bit his tongue.
At Chiun's insistence, he had called Smith that morning to find the location of the Reverend Man Hyung Sun. Relieved that they had returned from Germany without further incident, Smith had readily supplied the information, warning only that they should keep a low profile. When the CURE director asked why they were looking for Sun, Remo artfully dodged Smith's question by hanging up the phone.
So here he was, strolling across the parking lot of Yankee Stadium amid a sea of pink-robed Loonies. Remo looked with displeasure at the cult members' costumes.
"Don't they get cold wearing those dresses?" he asked.
"Must you take pains to display your ignorance?" the Master of Sinanju sighed.
"What, you're saying they aren't dresses?" Remo said.
Chiun inspected a cluster of Sunnies as they walked past. "The white section is a simple robe," he said. "I detect Roman influence, although in Rome white togas were strictly worn by those running for political office."
"I thought everyone wore a white robe back then."
"That is why you are only Apprentice Reigning Master," Chiun replied. He nodded to a Loonie. "The length of these robes is far too great. Only on state occasions would high officers wear anklelength tunics."
"What about the pink wraps?" Remo asked.
"Indian sari," Chiun answered. "Although worn entirely incorrectly. A Hindu woman drapes her sari over the left shoulder, a Parsi over her right. These cretins have them thrown all higgledy-piggledy, without regard to caste or sect. It is quite disgraceful. I will have to mention this to His Holiness, as well."
Nearer the stadium, entrance booths had been set up by vendors. As he approached, Remo was surprised to find them staffed not by hot-dog or beer salesmen, but by more pink-and-white-robed Sunnies.
They were walking past one of the open booths when a blank-faced Sunnie vendor called out to Remo.
"Hello, friend. Would you care to test your skill? It is for the good of the Grand Unification Church."
Remo looked at the rear of the booth. A large corkboard had been fastened to the wooden structure. A few inflated balloons were scattered across the face of the board while still more deflated bits of rubber hung limply from red thumbtacks. The asphalt floor of the booth was littered with the remnants of destroyed balloons.
"Sorry," Remo said. "Not interested."
"Speak for yourself, paleface," Chiun said. He muscled in front of Remo, taking a spot before the counter.
"Three dollars," said the smiling Loonie.
"Chiun, let's go," Remo insisted.
"Pay the simpleton," Chiun said in reply.
Remo knew from experience that it would be pointless to argue. Grumbling, he dug into his pocket, producing three singles. He handed the bills over to the Loonie. The man laid three darts atop the counter, which Chiun scooped up into his bony hand.
Tapping a lone dart on the fingertips of his right hand, Chiun's arm wound from behind, looking like a cross between a major-league pitcher and a windmill. When his hand reached the release point of the throw, the dart zoomed from his loose fingers with an audible snap.
The metal-tipped projectile flew at supersonic speed across the length of the booth, exploding a bright red balloon into rubbery fragments before burying itself deep into the surface of the board.
Before the popped cork from the first dart was settling to the ground behind the booth, the second dart was airborne.
This missile passed through a balloon at the lower left of the booth and continued on into the next kiosk. The last anyone saw of it, the dart was heading out toward the Major Deegan Expressway and the Harlem River beyond.
"Watch this, Remo," Chiun cried. "Wheeee!" The third dart was loosed.
Chiun seemed to have lost control of the final missile. Instead of heading directly at the board, the dart fired up to the top of the booth, where it snapped off a metal securing clasp with the report of a rifle shot. The ricochet carried it down to where it clattered amid an explosion of tiny sparks against another small piece of metal attached to a side beam.
A few rusty flakes of metal fluttered to the whitewashed railing below.
The new trajectory of the dart brought it at an angle across the face of the corkboard. As the Loonie barker watched in amazement, the dart wiped out a line of seven fat balloons in a series of rapid-fire pops. In a wink, it had buried itself up to its plastic feathers into the cold tar floor of the booth.
Before the booth, Chiun clapped his hands in glee. "I destroyed nine of the orbs, Remo," he announced proudly. He turned to the vendor. "What do I win?"
"Win?" asked the Loonie vendor. He was still looking in shock at the remnants of his balloons.
"Uh-oh," Remo said.
"My prize," Chiun insisted, still beaming. "It must surely be magnificent for one who has performed as I."
Before the baffled vendor could explain that the only prize was the knowledge that Chiun's three-dollar gift would go to the Grand Unification Church, a voice piped in behind them. Luckily for the vendor, for the interruption allowed him to keep his head.