Remo was interested in The Blade's article. It was sketchy, but from the coroner's statements, Remo thought he had spotted something.
"Little Father," he said, "look at this. Don't these sound like some of our blows? You know, when it looks like the person just fell down and cracked crucial bones. Here. Read what the coroner says about the fracture of the neck bones."
Chiun glanced at the newspaper. Remo pointed to the paragraph he wanted Chiun to read.
"What is that?"
"That's a newspaper report. Something strange in it about the blows killing the sea captain and his first mate. Someone else was killed in such a way to make it look like a heart attack. I'm sure of it."
"How can you be sure of anything from reading?" Chiun asked. "One gets beauty from reading, not information. I won't look at it."
Remo lifted the tea to his lips. Lord Wissex smiled, rubbing his hands. Remo put down the cup.
"I don't know," he said. "In a newspaper you can get information."
"Is there something wrong with your tea, Master?" said Lord Wissex. wrong."
"What?" said Remo, looking up. "No. Nothing
"Then why don't you drink it?"
"I will. I'm just interested in something," said Remo and, turning to Chiun, he showed how the neck of the captain was reported to have been shattered.
"A variation," Chiun said. "Karate, judo. A variation. Who knows what it might be? It might be any of that junk they teach now to children all over your stupid country. An inferior blow, nevertheless."
"Sure. But for someone without Sinanju, it makes you think. I mean, someone must have gotten on board and gotten off quickly. And this guy Wakefield owned a newspaper. I was supposed to get some kind of word on getting hired from a newspaper. Therefore ..."
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"Therefore you are doing work you shouldn't. A proper assassin eliminates the threats to good government, assures the throne, establishes the peace of a true regency in his land. There is nothing better for a people than a good king assured his throne by his professional assassin. A professional assassin is not a policeman. A puzzle solver. A worrier about such people as this Bradford Wakefield."
"Your tea, sir," said Lord Wissex. "I'll take the tea," said a plump woman across the aisle. She wore a straw hat with artificial cherries. She had rushed on at the last minute.
"No," said Lord Wissex. "This tea is a special blend for my masters."
"Well, if it's being served on board, I should have a right to it too. I don't think it's fair," said the woman with the straw hat.
"Give her the tea," said Remo. "It smells funny anyhow."
"It's for you, sir," said Lord Wissex. "I made it just for you."
"All right," said Remo. He took the cup and drank it down in one draught.
Lord Wissex waited. When the American curled up in agony, he would attack the old Oriental. He did not care about the difficulty in getting off the plane. He did not care about the orders from Friend. He had never been so humiliated by anyone, and only the death of these two would make up for the shame burning inside his Britannic bosom.
And so Lord Wissex, who had restored his family fortune by service to Friend, waited to watch the American die, prepared to watch his grovel in the aisle of the plane, at which time Lord Wissex would lean over to pretend to help him and in the confusion put a death blow into the throat of the old Oriental.
Then, of course, he could tell Friend that they had attacked him first and it was purely self-defense. The American returned the empty cup. The Ameri-102
can looked to the Oriental. The American said something to the Oriental. Then he smiled at Lord Wissex.
"Are you feeling all right, sir?" asked the butler.
"Sure," said Remo.
"Oh," said Lord Wissex.
"There is something wrong," said the Oriental.
"What?" said Lord Wissex. They know, he thought. And now they will kill me.
"You didn't bow. How can you serve tea without the proper bow?"
"I will remember that, sir," said Wissex.
"They usually can bow quite well," Chiun said to Remo.
Wissex returned to his seat. He thought of burning them alive. He thought of catching them while they slept, pouring gasoline around wherever they slept. He thought of them running screaming from their rooms, their bodies aflame, their skin charring and their voices pitiful wails.
And on this good thought did Lord Wissex manage to overcome his rage of humiliation. He would await the proper time.
But why was the poison taking so kmg to work?
In Anguila, Lord Wissex supervised the loading of their small sailboat.
"Hey mon, nobody be aHowed off that island," said a dockworker. He was helping to load Chiun's trunks in the hot crystal sunlight of the Caribbean neighbor to St. Maarten's. He pointed to St. Maarten's. "The army and navy has that island sealed off, mon."
The man had little clumps of hair hanging down in braided ropes. He was a Rastafarian and he believed that Haile Selassie, the dead emperor of Ethiopia, was God and that marijuana was a beneficial religious experience. He worked very hard, and the sweat glistened off his body.
"Mon, I will load for you. But I will not go with you. I lové Anguilla and do not wish to leave."
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"All these islands are the same," said Remo. "What's your problem?"
"St. Maarten's is cursed," he said.
"Why?"
"Because they have not acknowledge Haile Selassie as God."
"God? He's dead," Remo said. "He was killed in a palace coup."
"You believe what you read in the newspapers?" laughed the Rasta man.
"Inside America," Remo said. "And outside of Boston."