With a sigh, Remo watched the screen dissolve onto the pancake-faced, fang-toothed visage of the Channel 3 anchorwoman.
"Good afternoon," Cheeta said through snarling lips. "There's a new wrinkle in the international fracas involving the assassination of three terrorists earlier this week. Small but vocal groups around the world are calling for the posthumous pardon of the three assassins who lost their lives after eliminating the known terrorists."
"Assassins," Chiun said with disgust. "They use the word to mean any bumbling fool with a weapon. Even Mr. Pea Shooter."
"Peabody," Remo muttered.
"In Washington this morning, demonstrators rallied in front of the White House to demand that the government extend a formal apology and full restitution to the widow of Orville Peabody, who killed terrorist Franco Abbrodani in Rome last Monday. The demonstrators, calling the assassination an act of heroism, are being dispersed by Washington police for assembling without a permit."
The image shifted to a group of people picketing outside the White House gates as police attempted to break up the crowd.
"What is the purpose of this gathering?" an unseen reporter asked a burly working man in his forties.
"We want to clear the memory of Orville Peabody," he said. "Peabody was an agent of God. When he killed that Eyetalian troublemaker, he made the world better for all of us." Cheers went up behind him.
The screen switched back to Cheeta Ching. "What marks these worldwide demonstrations is a seeming lack of organizational leadership. When asked by authorities to produce their assembly permit, the Washington demonstrators stated that they were called together by an invisible force named Abraxas. Whether or not this is related to Mr. Peabody's famous last word is not known. Nor is the fascist Washington government's reaction to the demand. This is Cheeta Ching, the voice of truth. More news at six o'clock."
"Oh, God," Remo said. "I've got to call Smitty."
"A fine idea," Chiun said patronizingly, turning off the television. "Emperor Smith's mind is even weaker than your own. It will make you feel better."
"I keep telling you he's not an emperor, and besides— oh, never mind." He waited for a long time with the telephone receiver against his ear. He dialed again. Once again the direct line to Smith rang. And rang.
"What's going on?" Remo said aloud. The direct line was accessible to Smith anywhere. It connected with his desk at Folcroft, with Smith's home, in a room where Mrs. Smith was not permitted, even with the portable phone Smith carried in his attaché case. Just about the only place in the world the direct line didn't go was to Smith's secretary's desk. It was for Harold Smith alone, and Harold Smith always answered it. Always.
"Something's wrong," Remo said, slamming down the receiver. "We've got to get to Folcroft."
'They chartered a helicopter on the roof of the Pan Am building. Smith was good about keeping Remo in ready cash. The money came in handy for emergencies, even though he had to explain the expenditures to the penurious Smith later.
Well, this was one expense even Smitty wasn't going to complain about, he thought as he climbed out of the helicopter. He made his way from the roof down the walls of Folcroft Sanitarium. Chiun was ahead of him, easing down the sheet-faced building as if it were a stepladder. Hand under hand, the old man crawled deftly toward the reflecting glass windows of Smith's inner office. With the long, iron-hard nail of his index finger, he outlined the window and pushed at it gently until it gave. He caught the glass as it fell and set it on the floor inside the office before he slipped silently in. Remo followed, acknowledging Chiun's work with a brief nod.
The office showed no signs of a struggle. The desk at the computer console was tidy as ever, its drawers locked. The wastebasket was empty. The closed door leading to the outer office didn't look as if it had been tampered with. If Smith had been abducted, Remo said to himself, it was the cleanest kidnapping on record.
There was nothing to show that Smith had even been there except for the short sheet of printout paper that hung from one of the computers. Remo walked noiselessly to it. Not that he would understand Smith's arcane computer jargon but...
"DOCTOR SMITH. CALL 555-8000. DOCTOR SMITH. CALL 555-8000. DOCTOR..."
Remo blinked at the paper in his hand. He read it again. "What is this?" he whispered.
Chiun asked a question with his eyes. Remo handed him the sheet and walked to the telephone. The old man restrained him, motioning to the door leading to the secretary's desk.
"It doesn't matter," Remo said. "The place is clean." He dialed 555-8000.
"The number you have reached is not in service," the recording announced. He slammed down the phone.
"Who's in there?" shrilled a woman's voice from behind the door. The lock jiggled with frightened, clumsy movements. Mrs. Mikulka opened it with a gasp and stood stock still in the doorway, her hand on her chest. "No one's allowed in here," she said hoarsely. "Who are you? What do you want?"
"My name is Remo. Where's Smitty?"
"Oh." The tightness went out of her voice. "Dr. Smith had to leave unexpectedly, but he left a message for you." With an uncertain glance at the removed window, she edged back toward the outer office. "Er... Follow me, please."
Sandley. 12 mi. S/E
18 min. DC3 #TL 516.
"What's this mean?" Remo said, scowling at the neat handwritten note. "What's Sandley?"
"An airport, sir," the secretary explained. "It's nearby. But Dr. Smith didn't say anything about—"
"Thanks," Remo said.
TL-516 was the only DC-3 at Sandley Airport. It was painted red, and it had enough dents and scratches on it to pass for a World War II bomber.
"Who flies that red plane?" Remo shouted as he burst into the flight office.
The two old men were playing cards. One was bald, drinking coffee out of a stained paper cup. The other was swigging bourbon straight from a near-empty bottle. His eyes were watery and unfocused. He set down the fifth with a thud and smeared his hand across his mouth. "I do," he said.
"That figures." Remo strolled toward the table.
The man with the coffee saw the look on Remo's face and rose hurriedly. "I got some book work to do, Ned," he said timidly as he edged away.
"Hey, I was winning," Ned said, raising the bottle to his lips.
Remo yanked it away. "Hold the poison till we talk. I'm looking for a man named Smith. Tall, fifties, metal-rimmed glasses, three-piece gray suit, a hat. You see him?"
The old pilot tapped his finger to his forehead. "Little tetched?"
Remo cleared his throat. "I guess some people might think so. Where'd you take him?"
"Clear Springs Airport, near Miami. About nine o'clock this morning."
"Was he alone?"
"Yep. Didn't even know what he was going there for." He chuckled. "Tetched. Didn't even know the girl who sent for him. A real rich bitch, too. Isn't that right, Bob?" He glanced blearily at the bald man behind the counter. Bob jumped at the sound of his name.
"What girl?" Remo asked.
"I got it all here in the books, sir," Bob said, twitching.
"You the base operator here?"
"Eee-yess," he said hesitantly. "You from the FAA?"
"No," Remo said, grabbing the log containing the day's flights. "Jane Smith? You believed that?"
"She called late last night. I figured maybe it was his daughter."