A sandal whipped out, silencing the voice that had spoken.
"Gather your things," instructed the Master of Sinanju, eyeing the clumped form he had just silenced.
Hastily Zhang Zingzong found his knapsack. He stuffed the teakwood box inside, covering it with discarded bits of clothing.
"You have all your possessions?" the Master of Sinanju asked.
"Not my money. In the back."
"Then get your money, Zhang Zingzong."
Zhang went to the back. There he scooped up the pot, taking not only his money but also that belonging to the others. He hesitated, his eyes furtive.
Then he slipped out the back way, into an alley, and pelted toward the street.
He did not know who this Master of Sinanju was, but he could trust no one and would trust no one.
As he ran, some inner voice caused him to look behind him.
Like some vampire, the Master of Sinanju was pursuing him. Panting, Zhang ducked into a stinking alley. He slid on the packed snow, pulled himself up, and kept running.
There was an opening at the other end.
He looked behind him. There was no sign of the black-and-gold-silk-clad figure. But Zhang knew he would never relent. His own footprints in the snow betrayed the route of his escape.
He redoubled his efforts, but then, at the alley's opposite end, the Master of Sinanju floated down, silent, majestic, and so utterly inescapable that Zhang Zingzong simply gave up.
He stopped in his tracks and watched as the diminutive figure of the old Korean approached him, saying, "Why did you run, Chinese? Are you so ignorant that you do not know that there is no escape from Sinanju?"
Zhang had nothing to say to that. He wondered who had betrayed him this time.
Chapter 4
Remo Williams calmed down after the first hour. He spent the second watching TV. By the end of the third hour he was beginning to wonder what was keeping Chiun.
Maybe Smith had let Chiun make his call. He couldn't imagine security-conscious Harold W. Smith allowing the Master of Sinanju to make a call that would undoubtedly lead to Chiun going on television, confessing to the assassination of Amelia Earhart, and probably making cryptic allusions to his secret work for America. But anything was possible these days.
Well into hour four, Remo couldn't resist pulling aside a living-room curtain and looking across the carport to the window of Smith's dining room.
Smith and his wife were seated at a table, eating. Smith looked more like he was taking castor oil by spoon, but that meant little. It was a permanent Harold Smith expression.
Remo saw no sign of Chiun.
Concerned, he reached for the telephone, remembered it was out of commission, and went out the front door instead. He crossed over to Smith's front door, his footprints barely denting the snow.
Remo hammered on the brass lion's-head knocker until the paint began to crack around the its edges.
The door opened a crack. Harold Smith peered out like a spinster with recurring nightmares of the Boston Strangler.
"Remo!" he whispered. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for Chiun. Where is he?"
Smith paled. "He's not with you?"
"No. Last I heard, he was about to barge into your life."
"That was hours ago. I gave him his assignment."
"Damn," Remo said. "He must have gone without me." Responding to Smith's puzzled expression, Remo added; "We had a fight."
"He mentioned you've been acting up."
"Acting up!" Remo exploded. "Last Chiun was talking, he wanted to go on the Ten-Thousand-Dollar Reward show and confess to bumping off Amelia Earhart."
"He did mention it," Smith admitted. "Do you suppose it was true?"
"I don't know. He also claimed he'd once worked for Fu Manchu. "
"A fictitious character, if I remember my childhood reading."
"You read them too?" Remo asked in surprise. "I always thought spreadsheets were your idea of literary excitement."
Smith said nothing.
"Where can I find him?" Remo said at last.
"New Rochelle. There was an attack on a safe house overnight. A Chinese student who escaped the Tiananmen Square demonstrations is missing, his guard murdered. You and Chiun were to look into it."
"Give me the address," Remo said in exasperation.
Smith rattled off an address from memory, then said, "This is very important."
"It must be, if Chiun didn't nail you for that reward," Remo said sourly.
"I promised to match it if he dropped the matter."
"Let me guess-he made you double it."
"Actually, it was three times the amount. I considered it cheap under the circumstances."
"It would have to be, if you agreed to it," Remo said acidly, walking away. He got behind the wheel of his car and sent it squealing out of the driveway. It was his way of saying good-bye to Harold Smith, the architect of his troubles.
The front yard of the house was cordoned off with yellow barrier tape marked with the letters "FBI."
Remo fumbled through his wallet for an FBI ID, glanced at it to fix his new last name in his mind, and presented himself at the front door.