"Remo Quiller, special agent."
"Since when?" the agent said, noting Remo's casual attire.
"This is my day off. Had a call to get right over here."
"We've already processed the scene."
"Fine," Remo said, pushing the man aside. "I won't have to keep you long. What happened?"
There was an outline on the floor, in white tape. No blood.
"We had a Chinese student stashed here," the agent told Remo. "Name's Zhang Zingzong. He was snatched last night. Perpetrators unknown. We lost a good man."
"Shot?" Remo asked.
The agent shook his head. "No obvious wounds. Forensics has him now."
Looking around the room, Remo said, "We had a special expert brought in from Washington. I thought I'd find him here."
"You mean the gook?"
Remo turned. "You call him that to his face?"
"Of course not."
"That explains why you're still breathing," Remo said. "Where is he?"
"Don't know. He looked around, then left in a hurry."
"Say where he was going?"
"No, but he was very interested in the agent's body."
"Interested? How?"
The agent unwrapped a stick of Beeman's gum he took from a pocket. "Looked him over quite a while. I tried to stop him, but he nearly took my head off."
"He say anything that would give me a direction to look?"
"Yeah. Whispered something while he was feeling Tom's throat."
"Who's Tom?"
"Chief agent on the detail."
"So what did he say?"
The gum went into his mouth. "Nothing. He was dead."
"I meant Chiun."
"It sounded like 'Sin Achoo.' "
"You wouldn't mean 'Fu Achoo,' would you?" Remo asked slowly.
"I might," the agent said, his words tangling in his gum. "Sounded like 'Sin Achoo' to me."
Remo started. "Not 'Sinanju'?"
"That might've been it. Hard to say. He talked funny."
"I thought you FBI agents were supposed to be trained observers," Remo challenged.
"And I thought you were supposed to be one of us," the agent said, his voice hardening. "Let me see that ID again."
"Here," Remo said, flashing his FBI ID. He lifted it to the agent's face. The FBI man leaned into the card, never seeing Remo's hand reach around to the back of his neck. If he felt the steellike fingers that paralyzed critical spinal nerves, he said nothing about it on the way down to the polished pine floor.
Remo left him snoring out of one nostril. The other was mashed flat against the floor.
Remo drove around the neighborhood aimlessly, wondering what the heck was going on. Chiun had let slip the word "Sinanju" while examining a dead FBI agent. That was not like Chiun. Had it meant he was going back to the village of Sinanju without Remo? It hardly seemed likely. He was upset, but not that upset.
Finally Remo pulled up at a Seven-eleven and plunked quarters into a pay phone. He pressed the one button until he heard ringing. After twenty years of using codes and phone numbers that changed every week, it was a relief to finally have a constant code that Remo couldn't forget. Just press one until a connection was established.
Smith answered. His voice was low and furtive.
"Speak louder," Remo shouted. "The connection must be bad."
"The connection is fine," Smith whispered back. "I'm in the bathroom."
"Sorry to intrude," Remo said dryly.
"It's not that. I am home, so I am using my briefcase phone."
"Oh, right," Remo said, rolling his eyes. "Look," he continued, "I've just been to the so-called safe house. Chiun isn't there. No one knows where he went."
"The missing student must be located," Smith said urgently. A dim voice intruded, calling, "Harold. Who are you talking to in there?"
"No one dear," Smith called guiltily. The sound of a flushing toilet drowned out Smith's next words.
"What did you say?" Remo asked wearily.
"This is an important assignment."
"America is full of Chinese students," Remo retorted. "What's so special about this one?"
"Later," Smith hissed. "Find Chiun or find that student."