"Yes, yes, of course."
"Any ideas where I should look?"
"None."
"I can't drive in circles for hours," Remo pointed out.
"And you will not find them talking to me from a pay phone," Smith rejoined.
Remo hung up. He got no satisfaction from it, the click of Smith's line going dead a split second before his receiver exploded all over the pay-phone station.
Remo got back behind the wheel of his car and pulled out of the parking lot, wondering where the hell Chiun had gotten to.
Chapter 5
It began to snow again.
The snowfall started gently, but soon quickened into a furious windblown storm, freshening the already gray snow of the previous night's fall and then resculpturing its undulant planes into sharp, angular drifts.
Disgusted, Remo abandoned his pointless cruising of the New Rochelle streets and pointed his car toward the safe house.
Maybe Chiun had returned there, Remo thought.
He drove at a seemingly reckless pace, skidding into turns on locked wheels, bringing his car out of numerous skids with controlled elegance. He was one with his Buick, Volkswagen notwithstanding.
Less than twenty minutes later, Remo pulled up before the safe house. He noticed the low-slung black limo parked out front, and immediately a frown gathered in wrinkles on his brow.
Remo had once been a police officer and still had a cop's habit of noting the makes of suspicious vehicles.
He didn't recognize the limo, even though its massive square grille was pointing toward him. There was no front bumper-just two banks of headlights.
Remo stepped from his car, glancing toward the driver's side of the windshield.
The driver quickly lowered the sun visor, cutting off a clear view of his face. Then he honked his horn. Twice, in an obvious signal.
Remo strode up to the driver's side of the car and peered in, noticing the shiny black buttons of a chauffeur's uniform. Then he saw the man's face.
"Hate to break this to you, pal," Remo said dryly, "but Halloween was two months ago."
The driver looked up, displaying a polished black domino. It was molded to his features so that only his lower face showed. He looked like Dracula's chauffeur. Remo almost laughed in his face.
"Go away," the driver said in a thick Asian accent.
"C'mon," Remo said impatiently, knocking on the glass.
"I said, go away!"
Remo's retort froze in his mouth. There was something familiar about the man's voice. He looked closer. The eye holes in his onyx mask were cut in oblique slashes. The dark eyes behind them were almond-shaped. Chinese, Remo thought.
"I don't suppose you're the missing student?" Remo ventured.
Behind Remo, the safe-house door opened. Remo started to turn.
The driver's door opened so quickly Remo had to dance out of its way. He landed on one toe, the other poised to regain his balance on the slippery snow.
His arms went up automatically, ready to defend himself. His foot never touched the ground. Before Remo could react, he was flying.
There was no preattack warning, no jolt of impact. Whatever had happened, Remo had been taken at the absolute moment of imbalance.
He landed headfirst in a snowdrift.
Furious, Remo pulled his head free, shaking off wet snow. He leapt to his feet and whirled, ready to reply to a followup attack.
Instead, the chauffeur was calmly closing the rear limo door on a stooping figure. Remo caught a momentary image of a tall, lean man in a greatcoat and Russian-style fur cap before he disappeared into the limousine interior. The door closed. Grinning with fierce anticipation, Remo flashed for the chauffeur's jet-black back.
Sensing Remo's approach, the limber figure turned. He dropped into what Remo instantly recognized as a praying-mantis-style kung-fu stance. Remo's grin widened. He no more feared kung fu than he did flying Popsicle sticks.
Remo raised a tight fist. His other hand, straight-fingered as a spear, floated up to parry any thrust.
"This will be over in a second, Kung Fu," Remo taunted.
It was.
Remo let fly with his fist. But there was nothing to connect with. His fist slashed through thin air, and kept going. It carried him with it.
Remo landed on his hands and knees. He rolled into his back, his feet up to ward off an overhead attack.
The kung-fu man was coming out of his crouch. The splash of trampled snow at his feet told Remo the story. The diminutive man had slipped between Remo's legs as he had attacked.
It was unbelievable. No kung-fu dancer was that good.
"You're good pal," Remo said tightly.
"I'm the best," the other returned arrogantly. His voice carried a familiar lilt. Remo tried to place it. Somehow, it fit the man's masked look, bizarre as that seemed.
Remo got to his feet in a hurry. The two men squared off, Remo standing tall, the other crouching, his hands weaving invisible patterns in the air before him. His movements were smooth and graceful. He wore a red button over his heart, but Remo had no time to read the slogan on it.
"Got a name?" Remo asked, circling his foe.
"Yes. Death!"
And, venting a high-pitched cry, he executed a flying kick.
Remo saw it coming. Not as soon as he should have, but there was a lot of driving snow in the air.
The kick flashed by Remo's twisting head. He reached out to snag the polished shoe as it slashed by his cheek. Remo took hold and twisted sharply.