"It's a bureaucratic nightmare!" the colonel snapped. "No one's ever had a situation like this. It's an air disaster, a possible kidnapping, and an international incident all rolled into one, with terroristic overtones. No ones knows where the jurisdictional lines should be drawn."
"It's also a national catastrophe," Remo said. "Come on, Chiun. "
Officer Mazatl started to follow, but was stopped by the colonel. That led to a sudden argument over Mexican territoriality, with Comandante Odio trying in vain to placate both sides.
The Master of Sinanju drew up beside Remo, and Remo marched toward the argument, his fists tight.
"That woman spoke words of wisdom to me," Chiun said.
"What are those?"
"She says that the Mexican DFS is notoriously corrupt and not to trust the comandante."
"Funny. That's what the comandante said about her," Remo muttered. "Nobody seems to care about what happened out here. Just how it affects their freaking turf."
"Do not take it so hard, my son. You have seen many Presidents come and go in your young life. How is this different?"
"One," Remo said tightly, "we don't know that he's dead yet. Two, it happened on our watch."
"While we were doing our duty elsewhere," Chiun pointed out. "This is all Smith's fault. Had he possessed good information, this embarrassment could have been avoided."
"You too?" Remo snapped. "The President is missing, and all everybody is concerned about is their backsides. Wonderful."
"Remo!" Chiun said, blowing out his cheeks in anger. But when his pupil did not stop to engage in an argument, the Master of Sinanju hurried to join him. He said nothing. He had never seen his pupil this way. Perhaps Remo had voted for the man. They approached the two shouting whites.
"Look, Lunkhead, or Lunkin," Bill Holland was screaming, "I'll say it once more. The FBI can observe. It cannot-repeat, cannot-participate in processing the site!"
Remo waded into the argument between Bill Holland of the National Transportation Safety Board and Agent Lunkin of the FBI like a referee breaking up two hockey players. He took them by the backs of their necks and shook them until their teeth rattled.
"Shut up! Both of you! Now!"
"Who are you?" Bill Holland demanded, unable to break Remo's steel-strong finger grip on his neck.
The FBI agent said nothing. He had inadvertently bitten his own tongue in the shaking and was busy stemming the flow of blood by holding it with his fingers.
"Remo Jones. Cultural attache, U. S. embassy. I'm here as an observer, and what I see stinks. I want a report."
"I don't report to you," Holland said sullenly.
Remo's fingers dug into Holland's spine and suddenly he was reporting freely.
"She was shot down," he gasped. "We found a Stinger fire unit in the hills. We've accounted for all passengers and crew, except one. There's a body missing."
"The President's?" Remo demanded.
"Could be. Some of the corpses are so mutilated it's impossible to tell until the forensic team goes to work."
"So the President might have survived?" Remo asked in a quieter tone, after releasing Holland's neck.
Holland shook his head. "If he was aboard when it came down, he's gone. You can go to your grave believing it."
"I'd rather see for myself. I'm going in."
"The forensic team has not been inside yet," he warned.
"Ask me if I care," Remo said, starting off.
Before Bill Holland could reply, a civilian helicopter clattered into view over a mountaintop. It settled to the ground, making their clothes ripple.
"That will be them," Holland said, shielding his eyes against the high Mexican sun. "We can walk through the site with them-if you've got the stomach for it."
"I've seen worse than this," Remo said, watching as two gangling men in identical black business suits emerged from the back of a Bell Jet Ranger. They each carried a black briefcase. At the sight of Holland's lifted arm, they made a beeline for him.
"That's Murray and Murphy, the Merry Morticians," Holland told Remo out of the side of his mouth. "You'll see in a minute why we call them that. "
Remo stood about, arms folded impatiently as Holland greeted the pair. Together they entered the broken blue-and-white shell that had been Air Force One.
"Never mind this one," Holland told Murray and Murphy as they stepped over a body. "He's already identified. Did you bring the President's dental records?"
"You bet," Murray said.
"He should be easy to ID," Murphy added. "All we need to see are the teeth. He had a gold-filled back molar. Right side."
"No, the left," Murray corrected.
"A gold-filled molar, anyway," Murphy said in a genial voice.
Inside the downed aircraft, they picked their way to the presidential section. The craft's interior had been stripped down to the braces and wiring by the impact. They stopped before a mangled corpse. The metallic smell of blood filled the narrow confines.
"Where's his head?" Murray wanted to know.
"Hasn't been found," Holland said.
"Without the head," Murphy added in a disappointed voice, "we don't have our gold-filled molar. Somebody better find the head."
"That's not the President," Remo inserted. "Must be a journalist. Look at the cheap suit."
Everyone looked. They all agreed with Remo's supposition. They moved on to the next body.
The next one had been practically rendered into raw meat.
"What happened to him?" Remo asked, taken aback by the mutilation.
"There are a lot of anomalies on this one," Holland told him. "Never seen anything like it."
"Oh, well, time to get to work," Murray said, setting his briefcase beside the barely human remains.