The Master of Sinanju walked slowly, deliberately. His magnificent lungs drew in empowering oxygen. The trouble was, it tasted like nitrogen coming in, and with each exhalation, Chiun felt as if he were venting precious life-giving oxygen.
"This is a dirty place," he said, giving his opinion of Mexico City to the Mexican woman named Guadalupe. "It is no wonder that my ancestors had nothing to do with the Aztecs."
"Were I in your country, I would not criticize it," Guadalupe said sullenly.
"You would not like my country. The air is breathable."
They came to a red-brick park on the corner of Reforma and Calzada Mahatma Gandhi. There stood a more-than-lifesize bronze statue of a man, hands clasped behind his back, on a dais. The edge of the dais bore a name: JOSIP BROZ TITO.
Chiun walked past the statue of the unimportant non-Korean and through the park, where stylized grasshoppers perched on stone hieroglyphs.
Something silvery gleamed in the bushes directly behind the bronze statue. The Master of Sinanju abruptly swerved toward that unexpected gleam.
"What are you doing?" Guadalupe asked as the Master of Sinanju bent at the waist and reached into the bushes.
He stood up, frowning at the sand wedge in his hand.
"What?" Lupe gasped.
"The bag and remaining clubs are also here," Chiun said solemnly.
Guadalupe joined him. "He must have cast them aside," she ventured.
Ignoring her, Chiun looked around the park.
"His clothes are also here," Guadalupe said. "Why would he discard his clothes?" she asked in puzzlement, holding up a brown jacket by its collar.
The Master of Sinanju did not reply. He had found the shoes and socks that had been discarded behind a tree. Shoes did not always leave imprints, but bare feet did-even on brick, the outline of perspiration could be seen by eyes that had been sharpened by Sinanju training.
The Master of Sinanju did not find any perspiration imprints when he examined the brick sidewalk, however. He floated back to the bushes, where the Mexican woman stood, a befuddled expression on her impassive brown face.
There were heavy footprints in the soft dirt, he saw. They led directly to the statue's austere dark bronze back.
His facial wrinkles multiplying in thought, Chiun went around to the front. He looked up. His eyes narrowed. It was merely a statue, its eyes lifted skyward.
Chiun looked down. Flecks of dirt collected at the statue's booted feet. No crumbs of soil lay outside the circumference of the dais, however. And no perspiration imprints were visible on it.
Guadalupe joined him, regarding the statue. They stood in silence for many moments, Chiun's hands withdrawing into his sleeves, which joined over his stomach.
Finally the Master of Sinanju put a question to her.
"How long has this statue been at this spot?" he asked softly, not taking his eyes off its metallic face.
"I do not know," Lupe admitted. "I am in Mexico City only from time to time. Why?"
"Have you seen it here before?"
"Si. It has been here several years, in recognition of the close ties between my government and this man, who formerly headed Yugoslavia."
Chiun stepped up to the dais. One fingernail lifted cautiously. He tapped the bronze once. It rang faintly-a solidly metallic ring. The true and correct ring of bronze.
"What do you do?" Guadalupe asked slowly.
"Hush," Chiun admonished. He brushed a cloud of hair away from one delicate ear and placed it to the statue's stomach, the highest point he could monitor without lifting up on tiptoe.
Guadalupe watched him with growing concern. She had heard of tourists fainting in the thin air, who had to be hospitalized during the winter months, when the natural bowl that was Mexico City trapped inversions along with the terrible pollution.
But she had never before heard of a gringo who had become crazed by the bad air. And this old one was not even, strictly speaking, a gringo.
As she watched, the Master of Sinanju's brow crinkled. His parchment face gathered like drying papier-mache. His tiny mouth popped open suddenly.
He stepped back abruptly. "I hear sounds," he whispered in a surprised voice.
"What kind of sounds?"
"Metal sounds."
"It is made of bronce," Lupe said reasonably. "Of course you would hear metal sounds."
"Not like these," Chiun said, regarding the statue with suspicious eyes. "These are clicks and hums, the sounds of gears and other machine workings."
"But it is a statue. It is hollow."
"It is not hollow, although it may be a statue."
At the sound of those words, the statue, whose head had been tilted slightly upward toward the brownish sky, suddenly looked down. Its bronze neck creaked with the impossible movement.
"Dios!" Guadalupe gasped. She stepped back without thinking, her hand reaching for her pistol.
The eyes of the statue, with its hollow shadowed pupils, moved, showing a sudden dark gleam, like obsidian lenses. And the sculptured mouth dropped open.
The statue spoke, evoking a shriek from Guadalupe Mazatl.
"Why do you pursue me?" Josip Broz Tito asked, his voice a conglomeration of raspy metallic vowels and consonants, like dozens of hasps and files sawing one another, trying to make articulate music.
"It speaks!" Lupe gasped. "The statue is speaking!"
"Because you are the Vice-President, statue," the Master of Sinanju said in a reasonable tone. He did not understand what would possess a statue to talk, but he knew that when faced with the unknown, a wise assassin did not show fear. He repressed it.
"I am not the Vice-President now," the statue of Josip Broz Tito said through gnashing teeth.
"True," returned the Master of Sinanju carefully. His eyes narrowed. There was something familiar about the way this statue spoke. Not the tortured metallic voice, but the too-simple manner of phrasing. He pressed on.
"There is another reason I pursue you," Chiun added firmly.
"I would like to know that reason."