Pushing away from the wall, Mark walked toward the light. After only a few steps, he froze.
A hushed voice. Somewhere nearby.
He strained to listen. Silence. Had he imagined it?
Mark listened a few seconds more. Nothing.
His wrist ached from clenching the gun too tightly. He loosened his grip, flexing his fingers even as he started walking stealthily once more.
Before him, the door loomed large and ominous.
REMO AND CHIUN PARKED out in front of the New Orleans Raffair office. Only a few scattered cars lined the street this late at night.
"Front or back?" Remo asked as they got out of the car.
"Rear doors are for philandering husbands and collectors of garbage," Chiun pronounced. Twirling, he marched across the road.
"They're also for people who are sick of being shot at," Remo pointed out as he followed the old man to the front of the building.
At the door, Chiun cocked an ear. "Two," he determined.
As he made a move for the handle, Remo touched his kimono sleeve. "Three," he corrected.
Chiun refocused his senses. He quickly nodded sharp agreement.
"I'll count to three," Remo said. "One-"
The old Korean sent a wood-shattering kick into the center of the door. It shrieked off its frame, screaming into the darkened interior of the New Orleans Raffair office.
"I was gonna go to three," Remo said, disappointed.
"I assumed it would take all night for you to count that high, and I am not a young man," the Master of Sinanju said.
Chiun swept inside after the door, leaving Remo alone on the sidewalk.
"Old crank," Remo muttered as the first sounds of cracking bone emanated from inside.
Face clearly annoyed, he disappeared through the open door after his teacher.
NEARLY SEVEN HUNDRED MILES away, Mark Howard reholstered his gun and wrapped both hands around the rusted doorknob at the back of the Miami Raffair building.
When he pulled, the door popped open.
He was reaching for his gun once more when he thought he saw a flash of movement from inside. He was shocked when a fat hand shot out of the darkness. The hand grabbed him by the wrist, yanking him forward. As he fell to the dirty floor, he felt a blinding pain in the back of his head. Then he felt nothing at all.
Behind him, the alley door slammed shut with the finality of a coffin lid.
Chapter 29
Harold Smith was studying three-month-old East African flight records when his secretary buzzed him.
"Yes, Mrs. Iviikulka," he said over the intercom even as he continued working.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Dr. Smith, but Dr. Edgerton just called. That patient you were interested in is awake now. The doctor said you wanted to be told the minute he came to."
For a moment, Smith didn't know what she was even talking about. It struck him all at once. "Please tell Dr. Edgerton to keep everyone out of that room. I will be down at once."
He had given the same order earlier in the day. Even so, as he feared, the doctor was still in the room when Smith arrived a minute later. Two Folcroft nurses were waiting dutifully in the hallway outside.
The patient was strapped to his bed. Smith had told the nursing staff that his injuries were self-inflicted and that he might do more harm to himself if restraints were not used.
The doctor stood above the man who had tried to run over Remo on Mott Street. He had removed the dressing and was examining the stitches on his patient's forehead.
"Thank you, Doctor," Smith said crisply as he entered the room. "I would like to see the patient in private now."
"Oh, Dr. Smith," the physician said, looking up. "Your patient's doing fine. As you can see, he's awake. A little groggy, but that's to be expected after a fall like this."
The man on the bed seemed disoriented. Dark eyes darted back and forth fearfully as he tried to understand where he was. He muttered a soft string of words. Smith was surprised they were not in English.
"He's been talking ever since he woke up," Dr. Edgerton said. There was a concerned look on his flabby face.
Smith's eyes darted to the middle-aged doctor. "Do you know what he's saying?" he asked, his voice perfectly level.
"Me?" the doctor said. "No. Took French, not whatever he's speaking. Oh, and some Latin, obviously," he added with a chuckle. "Dr. Smith, I don't think you have to worry about letting staff in here. I know what you said, but I doubt he's contagious. Just a bad bump on the head from that fall you said he took. That's all, as far as I can tell."
Smith didn't even hear the last of what the doctor was saying. He was just relieved that the man in bed didn't speak French. Had he, he would have just cost a Folcroft doctor his life.
"Thank you, Dr. Edgerton," Smith said authoritatively. "That will be all."
The doctor hid his agitation at the Folcroft director's tone. Draping his stethoscope around his neck, he left the room. Smith closed the door behind him and immediately dragged a chair over close to the bed.
The patient's eyes rolled in Smith's direction as the older man sat down. He continued to mumble in soft, rolling tones. Smith had to tip an ear to his mouth in order to make out what he was saying.
It was clear now what language he was speaking. Yet other than a few words here and there, it was one Smith did not understand.
"Who sent you?" Smith asked, hoping the patient understood English.
But the injured man continued to mutter in his foreign tongue. His hands clasped and unclasped weakly below his wrist straps.
Lips pursing unhappily, Smith stood. He would have to wait for Remo and Chiun to return. The Master of Sinanju would be able to translate.
He was heading for the door, ready to give the on-duty staff strict orders not to enter this room under any circumstances, when he heard a new word from behind him.
This was said louder than the rest, and was uttered with naked fear.
Hearing the word, Smith turned slowly back.