"You talk to Walter Sterling," Remo said. "He'll give you the straight story, and then let him talk to those other boys."
"You know, I don't know who you are, and I don't know why I keep sticking my neck out for you…."
"It's the little boy in me," Remo said. "The little boy."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When Remo showed up at Folcroft, he was alone.
"Where's Chiun?" Smith asked.
"Oh, he said he had something to attend to," Remo hedged.
"Well, I guess I don't need to hear the whole story from both of you. Is it wrapped up?"
"With a pretty bow," Remo said. "Moorcock cooked up the whole scam after he saw how his minister bit was going over. He was pulling in a lot of money and decided to put it to work for him. His Iranian contacts didn't hurt, either."
"Well, I'm sure the Iranians weren't helping him out of the goodness of their hearts," Smith said. "They must have seen this as a means to undermine the youth of the United States."
That was exactly what Chiun had said before he went off on his private little quest, Remo thought, only Chiun hadn't said "undermine." He had said "destroy."
"Well, anyway," Remo continued, "it all started to fall apart when some of the kids working for him started to get an attack of conscience. If it wasn't the kids, it was the parents, like in the Martin case."
"So people started getting out of line, Moorcock started getting rid of them, and we noticed."
"Right," Remo said. "The beginning of the end."
"Fortunately for us," Smith said.
"All of the kids we turned over to the cops in Detroit started talking right after Walter Sterling did," Remo explained, "so the police pretty much have a picture of what went on. What they don't know, they can pretty well reconstruct."
"And you're out of it?"
"We got lucky with that cop, Palmer," Remo said. "He recognized something good and noble in me."
"You don't say."
"He was also working the case from a different angle, as it turns out," Remo said.
"What angle was that?"
"Moorcock had paid the judge who set the bail for the Martin kid."
"But the judge set the bail exorbitantly high."
"Right, and who would suspect the minister of a half-assed church of putting up the money? That was just a little extra insurance to make sure nothing got back to him."
"He was pretty thorough, wasn't he, this minister?" Smith said.
"Not thorough enough," Remo said.
* * *
In a Mexico City hotel room, Rafael Cintron was waiting with his two colleagues, Antonio Jiminez and Pablo Santoro, for some Iranian diplomats to arrive for a conference.
"It is unfortunate what happened to Señor Moorcock in Detroit," he said to the other two, "but we are fortunate that the Iranians wish to seek another avenue in order to keep our, er, business flourishing. After all, they paid us quite a lot of money to carry their drugs during our trips to the United States and are willing to continue to do so."
"We are with you, Rafael," Jiminez said. "You have no need to convince us."
Cintron looked at the other man, Santoro, who nodded his agreement. "Excellent," he said. He had gotten used to the life-style he had been enjoying on the money the Iranians paid him and was very happy that he would not have to choose between his wife and his mistress but could continue to support both.
When the knock finally sounded at the door, he jumped up from his seat and said, "At last!" The others watched as he walked eagerly to the door and swung it open.
"Welcome, my friend—" Cintron started to say, but as the man in the doorway started to fall forward, Cintron was forced to leap out of the way. "What…" he said, and they all gaped at the fallen man, who was obviously dead.
"Watch out!" Jiminez shouted, and Cintron turned to see that there had been another man right behind the first, and now he was falling forward too. Cintron jumped out of the way in time to avoid the second man, then did a dance step to avoid being hit by a third.
"Dios mio," Cintron said, staring down at the three dead men. From what he could see, there wasn't a mark on any of them, but they were quite dead.
"How—" Santoro asked.
"I don't know."
"I do," a small, elderly Oriental said, stepping into the room through the open door.
All three men looked at him in disbelief.
"Who— who are you?" Cintron asked.
"I am a man who is concerned about the health of the youth of the United States."
"What?"
"These men were trying to destroy it," the Oriental gentleman went on, "and you men were helping them. You see the price they paid, so you can guess the price you must pay."
"You're mad," Cintron said.
"You killed them?" Jiminez asked, knowing that the question was ridiculous.
"Oh, yes," the Oriental said.
"That's preposterous," Cintron said. "How could you have—"
"Easily," the man said. "I am acting on behalf of the children of America and of the world. I am their instrument."
"He is loco," Santoro said.