Withdrawing his hand, Smith addressed the screen. It was buried beneath the desktop's tinted glass surface and angled so it faced him.
The monitor itself was invisible under the black glass. Only the amber letters floating on the screen showed.
The red light in one corner winked insistently. A message beside it said, "Mexico!"
That meant one of Smith's automatic net-trolling programs had picked up something important. Probably an AP story moving across the wires that contained the keyword Mexico.
Smith tapped the silent pads of the keyless capacity-keyboard and brought it up.
It was an Associated Press bulletin:
MEXICO-QUAKE
MEXICO CITY, MEXICO (AP)
A severe earthquake struck the Valley of Mexico at approximately 2:00 p.m. EST this afternoon. Initial reports say that damage to Mexico City is substantial, and there is significant loss of life. Eyewitness reports add that Mount Popo-catepetl is giving indications a major eruption is near. It is not yet known whether the volcano triggered the quake or if the quake brought the volcano-which had been showing renewed signs of activity in the past several months-to life again.
Smith frowned. This was not good news. Mexico was his other chief concern these days. The uprising in Chiapas, combined with political and economic instability, had turned America's sleepy southern neighbor into a smoldering political volcano.
Only a few months before, Mexican army tanks had taken up threatening positions on the Texas border, but were quickly pulled back. It had been an ominous move, but relations between the two nations had officially returned to normalcy.
But the strains were still there. Illegal immigration, the devaluation of the peso and fallout from the ill-fated NAFTA agreement had produced a growing animosity between the peoples of the U.S. and Mexico. That their respective leaders were outwardly cordial meant little. In the age of electronic news media, public opinion, not political will, drove policy.
As Smith reflected on this problem, a second bulletin popped onto the screen.
CHIAPAS REBEL MEXICO CITY, MEXICO (AP) Subcomandante Verapaz, leader of the insurgent Benito Juarez National Liberation Front, has in the past hour declared that the violent convulsion in Mexico City is a sign from the gods that they have turned away from the beleaguered leadership of Mexico and that the time has come to take the struggle into the capital.
Verapaz, whose true name and identity is unknown, is calling for all indigenous Mexicans to rise up and overwhelm the Federal Army of Mexico.
That decided Harold Smith. The Amtrak matter could wait.
Remo and Chiun were going into the field, all right. But they were going to Mexico.
Subcomandante Verapaz was no longer an internal Mexican problem. He was out to overthrow the lawful government in Mexico City. And a revolution on America's southern border constituted a direct threat to the United States of America.
Harold Smith's gray hand reached out to the blue contact telephone.
Chapter 7
Remo Williams was watching the Master of Sinanju fillet a fish when the telephone rang.
"I'll get it," he said, starting from his seat in the kitchen. It was a cane chair. Chairs were allowed in the downstairs kitchen. Tables, too, although most of the time they ate at a low taboret, seated cross-legged on tatami mats.
"You will not," snapped the Master of Sinanju.
"It might be Smith."
"It might be a czar or a bey or an emir. But it is none of them. We are about to dine. If Emperor Smith wishes to speak to me, let him call at an appropriate hour."
"It might be for me, you know."
"Smith only calls you in order to reach me."
"Not always."
"You will watch me prepare this excellent fish."
Remo sighed. He returned to his seat and placed his chin in the cup of his hands. He wasn't sure what was so important about this particular fish, but Chiun seemed to think it was.
"Observe the specimen in question. Is it not enticing to behold?"
"If you like sea bass," said Remo. "Me, I'm in the mood for pike."
"Pike is not yet in season."
"That's probably why I'm in the mood for it."
Chiun made a face. His wrinkles puckered into gullies.
In the background the telephone continued to ring.
"That's gotta be Smith," Remo said. "Who else would refuse to give up after twenty-six rings?"
"He will hang up after the forty-second ring."
"Yeah, and start all over again, figuring he might have misdialed."
"We are stronger than he is stubborn. Now, pay close attention. This is the correct way to fillet a fish."
As Remo watched, Chiun held the sea bass by its tail with one hand. The fish hung with its mouth agape, its eyes glassy. It didn't bother Remo. Chiun often served the fish with the head still on. He had long ago gotten used to having his dinner stare back at him.
As Remo watched, Chiun said, "Sea bass makes excellent stir fry. So we must dismember this excellent specimen first."
"This is starting to sound like 'Wok with Wing.'"
"Do not insult me by comparing me to a Chinese television chef. I spit upon Chinese."
"That's the rumor in the neighborhood," Remo said dryly.
The Master of Sinanju's eyes went thin with menace. He blew out his cheeks like an annoyed puffer fish. An eagle's talon, his free hand curled in, then out, ivory fingernails revealing themselves with a slow menace.
Abruptly they flashed, weaving a silvery pattern about the fish. Skin fell away in long strips to land on the newspaper under the head.
The head fell amid the shed skin with a plop.
As if coming back to life, the bass leaped from Chiun's hand and, swapping ends, suddenly hung tail downward. A fingernail went whisk, and the tail was sheared off cleanly. The fins fluttered after it.