"Quiet, Little Father," Remo said seriously. "I want to see this."
Down near the front, a man leapt up in his seat and pointed at Phong with a shaking finger.
"Die, traitor," he said in Vietnamese, and his other hand swept up. A short burst of gunfire rattled out. Phong, a look of stunned uncomprehension coming over his face, jerked in place as if suddenly touched by a live wire.
More than a dozen tiny holes erupted on his hairless chest. The wall behind him was splashed with red. For a frozen eternity Phong swayed on his feet; then his legs gave way. He twisted and fell.
The audience gave a sick collective sound when the red monstrosity that was his back came into view. Then they jumped from their seats and ran for the exits. Excited cries in English and Vietnamese filled the studio. But above them sounded a bellow like a wounded water buffalo. Copra Inisfree's voice.
Remo stood up. "Chiun, the guy with the gun. Stop him. I'll see to Phong."
But the Master of Sinanju was already out of his seat. His sandaled feet hopped to one man's shoulder and then to another's head. His kimono skirts flopping, he floated over the audience, his featherlike leaps alighting only on Vietnamese heads.
Remo, seeing the crowd was panicking, leapt high. He clung to a ceiling cross-brace and, monkeylike, swung into the hanging garden of baby spotlights. Three overhand swings later, he landed on the stage, taking care to keep his back to the TV cameras. His face must not go out over the air.
Remo got down beside the wounded Vietnamese. Phong's body spasmed wildly. Remo knew those were involuntary nerve spasms. The man was not going to make it. His back was cratered with gaping exit wounds. Reno lifted his head and carefully turned him over.
The small holes in Phong's chest dribbled. Sucking chest wounds. Remo had seen them in Vietnam a thousand times. He shook his head no.
"I promise Youngblood," Phong said with effort, clear bubbles breaking over his lips. "Someone go back. Help free Americans."
"I will," Remo said evenly. "I promise."
Suddenly the bubbles breaking at Phong's mouth turned red. His breath wheezed out. His eyes closed. Remo let Phong's head drop to the hardwood stage and flipped him over onto his stomach. The raw meat that was his back was slick with blood. Near the bottom, over the small of his back, Remo saw the dark lines under the blood.
With his hand, Remo gently wiped the blood away. There were two lines, the name Dick Youngblood, and below that, in Latin, the legend "Semper Fi. "
"Dick. . . " Remo said slowly.
On the floor, Copra Inisfree lay spread-eagled. Shaking himself out of his daze, Remo went to her side. "I'm shot. I've been shot," Copra Inisfree said over and over. "Think of the ratings this must be getting."
"You're fine," Remo said.
"Look at my chest. The blood."
"It's not your blood. It's Phong's. Here, let me help you up."
Copra slapped his hand away. "Don't you touch me with those bloody hands of yours. This dress is a Holstein original. Hand me that microphone."
Frowning, Remo plucked up the mike and put it in her hand.
Copra brought the mike to her lips and, staring at the ceiling, said, "More after this commercial."
Then she dropped the microphone and started to cry. Remo shook his head in disgust and walked off the stage. The auditorium had been cleared. The cameramen sat calmly behind their cameras as if they were shooting an ant farm and not a human drama. The director picked himself off the floor, saw Copra Inisfree's bloated bulk lying inert, and said in an anguished voice, "Oh, my God, not the star!"
His hands protecting his face from the cameras, Remo slipped out a side exit, looking for Chiun. He found the Master of Sinanju in the lobby. Chiun was standing on a squirming Vietnamese man with a ratlike mustache. The man was shouting imprecations and Chiun quieted him with a tap of one sandaled foot. In his long-nailed hands Chiun held clusters of Vietnamese by their shirt collars.
"Once again," he said bitterly, "you have left me with the dirty job."
Remo lifted his blood-smeared hands wordlessly.
"I suppose there are worse chores than catching lice-infested Vietnamese," Chiun admitted, dropping his handfuls of captives.
"Which one is our guy?" Remo asked.
Chiun shrugged. "How should I know? All Vietnamese have faces like burnt biscuits. Who can tell biscuits apart?"
"I didn't see the killer's face, did you?"
"No. I followed him this far, but they all look alike from the back."
"He wore a blue shirt," said Remo, looking over the men Chiun had captured. Only one of them had a blue shirt.
"You," Remo said. "You're the guy."
"No!" the man protested. "I no shoot. Am American. Naturalized. "
Remo reached down and took the man's wrists, one in each hand. He squeezed and the man's fingers went limp. They were empty. Remo bent over and sniffed his palms.
"No gunpowder smell. Let's try the others." Remo checked the rest of them. Their hands didn't give off the telltale smell of burned gunpowder that would have irritated his supersensitive nostrils. Just to be certain, he patted them down. None were armed.
Chiun walked up and down the back of the Vietnamese under his feet.
"This one is not carrying any weapon either," he said.
"You let him get away," Remo said bitterly.
"I tried. Who would have expected so many Vietnamese in one place? Perhaps we should take the head of one of these wretches back to Smith. Who will know the difference?"
"We will," said Remo. "Come on. We have things to do."
"Oh?" asked the Master of Sinanju, stepping off his Vietnamese captive. He wiped his sandals on the plastic foot rug on his way out.
"What things?" asked Chiun curiously, noticing the purposeful set of Remo's face.
"I made a promise back there. And Smith is going to help me keep it."
Chapter 7
Remo paced his suite at the Park Central Hotel impatiently. He had washed the blood off his hands and changed his clothes. Instead of a white T-shirt and tan slacks, he now wore a black T-shirt and gray chinos.
"Where the hell is Smitty?" Remo asked for the twelfth time. "He said he'd call right back."
"Emperors live by their own sun," Chiun said absently. "It is an old Korean saying." The Master of Sinanju sat on his tatami mat, watching Remo with concern. He couldn't remember having seen his pupil so tense. He was acting almost like a typical nerve-frayed American instead of what he truly was, heir to the House of Sinanju, the finest assassins known to recorded history.
"Your breathing is wrong," Chiun pointed out.