Whitehall sensed by his tone it was time to leave. The finance minister got to his feet.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. President," he said.
"Oh, Carlos," the executive president said, "before you go, there is one other thing."
Reaching in a drawer, he passed a large piece of shiny computer paper across his desk. When Whitehall leaned forward, he saw that it was a photograph of two men. One was an elderly Asian, the other, a young Caucasian.
"Do you know these men?" Curry-Hume asked. Whitehall shook his head. "No. Are they with one of the delegations?"
The executive president nodded. "U.S. State Department scientists," he explained. "They were on one of the tour groups of the site yesterday. There were many men who have come and gone this week, but that one-" he tapped the old Asian "-is the only person in all the groups to speak with your Dr. Yakamoto. They were seen by security cameras."
The finance minister's face grew worried once more. "Another Japanese?" he said. "Mr. President, I strongly recommend that the authorities vigorously investigate the Yakamoto disappearance. Even if we accept the notion that others will one day steal the technology, we can't-"
"Not Japanese," Curry-Hume interrupted. With his fingertips, he spun the picture around so that the two men were facing him. "I would say Korean. Yes, definitely Korean." He twirled the photograph back around.
Carlos Whitehall squinted harder at the older man in the photo. "I do not wish to seem racist, but I don't know how to tell the difference," he admitted.
The executive president smiled. The already taut flesh tightened back near his ears.
"It's the eyes, Carlos," Curry-Hume said. "One can always tell a man by the eyes. As I said, these men are scientists. That is what their identification says they are. The strange thing is, thanks to the Vaporizer we have detailed records now of all the leading refuse experts in the world, and these two men are not to be found in any of our files. You've immersed yourself in this work these past few years. Tell me, Carlos, are you certain you don't know them? Read about them, perhaps? In published papers? Books? Articles? Their names are Doctors Henell and Chiun."
"I don't know them."
Curry-Hume nodded. "Very well," he said, offering his hand. "Thank you for stopping by."
They shook hands and Carlos Whitehall headed for the door. When he opened it, the noise of frantic activity from outside spilled into the room.
"Oh, and don't waste time worrying about Yakamoto, Carlos," Executive President Curry-Hume called as the finance minister stepped from the room. "You have enough to coordinate without wasting time on dead ends."
Curry-Hume continued to smile his tight smile as the finance minister closed the office.
Chapter 16
Remo had collected his shoes and threw a handful of money at the captain of his rented boat. Leaving the skipper to pilot his way back alone, he rejoined Petrovina on the Russian agent's trawler.
Even more scows had joined the garbage armada since Remo left shore. With Petrovina at the helm, the beat-up little boat had a tough time winding its way through the Caribbean maze of garbage scows on the long way to land. The sun was riding low in the sky by the time they puttered up to a private pier along the Mayanan fishing coast.
Houses that looked picturesque on puzzle boxes but were just squalid in real life slumped up the lush hills. Even away from the harbor, the air was ripe. Overloaded barges waited their turn in a line that stretched up the shore.
Remo had walked the five miles from town. They took Petrovina's car back to the center of New Briton.
The two of them were staying in the same hotel, Petrovina four floors down from Remo. The hotel was on the trash route from the bay. All day long massively loaded trucks rolled by, shaking the walls and littering the streets with trailing bits of trash. Petrovina had to wait for two flatbeds to pass by before she could turn into the hotel parking lot.
The car's air-conditioning had filtered out some of the smell. As they stepped into the humid dusk, the odor assaulted them anew. On their way into the hotel from the parking lot they made arrangements to meet after dinner.
"I will come to your room," Petrovina said. While she went to the desk to check her messages, Remo headed for the elevator.
He was pressing the button for the eighth floor when a small group of men hustled onto the car. Most of the men looked like they had pieced their outfits together from the Goodwill bin. Two wore suits with sandals. But at the center of the crowd was a roly-poly little man, well dressed except for a straw Panama hat that didn't quite coordinate with the rest of his outfit.
When Remo glanced at the man's face, he realized with a smile why he was wearing the mismatched hat.
NICOLAI GARBEGTROV was frowning as the elevator doors closed. When he saw his reflection in the silver doors, he took quick inventory, as he always did these days. He tugged gently on the brim of his hat, making certain the offending pro-American tattoo that had mysteriously appeared on his head was completely covered. Satisfied that none of the disfigurement was showing, he let loose a soft grunt.
The former Soviet leader glanced around the car. Garbegtrov noted the thin man who was not part of his entourage standing in the back of the elevator. The man seemed to be smiling at some private joke. In his T-shirt and chinos he didn't look like a visiting diplomat. Probably a member of the Green Earth rank and file. The ex-head of the Soviet empire stuck out a pudgy hand.
"Hello, fellow citizen of world," he announced. "I am Nikolai Garbegtrov, concerned passenger of spaceship Earth."
Remo looked at Garbegtrov, then looked at Garbegtrov's hand. He looked back at Garbegtrov. "Sorry, I don't shake hands with Russians. Got tired of having to take inventory of my fingers afterward."
Confused, Garbegtrov withdrew his hand. "Do you not know who I am?" he asked.
"Know. Don't care," Remo said as he watched the floor numbers blink by.
His sagging frown growing deeper, Garbegtrov retreated to the center of his entourage.
When the doors opened on the eighth floor a moment later, Remo slipped through the crowd. On his way out, he looked square at Garbegtrov's forehead.
"Nice tattoo," Remo said with an approving nod. "I think America's pretty neat, too."
Garbegtrov let loose a horrified gasp. Thinking his hat had fallen off, he clamped his hands to his head. Fat fingers rammed the brim of the Panama hat, knocking it clear off his head.
Shrieking, he plastered an arm up around his bald head as he frantically tried to catch the hat on the way to the floor. Men scattered as Garbegtrov swatted the hat around a half-dozen times before finally catching it one-handed near his toes. With his bald dome pressed to the corner so no one could see, he quickly tugged the hat back on.
The doors were closing as he straightened. Panting, the former Russian leader watched the thin young man's retreating back. When the doors closed, Garbegtrov's eyes were narrowed to daggers of suspicion.
REMO HEARD the doors ping shut behind him. He was still smiling as he rounded the far corner of the hall.
When Remo had left earlier that day, Chiun opted to stay at the hotel. After their trip to the Vaporizer, the old Korean had complained about the damage prolonged exposure to the Mayanan air might do to the delicate fabric of his kimono. But Remo saw the look on his teacher's face. He had seen the same expression many times over the past few months. Chiun wanted to be alone to meditate. The old Korean was introspective ever since Remo's ascendency to Reigning Masterhood. It was as if he were trying to come to terms with some great inner dilemma.
Chiun's private problems weren't on Remo's mind as he headed up the hall. Thanks to his chance meeting with the ex-Soviet premier, Remo's spirits were light when he got to his room. He was whistling as he pushed the door open. His face fell the instant he stepped over the threshold.
"Aw, c'mon, we're not starting this again," Remo groused, swinging the door shut behind him. Chiun sat cross-legged on the floor, face turned to the balcony and the setting sun. Behind him on the carpet two men in suits lay facedown on the carpet. Red stains spread from beneath their chests, darkening the beige rug.
"It was like that when I got here," the old Korean said without turning.
"Cut the baloney. Room service doesn't leave mints on the pillow and goddamn dead bodies on the rug. Chiun, I've got company coming."
"I tried to move them," the old man insisted. "I thought, 'I cannot leave a mess for Sinanju's newest young Reigning Master, even though it is a mess that I did not make, or if I did, was justified in making.' But feeble as I am, I could not lift them. I strained and strained and finally, with great reluctance, surrendered to the inevitable fact of age. I throw myself on your infinite mercy."
Hands on his hips, Remo was scowling at the mess on the carpet. "'Reserve mercy for those with coin to pay; punish the rest,'" he quoted. "The Great Wang."
After quoting the greatest of all Sinanju Masters, he noted a very slight satisfied smile on his teacher's lips.
Remo's shoulders slumped. "Heaven help me, I'm back in the body-dumping business," he muttered. He flipped over the nearest dead man, searching for identification. There wasn't any. Nor was there any on the second corpse. Both men wore shoulder holsters but had no guns. Remo found their weapons sitting in a planter across the room. There were daisies sticking out of the barrels.
He was relieved. No ID meant they had something to hide, which meant they didn't work for the hotel, which meant his teacher hadn't killed the manager and head bellboy.