Remo turned.
A stone-faced man of sprightly sixty years floated past, wearing a gardenia in his lapel and trailing a vaguely effette after-shave scent. He went through the revolving door and stepped into a waiting car.
Remo turned to the desk clerk, saying, "Caught you fibbing."
"You are mistaken. That was an untruth."
Remo gave the man's reservation terminal a friendly pat, knowing from past experience that the screen display would turn to an unreadable electronic jigsaw puzzle. From the horrified look that came over the man's face, it did exactly that.
The car was pulling away when Remo and Chiun reached the street.
As it happened, the cab that had brought them to the hotel was still bouncing on its springs, the cabbie looking on with vaguely fearful eyes.
Beside it a rainbow-striped white car with a blue horseman symbol on its rear fender was pulling up. A man in a crisp uniform stepped out.
"If you don't mind, we're going to borrow your cab," Remo said, brushing past the man and taking the wheel.
"I mind very much," the man said.
So the Master of Sinanju seized him and flung him into the back seat, there to join him.
"I won't stand for being kidnapped," the driver demanded as the cab left the curb. "This is Ottawa. And this happens to be an official RCMP vehicle, not a taxicab."
"My mistake," said Remo. "How do you feel about riding in the trunk?"
"In that case, I will do my best to persevere," the Mountie said.
Remo fell in behind the car carrying the UN Secretary-General. They could see the back of the man's iron gray head through the back window. He was primping like an old maid.
The two cars moved through Ottawa traffic, leaving the historical heart of the city and entering a neighborhood where old snow lay in the gutters, dirty and unplowed.
"This is not a good area," the Mountie warned.
"What is wrong with it?" Chiun probed.
"The snow is dirty."
"Is it dangerous?"
The Mountie scoffed. "This is Canada. We do not have violence here."
"That's about to change," Remo growled.
"Are you gentlemen assassins?"
"No," said Remo.
"Yes," said Chiun in an overlapping voice.
"Well, which is it?" the Mountie asked in subdued horror.
"We're assassins, but we're on vacation," Remo told him. "We're not here to waste anyone."
"Then why are you following that vehicle?"
"You take it, Little Father," Remo said to Chiun.
"To see where it goes," answered the Master of Sinanju.
The cab carrying the UN Secretary-General took them to what looked to have once been an electrical substation or power-generating plant on the fringes of the Canadian capital. It was a grimy brick box, and over the main door was a faded sign that at one time said Ottawa Electric, but now said, Otta a Tric. A single red light bulb made the front door smolder.
The taxi pulled up before it, and the UN Secretary-General stepped out and paid the fare with a stiff bow. Adjusting his tie, he walked up to the main entrance and smoothed his waistcoat before pressing the doorbell.
The door opened inward, and he vanished inside.
"We're going to stop here," said Remo, "but we may need the car later."
"I do not object," said the cowering Mountie. "Simply call dispatch when you are ready."
"We'd rather you wait."
"In that case, kindly turn off the engine."
"No problem," said Remo, who left the engine off and the Mountie curled up in the locked trunk while he and Chiun went to the building entrance.
Remo looked around. "Looks like the kind of place where a UN official would meet up with a Canadian minister when they don't want witnesses."
"Possibly," said Chiun.
"This should be a piece of cake."
"Do not count your salmon before they spawn," warned the Master of Sinanju darkly.
"What could happen? We're in Canada. Even the Mounties don't put up a fight."
Chapter 31
Canadian Fisheries Minister Gil Houghton practically floated off the Air Canada air-stairs and bounced into his waiting Bentley.
He sent the gleaming silver vehicle spinning into Ottawa's sedate traffic. His foot pressed the accelerator with too much eagerness, and he found himself speeding. It was something he never did. Speed.
He sped now. Just this once. His official license plates would purchase him indulgence from the traffic police.
His drive to the Temple of Kali was a whirl of inchoate thoughts. Gil Houghton hoped Mistress Kali would find time for him before the meeting. If not, after. Either would suit him.
The building looked dark when he pulled up before it twenty minutes later. But then, it always looked dark. Only the red light bulb burning in its cage over the entrance door gave any hint that the old generating station was not deserted.