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  The Butler family bit its lip, as such families do, and refused to indulge in speculation for the press as to how their daughter, soon to be married, had managed to wind up dead and drowned in the ocean.

  The family detested the whole idea, but part of the routine in such accidental deaths was an autopsy.

  Clyde Butler was called by the county medical examiner that afternoon.

  "Mr. Butler, I have to see you," the doctor said.

  Resentfully, Butler agreed and made an appointment to see the examiner at his private medical office, where

  Butler's arrival would not draw attention, as it certainly would have at the county administration building.

  Despite the unseasonable spring heat, Butler wore a heavy dark pin-striped suit as he sat in the doctor's office, facing him across "a tan-painted metallic desk.

  "I suppose it's about my poor daughter," Butler said, "Really, haven't we gone through enough without…?"

  "That's just it, sir," the doctor said. "That body was not your daughter's."

  Butler could not speak. Finally, he said, "Repeat that."

  "Certainly. The dead girl who washed ashore was not your daughter."

  "You're sure of this?"

  "Yes, sir. In making the autopsy, I discovered that the girl whose body was found had syphilis. Discreetly, I obtained your family's records from your physician and dentist. If was very difficult because of the mutilation, but I can now say without a twinge of doubt that some other young woman is on the slab at the morgue right now."

  Butler grimaced at what he considered unnecessarily explicit phrasing by the doctor.

  He thought momentarily, then said: "Have you told anyone else?"

  "No one at all. I wanted to talk to you first. Frankly, I did not know if your daughter might have known this other girl, or if your daughter's disappearance might be tied in somehow with this girl's death, or precisely what. It's only fair to tell you that the dead girl wasn't drowned. She was dead before she entered the water. I thought before I announced anything I would give you a chance to explain."

  "You've done very well," Butler said, "and I appreciate your thoughtfulness. I would like you to do something else for me, if you would."

  "If I can."

  "Give me an hour and then I will be back here. Then we can decide what to do and what to say."

  "Of course, Mr. Butler. Just so long as we both understand that I must fulfil the requirements of my office."

  "Naturally I understand that, Doctor. Just an hour."

  Butler left the doctor's office. In the middle of the next block was a bank in which the Butler family was the controlling stockholder. Butler went in, spoke briefly to the bank president, and in five minutes was ensconced, as he had asked to be, in a private office with a private telephone and a guarantee of no interruptions.

  It was a sticky problem, Butler realized. At first blush, he would immediately think kidnapping and ransom. But why then would the kidnapers have gone to the trouble of dressing someone in Hillary's clothes and jewellery and trying to make it appear as if his daughter were dead? No. Kidnapping was out. Therefore, the next step might be that Hillary herself was somehow involved in this. He had no idea how to handle a thing like that, no knowledge of police processes. And hanging over it all was the publicity problem because of the Butler family's relationship with the Lippincotts.

  Children with a problem go to their fathers. Butler went to the head of the Lippincott family and all its branches, Laurence Butler Lippincott

  Succinctly, calmly, he told Lippincott over the phone what had happened. Lippincott, with no trace of emotion in his voice, got Butler's number and told him to stay put; he would call him back.

  From Laurence Butler Lippincott, a call went to the Senate Office Building. From there, a call went to the White House. From the White House, a special call went to Folcroft Sanatorium in Rye, New York. Problems were discussed, options were considered, decisions were reached.

  The links in the chain were then reversed, and finally, the telephone rang in the air-conditioned bank office where Butler sat.

  "Yes," he said.

  "This is Laurie. Please listen very carefully. We believe your daughter is alive, but that she is no longer in this country. The very highest agencies in our government are now attempting to rescue her. This rescue effort, however, is guaranteed to fail if the people involved suspect that we know anything except what they wanted us to think. Therefore this is what we will do."

  Butler listened as Laurie Lippincott spoke. Finally he said, "What of Martha?" thinking of his wife who was in a state of near collapse.

  "She's already done the worst of her suffering," Lippincott said. "Tell her nothing."

  "Nothing? But she ought to know."

  "Why? So she can worry? Become hysterical? Perhaps drop a word here or there that could mean Hillary's death? Please. The very best thing is to let her think Hillary is dead. If we can get Hillary back, Martha can rejoice. And if we fail, well, one can only grieve once."

  "What are the chances, Laurie?"

  "I won't lie to you. They're less than fifty-fifty. But we're pulling out every stop. The best we have is on it."

  "We? You mean the family?"

  "No. I mean the United States of America," Lippincott said.

  Butler sighed. "Okay, Laurie. Whatever you say. But I'm worried about the doctor. He's a snotty young bastard. He may give me flak."

  Laurence Butler Lippincott took the name of the doctor, while allowing himself a small chuckle. "He shouldn't be too difficult," he said. Not if his tax return is like most doctors'."

  So it was that ten minutes later, Butler was back in the office of the doctor, explaining that the doctor must remain silent, must permit the funeral to go ahead as if the dead body were really that of Hillary Butler.

  "Never," the doctor said angrily. "I don't know what your game is, but I'm not playing it."

  His intercom rang. The doctor picked up the phone and said sharply, "I said I wasn't to be… oh…oh, I see. Yes, of course."

  He pressed a blinking lit button on the telephone receiver. Warily, he said, "This is he." He said nothing else for a full sixty seconds., Finally, he said, "Of course, Senator. Yes. Senator, I understand. Of course. No problem. Be glad to, Senator. Yes, I understand." When he hung up the phone, beads of perspiration dotted his forehead.

  He looked at Butler and nodded. "I won't say a thing," he said.

  "Good," Butler said. "Sometime in the near future, I hope to be able to explain all this to your satisfaction," he added, wondering if he were not making too big a concession to a social inferior.

  The doctor raised a hand. "No need of that. Whatever you want."

  "Then, good day," Butler said. "I must go to the funeral home and console my wife."

  In Rye, New York, Dr. Harold W. Smith leafed through a pile of reports and tried not to think of the Butler girl or of Remo and Chiun, five thousand miles away in Busati.

  He had done the best he could and assigned his top weapons to the project. There was nothing more he could do, so there was no point in worrying.

  Right? Wrong. Unless the matter were cleared up satisfactorily there might be substantial problems coming from the direction of the Lippincott family. And if they leaned into the President, the President might just fall over on top of Smith, Remo, Chiun and the whole CURE operation.

  And the Lippincotts wouldn't give a damn that Smith had been considering America's best interests when he told Remo he could not kill General Obode.

  Unless Remo moved pretty quickly, the whole mess might be beyond unscrambling.

  He wished Remo would phone, but he knew it was not likely. It took forever for CURE's Busati source to reach them by telephone, and he was a high official of the government. Smith thought of the CURE contact, ex-CIA man William Forsythe Butler. Perhaps if Remo were not successful in getting this squared away quickly, Smith might contact Butler for his advice and help.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN<
br />
  The man trotting up the hill wore immaculate white gabardines cut in the style of a British khaki bush uniform.

  As he walked into the village, he called aloud a few words of the guttural Loni tongue. The village at first seemed deserted, but slowly people came out of huts and greeted him.

  General William Forsythe Butler stood in the center court of all the huts, talking to Loni tribesmen, scanning the village, looking for a glimpse of Princess Saffah.

  She came around a corner and his face lit when he saw her.

  "Oh, Butler," she said, "we are glad you have returned to visit your people."

  He reached for her, then withdrew his hands. He wanted to tell her of Hillary Butler, but held back. Perhaps she would not share his view that the act of revenge had helped even more to cast him in the mould of the Lonis' redeemer.

  "I am glad to be here," he said.

  "We have great news." To his raised eyebrow, she said, "Yes. The legend. It is being fulfilled."

  She knew, Butler thought, but how had she guessed? It didn't matter. It was enough that Saffah and the rest of the Loni knew the legend was being fulfilled in his person. He smiled to her, the warm knowing smile that one smiled to another with whom he shared a secret

  He would have preferred it another way. It would have been better if he and Saffah had been able to discuss it first and then announce it to the Loni in the proper fashion. But if this was the way it was to be, well, who was he to argue? One must seize the moment of history; time is not always tidy.

  Graciousness would probably be the right approach, so he smiled at Saffah, a smile of acceptance that said there would always be between them a special bond of friendship.

  She smiled back, the smile a teacher gives a student who has not thrown up on his desk that day, then turned and extended an arm toward the hut Butler knew was hers.

  The entrance to the hut was empty, and then framed in the doorway, wearing a yellow robe stood the small Oriental of the hotel and the airport.

  He stood there benignly, his arms folded in front of him.

  "Sinanju," the villagers cried as if in one voice.

  "Sinanju."

  The old man smiled and raised his arms for silence, with all the sincerity of Jack Paar trying to quiet the opening applause.

  Saffah turned back to Butler. "He is the Master for whom we have waited. He has come these many miles across the seas. The legend comes true."

  "But… but… but what of the man who gave up his life?" Butler asked.

  Just then, Chiun stepped aside and Remo came out of the hut. He saw Butler, nodded a greeting, and then snapped his fingers.

  "I got it now," he said. "Willie. Willie Butler. I saw you against the Packers one day at the Stadium. I've been trying to place you since the first time I met you. Well, I'll be… old Willie Butler." He advanced toward Butler as if to shake his hand, but General William Forsythe Butler turned on his heel and walked away, trying to put distance between himself and the memory of the Willie Butler who once was an entertainer of white men.

  By dinnertime, Butler had regained his composure and begun to make his plans. When his men had told him they had found no trace of the American and the Oriental, he had thought they had left the country. But they were here now, and so a new plan had to be set up. There had been fulfilments of the legend before, and they had turned out false. And so it would be again. When Remo and Chiun were dead, the Loni would recognize that only in Butler was the legend come to life.

  Butler ate with Saffah, Chiun and Remo, in the large hut which Chiun had taken over. They sat on reed mats around a rock slab table that reflected the scarceness of hardwood in their barren hilly empire, and ate the flesh of fowl.

  "You have come from Sinanju?" Butler asked.

  Chiun nodded.

  "Why?"

  "Because there is a debt owed to the people of the Lord. A debt unpaid is an affront to my ancestors."

  "So you will restore the Loni to power? How?"

  "As it is written. In the purifying rites of the fire." Chiun ate delicately, then wiped his mouth with a silken cloth from one of his streamer trunks.

  "And you?" Butler said to Remo.

  "Me? I'm the man who accompanied Chiun to Loni-land. Just a second banana. Tell me, you ever hear of a white house behind an iron gate?"

  Butler hesitated. Of course. A U.S. agent, come to solve the mystery of the girls. "Why?" he asked.

  "Because I understand there's something there I ought to see."

  "There is such a house," Butler said. "But it is under the personal protection of General Obode," he added, repeating the lie he had told to his CURE contact.

  "His house?" Remo asked.

  Butler nodded. "He is a man of curious tastes." A plan was beginning to form in his mind.

  "I want to see it," Remo said.

  "I can tell you where it is, but I cannot take you there," Butler said. "Being discovered would put an end to my career with Obode and I need that career to help my Loni people."

  "You a Loni?" Remo asked. "A Loni from Morgan State? You're probably the only guy in the tribe who ever played cornerback. Old Willie Butler."

  "The location of the house is in the capital city of Busati," Butler said coldly. "From my sources, I know that it is guarded. It will be very dangerous."

  He gave Remo the location of the building. "We'll be careful," Remo said.

  Butler nodded. "One can never be too careful in this land."

  It was agreed Remo and Chiun would visit the house before dawn. Butler left the camp shortly after dinner, on the pretext that important business awaited his return to Busati.

  But the only business on his mind was the warning he wanted to give General Obode about the two imperialist American agents who were planning to assassinate him, but who would be vulnerable tonight because Butler had enticed them into visiting his house of many pleasures.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In an American city, it would have been a ghetto, a slum, the final demonstration that capitalism could not work unless it allowed the hog robber-baron rich to step on the poor man's neck and grind his face into the dirt

  But in Busati, it was one of the better streets. And the whorehouse behind the iron gate was definitely one of the better buildings.

  It had once belonged to a British general who had come to the country planning to teach the heathen savages a thing or two, and who had instantly developed a letch for black women of all sizes and shapes. He had had his throat slit one night by a woman whom he thought loved him for his obviously superior soul.

  She took his wallet and the seventy-three British pound notes it contained and returned to her native village where she was as venerated as Marjorie Meriwether Post.

  The house meanwhile was recaptured by the Busati government for non-payment of the four-dollar annual real estate tax—Busati facing its own urban crisis at the time, the necessity to buy another four push-brooms for the one-man street cleaning force who was charged with keeping the city immaculate.

  The house had since that time belonged to the Busati government, remaining vacant until now General William Forsythe Butler took it over and decided to use it for his own purposes.

  "Look. In the tree," Chiun said. "Have you ever seen such foolishness?"

  In the dark, Remo's eyes made out the figure of a soldier with a gun, notched in the fork of the tree across the street from the white house.

  "And in the window of that building over there," Remo said softly, gesturing with his eyes toward the window where he had just seen a glint of light that could come only from a rifle barrel. "It looks as if General Obode is expecting company tonight."

  Remo and Chiun stood in the shadows, half a block away from the large white house behind the metal gate.

  "And look," Chiun said, "there are two… no, three more behind that motor vehicle over there."

  "I guess no one told them that the Master of Sinanju was coming," Remo said. "They're not properly impressed."
<
br />   "We must do our best to remind them of their good manners," the old man said.

  Before Remo could say a word in answer, Chiun was up at the large stone wall. His fingers bought a hold in the wall and he smoothly clambered up it, paused momentarily on the top and then vanished into the grounds behind the fourteen foot high barrier.

  Remo moved close to the wall and heard Chiun say, "Shall I send a litter bearer for you, my son?"

  "Up yours, My Father," Remo said, but too softly for Chiun to hear. Then Remo, too, was up and over the stone wall.

  He stood alongside Chiun. "Better be careful," he said. "There are probably more soldiers in here."

  "Oh, thank, you, Remo," Chiun said.

  "For what?"

  "For alerting me to danger. For helping to prevent me from falling asleep and into the hand of these terrible dangerous men. Oh me, oh my." This was Chiun's new phrase which he had picked up from Rad Rex on the last instalment he had seen of As the Planet Revolves, the one show, Remo swore, in all of television history in which nothing not only never happened, but in which nothing even threatened to happen.

  "Buck up, Chiun," Remo hissed. "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. I'll protect you."

  ""My heart soars like the eagle."

  They moved through the darkness toward the house. "Are you sure," Chiun said, "that this is what you want to do?"

  "It's what I was supposed to do before you tricked me into playing Prince Charming for that gang on the mountain," Remo said.

  "Please not to embarrass me," Chiun said. "The Loni might hear of any foolishnesses of yours and this would lower me in their eyes," Chiun led the way up one of the stone walls of the house and into an open second-floor window. The room they entered was empty; they moved out into a broad dimly-lit hallway, built like a balcony, from which they could see the main door of the house below.

  Behind the door were a half-dozen soldiers wearing Busati whites and carrying American Army grease guns. One of the soldiers was a sergeant. He looked at his watch.