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  "All right," said Remo. "Let's say he is after us. Let's go get him."

  "He will come for us," said Chiun stolidly. "I told you that once before. When we want him, he will find us. We need only wait."

  "I'd rather it was on our terms," said Remo, thinking of his previous battles with Chiun's nephew. The only other man in the world who knew the secrets of the Sinanju assassins lusted for the deaths of Remo and Chiun so he could become Master of Sinanju.

  "And I would rather eat duck," said Chiun, his eyes still aimed at the balcony. "The time will be of his choosing."

  "And the place?" asked Remo.

  "The challenge will come, as it did before and as it must again, in a place of the dead animals. Thus it has been written. It can be no other way."

  "The last time, the place of the dead animals was a museum. I don't think Lobynia has any museums," said Remo. He sniffed the air. "I don't even think it's got any bathrooms."

  "There is a place of dead animals," said Chiun with finality. "There you will be expected to meet his challenge again."

  "How do you think it'll go?" asked Remo.

  "He has the advantage of being Korean and of the House of Sinanju. On the other hand, you have had the benefit of my personal supervision. He is a defective diamond; you are a highly polished piece of gravel."

  "That's almost a compliment."

  "Then I withdraw it. Shhhhh."

  Onto the balcony stepped a handsome Italian-looking man, dressed in immaculate Army tans. The crowd roared its approval. "Baraka. Baraka. Baraka," they screamed. It quickly built to a chant which seemed to shake the entire city.

  The colonel raised his arms for silence. He noticed as he looked down that the loudest screamers were the gang of American hoodlums who had arrived for the Third World Conference.

  "He does not look so bad," said Chiun thoughtfully. "He will probably listen to me."

  "Probably the mountain will come to Mohammed," said Remo.

  In the silence ordered by Baraka, a detail of soldiers now came down the steps of the palace, each four bearing a casket, carrying them out onto the balcony and placing them on the platform behind Baraka.

  "Another demonstration of the cowardly Jew," yelled Baraka, pointing at the dozen caskets behind him.

  The crowd roared.

  When it silenced, Baraka said, "We have come to pay tribute to men who gave their lives to keep Lobynia free."

  More screaming and yelling followed this.

  It went on that way, each sentence interrupted by cheers and applause, as Baraka told how the men had found out plans for a sneak Israeli attack on Lobynia with atomic pistols, and they set out deep into the heartland of Israel, even into Tel Aviv, and foiled the plan and laid much of that city waste before they were finally overwhelmed by the entire Israeli army.

  "But now Tel Aviv knows that no place on earth is safe for them. No place out of the reach of Lobynian justice," Baraka said, touching off screams, even while wondering to himself how Nuihc, who was so small and frail, had been able to kill so many commandoes, who-while they might not have been much as fighting men-had the normal numbers of arms and legs each.

  As the cheering continued, Baraka searched the faces of the Americans gathered in a soldier-contained group in front of him. There were the usual assortment of pretty girls. He tried to pick out the prettiest one, in order to invite her to a private dinner at the palace some night during their stay. He gave up the job, but narrowed the number down to three. He would invite all three.

  The thing in overalls was, no doubt, a minister of some sort. Mohammed, bless his name, would cringe, were he to have such disciples. It was a wonder that Christ's memory had survived, Baraka thought.

  He looked away from Father Harrigan in hurried distaste. In the back of the group staring coldly at him were two men of a different cast. One was American, obviously, but he bore the same sort of hard good looks as Baraka himself. His eyes met Baraka's and there was only cold depth in them, no glimmer of warmth or respect. Even more interesting was the man next to him. He was an aged Oriental in a long gold robe. When he met Baraka's eyes, he smiled and raised an index finger, as if to signal Baraka that he would talk to him later. His eyes were hazel, like Nuihc's, and had the same sort of detached deep placidity that Nuihc demonstrated.

  Baraka had no doubt that these were the two men whose arrival Nuihc had been awaiting. The days ahead might yet be interesting, Baraka thought.

  "And yet," he yelled, "was a word of this brave strike into the Israel heartland carried in the pig press of the Western world?"

  He choked off the cheers by answering his own question. "No. Not one word. The capitalist Zionist press of the world was silent about the bravery of our fallen commandoes."

  More cheers. Through them, he heard the priest in overalls yell, "What do you expect when the publisher of the Times is named Sulzberger?"

  That was good, decided Baraka. He would use that the next time he was interviewed for American television.

  He let the crowd shout itself down this time and then said, "We will speed our commandoes' souls to Allah, by prayer." Obediently, the crowd all turned eastward, toward what was now Saudi Arabia and the city of Mecca.

  Many of the crowd took prayer rugs from under their garments and spread them out before kneeling on them.

  "Pray unto Allah for the repose of their souls," commanded Baraka. He dropped to his knees also, his sharp eyes glinting beneath the visor of his military hat, watching the crowd, making sure there were no guns aimed at him.

  The Americans shuffled around, then they too dropped to their knees. All but the hard-looking one and the old Oriental. They stood like two slim trees in a forest of kneeling humanity.

  Baraka was outraged. But a hiss came from the windows at the back of the balcony. "Let them be," said Nuihc's voice. "Do not touch them."

  Baraka decided to overlook the religious affront. He lowered his head in prayer.

  Silence crowned the vast arena.

  Then the voice of the prostrate Father Harrigan rose above the crowd.

  "God of man, let those responsible for these deaths burn alive in ovens, according to thy grace. Let them singe and scorch in hell for their very whiteness. Let the full measure of vengeance be taken in thy good name. For an eye, let there be not an eye, but a hundred eyes. All according to thy goodness and love, let death run free among the Zionist white devils, the usurpers and rapers of the land. We ask it in the name of peace and brotherhood."

  "Not bad," Chiun said to Remo as Harrigan's voice died out. "Especially the part about putting white people in ovens. Did I ever tell you that they were white because God took them out of the oven too soon?"

  Only a hundred times," said Remo, looking around the crowd.

  "All right, you've seen Baraka. Seen enough?"

  "Yes, for now," said Chiun.

  Seconds later, Baraka rose to his feet and looked over the kneeling crowd, before signaling it to rise. The two men, the American and the Oriental, were gone, vanished as if the earth had swallowed them up.

  He wondered if he would see them again, before Nuihc worked his will upon them.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Lobynian Arms was about what Remo had expected.

  It had been a hovel in the days of its glory. Now, maintenance and operation were exclusively in the control of the Lobynians, who had nationalized the hotel as a national treasure, and had proceeded to turn it into an international disgrace.

  The paint was chipped and peeling in the two adjoining rooms that the frightened soldier had secured for Remo and Chiun.

  The beds, consisting of dirty, sported mattresses on twisted metal frames, lacked not only sheets but covers. There was water in the showers, but only cold, the hot water knobs having been removed.

  One of the windows in the smaller of the two rooms was broken, which Remo thought should have gotten rid of the stale smell in the room, until he noticed that pouring through the broken glass were the even
staler smells of the great Lobynian outdoors.

  "Nice place," he said to Chiun.

  "It will keep the rain from our heads," said Chiun.

  "It never rains in Lobynia."

  "That explains the smell. The country has never been washed."

  Chiun carefully counted the steamer trunks, satisfying himself that there were still fourteen of them. He opened one and began to pooch around in its innards, finally coming out with a bottle of ink, a long straight quill pen, and a sheaf of paper.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I will send a communique to Colonel Baraka," said Chiun.

  "I'm going to call Smith."

  What the room lacked in beauty, the telephone service equaled in inefficiency, and it took Remo forty-five minutes and four tries to get the buzzing ring to the Chicago dial-a-prayer whose number he had given the hotel operator.

  "The earth is the Lord's and the fullness thereof," came a recorded voice, scratchy from being patched halfway around the world.

  "Gimme that old time religion," Remo said dutifully into the telephone, and then heard a whirring and clicking as his voice signal triggered a series of switching operations and finally he heard another click and Smith saying, "Hello."

  "This is Remo. We're on an open line."

  "I know," said Smith. "There isn't a secure line in that entire country. See anything interesting? Clogg or Baraka?"

  "Both of them," said Remo.

  "You said you knew who was behind this?" asked Smith cautiously.

  "That's right," Remo said, "but I can't tell you yet. I'll keep you posted."

  "There is a new element by the way," Smith said. He went on to explain that also aboard the plane was a man who had developed an oil substitute and was going to sell it to Baraka.

  "Oh," said Remo casually, "what's his name?"

  "Goldberg," said Smith. He was annoyed when Remo laughed, and asked, "What's so funny?"

  "You. And all your spies," said Remo. Still laughing, he hung up. So Jessie Jenkins was an operative for the United States. That was the only way Smith could have heard of the oil substitute.

  Well, it was good to know. He would keep an eye out for her welfare. At least she wasn't one of the nits.

  When he went back into the other room, Chiun was closing his bottle of ink.

  "It is done," he said, and handed the long sheet of parchment forward to Remo. He watched anxiously as Remo read.

  "Colonel Baraka.

  "You have until noon Friday to abdicate. If you do not, there is no hope for you. Give my best to your family."

  It was signed: "The Master of Sinanju, Room 316, Lobynian Arms."

  "Well? What do you think?" asked Chiun.

  "It's got a kind of old world charm about it," Remo conceded.

  "You do not think it too weak? Should I have been more forceful?"

  "No," said Remo, "I think you've got just the right flavor. I don't know anyone who could have done it better."

  "Good. I want to give him a chance to repent."

  "Do you think it was a good idea to give him your room number?"

  "Certainly," said Chiun. "How else can he contact me to capitulate?"

  Remo nodded. "That's true enough. How will you deliver this?"

  "I will take it to the palace myself."

  "I'll deliver it if you want," said Remo. "I'd like to get out."

  "That would be helpful. It is time for my consciousness raising," said Chiun.

  Remo took the rolled parchment from Chiun, went downstairs through the dirty unlit lobby and out into the bright sunlight of Dapoli. He absorbed the smells and sounds of the city as he walked the four blocks to the city square.

  The palace was ringed with guards and Remo walked casually through the square, looking for one who was an officer. He finally found one with three stars on his shoulders, indicating a lieutenant general. He was walking back and forth before the palace building, informally inspecting the troops.

  "General," called Remo moving quietly up behind him. The general turned. He was a young man with a long white scar running down his left cheek.

  "I have a message for Colonel Baraka. How do I get it to him?"

  "Well, you could send it to him by mail."

  "He will get it then?"

  "No," the general said. "The mail is never delivered in Lobynia."

  "Well, actually, I was more interested in seeing he got the message than in providing a dry run for your mail system."

  "Then you might leave it at the front door of the palace."

  "Will he get it that way?"

  "Not unless you accompany it with a flock of sheep.

  One cannot present anything to the supreme commander without accompanying it with a ritual gift."

  "Where can I get a flock of sheep?" asked Remo.

  "You can't. There are no sheep in Dapoli."

  "Is there another way to get a message to him?"

  "No," said the general, turning from Remo. Remo clapped a hand on the soldier's shoulder.

  "Just a minute. You're telling me that there's no way to get a message to Baraka?"

  "Colonel Baraka," the officer corrected. "That's just what I'm telling you."

  "Do you know what you're talking about?" asked Remo.

  "I am Lieutenant General Jaafar AH Amin, the Minister of Intelligence. I know what I am talking about." the officer said haughtily.

  "Suppose I gave the message to you?"

  "I would read it, then tear it up and throw away the pieces. This is not America. You have no special privileges here."

  "Suppose, just as a hypothetical case, I told you that if you tore up the message, I would remove your intestines and strangle you with them? What would be your reaction to that?"

  "My hypothetical reaction would be to call the guard and have you arrested and create an international incident that would embarrass your nation." He smiled. "Hypothetically, of course."

  "You know," Remo said, "that scar on your face is really striking."

  "Thank you."

  "But it lacks symmetry."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes. It needs to be part of a pair." With that, Remo's left hand flicked out. His fingers barely seemed to graze the officer's face. It was only after Remo had vanished into the crowd that General All Amin realized he soon would have a matching pair of scars.

  Remo stopped at a juice stand and ordered carrot juice. He could not go back without having delivered the message. Chiun would go berserk. On the other hand, if he stormed Baraka's palace as seemed to be necessary, Smith would go berserk.

  As he was wrestling with the problem, he saw a familiar face.

  Jessie Jenkins, her afro a black halo around her head, was being marched along with two other girls that Remo had been on the plane, guarded by a group of four Lobynian soldiers,

  "Hey, Jessie," Remo called.

  She turned around and smiled. The caravan stopped. The soldiers looked impatiently at the approaching American.

  "Where are you going?" asked Remo.

  "We're being marched from our compound over there"-she pointed behind the Revolutionary Triumph Building-"to dinner with Colonel Baraka. An invitation."

  "Invitation?" Remo said. "At the point of a gun?"

  "It seems to be the way they do things around here," Jessie said.

  "All right, enough talks," said one of the soldiers.

  "Hold your camels," Remo said. "The lady's busy."

  "That is no concern of mine. Let us be off," the soldier said.

  Remo explained carefully to the soldier that haste makes waste, and then hastily proceeded to waste the soldier's right shoulder which convinced him that they could wait a few moments more.

  Remo pulled Jessie aside. "You know we're in the same business?" he said.

  "I'm a student," she protested weakly.

  "I know. So am, I. I'm majoring in foreign governments and threats against the United States. Can you deliver this to Baraka for me?"

  She looked a
t the rolled parchment. "I can try," she said. She took the rolled paper and with her back turned to the soldier, slipped it into her white nylon blouse.

  "If you need me, call me," Remo said. "Room 315, Lobynian Arms."

  She nodded, turned and rejoined the group to continue the march to the palace. Remo watched them go, admiring the posterior of Jessie Jenkins and feeling pleased with himself. Message delivered and no one dead. Excellent. Chiun would be proud of him.

  However, Chiun was not proud of him.

  "You mean you did not deliver my missive personally to Colonel Baraka?"

  "Well... I gave it to someone to give to him."

  "Ahhh, this someone. You saw this someone give it to Colonel Baraka?"

  "Well, no. Not exactly."

  "I see. You did not exactly see this someone give the letter to Colonel Baraka. Which means that you did not see the letter given to Colonel Baraka at all."

  "You might say that."

  "In other words, you have failed again. I send you out on a simple mission, to deliver a letter, and you come back and tell me well, maybe, but not exactly, and you might say that, and on the one hand this and on the other hand that, but all it means is that you have not delivered my letter."

  "Have it your own way."

  Chiun shook his head. "It is too late for that. If I had it my own way, the letter would have been delivered to Colonel Baraka. To no one else. Ah well, what can one expect when he must do everything himself? No one tells me anything and no one helps me do anything."

  "You're making a lot out of nothing," said Remo. "Baraka'll get the letter. Wait and see. He'll answer it."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  But Colonel Baraka did not answer the message, neither that night nor the next morning.

  This was not because he had not received the message. As a matter of fact, Jessie Jenkins had placed it personally in Baraka's hand as she and the other two girls sat with him at a small dinner table in an opulent room in the palace, a room whose walls were finished in linen and around the bases of which were pillows, mats, and cushions of all sizes, shapes, and colors.

  Jessie had not read the missive, but she wished she had when she saw the reaction it drew from Baraka when he carefully removed the red tie and read it.