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  "Is this the selfsame Squirrelly Chicane who was in Brass Honeysuckle?" asked one.

  Lobsang looked to Squirrelly, at a loss for words.

  "Say yes," Squirrelly murmured.

  "The answer is yes," said Lobsang.

  The stony faces of the regents of the Dalai Lama broke out into smiles of recognition. "It is Squirrelly Chicane!"

  They began crowding around.

  "Is Richard Gere well?" one asked.

  "He's doing great," Squirrelly said, laughing. "Chants every day."

  "What tidings from the lotus land of the West?" asked another.

  Through it all the Dalai Lama stood impassive behind his mirror aviator glasses.

  "He's not budging," Squirrelly whispered to Lobsang.

  "He is stubborn," Lobsang advised.

  "Yeah? Well, I know just how to break the ice. Here, hold this," said Squirrelly passing her dorje to Lobsang. Snapping her fingers once, she accepted a silk wrapped package from Kula. Untying the drawstring, she brought to light the gleaming Academy Award she had won for Medium Esteem.

  "Check this out," she crowed.

  "It is the icon of the long-lost Bunji Lama!" the regents gasped.

  And to the astonishment of all, except Squirrelly Chicane, the Dalai Lama lifted his prayerful hands to his forehead and bowed not once, but five times low and deep.

  "May I have your autograph, enlightened one?" he asked humbly.

  After that it went swimmingly, Squirrelly thought. They retired to the Dalai Lama's personal quarters, where the regents shut the doors and they drank tea-thankfully without rancid butter-sitting face-to-face on cushions. The Dalai Lama admired Squirrelly's Oscar while she got a good look at his Nobel Peace Prize.

  "Strange are the ways in which the Wheel of Destiny turns," said the Dalai Lama.

  "I saw this coming, you know. I'm a Taurus. They have the best karma."

  "Now that you are recognized as the Bunji Lama, what will you do?"

  "Liberate Tibet. That's what I'm here for," said Squirrelly, admiring the Nobel. "How hard is it to earn one of these things, anyway?"

  The Dalai Lama hesitated over his bowl of tea. "Why do you ask, Bunji?"

  "One of these would look great over my mantel between my Oscar and Golden Globe. By the way, may I call you Delhi?"

  " 'Dalai.' It means 'ocean.' My title means 'ocean of wisdom.' And yes, you may call me that if it is your desire."

  "That reminds me. Let's dish, lama to lama!" Squirrelly leaned forward. "When we feel the urge, what do we lamas do?"

  "We do nothing. To sublimate the lower urges is our purpose in this life."

  "Exactly how long have you been sublimating?" Squirrelly wondered.

  "All my lives."

  "Okaaay. Tell me, if you couldn't free your people after forty years, how'd you snare this baby?"

  "I earned the Nobel by keeping the peace. For my way is the way of nonviolence. Is that not your way, Bunji?"

  "I've always been nonviolent. Not that it's been easy. Sometimes I wanna give my little brother such a smack."

  "I am pleased to hear this. Aggression is not the answer to the problem of Tibet, for the Chinese are many, and Tibetans few and poor."

  "Don't sweat the Chinese. I've handled them before."

  "These words gladden my heart. For I am the last Dalai Lama. It has so been prophesied. After me there will be no more, and my people are beside themselves at the prospect. But now that the Bunji has returned, hope will spring anew. Perhaps in two or even three decades, Tibet will breathe the sweet air of freedom once more."

  Squirrelly squinted under her fleece-lined lama's cap. "Two or three decades? I figure it'll take two or three weeks."

  "Weeks?"

  "Sure," Squirrelly said, ticking off her plans on her saffron-nailed fingers. "Two or three weeks to liberate Tibet. Maybe another week or so for a goodwill tour of the major villages. Six months to write the book. And three to film."

  "Film?"

  Squirrelly flung her arms wide as if to encompass the entire world. "Won't this make a great movie? Internationally famous American actress plucked from cosmic obscurity to liberate a downtrodden people. Talk about high concept!"

  "I fail to follow your thinking, Bunji Rinpoche."

  "Oh, I love it when people call me that. Listen, you have a really photogenic face. Wanna play yourself?"

  "Play?"

  "I may end up doing Lamb of Light as a musical, though. Like Evita. How good are your pipes?"

  "But you are the Bunji. It is your destiny to rule Tibet-if the Chinese do not assassinate you first."

  "They already tried that," Squirrelly said dismissively. "Now that I have the First Lady on my side, I'm protected. If anything happens to me, she'd have them nuked."

  "You would not encourage a nuclear attack on China?"

  "Not me. By that time I'll be well into my next life and as long as I didn't come back as a Chinese citizen, I probably wouldn't care."

  A knock came at the door. The Dalai Lama perked up.

  "Ah, it is dinner. We will eat and talk more. Enter."

  Servants entered, bearing fragrant foods on silver trays.

  Kula and Lobsang hovered nearby.

  Squirrelly tasted the air. "Smells scrumptious. What is all this stuff?"

  "That is tsampa."

  "Looks like Maypo. What about this soup?"

  "That is thukpa-noodle soup. Very tasty."

  "Tibetan pasta? I love it!"

  "Do not eat yet."

  "Why not? Do we say some kind of Buddhist grace first?"

  "We must await the food taster."

  "Food taster?"

  "It is a precaution in case of poison."

  "Who would try to poison you? You're so sweet."

  "You," said the Dalai Lama without rancor.

  "Hey, give a gal a break. I'm a fellow Buddhist, after all."

  The food taster came in, bowed to each of them, and, under the watchful eyes of Lobsang Drom, Kula and the Dalai Lama's retinue, and the horrified eyes of Squirrelly Chicane, lifted each bowl in turn and slurped up generous portions.

  "Don't you feed this guy?" Squirrelly asked.

  "He is kept in a state of perpetual famishment," the Dalai Lama explained, "so that he will not balk at the task before him."

  After he had tasted everything, the food taster sat down and everyone looked expectant.

  Squirrelly squinted at him. "What are we waiting for, this poor guy to die?"

  "Yes," said Kula.

  "Oh. How long does that usually take?"

  "If the food has cooled and he still breathes, the food is unpoisoned."

  "Oooh, I hate cold food."

  "As the Bunji Lama, it is your sacred duty to renounce the temptations of the material world," Lobsang intoned.

  "Hot food isn't a temptation, but a necessity," said Squirrelly, dipping a surreptitious finger into her tsampa. Maybe she could sneak a taste while everybody was waiting for the food taster to keel over.

  Squirrelly had her tsampa-smeared finger tucked up under her chin and was about to go for it when the food taster turned a sickly green and keeled left. He began breathing in a labored fashion. This lasted not very long at all. Just until the death rattle.

  After the color left his face for the last time, the others grew stony of visage. The retinue of the Dalai Lama glared at Lobsang and Kula, who glowered back. Kula fingered his dagger.

  Squirrelly swallowed hard. "The food's poisoned, huh?"

  "Yes," said Lobsang. "But whose food? The Bunji's or the Dalai's?"

  The glaring and glowering resumed.

  "Tell you what," offered Squirrelly, wiping her forefinger on the cushion, "why don't we just throw it all out and start over? I make a mean seven-bean salad."

  "I will fetch the cook," said Kula, storming from the room.

  The cook was fetched. He was a plump little Tibetan with a face like unbaked cookie dough. He trembled like a human pudding in a stead
y wind.

  "Why did you poison the food, cook?" Kula demanded.

  "I did not."

  Kula brought his silver dagger up to the cook's throbbing jugular. "You lie! I slit the throats of liars."

  "I did not poison the food! It was the Chinese man."

  "What Chinese man?"

  "He told me that my sister in Lhasa would be violated if I did not look the other way while he put something in the food."

  "Whose food? The Bunji's or the Dalai's?"

  "The Bunji's."

  "You are certain?"

  "I would not lie, Mongol," quavered the cook. "For I know you would slit my throat if I did this."

  "Good. It is good that you told the truth," said Kula, abruptly yanking the cook's head around to slice his throat open.

  "Why did you do that?" Squirrelly cried, turning away.

  "I also slit the throats of traitors," said Kula, wiping his blade clean on the dead man's hair.

  Squirrelly stared at the dead cook a long time. Then it hit her.

  "They tried to kill me," she said in a dull, shocked voice.

  "Yes," said Kula.

  "We must find the compassion to forgive them," intoned the Dalai Lama.

  "They tried to kill me again. Even with the First Lady on my side." Her voice was smoldering now.

  "The Chinese are in truth demons," said Lobsang. "Demons without souls."

  "Take your anger and transmute it into understanding," intoned the Dalai Lama. "Use your newfound understanding to bring about true harmony. Illuminate the Universe with your light."

  Squirrelly Chicane rose from her cushion, her blue eyes stark. Lifting a trembling fist to the ceiling, she said, "This means war!"

  "War is not the way of Buddha," the Dalai Lama said anxiously. "It is unworthy of one who is in truth a Living Buddha!'

  "Well, war is the way of this Buddha!" Squirrelly vowed. "We're going to march in there and kick their yellow butts all the way back to Beijing!"

  The Dalai bowed his head in sorrow.

  "She is a fighting Buddhist, after all," Kula said in an emotion-choked voice. "It is better than I dared hope for."

  Chapter 18

  It was the end of the month and time to pay the bills that had piled up on Dr. Harold W Smith's Spartan desk.

  The Folcroft bills were in the low five figures. It was possible to dispose of them with only a cursory glance at the various invoices, bills and utility notices.

  That done, he took a deep breath and two Alka-Seltzer washed down by spring water from his office dispenser before looking into the CURE-related bills.

  These-principally credit-card bills and other incidentals-were sent to a blind post-office box to which only Smith had the key. It was not an ideal situation, but he could not trust Remo, and certainly not Chiun, to remember to pay their own bills on time.

  And regardless of how high these bills were, Harold W. Smith always paid them promptly. It rankled his frugal New England soul to spend taxpayer dollars on what often seemed frivolous items, such as Remo's quarterly car trade-in. But in the end it was a small price to pay to keep Remo and Chiun, if not happy, at least not disposed to complain often.

  And he never, ever paid credit-card interest. Not in the days when it was a modest six percent and certainly not now that the credit-card companies had begun charging usurious interest rates.

  The bills this month amounted to a surprisingly small sum, Smith was relieved to see. Less than fifty thousand dollars. This was down from the last quarter after Chiun had discovered the Home Shopping Network and splurged, seemingly, on one of every item offered over a two-week period, including two cases of a product inexplicably called Hair in a Can.

  Smith took another gulp of Alka-Seltzer and examined the charges line by line.

  In the card that was issued to Remo Buttafuoco, he noticed a round-trip airlines ticket for two. He wondered where Remo and Chiun had gone. Then he saw on the very next line a two-day car rental from a Los Angeles franchise of a well-known agency. The next item indicated the car had been serviced in Malibu.

  Smith frowned. Malibu. Malibu. Why did Malibu ring a warning bell in his memory?

  And then he remembered. The attempt on Squirrelly Chicane three days before in Malibu, and the waves of suspicious dead Chinese bodies that had been washing up on the beach ever since.

  "What on earth..."

  Face slack with concern, Smith went to his computer and checked the Bunji file.

  Six bodies now. As he read the latest reports, he realized that the dead men had been killed in ways that were consistent with both Remo and Chiun's methods of operation. The disemboweled man might as easily have been eviscerated by a superhard fingernail as a knife. And those who had been found with crushed larynxes and faces jellied beyond recognition bore Remo's hallmarks. He should have recognized the signs before, Smith realized grimly.

  Harold Smith picked up the phone and dialed Remo's contact number.

  A sleepy voice answered, "I'm not home. Go away."

  "Remo. This is Smith."

  "Smitty, what's the good word? Or in your case, the bad one?"

  "The word," Smith said stiffly, "is that I know you and Chiun were involved with the Chinese deaths in Malibu."

  "Okay," Remo said without skipping a beat. "It's too early in the morning to lie. We were."

  "Please explain the situation to me, Remo," Smith said coldly. "This was not an authorized operation."

  "You'd better talk to Chiun. It was kinda his operation."

  "I would like to hear it from you first."

  Remo's voice turned away and lifted. "Hey, Chiun! Smitty's on the phone for you!"

  "Remo, I said-"

  "Chiun! You up?"

  Silence.

  Remo's voice came back. "Damn. Hold the phone, Smitty."

  Smith gripped the telephone receiver with unshakable tightness as he listened to the faint sounds of doors opening and closing and Remo returning.

  "He's gone," said Remo.

  "I will hear your explanation first."

  "You don't understand, Smitty. Chiun's really gone. Two of his trunks are missing, but the freaking gold's still here."

  "Gold. What gold?"

  "The freaking gold he got off those Mongols."

  "Mongols? What Mongols? Remo, start at the beginning, please."

  "How about I just cut to the chase and let's see where that takes us," Remo said unhappily.

  "Go ahead."

  "You know the story about the Tibetan monk who showed up on Squirrelly Chicane's doorstep and proclaimed her the Bunji Lama?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, first he showed up on my doorstep. Along with that Mongol, Kula. Remember him from the Gulf War?"

  "Go on."

  "Well, they asked Chiun to help them find the Bunji Lama!'

  "Find? You mean-"

  "Yeah, Chiun led them straight to Squirrelly. He went through a lot of hocus-pocus to set them up for the scam, but in the end he just turned on 'The Poopi Silverfish Show' and there she was."

  "Poopi Silverfish?"

  "No, Squirrelly Chicane. She was into one of her past-life rags, and Lobsang just lapped it up."

  "Lobsang was the Tibetan monk?"

  "You got it."

  "Where do you fit into this, Remo?"

  "Me? I was just along for the ride. Carrying luggage and collecting abuse. When the Chinese tried to hit Squirrelly, Chiun and I were there and we hit them first. That's about the only good thing that came out of the trip."

  "I disagree," Smith said in a cold voice. "It would have been far better had Squirrelly Chicane been assassinated than she go through with her ridiculous scheme to insert herself into the Tibetan situation."

  "Don't look now, but I think Chiun's gone and introduced himself into the Tibetan situation, too."

  "You may be right, Remo," said Smith in a tight voice. "He called me yesterday and requested a sabbatical."

  "He say where he was going?"


  "Back to the village of Sinanju, was my understanding."

  "That should be easy to check. Just dial 1-800-SINANJU If he's not there or expected, he's off to Tibet."

  "One moment, Remo," said Smith, switching phone lines. He dialed 1-800-SINANJU, and a querulous old voice began speaking in Korean.

  "I...er...seek the Master of Sinanju," Smith said in carefully enunciated English.

  "His awesome magnificence is not here," the voice said, switching to formal but thick English.

  "Is he expected?"

  "He is not expected. Do you wish someone dispatched? Or a throne toppled?"

  "Thank you, no, I will call later."

  "Others give inferior service. Provide your telephone number, and the Master of Sinanju will return your call if you are found worthy of the honor."

  "Thank you, no."

  Switching lines again, Smith told Remo, "He is not expected in Sinanju. He must be in Tibet."

  "Great," Remo groaned. "I don't know who to feel sorry for, the Tibetans or the Chinese."

  "Remo," Smith said urgently, "it is imperative that Squirrelly Chicane not upset the balance of power in Tibet."

  "Balance? It's a Chinese slave state. Where's the balance?"

  "Here is the balance. Remo, Tibet is largely plateau. It is, in effect, the high ground of Asia. From there the Chinese look down upon India, which they consider an enemy. Tibet is a natural impassable barrier to the hostile forces beneath it. Also we know that the Chinese store some of their short-range missiles in the more inaccessible parts of Tibet. They consider the Tibetan question very sensitive and they are determined to hold on to it."

  "So I see by the papers."

  "Open revolt in Tibet could bring in Mongolia or India, which have religious ties to Tibet. If there is a new Sino-Indian conflict, Pakistan, China's ally and India's bitter enemy, will no doubt open up a second front. Pakistan is a nuclear power. You know what that means?"

  "Yeah. Bye-bye, India. Damn."

  "Leave for Tibet immediately, Remo."

  "What happened to 'Tibet is none of our business'?"

  "It wasn't and it isn't. But now that I know that the Master of Sinanju has triggered the chain of events now building toward crisis, it is our responsibility to interdict Squirrelly Chicane."

  "What do you mean 'we,' white eyes?" Remo muttered.