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  Hefting the minicam onto her padded shoulders, Cheeta returned to the prone form of Barry Black.

  "Let's do a two-shot, okay?"

  "Ommm," moaned Barry Black.

  "Do you suspect that the assailants whose attempt on your life here today failed so miserably were the same who attempted to kill me?"

  "Ommmm."

  "Is that a yes or a no?"

  "Ommm."

  "Obviously in shock," Cheeta said, dropping the camera from her shoulders.

  While she was trying to figure out her next move, a glossy-white Mercedes rolled to a halt a block away.

  Out stepped Enrique Espiritu Esperanza, Harmon Cashman, and a tiny old Korean man Cheeta Ching recognized at a glance.

  "You!" she shrieked. Lugging the minicam, she jumped for the approaching trio. "I need to talk with you,"

  Enrique Esperanza said, "I will be happy to continue our interview."

  "Not you," spat Cheeta Ching, pointing to the tiny wisp of a Korean. "I mean him."

  The Master of Sinanju beheld the vision that swept toward him. His heart leaped high in his throat. His almond eyes widened, and for a moment he was a young man back in Pyongyang, beholding the beauteous Ch'amnari.

  "I've been dying to talk to you!" Cheeta said urgently.

  "I understand your desire," said Chiun, bowing, his voice tense, his heart a balloon of joy. Remo had granted his deepest wish.

  "Great. Where can I find Rambo?"

  Chiun straightened. "Rambo?"

  "Yeah. Your dreamy friend. The one with the wrists."

  "You mean Remo?"

  "Is that what he's calling himself now? Where can I locate him? It's urgent!"

  "No doubt he is sleeping under a rock, overcome with slothfulness and ingratitude," Chiun huffed. He turned and stalked off.

  Cheeta Ching watched him go, her face blank. "What's got into him?"

  "We do not know," said Enrique Esperanza. "We have come here to offer condolences to the Black campaign. This is a tragic thing."

  "Great quote," said Cheeta Ching. "Mind repeating it for the camera?"

  "Why don't you follow us?" Esperanza suggested. "We wish to speak with candidate Black personally."

  "Okay, but talk slowly. I'm not used to being my own cameraman."

  Barry Black, Junior was still lying on the sidewalk when they reached him.

  "I am Esperanza," said Enrique Esperanza in a formal voice.

  "Ohhmmm," said Barry Black.

  "He keeps saying that," Cheeta pointed out. "I think he's in shock."

  "I have just the thing," Esperanza said, kneeling beside the stricken candidate. He took a minipack of Oreo cookies from inside his white coat, undid the top. and placed one in Barry Black's open mouth.

  "Chew slowly. Chocolate is a stimulant. The Aztecs knew this."

  Somewhere deep in Barry Black's shattered mind, a synapse fired. He began chewing.

  A moment later he sat up, saying, "My karma must have gotten mixed up with Yassar Arafat's."

  "Do you have any idea who would do this thing?"

  "Hey!" inserted Cheeta. "Asking questions is my job. You don't see me running for governor! Not that I couldn't do a better job than any of you men."

  "Have you any enemies who would do this?" Esperanza asked in a soothing voice.

  "The Democrats. The Republicans. Any Californian who remembers my last term in office. Maybe it's a conspiracy."

  "I do not think so," said Enrique Esperanza, helping the man to his feet. "I am Enrique Esperanza," he added, shaking the man's hand.

  "Got any more of those nifty cookies?" Barry Black asked.

  Enrique Esperanza smiled. He offered the rest of the minipack.

  As Barry Black munched away, he said, "Great! What are these things, anyway?"

  "Oreos," Harmon Cashman explained. "You don't know Oreo cookies when you taste them? Where have you been?"

  "India. Tibet. Nifty places like that. I accomplished a lot. I even grew a beard, but I shaved it. Beards are seventies."

  While the minicam recorded every syllable, Enrique Esperanza said, "We must not allow terror and violence to determine the outcome of this important election."

  "You got my vote," Barry Black said enthusiastically, saluting his rival with a half-chewed sandwich cookie.

  "I do?"

  "If you vote for me, too. Sort of a karmic exchange."

  Enrique Esperanza laughed heartily. He agreed to vote for the former governor of California in return for his vote.

  "This way we cancel each other out," said Barry Black Junior.

  Harmon Cashman shoved an Oreo into his own mouth to suppress a grin of pleasure. He knew how this would play on the evening newscast. Gubernatorial candidate Enrique Espiritu Esperanza comforts rival and receives endorsement in return. It couldn't have played any better if he had set the whole thing up himself.

  The attack on Black campaign headquarters led the evening local broadcast throughout California, and topped the national news on all three networks and CNN.

  It was deplored from the White House on down to the San Francisco mayor's office. The President, en route to oversee renovations to his Maine home, paused under the whirling blades of Marine One to denounce the situation in the Golden State.

  "We're not gonna let the California governor's race degenerate into the kind of thing we're seeing here," he promised. "I've asked the FBI and Secret Service to look into this. Mark my words, we're gonna nail the dastards behind this outrage. Our best people are on top of it."

  Watching the news break from his Folcroft office, Harold W. Smith understood that the last remark referred to his organization. He had had a brittle conversation with the President only minutes before he'd left the White House.

  "What's going on out there?" the President had asked testily.

  "I do not know," Smith had admitted. "The last report from our special person was that two assassins had been terminated."

  "I never heard that."

  "We like to handle these matters quietly," Smith said. "At the moment I am awaiting a positive identification on one of the deceased terrorists."

  "Are you sure it's terrorists?"

  "My information is sketchy," Smith admitted. "We have reason to believe the men behind this wave of political arson are Hispanic. Possibly foreign nationals."

  "What nation?"

  "Unknown. I am merely speculating in the absence of hard information."

  "Well, dammit, get some facts. We need to know if this is connected with the double assassination of the two governors out there."

  "I hope to have some concrete intelligence within a day or two," Smith assured the President. "In the meantime, I will move our special person into the Black campaign as a precaution."

  "Won't that leave that Esperanza guy unprotected?"

  "Our other special person has that aspect well in hand."

  "I hope so, Smith. We can't tolerate this kind of stuff within our borders. This is America. Not some banana republic."

  "Yes, Mr. President," said Harold W. Smith, replacing the red telephone receiver.

  He looked at his watch. He hoped Remo would check in soon. His last report was that he was on his way to San Francisco, because that was where the Esperanza entourage-and therefore, Chiun-was relocating.

  Smith returned to his computer. He accessed crime-statistics computers throughout the Golden State. They told him nothing. The only anomaly was an uptick of activity in the area of the Border Patrol. They were being stretched to the limit. Not from the surge of illegals coming across the U.S.-Mexican border, but illegals coming from other states to take advantage of the amnesty program. A number of them were being picked up before they could apply for citizenship.

  The intercom buzzed while Smith was digesting this phenomenon.

  "Yes, Mrs. Milkulka?"

  "The lobby guard says there's a package for you, Dr. Smith."

  "Have him bring it up," Smith said absently.

  "I'm afr
aid it's too large for the elevator."

  Smith's prim mouth puckered. "Tell him I'll be right down. And not to open that package."

  Harold Smith reached the lobby in fifteen seconds flat.

  The lobby, guard said, "There it is."

  His pointing finger indicated a long wooden crate, whose dimensions roughly matched those of a standardsized coffin.

  "Have it taken to the basement," Smith directed.

  "Yes, sir."

  In the dank basement, Harold Smith dismissed the pair of burly orderlies who had lugged the coffin-shaped box down there. They had placed it in a dim corner, beside the false wall that concealed the Folcroft mainframes that fed Smith's desktop terminal.

  Taking a pry bar, Smith attacked the wooden slat cover. He cracked one of the slats free.

  The smell made him recoil.

  "Damn!" he choked, gasping for breath. He continued breaking slats until he had the upper torso of the dead man uncovered.

  Smith reached in and felt about, distaste on his prim face. He finally found the videotape tucked into the corpse's shirt. It smelled of decay, as he brought it into the light of a naked twenty-five-watt bulb.

  It was a struggle to get fingerprint samples. Rigor mortis had set in. But he managed the chore of inking the greenish fingers and impressing the prints onto a sheet of paper.

  The face meant nothing to Smith. He committed it to memory, then hammered the slats back into place.

  He returned to his office feeling very much in need of a shower.

  Smith faxed the prints to the FBI, who thought they were receiving a routine CIA inter-agency information request.

  While he was waiting for a reply, the blue contact phone rang. Smith picked it up.

  "Remo?"

  "Just checked into my hotel. What's up?"

  "There has been an attempt on the life of Barry Black, Junior."

  "No kidding."

  "I never kid. And I do not appreciate the manner in which you responded to my request for the dead man's fingerprints."

  "Find the tape?" Remo asked lightly.

  "Yes."

  "Anything on it?"

  "I have not yet looked. I am awaiting the fingerprint report."

  The computer beeped, and Smith said, "One moment, please." He adjusted his rimless eyeglasses and peered at the terminal screen. His eyes went wide. He returned to the phone.

  "Remo. We have a break."

  "Yeah?"

  "According to the FBI, the dead man you-er-shipped to me is Queque Baez, an enforcer for the Medellin Cartel."

  "Why would they want to hit Esperanza-or Black, for that matter?"

  "Unknown. But we cannot take chances. I want you to join the Black campaign."

  "Do I have to?" Remo asked glumly.

  "You have to."

  "Could be worse," Remo said resignedly. "You could be sending me into the Rona Ripper organization."

  "Let us hope it does not come to that."

  "Maybe she's behind this."

  "Unlikely."

  "Don't forget she helped General Nogeira get sprung for the baptism."

  "I had not thought of that," Smith said slowly.

  "I'll be in touch, Smitty."

  Harold Smith replaced the blue receiver. A worried frown caused his lemony face to twitch. He looked to his closed medicine drawer. Despite the escalating situation, he felt no desire to reach for any of the remedies that in the past had gotten him through situations more dire than this one.

  Although none of those situations, he recalled, had included having to dispose of a body in the basement of Folcroft.

  Chapter 18

  Barry Black, Junior felt safe. In fact, he felt almost as safe in the attic of his Pacific Park home as he had been in India, doing the good work of Mother Teresa. Mainly her laundry.

  After all, they didn't have personal pyramids in India. Pyramids were Egyptian. Pyramids, Barry Black, Junior knew, were also the ultimate in personal protection. They were impervious to uncool vibrations, bad karma, and cosmic rays. They also filtered out the more harmful effects of direct sunlight, which is why Barry had had his installed in the attic. The roof was skylight city.

  Unfortunately, his imported-from-Ceylon formstone pyramid didn't repel sound waves.

  "Barry, you gotta come out," pleaded the voice of his campaign manager.

  Barry Black put aside a half-eaten Oreo cookie. "Where is it engraved in granite that Barry Black, Junior, Mr. Outsider, persecuted by the system, has to come out of his personal pyramid and be a target for every anti-reform whacko in the state?" he demanded.

  "Because you can't campaign for governor inside a formstone pyramid in an attic."

  "Where is that written? I'm a declared candidate. I can campaign any way I want. This is America."

  "No, this is California. Not the same thing. And you've got to press the flesh if you wanna win."

  "Let the voters come to me," Barry retorted firmly, "One at a time. After being frisked. Have those magnetometers and X-ray screens I ordered arrived yet?"

  "Barry, this is going to get out. The press has been clamoring for a statement all afternoon."

  "Write this down. I, Barry Black, Junior, the next governor of the fantabulous state of California, solemnly vow to cast his sacred vote on election day, and urge all citizens to do the same. Type that up and distribute copies to all interested parties."

  "That's all you're gonna do?" "What do you want? The ozone layer is breaking down. Melanomia is practically epidemic. I can't govern with black, hairy, precancerous moles on my face."

  "Barry, please. Make a public appearance. Show the electorate you're not afraid."

  "I'm not. I'm perfectly safe as long as I'm in my pyramid."

  "If word gets out you're holed up in an obelisk," the campaign manager said sternly, "the campaign is over."

  "If I come out and get my head shot off, the campaign is really over," Barry Black, Junior countered.

  "You know, a true Republican wouldn't be caught dead in a pyramid."

  The pyramid was silent. Except for a single dry crunch.

  "I am a Republican," Barry Black said huffily. "Color me business-friendly."

  "Prove it. Get out of that thing."

  "No. I can prove it another way."

  "I'm listening, Barry."

  "I have a secret plan. Just like the great Republican, Richard M. Nixon."

  "Richard M. Nixon's so-called 'secret plan' was to end the Vietnam War, and it turned out to be just smoke and mirrors--a scam to get him elected."

  "Exactly. I have a secret scam-plan which will get me elected governor, and then and only then will I announce it."

  "You're going to announce this scam after you're elected?" the campaign manager blurted out.

  "Well, I can't very well announce it beforehand. It wouldn't work."

  "If you announce it afterward, you might get lynched."

  "Never happen. My secret scam-plan is so brilliant, people will applaud my genius."

  "Er, is this scam-I mean plan-a secret from your campaign manager?"

  "Yes. Wild horses couldn't drag it out of me."

  "What," the campaign manager wondered, "would be big enough to drag you out of that thing?"

  "I'll come out once I'm elected," Barry Black, Junior answered. "On inauguration day. We'll airlift me to the capitol and I'll emerge in triumph and fanfare, like a born Republican."

  "Somehow I have trouble envisioning that."

  "Try meditation. After I've meditated two-three hours, I see the most unbelievable colors."

  "I'll bet you do. But you gotta do more than sit on your behind if you're going to beat Esperanza. He's moving major numbers in the polls."

  In the New Age security of his pyramid, Barry Black, Junior put his agile mind to the task of winning over the voters of California. He closed his eyes and watched the colors his retina picked up. He got purple. Just purple. One color. No matter how much he squinched his eyes tight, no patterns or
symbols emerged. Barry Black knew it had to mean something. But what?

  "Enrique Esperanza is a one-note candidate," he said at last. "He's Mr. Multiculturalism. Multiculturalism is good, but it won't solve the problems of this great state. The recession. Taxes. The drought. The poinsettia whitefly. These are the issues that must be addressed with Republican forthrightness."

  "You should be saying these things before the camera," his campaign manager pointed out, "not inside a formstone teepee."

  "Teepee!" Barry Black cried. "That's it! We'll break the drought!"

  "We will?"

  "Not we, directly. I want you to scour the Indian Reservations. Find me a medicine man. A photogenic one, with lots of seams in his face and sad but wise-looking eyes."

  "Sad but wise?"

  "One who knows how to perform the sacred rain dance."

  "Rain dance . . . ?"

  "Go for a Chippewa. They have the best karma. Have him perform the dance in my name. Pick someplace splashy, like the La Brea Tar Pits. When the rain pours down, hand out umbrellas that say 'Vote For Black.' "

  "We can't afford preprinted umbrellas, Barry."

  "Use the tiny paper ones you get in Mai Tais."

  "Barry," the campaign manager protested in exasperation, "if it works, the voters will be drenched. If it doesn't, we'll look like fools. We can't win."

  "We can't fail. And voters will be soaked by election day. And a soaked voter is a Black voter. I want bumper stickers that say that."

  "If you go through with this, they'll go back to calling you Governor Glowworm."

  "As long as I'm governor again, who cares what they call me?" Barry Black retorted firmly.

  The Black for Governor campaign manager let out a leaky sigh.

  "Barry," he said wearily, "I'm going downstairs and renew my acquaintance with Valium. When I feel up to it, I'll come back and we'll have this conversation again. Okay?"

  "Remember. Chippewas are best. A Hopi might do in a pinch. But no Sioux. They were scalpers. The bad karma will rebound on us. And bad karma doesn't wash off. I learned that in India."

  In the dark confines of his personal pyramid, Barry Black, Junior listened as his campaign manager descended the attic stairs. It was going to work out. It would all work out, if everyone found their centers and held on for dear life.