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The statue was silent. Its unwinking serpent eyes shifted from face to face. Then the heads rejoined with a clicking kiss so that the flat eyes looked out.

  "The President is safe within the hollow ape atop the building called Banana," he said at last.

  "Banana?" Remo said. Chiun shrugged.

  "Banana?" El Padrino asked. Comandante Embutes snapped his fingers. "The monkey atop the Banana boutique. In the Zona Rosa. He is there!"

  "Gracias," El Padrino said, signaling to Comandante Embutes, who still had Guadalupe by the hair. He shot her through the temples once. Once was enough.

  She slumped over, tumbling back down the steep steps like a broken doll.

  "No!" Remo cried. He reached the steps in a single leap. One hand lashed out, ruining the comandante's face. He kicked backward, taking out another pistolero with a toe to the throat.

  El Padrino retreated as his men closed on Remo. Their pistols came up, fixing Remo in a crossfire. Remo ducked under a snapping bullet. He felt it go through his hair. He had been too slow, and the other muzzles were tracking for him.

  Above, the Master of Sinanju turned to Mr. Gordons.

  "You see your answer," he said. "Are we on the same side?"

  "Yes."

  "Then prove your loyalty by helping my son."

  Mr. Gordons serpent head snapped apart. He crushed down the stairs-heavy, ponderous, unstoppable.

  As his golem shadow fell over the combatants, El Padrino turned. His face registered horror. He lifted his Uzi. Streams of bullets rattled out, pocking the stone hearts of Coatlicue's broad chest.

  Still the monster came on.

  Square pile-driver arms swept down, bursting human heads like melons.

  Seeing pistoleros falling all around him, Remo Williams slid out of the melee. He took the opportunity to trip one pistolero, sending him over the side of the terrace. The gunman landed on the one below, every bone shattered.

  El Padrino ran out of bullets. He made the sign of the cross and stumbled back for the steps. Remo plunged after him.

  Mr. Gordons trampled one last pistolero who had stayed to fight, and began lumbering down the stairs.

  El Padrino got as far as the next terrace. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Remo and, more frighteningly, Coatlicue descending, and ran for the stairs.

  He made a mistake many tourists make. He ran for the stone markers he thought headed the next flight of steps.

  El Padrino assumed his feet would hit the stairs running. It was a wrong assumption. There were no stairs. He ran off the side of the pyramid, falling fifty feet. He didn't scream until he hit the terrace. Then he bleated like a lamb tangled in barbed wire.

  Remo skidded to a stop. He saw El Padrino lying there, his legs twisted at impossible angles. The drug king coughed blood, proving that he was still alive.

  The Master of Sinanju floated to Remo's side, ahead of the descending Coatlicue.

  "Now what?" Remo asked, watching Gordons clumsily negotiate the steps.

  "See to Guadalupe," Chiun said. "Now!"

  "What about Gordons?"

  "Leave him to me," the Master of Sinanju said, turning to face Mr. Gordons.

  Remo went, quickly disappearing from sight.

  Mr. Gordons strode to the lip of the terrace. He looked over the edge to El Padrino's struggling body. He was attempting to crawl to the steps. He left a trail of blood like a snail track.

  "Well done, man-machine," said the Master of Sinanju, bowing.

  "I am ready to return to America," said Mr. Cordons, clicking his serpent heads together. His walleyed gaze turned to regard the Master of Sinanju.

  "You trust me, then?"

  "Yes. Because of your actions. They tell me what your face and heart do not. At last I understand meat-machine behavior."

  "Very wise. And I trust you too-unless of course you were lying."

  "I was not lying. The President is hidden inside the ape."

  "Excellent," Chiun said, pleased. His hands withdrew into his kimono sleeves. "Then we shall go to him as allies. After you have answered a question."

  "What question?" "When we last encountered one another," Chiun said, "my son Remo fought the thing he thought was you. And I attacked the globe which I believed contained your brain. Both died at the same instant. Which truly contained your brain?"

  "It was in the satellite," replied Mr. Gordons.

  "That was very clever. And creative."

  Mr. Gordons inclined his broad head. "Thank you. I pride myself on my creativity."

  "No doubt your brain is an equally creative place this time," said Chiun slyly.

  "It is."

  "My son, who guessed wrong once before, is convinced it is in your right serpent's head."

  "He is wrong," said Mr. Gordons.

  "But I am cleverer than he," Chiun went on, lifting a long-nailed finger. "I know that it is in your left head."

  "Why do you think that?" asked Mr. Gordons.

  "Because you are clever, and that is not only the most creative place for your precious brain but also the safest."

  "It is?" asked Mr. Gordons.

  "Yes," said the Master of Sinanju. "For most humans are what is called right-brained. Or logical. By making yourself left-brained, you are automatically more creative."

  "One moment." Mr. Gordons stepped around in place. His thick legs required him to take small side steps to turn his ponderous stone body.

  "Why do you turn your back on me?" Chiun asked politely.

  "There is something I must do," Gordons said, bending at the waist. One hand lifted to his left hemisphere.

  " I am glad you trust me enough to do this," Chiun said.

  "I trust you because of your actions. They tell me you have negotiated in good faith ."

  "And your words tell me that you are a blockhead," said the Master of Sinanju as he set one sandaled foot to the serpent-twisted backside of the living statue of Coatlicue and exerted sudden force.

  Mr. Gordons, in the act of transferring his brain from his left arm to his left hemisphere, toppled over the pyramid's side without a sound.

  Landing, he broke into eight irregular pieces, pulverizing the still-squirming body of Jorge Chingar, a.k.a. El Padrino.

  Remo came up the stairs like a rocket. He reached the shattered hulk that was Gordons. He looked up. "He's not moving."

  "His left serpent's head is cracked in two," Chiun said as he floated down to join Remo.

  "Yeah?" Remo said blankly.

  "That's where his brain is," Chiun said smugly.

  Remo looked at Coatlicue's fractured face. "How do you know that?" he wondered.

  Chiun beamed like a wrinkled yellow angel. "The same way I know that it was I who killed Gordons last time, not you."

  "How's that?" Remo said suspiciously.

  "Because Gordon's told me so." And Chiun's angelic smile broadened.

  "I don't believe it," Remo said as he knelt to examine the inert shattered hulk. Chiun kicked at it as if testing the tires on a used station wagon. Nothing happened. They separated the pieces, expecting a reaction. The statue of Coatlicue still didn't stir.

  "See?" Chiun said happily. "bong ding, the witch is dead."

  "It's ding dong, and there's no sense in taking chances," Remo muttered, lifting one knifelike hand over Coatlicue's broken left facial hemisphere. "Let's pulverize it into rock dust." He brought the edge of his hand down hard.

  To Remo's surprise, his hand bounced off, making a hairline crack.

  "Damn!" Remo said. "You try it."

  The Master of Sinanju kicked at the stone, knocking a tiny chip loose.

  "It's that bad Mexican air!" Remo growled. "We're not up to speed."

  Chiun frowned. "We cannot dawdle here, Remo. There is still the President to consider."

  Remo hesitated, his eyes on the broken hulk.

  "Okay," he said, getting to his feet. "The President first. But we're coming back to finish the job."

  They pelted down the pyramid's side,
stopping at the base, where Guadalupe Mazatl's dead body lay sprawled.

  Remo knelt to close her brown eyes.

  They ran to their car without a backward glance.

  When the stifling gorilla head came off; the President of the United States was practically in tears. He blinked in the bright sun.

  "Who's there?" he moaned. " I don't have my glasses. I can't see."

  "Never mind," Remo assured him. "You're safe."

  On the Banana boutique roof; they pulled the plaster-and-fur King Kong apart, extracting the President. Carefully they lowered him to the artificial jungle floor.

  "Where am I?" the President asked in concern.

  "Just close your eyes," Remo added. "We're taking you to the U.S. embassy."

  "Thank God you came back," the President moaned.

  Then he passed out. His last breathy exhalation sounded like "Dan."

  Remo looked to Chiun. "He thinks we're--"

  "Hush," said the Master of Sinanju as he folded the President's arms over his chest in preparation to move him. "It may be better this way."

  The Vice-President of the United States didn't understand.

  One moment, he was getting ready to read his speech, when the envelope containing it was wrenched from his hands.

  "Never mind that," his chief of staff said quickly. "Air Force Two is waiting. The President wants you by his side. Now."

  They bundled him into a waiting limo and to the airport.

  Before he knew it, he was set down in Mexico City, where the President was ushered aboard by tense Secret Service agents.

  The President looked ragged, but he smiled warily.

  "Dan," he said effusively. "Great to see you again-really wonderful." The Vice-President endured the firm two-handed handshake that seemed unending.

  "Thank you, Mr. President," he said, wincing. His hand hadn't recovered from the morning's "grips-and-grins" marathon.

  "Call me George," said the President. He turned to a steward. "Okay, on to Bogota."

  The Vice-President blinked blankly. "Bogota?"

  "We're going together, my boy." The President grinned. "From now on, we're a team. Where I go, you go."

  "That's great," said the Vice-President, grinning weakly under his dazed blue eyes. He wondered what the hell had gotten into the President. He decided not to press his luck. Sheer dumb luck had catapulted him to the vice-presidency. No point in rocking the boat now. And maybe he'd get a little respect at last.

  Although right now he would trade the vice-presidency for a bowl of hot Epsom salts for his aching hand. Why hadn't anyone warned him the job would be so demanding?

  Chapter 27

  Remo and Chiun were relaxing in their air-conditioned room at the Hotel Krystal when the phone rang. Remo was on the bed. Chiun sat on the floor, poring over a book. Outside, it was raining again. Lightning lashed the skyline.

  Remo picked up the phone. "Smitty?"

  "It's all settled, Remo," Dr. Harold W. Smith said without preamble. "The President and Vice-President have arrived in Bogota aboard Air Force Two."

  "What about Air Force One?" Remo asked.

  "That story is about to break. The White House is playing it as an air accident caused by pilot failure. The official NTSB report will attribute it to 'circadian desynchronosis.' "

  "What the hell is that?"

  "Jet lag."

  "But Mexico City is only an hour behind Washington time," Remo pointed out.

  "Nevertheless, that is the official story. We have to account for the dead."

  Remo shrugged. "How's the President doing?"

  Smith cleared his throat uncomfortably. "He believes the Vice-President is a latter-day Conan the Barbarian. He will be allowed to go on thinking that. The Vice-President has been told by his handlers that the President is not quite himself as a result of surviving the crash landing, and to nod and smile at everything he says, no matter how puzzling."

  "He's good at that, at least," Remo said dryly. "I suppose it's on to Colombia and killing a few loose ends for us?"

  "No," said Smith. "One of the bodies discovered on the Pyramid of the Sun was Jorge Chingar, El Padrino-the man who had the contract on the President's life."

  "No kidding," Remo said with pleasure. " I didn't want to go to Colombia anyway. All that's left is finishing with Gordons, which we'll do when we get back up to speed."

  "Too late."

  Remo's hand tightened on the receiver. "What do you mean?"

  "The Mexican authorities have discovered the shattered Coatlicue statue. It's even now being crated for return to the Museum of Anthropology."

  "No sweat," Remo said casually. "We'll hit it there."

  "No, Remo. Better to let sleeping dogs lie."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's an expression. It means-"

  "I know that!" Remo snapped. "But what does that have to do with Gordons?"

  "That idol, Remo, is a very important national Mexican symbol," Smith said levelly. "It was found on the site of Tenochtitlan, the ruined Aztec capital on which modern-day Mexico City has been built. Let the Mexicans put it together if they can, and restore it to its proper place in the museum."

  "What if Gordons isn't dead?" Remo wanted to know.

  "I think he is this time," Smith replied. "And if not, he will be well taken care of by the museum staff. Perhaps Gordons might grow to enjoy being a museum piece. No one will threaten his survival ever again."

  "We're taking an awful chance," Remo warned.

  "Our job is done. Return on the next flight."

  "How about a 'Well done'?" Remo suggested.

  The line went dead.

  Remo stared at the receiver in his hand.

  "How do you like that Smith?" he complained to the Master of Sinanju. "Not even a thank-you."

  "Assassins are never appreciated in any age," Chiun said absently. He was paging through an oversize book entitled The Aztecs.

  Remo put down the phone, smiling.

  "Yearning for the glory days, Little Father?" he asked.

  "It is a shame," said the Master of Sinanju. "These Aztecs were the Egyptians of their time. They had worthy kings, princes, and even slaves. Perhaps they may rise again."

  "Count me out if they do," Remo said.

  "We would have served true emperors, not temporary presidents and disposable presidents of vice," Chiun lamented. "We would have fitted in perfectly." "Only if we wore oxygen masks," said Remo. And when he laughed, his lungs hurt.

  Chapter 28

  Standing before the expectant crowd, which included the President of Mexico and other dignitaries, Mexican Museum of Anthropology curator Rodrigo Lujan waited nervously as the last guest speaker finished introducing him. Behind him, perched on her basalt dais and bathed in multicolored spotlights, towered the massive tarpaulin-draped figure of Coatlicue.

  It had taken a week of hard work by museum specialists to put the sundered pieces of Coatlicue together. They fitted remarkably well. The museum specialists had carefully restored her, using a special concrete paste to repair the bullet holes and knit the sections together. Steel bolts had been necessary to hold the bicephalic head together, but when Coatlicue was carefully raised to her clawed feet, she was whole.

  A creditable job of restoration, but the hairline cracks were as if Coatlicue had been scored by stonecutting machetes. It was sad. She would never again be the same.

  The speaker finished. Rodrigo bowed at the mention of his name. With a sad heart, he pulled the tarpaulin free of the idol, revealing the brutal elemental beauty of the restored Coatlicue. A gasp of astonishment came from the, assembled audience. Cries of "Bravo!" resounded. Rodrigo looked behind him. He gasped too.

  For not a crack was visible on Coatlicue's ornate skin. Even the filled-in bullet holes were invisible. It was miraculous, as if the spirit of Coatlicue herself had taken hold of the stone, healing it until the idol was once again whole.

  Rodrigo Lujan bowed in acknowledgment of the
applause that washed over him like thunder. But in his heart he gave silent thanks to Mother Coatlicue, whose ophidian eyes he felt on him.

  For he was, above all things, Zapotec.

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