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  Right now, a trio of LAPD police officers stood between her and her goal, a one-on-one with the most charismatic local candidate for governor since Barry Black's last run.

  Cheeta, who had family in Los Angeles, had first heard about Esperanza from her sister-in-law. The stories were intriguing. A spectacular orator, who cleverly dispensed indescribably tasty cookies at his rallies and played to minority aspirations.

  Cheeta had a lukewarm spot in her frosty heart for candidates who played to minorities. Being a member of minority groups herself, she felt oppressed on two fronts. One, because she was a woman, and more importantly, because she was Korean.

  Nobody seemed to understand what unique beings Koreans were. People lumped her in with the Chinese and the Japanese, and the other Asians who were pouring into this country by the thousand, threatening Cheeta Ching's unique standing as the premier Asian-American anchorwoman of renown.

  In fact, she was proud to say, Koreans didn't even belong to the same racial family as those other so-called minority Asians. Ethnically, Koreans were closer to Turks and Mongols.

  The trouble was, Turks weren't considered a true minority in America. Minorities enjoyed strength in numbers, and had political-action groups looking out for their interests. If you were a Turk or a Mongol or, God forbid, a Finn, no one cared about you.

  So Cheeta bit her tongue every time some fool referred to her as "Asian." Someday she would come out of the closet as an Altaic Mongoloid. When it was politically advantageous. Or when she finally became pregnant. Whichever came first.

  At the moment, it was more effective to shout, "I'm an oppressed Asian-American female person, and I demand my rights!"

  The police officers looked away, their faces stony. The other media had dropped their camera equipment and were using their index fingers to protect their eardrums. The screech of Cheeta Ching in full cry had been known to shatter wineglasses. This was so well known that several cameramen were pressing their minicam lenses to their chests, to protect them from the sonic assault.

  "I happen to be the number-two anchorperson on my network!" she added shrilly.

  To which a voice in the media pack added, "Yeah. In the dead-last-in-the-ratings network."

  Cheeta whirled on the others. They recoiled at the blazing fury they saw crackling in her predatory eyes.

  "I hope every one of you ends up at my network one day!" she hissed venomously. "I'll have you for lunch, with kimchee."

  No one said anything in reply. They knew Cheeta was sincere. And they also knew that if they did end up at her network, Cheeta would make their lives miserable.

  Having cowed her colleagues, Cheeta Ching returned to hectoring the police detail.

  "I used to be an important reporter in this town. Don't any of you remember that?"

  "Yeah," one cop said, his voice gravelly. "We remember. Especially that twelve-part series on police insensitivity."

  That tack having proved fruitless, Cheeta let her perfect brows knit together. Her flat face-the term "pancake makeup" had a double meaning when applied to her-attempted an unsuccessful frown. She wondered if her hair spray was wearing off. Usually, the estrogen-impaired half of the human race was easier to handle than this. She wondered if it had anything to do with the Rodney King videotape, which her network broadcast, on average, once a week, to illustrate stories on police forces all over the nation. Even positive ones.

  At that moment the elevator door separated, and a flustered man Cheeta recognized as Harmon Cashman, campaign manager to the Esperanza campaign, appeared.

  Grabbing the handiest minicam, Cheeta knocked over two of the police officers and successfully eluded a third to get to the elevator. She might have saved herself the trouble, because as soon as she had stepped aboard, thrusting a hard elbow into the Door Close button, Harmon Cashman said, "Ricky will see you, Miss Ching."

  "Of course," said Cheeta Ching dryly, taking a tiny canister of hair varnish from her purse and applying it generously to her glossy black hair. "I'm Cheeta Ching."

  On the way up, Cheeta examined her face in a small compact. To her horror, she saw that her makeup was flaking. They were almost to the penthouse level, so she closed her eyes, steeled herself, and shot a blast of sticky hair varnish directly into her own face.

  When she opened her eyes, the compact revealed that this carefully guarded professional secret had once again saved the day. She looked flawless. Professional. Perfect.

  And why not? she thought to herself, as she stepped off the elevator. I am Cheeta Ching, the most famous Korean woman on the planet. If that isn't perfection, what is?

  Remo Williams was saying, "I'm a campaign aide, not a freaking maid."

  Chiun rushed about the room, straightening cushions and blowing dust off the window drapes, squeaking, "Hurry, Remo! She is coming. Cheeta is coming!"

  Remo stood his ground. "No. You broke the glass door, you pick up the shards."

  "I will grant you anything you desire!" Chiun pleaded.

  "Peace of mind," Remo said instantly. "And a boon to be named later."

  "Done!" Chiun crowed. "Now hurry! The great moment is about to arrive!"

  Grinning, Remo found a corn broom and swept the door glass out of sight. He hid the bullet-shattered lamp and piled the unconscious Esperanza bodyguards in a back room.

  He returned to the living room just in time to hear the elevator doors roll open.

  Chiun, his eyes wide, swept in on Remo, saying, "Back! She must not see you!"

  "Why not? I'm part of the team."

  Chiun raised a warning finger. "Remember Emperor Smith's admonition. Your face must not be seen."

  "Oh, yeah," Remo said. Smith was still upset because Remo's original face-the one he had worn in his former life as a Newark patrolman-had inadvertently been restored through plastic surgery. He retreated to the back room and listened.

  The sound of Cheeta Ching entering the room was unmistakable. Her high heels sounded as if she were using them to drive railroad spikes.

  Chiun's voice came then-the low, grave tone he affected on important occassions, completely the opposite of his usual high, squeaky one.

  "I am Chiun."

  "Great," Cheeta said. "You're just the person I need."

  "Of course," Chiun replied. "How could it be otherwise?"

  "Here. Take this."

  "What is this?" came Chiun's voice, taken aback.

  "It's a minicam. It's very simple to operate."

  "Why would I wish to operate such a contraption?" Chiun asked, his tone injured.

  "Because I left my cameraman down in the lobby and I need my hands free for the interview," replied Cheeta Ching, as if explaining why the sky is blue.

  There was a pause. Remo, who was not ordinarily gifted with second sight, knew exactly what was coming next.

  "Remo!"

  "You rang?" Remo said, grinning as he stepped out into the living room.

  The Master of Sinanju gestured carelessly in Remo's direction. "This is Remo, my lackey. Instruct him, and he will obey your every whim."

  Remo looked at Cheeta Ching. Cheeta Ching looked at Remo. Cheeta's almond eyes widened in twin explosions. Her too-red vampire lips softened. Her whole face softened. It seemed to be melting. Like a butterscotch sundae. A patch of pancake base cracked loose from her chin and fell to the rug.

  "Romeo," she said in a breathy voice.

  "Remo," Remo corrected.

  "You could change your name," Cheeta cooed. "For me."

  "I'm outta here," Remo said, retreating as if from Typhoid Mary.

  "Wait!" Cheeta called out. "Don't go!"

  The Master of Sinanju, his expression stricken, said, "Go, Remo. You are no longer needed."

  It was too late. Cheeta got between Remo and the door. She put her back to the door and threw out her chest. There wasn't much to throw out, but Remo got the message. So did Chiun.

  "Remo!" he said hotly.

  "This isn't my idea," Remo protested.

/>   Cheeta Ching took Remo by the arm. Her nails dug in experimentally, as if testing his muscles. "Come with me," she said warmly. "I'll show you how to operate the camera. I bet you'll be wonderful at it. Perhaps you might like to become my personal cameraman. The last one had terrible reflexes."

  "He will not!" Chiun blazed.

  Cheeta said, "Hush, grandpa. And tell Esperanza that Cheeta Ching is ready for him."

  The Master of Sinanju stood as if quick-frozen. His hands became fists and his cheeks became red. They puffed out in exasperation.

  "Remo!" he hissed. "Do something!"

  Remo asked Cheeta Ching, "Aren't you married?"

  "Oh, him. You've probably heard about our little problem. I've been trying to get preggers for ages."

  "I am much more virile than that round-eyed, bignosed, ape-footed clod!" Chiun shouted.

  "Anybody would be," Cheeta said dryly, not taking her dark eyes off Remo Williams. "He's a gynecologist. Takes a lot to start his engine."

  "I'd better get Ricky," Harmon Cashman said uneasily. "He's on the phone."

  "Yes, you had better," Chiun said bitterly, his hazel eyes boring into Remo.

  Because it meant getting Cheeta Ching's nails disengaged from his bare arms, Remo agreed to operate the minicam.

  "You just point and shoot, right?" he asked.

  "No, it's much more complicated than that," Cheeta said sweetly. Her voice was like butter warm from the microwave. "Make sure you pan over to my face every time I ask a question."

  "Isn't this interview about Esperanza?" Remo wondered.

  "No. It's an interview with Cheeta Ching." She winked. "Stick around, and I'll show you why that's such a big deal."

  Remo hefted the camera onto his shoulder, found the eyepiece, and experimentally roved the lens around the room. The face of the Master of Sinanju appeared in the viewfinder. It was very, very angry.

  Remo took the camera away from his face and mouthed the words, "Not my fault."

  "Humph," said Chiun, flouncing around, presenting his cold, austere back to his pupil.

  The sounds caught Cheeta Ching's attention. "You. Grandfather. Yoo-hoo." She was still in her buttery mode. "Why don't you run out and get us some coffee?"

  "I am no servant," Chiun said huffily.

  "Well then, don't you have something you could be doing? This is a major, major interview for Mr. Esperanza. Only important people should be here. We cannot have any distractions. I'm sure you understand?"

  "I," said the Master of Sinanju, in a voice that was like ice cracking in a glass, "do not."

  Chiun stormed from the room out onto the patio promenade, where he could pretend to suffer in silence yet keep his eyes on Remo and the fickle Cheeta unobtrusively.

  Enrique Espiritu Esperanza made his entrance a moment later. He came bearing a silver tray, which he placed on the coffee table before Cheeta Ching, who didn't deign to rise at his entrance.

  "For you," he said smoothly.

  "Thank you," said Cheeta, casually taking an Oreo cookie from the tray. As Enrique Esperanza sat down, she shook the cookie in his face. "Before we get to the story behind your brush with death yesterday, tell me about these."

  "They are very good," Enrique invited. "You should try one."

  Cheeta held up the confection so that Remo could get a close-up of it in her hand. He zoomed in eagerly. Cheeta's face in the viewfinder made him feel like an extra in Jaws.

  "I'm given to understand that the Oreo cookie is the symbol of your campaign. Can you explain your position on the snack-tax controversy?"

  "Gladly, Miss Ching."

  Remo switched the lens over to the cherubic face of Enrique Esperanza. Remo's finger was on the trigger-or whatever they were called. The thing was whirring. He hoped that meant it was recording and not rewinding. He'd always had trouble with mechanical stuff.

  "I am against all hurtful taxes," said the dark-horse candidate for governor.

  "You can't be serious. That's boilerplate."

  "But I am. Taxes are wrong when they hurt people."

  "Would you mind expanding on that?" Cheeta Ching asked, lifting the cookie higher. The dark chocolate aroma wafted into her nose, tickling nasal receptors, which in turn triggered long-dead memory cells. Somehow it brought her back to her teen years, when she'd had a weight problem, and cookies had made her feel so good.

  In the middle of an exclusive interview, Cheeta Ching almost did an unspeakable thing. She almost ruined her lipstick by biting into an Oreo sandwich cookie.

  As the aromatic dark chocolate floated like some fragrant genie to her lips, she thought that maybe her tiny transgression could be edited out in production.

  The Oreo never made it to her blood-red lips.

  Instead, it exploded into black chocolate powder and flecks of partially hydrogenated soybean oil creme filling, as a high-powered bullet pulverized it before burying itself in the fabric of the leather sofa behind her.

  Cheeta Ching was rarely at a loss for words. But now she found herself staring dumbly at her numb forefinger and thumb, which had been holding the confection.

  They stung. And there was a little blood on the ball of her thumb, which had been scraped in passing.

  "I . . . uh . . . oh . . . I . . ." she gulped through blood-red lips.

  Then the room seemed to explode all around her.

  Chapter 10

  Before the second bullet shattered the panoramic glass window on the west side of the penthouse, everybody in the room reacted to the first shot.

  Everyone, that is, except Cheeta Ching.

  Remo Williams helped Cheeta to react by jamming her face deep into the sofa cushions. Cheeta yelped. Remo gave the back of her neck an extra squeeze and she promptly went to sleep.

  The second bullet came, bringing with it a shower of plate glass like sharp, crystalline hail.

  Harmon Cashman had already thrown himself across the body of Enrique Esperanza. He grabbed the silver tray of Oreos off the coffee table and cradled them from harm as well.

  While he waited to die, he used his tongue to soak up cookie crumbs that had fallen like chocolate snow on his coat sleeves.

  Remo grabbed both men up, and, tucking them under each arm, rushed to an inner room.

  The Master of Sinanju burst in from the outside, crying, "Cheeta! My beloved!"

  "I just put her down," Remo called back.

  Chiun fell upon the limp anchorwoman, carried her inside in spindly arms, gently placed her on the bed. He turned to Remo.

  "Why did you do that?" he demanded, eyes flinty.

  "Put her to sleep? So she wouldn't see anything that would get on the news!"

  The Master of Sinanju stamped a sandaled foot. "But you have deprived me of my moment of glory! I have rescued the one and only Cheeta, and she does not know!"

  "Little Father," Remo said earnestly. "I promise to put in a good word for you when she comes to. Okay?"

  Glass shattered in the outer room. It was followed by a snapping, ricochet sound.

  "Come on. We have a sniper to slay," Remo urged.

  Chiun turned to Esperanza. "Have no fear."

  "I have none," said Enrique Espiritu Esperanza. "For I know I am protected by the best."

  Chiun, bowing formally, breezed from the room. Remo followed.

  "Who is that guy, that he knows all about you?" Remo asked.

  "Esperanza is a great man," Chiun said.

  "Bulldookey," said Remo.

  They weaved their way through the furniture. No bullets struck them. No bullets came at all.

  Moving low, they reached the parapet and peered up over the edge.

  There was only one sniper. He was crouched on the roof of a high-rise office building, directly across Wilshire. They could see the color of his face. It was as brown as a cashew.

  "He looks Latino," Remo whispered.

  Chiun stood up and shook an angry fist, which was mostly bone covered by yellow parchment-skin.

  "Hear me,
O villain!" he called. "I am the Master of Sinanju, and I say that your minutes are numbered!"

  The sniper brought his weapon up to his cheek and put an eye to the sniper scope.

  It was a mistake. The Master of Sinanju cracked a piece of parapet off the roof combing, and with a flicking motion sent it screaming on its way.

  The sniper had no sooner laid the cross hairs onto his target than the scope filled with stone. The stone, moving at terminal velocity, drove the scope into the man's eye socket, shattering it, so that the tube buried itself for half its length in the soft cheese of his brain.

  "Scratch one sniper," Remo said, coming to his feet.

  "He will never threaten Cheeta again," the Master of Sinanju intoned.

  "Not to mention the inspiring Esperanza," Remo said dryly.

  "Him, too."

  "Too bad you had to waste him," Remo said slowly. "Now he can't tell us who put him up to it."

  "We could not risk a stray bullet harming Cheeta."

  "Fickle as she is, right?"

  "Perhaps something may be learned from that body," Chiun said pointedly.

  "Just what I was thinking. You know, it would be a good idea if one of us were to spirit the body away before that hairy barracuda wakes up and starts asking questions."

  "I do not dispose of bodies," Chiun said icily.

  "That means you want the Cheeta detail, huh?"

  Chiun considered. "She is fickle, but it may be she will come to see my good qualities."

  Remo grinned. "You forget. I have a boon coming to me."

  Remo had known the Master of Sinanju a long time. He had seen him angry, greedy, elated, and sad, and every mood in between. But he had never seen the old Korean do a slow burn before.

  Chiun first went pale. Then a flush crept up from his neck, which had turned very, very red. The flush suffused his wrinkled visage, until his bald head came to resemble a Christmas bulb with almond eyes.

  "Of course," Remo said quickly, not sure that a volcano wasn't about to blow, "for the right word, I might be willing to fetch the body."

  The Master of Sinanju's voice was thin. "What word?"

  "The P word will do."

  "Pale piece of . . ."

  "Not what I had in mind. How about 'please'?"

  Chiun hesitated. He cleared his throat. Remo waited.