Warren Murphy: Angry White Mailmen

It was Brown's turn to look dazed. "We'll need the names of all postal employees with access to the box in question."

"Impossible."

"Don't give me that. Generate the list from payroll."

"Relay boxes are locked with what we call a master key. Tens of thousands of master keys are carried by postal workers all over the country. Any key can open any box anywhere."

"Let's start with your people."

"Sorry. This is a federal matter."

"Federal? There was an explosion!"

"Of federal property. I will launch a full investigation and relay the findings to your superior."

"With all due respect, I can't accept that answer. There are casualties. Destruction of property. Not to mention the possibility that the individual responsible may have planted more bombs in other relay boxes."

If possible, the postmaster turned even more pale. And Detective Brown figured he'd gotten through the man's thick, bureaucratic skull.

"I will get right on it, I assure you."

Brown lost it then. "Are you crazy!" he barked, slamming a fist on the postmaster's big desk. "This isn't a jurisdictional matter. A mass murder took place not three blocks from here. It falls under police jurisdiction."

"It's federal. Now I must ask you to leave." Detective Brown glared at the postmaster for a full minute.

The postmaster's return glare was opaque. Neither man looked as though he would budge an inch. "You'll be hearing from us," said Brown, storming out.

AS HE CLATTERED DOWN the wide granite steps, Brown wore his face like a stone mask. The brass of that guy. So what if he was federal. Did he think he could sweep this under the rug? Already the corner of Eighth and Thirty-fourth was surrounded by news crews. By 6:00 p.m. this would be the lead story. They were already breaking into afternoon programming with updates.

Brown was pulling open the door of his sedan when he was knocked off his feet. He landed on his back, the air driven out of his shocked lungs from the impact.

He lay there dazed a moment, his ears ringing, then found his wits and his feet.

Down Fifth, a worm of black smoke was coiling upward in the aftermath of the detonation. Then the screaming began.

Detective Brown started for the sound when he heard another boom. This one farther away. Then another. Then, as if fireworks were going off, a string of detonations reverberated through the canyons of Manhattan.

Over the skyscrapers and high-rise office buildings, thin threads of smoke lifted, darkened and became a pall. All in the space of a minute-the time it took Detective Brown to reach the scene of the first explosion, cursing the delays, the bomber and most of all the postmaster of New York, who now had the biggest headache in the greatest city on earth sitting on his desk like a ticking bomb.

And it served the fucker right.

Chapter 4

At Osaka International Airport all the Japanese passengers got up simultaneously, blocking the aisle. They seemed in a rush to deplane. Remo figured it might have had something to do with the Master of Sinanju's trips to the bathroom. He managed to hit every one of them. After which the doors refused to open. This led to a lot of squirming passengers and a few unpleasant accidents.

"Guess we wait," said Remo.

"You may wait," said the Master of Sinanju, getting out of his seat.

As Remo watched, Chiun started forward. His hands were tucked into the joined sleeves of his kimono when he started. Yet Japanese passengers began jumping back into their seats, making a path as if stung by a very busy bee.

The way clearing before him, Chiun padded up the aisle like an apricot apparition. Red-faced Japanese faces glared at him in passing. A few held themselves and looked desperate.

Remo hurriedly followed.

As the Master of Sinanju stepped off the plane, the Japanese stewardesses in their traditional geisha-style kimonos blocked Remo's way.

"You are not staying, gaijin?" one asked.

"Osaka is my destination," Remo pointed out.

"We are coming back to Osaka. You may stay with us. Fly back to America, then come back. We will make it very pleasant for you, gaijin. "

And they all smiled their geisha smiles.

"Thanks," said Remo. "But my friend will make it very unpleasant for me if I don't get off in Osaka." The Japanese stewardesses all made pouty faces and one asked, "You know of Japanese hara-kiri custom?"

"If you're trying to blackmail me into staying by threatening to commit suicide," Remo said, "it's been tried."

"It has?"

"Many times."

"Did the girls open their bellies for you?"

"I never stick around long enough to find out," said Remo, brushing past.

Remo found Chiun waiting near the baggage chute. There was no luggage. They were only staying a day. Normally the Master of Sinanju took some portion of his fourteen steamer trunks along but in this case he decided against risking even one to what he darkly referred to as "Japanese atrocities."

"Let's find a pay phone," said Remo.

"You did not stay to watch?"

"The stewardesses commit hara-kiri? No. Too messy."

"It is the one Japanese custom of which I approve," Chiun said loudly in English. "If only more Japanese would slit their bellies in shame of being born of these islands."

"Look," hissed Remo, "can we just be on our way?"

"Yes," said Chiun even more loudly. "Let us be on our way. Let us enter Occupied Japan with all its sinister intrigues."

"Japan isn't occupied anymore, Little Father."

"It is occupied by Japanese. Better it were occupied by Koreans, who would improve it. But that is not to be in my lifetime, I fear."

Remo noticed they were being followed by a white gloved security detail so he pretended not to be with the Master of Sinanju. He found a pay phone and dialed the USA country code, then leaned on the 1 button.

"We're here," Remo told Smith when the lemony voice came over the line.

"Go to the Sunburst Hotel on Sakai-Suji Avenue," Smith said.

"No time. Chiun's already stirred up the natives. We've got to be in and out quick."

"I have not yet determined a plan of attack for you," Smith hissed.

"We can go in and kill everyone," Remo suggested.

"Technicians and salary men are not worth our time. Go to Nishitsu Osaka. Make sure the Nishitsu executives understand we have discovered their plot to destroy our rail system and have traced it back to them."

"How?"

"You will find a way. Just be subtle. You are delivering a message."

Rejoining Chiun, Remo related the conversation, then added, "Guess we're just going to have to march in and kick butt."

"Too subtle," Chiun said, stroking his wispy beard. "You call that subtle?"

"I have a more appropriate idea. One that will impress even thick Japanese skulls."

"You lead and I'll follow."

Remo did. First to the Osaka customs counter, where Chiun was asked if he had anything to declare. The question and the Master of Sinanju's vituperative answer were in Japanese, and Remo didn't understand any of it. But the way the customs officials' ears turned red and their facial expressions flattened out suggested that Chiun had declared them all illegitimate sons of Japanese snow monkeys.

The security police who were hovering in the background now rushed forward.

More heated exchanges transpired.

Chiun flung hot words and brandished his jade nail protector in official faces. Someone decided it was undeclared contraband and attempted to seize it.

Instead, he seized his own crotch. Others seized other sensitive portions of their anatomies and Remo had to rush in to rescue the Japanese constabulary from the Master of Sinanju's wickedly flashing nails.

He accomplished this by sending them spinning into a nearby men's room and with his hand cold-soldering the door shut after the last one tumbled in.