Warren Murphy: Angry White Mailmen

Remo lowered his voice. "Little Father, don't spook the driver, but your face is on the giant TV screen up there."

"Where? Where?"

"I said don't make a fuss," Remo hissed. Then Chiun did.

Catching a glimpse of the face shown in full, Chiun's own face collapsed in anger. "That is not me!"

"Chiun!"

"Look, Remo, they have desecrated my face with a mustache. I wear no mustache. And those eyes! They are Japanese, not Korean. How dare they! We must sue for satisfaction."

And switching to Japanese, the Master of Sinanju called for the driver to stop.

Chiun got out, walked to the sidewalk opposite the giant image, which had receded into a floating graphic beside the head of the Japanese network anchorman, and frowned up at the colossal screen.

"They have insulted me."

"Look, people are going to notice us," warned Remo, looking around warily.

Catching a passerby, Chiun took him by the back of the head and directed his face to the Jumbotron screen.

"Is that me?" Chiun asked in English.

The Japanese looked up. Chiun directed his head at his own face, then redirected it back at the screen. "Is it?" Chiun demanded.

The Japanese man began shaking his head no. Vigorously.

"See, Remo. Even he does not see the likeness."

"That's because he doesn't understand English and you're shaking his head for him," Remo argued.

"I am not," said Chiun as the hapless Japanese's tongue began wagging like a dog's tail. His eyes rattled like crazy dice.

"You are. He's trying to get away."

"Then I will grant him his wish," said Chiun, releasing the man.

The Japanese stumbled away, holding his head and staggering off like a salaryman full of saki.

"There is the proof," said Chiun. "If he thought that wretch was the Master of Sinanju, he would have called for my arrest."

"Right now all he's calling for is a doctor."

Chiun glared at the image on the screen. "Remo, have you any coins?"

"Sure, why?"

"Never mind the why. Let me borrow the largest." Remo dug into his pocket. "A Kennedy half dollar do?" he asked.

Chiun accepted the fat, gleaming coin. "It is perfect."

Flipping it, Chiun made the coin bounce and sing. He flipped it several times. Each time the coin spun higher, singing at a higher pitch.

On the fourth flip, the coin shot up, then angled across the street, as if suddenly pulled by a giant magnet.

Before Remo knew it, the Jumbotron screen winked out, leaving a tiny hole that smoked.

"There," said Chiun, satisfied. "Now we will go to our hotel."

"You're going to get us tossed in the local pokey if you keep this up."

But Chiun padded on, serene in the knowledge that he had righted a severe injustice done to him.

In the neighborhood of the hotel, Remo started noticing people walking around in what appeared to be thin blue pajamas. The pajamas all had the same sunburst crest over the blouse pocket.

"What kind of outfits are those?" Remo asked Chiun.

"Pajamas."

"That's what I thought. This a new Japanese custom? Wearing pajamas at night?"

"I do not know."

When they found their hotel, Remo noticed the sunburst pattern on the marquee.

Through the open door, men came and went in the identical blue pajamas with the sunburst monogram. "I don't like the look of this."

"Do not fear, Remo. To Japanese eyes, all Koreans look alike."

"Not what I meant," Remo muttered.

Inside they had to leave their shoes and put on paper slippers. Since Chiun did this without complaint, Remo followed suit.

When they checked in, they were given keys.

"We are on the fifth floor," said Chiun as he led Remo to the elevator where more men in pajamas waited. They had the sleepy look of hotel guests, not employees.

"Casual establishment," remarked Remo.

"Customs are strange in this occupied land." Stepping off on the fifth floor, Remo at first thought he had stepped into a morgue.

The walls were beige, and there were no doors recognizable as such. Instead, spaced along the walls were hatches like the drawers in a morgue, set in twos, one atop the other.

"You sure he said fifth floor?" asked Remo, looking at his key.

Chiun nodded. "Yes. The fifth."

"Our rooms must be down the hall. Way down the hall."

But in fact, they were just around the corner. Remo's key number corresponded with an upper hatch. Chiun's the lower.

"Must be storage lockers," said Remo.

"Yes," added Chiun with a frown.

But as they looked around for the corresponding room door, a Japanese in blue pajamas walked up to a wall hatch, unlocked it with his key and calmly crawled into the lighted tube, shutting it after him.

Soft music floated out of the sealed hatch.

"Did you see what I just saw?" Remo asked Chiun. Remo went to his hatch and opened it.

Inside it was like a morgue drawer except there was bedding. Soft fluorescent lights illuminated the sixfoot-long tube. On the bed lay neatly folded a pair of the blue pajamas, sunburst monogrammed pocket side up. There was a TV screen recessed into the ceiling directly over the short white pillow at the far end. On one side was a control panel for lights and TV

"I'm not sleeping in this!" flared Remo.

"Nor am I," huffed Chiun. "It is an insult!" They turned back, heading down to the lobby. The clerk patiently explained in English that they had no rooms. Only "capsures."

"What's he saying?" Remo asked Chiun.

"Capsures," repeated Chiun.

"I heard that. What's he mean?"

"This capsure hoteru," the clerk said briskly. "No rooms."

"We want our money back," said Remo.

"Sorry, you open hatch. Room is rented. No refund."

"It's not a room," Remo retorted. "It's a freaking drawer."

"You open, you rent. Sorry."

"I have not opened mine," proclaimed the Master of Sinanju, slapping his key down with a flourish.

"You may reave," the clerk allowed.

"Not without refunds," insisted Remo.

"If you insist, I wirr summon porice."

"Yes, call your constables," flared Chiun. "We refuse to knuckle under to your barbaric customs."

"No, don't do that," Remo said hastily. And lowering his voice, he whispered urgently, "We're wanted. Remember?"

"I am not wanted. Some mustachioed impostor is." Remo rolled his eyes.

Turning to the stone-faced clerk, he asked, "Look, can you recommend a good hotel?"

"Yes. This one very good."

"Other than this one," Remo said wearily.

"We have branch in Shinsaibashi District."

"It have rooms?"

"Sunburst Hoteru chain never offer room. We are budget hoteru. Offer exerrent economy for weary traverer."

"Remind me to extract Smith's fingernails one by one when we get back," growled Remo, collecting his shoes.

DAWN WAS BREAKING at the Osaka International Airport.

"So how do we pull this off?" said Remo. "Disguises?"

"I do not require a disguise," said Chiun. "They are seeking an impostor, not me."

"Count on them rounding up every Korean they can lay hands on and sorting them out later. You're not out of the woods yet."

"Nevertheless, I intend to board the next aircraft leaving this hateful land, with or without you."

Remo looked concerned. "Maybe if we go in separate entrances . . ."

"Chicken," sniffed the Master of Sinanju, who padded toward the glass doors.

Remo hung back. It wasn't that he feared for Chiun's safety. The Master of Sinanju could probably take out the entire Osaka airport-security force unassisted. But doing so would create an international incident-exactly what Smith didn't want.

The automatic glass doors parted, and Chiun passed into the sprawling complex of glass and steel.

Remo counted forty-five seconds by his internal clock and followed.

When the doors hummed apart, he expected to hear the sound of gunfire, or at least screaming. He heard neither. A frown touched his strong face. This was too easy.