Warren Murphy: Survival Course

"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.