Unpopular Science

“You, and your confusion, I find humorous. The truth is I do not need you, Senator.”

“Only I know where the military research is.”

“But I do not need that! For me, stealing these secrets and selling them is more or less a hobby. I am semiretired, you know? You, on the other hand, are a driven man, and there is only me and Jack who are capable of helping you to meet your objective. Or maybe not. Maybe you have other irons in the fire, ja? Allow them to assist you—it is of little consequence to me.”

“You know that’s not how it is. You’re the only chance I have.”

“That is as I thought. Don’t worry, Senator, I think Jack will rise to the occasion and we’ll have plenty of time before the elections.”

“Until then I’m just supposed to keep playing double agent for the President?”

“And keep praying that these assassins do not locate either of us while we remain helpless.”

Senator Herbert Whiteslaw hung up the phone and sat on the edge of the mattress. That Fastbinder was a morbid turd. Was there any real reason to think they could be tracked down?

Who knew with these wacky assassins, the old Asian and the smart-mouthed skinny guy? Who knew what sort of resources were behind them? Maybe they were eavesdropping on him at this very minute.

He peeked out the window shades nervously. Fourteenth floor and no sign of assassins.

Still, if they did show up, Whiteslaw wanted to be ready for them. And that meant liquor. Lots of it.

Chapter 45

“Howdy.” Margo, manager of Fastbinder’s Museum of Mechanical Marvels, greeted every customer who came through the door with a great big “Howdy.” It wasn’t an act, like the old farts who stood inside the Wal-Mart. Margo was the genuine article, friendly as all get-out.

“How-dee,” answered the little man in the robe that added a turquoise glow on his paper-thin flesh. The man was older than Margo’s grandma but standing upright, after all. He cocked his head, listening to the gift shop sound system and smiling.

“It’s the latest Molly Pardon. You a Molly admiree?”

“He only likes her for her cleavage,” said a much younger man who entered behind the Asian gentleman.

“Ms. Pardon is not as talented as Ms. Wylander—” the elderly man said conversationally, but he never finished.

“Oh, don’t. I just can’t take it today.” The younger man, who looked constipated or worse, turned on Margo and never even noticed he didn’t get a “Howdy.” “Looking for Fastbinder. Is he around?”

“No. You another lawyer?”

“Do I look like a lawyer?” The man spread his hands slightly and looked down at himself. He was in a crisp, pale yellow T-shirt and casual slacks. The shoes were nice but too much with the outfit.

“Well, maybe you look like a lawyer about to clean his garage,” Margo suggested.

The flesh on the forehead of the old Asian man wrinkled up, his mouth opened in delight and his green eyes positively danced.

“Heh, heh! A lawyer about to clean his garage. Heh, heh!”

The young man breathed out, and the words “oh, God,” were in all that exhaled air. The young man tromped off into the corner and glared into the security camera—the real one, hidden in a plastic fish, not the fake one over the cash register.

“A lawyer about to clean his garage,” the senior citizen repeated appreciatively.

“Do you have Tylenol?” the young man called.

“Sold out,” Margo said.

“Laudanum? Heroin? Cyanide?” The young man was holding his head as if it really hurt.

“My son is joking,” the old Asian explained. “This is what he thinks is funny. After all these years he does not notice that he laughs alone. Is Mr. Fastbinder available?”

“Sorry, sweetie. Gone to town,” Margo said. She was used to lying for Mr. F. So many nasty reporters came here to pester him that it wasn’t really like lying.

Both the men stopped, as if frozen in their tracks, then the young man said, “You’re right. Little Father. We flushed him.”

“What is that noise this time?” Chiun asked. “It is a vehicle, I think.”

“Hey, if tries to fly off, I’m not running after him,” the young one declared.

“I certainly shall not,” the old man said as they whisked out the door, so fast that Margo didn’t actually see them go. She began looking under the display counters.

Remo ran and the hot air was like a torch flame that singed his skin, but burned off some of the crust, too. It felt good to move like torrid wind in the Southwestern American desert. The headache receded.

He nodded to Chiun as they came upon the low, ugly building. Chiun gave him a last, concerned glance, then they separated. Remo circled right, Chiun left, looking for the source of the rumble. It didn’t sound like an aircraft, really, or a track. Maybe it was a bulldozer. Would Fastbinder try to escape in a bulldozer?

Anything short of a rocket, and Remo had him, and the heavy rumble of diesel engines sounded-nothing like a rocket. When he rendezvoused with Chiun on the far end of the building, the old man shook his head.

“I saw no signs of any vehicles.”