“That was impressive.”
Remo turned toward the voice. The explosion hadn’t so much as moved him, but the bombshell before him now rocked him all the way down to his heels. She wore an ankle length white skirt patterned with a grey pencil mural of a landscape. Upstairs, she had on a sleeveless white top that hugged the concave shape of her waistline and a neckline that scooped down to reveal one shoulder. Her dark hair was braided and lay across her covered shoulder.
“Well, what can I say?” Remo shrugged. “Some days, you just can’t get rid of a bomb.”
She smiled. “You didn’t seem to have any trouble.” She opened her purse and produced a business card. “Avital Fuchs,” she announced, extending the card to Remo.
“You what?”
She had the decency to blush but was not deterred. “I’m a reporter with the Israel Times,” she continued.
“Do you know Cheeta Ching?” The sing-song cadence carried a hopeful tone, as Chiun appeared beside Remo, seemingly from nowhere, taking the woman aback.
“Chiun, where the hell did you go?”
Chiun waved an arm at the commotion on the street above, as police cars had begun to arrive and news stations started to set up their cameras. “Here. There. I get around. The beach is quite serene. And I had lottery tickets to return for money.”
“What did you do with the losers?”
Chiun huffed. “The store clerk would not take them back, even though I assured him they were untouched and still in quite sellable condition.” He smiled. “In the end, I found someone who wished to feel the thrill of losing their money, and enabled them to find this beatific bliss.”
“You sold them tickets that you knew were losers.”
“I did not wish to burden them with knowledge that might rob them of their bliss,” Chiun replied.
Avital looked up nervously at the gathering crowd. “Perhaps we could go talk someplace a bit more private?” she urged.
“Fine with me,” Remo said. “I think Michelin’s on their way to collect some of their stars from this place.”
“But do you know Cheeta Ching?” Chiun insisted.
“She’s…in New York,” Avital confessed. “I don’t really travel in the same circles as she does.”
“Bah,” Chiun waved dismissively, having no further use for this reporter. He walked ahead of them down the beach, and Avital arched one eyebrow with curiosity at how the strange little man in the bright yellow kimono managed to leave no footprints in the sand.
She turned her attention back to Remo. “So, what were your impressions of Mahboob?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Upright. Firm. Better than average.”
“Excuse me?”
“No, better than average is good. I figure a 38C, like the other one. I mean, I’ve seen bigger, but bigger isn’t always better.”
She smacked his shoulder playfully and laughed musically. “No, you idiot. I mean our human bomb back there. Mahboob Wais Vermani. He was with the ya Homaar.”
“Seriously, his name was Mahboob? I would have blown myself up a long time ago.”
She smirked. “And what do I call you, Mister…?”
Remo had known this lady less than three minutes, and had already gotten more information out of her than he had old Mahboob. He offered his hand. “Robespierre,” Remo said. She took it, taking notice of the near lack of a defined wrist, as though the man’s forearms went straight on into his thumb and little finger.
“Robespierre?” she asked, arching one perfect eyebrow.
“Remo Robespierre,” he replied. “Just call me Remo. Everybody does. And you’ve already met Chiun.”
“She does not know Cheeta Ching,” Chiun called back. “Leave her be and let us be gone.”
She smiled, and let go of his hand. “And what do you do, Mister…Remo? Besides do a mean hammer throw with exploding terrorists, that is?”
“Oh, I’m a reporter too,” Remo said. “Fieldwork mostly. I don’t get in front of the camera. I’m told I don’t photograph all that well. I’m with…MSM-BS,” he said. She gave him a doubtful look, so he added, “It’s a local cable channel. Hardly anyone really watches it.”
“Ah,” she said, not completely convinced. “I’m surprised that a local American affiliate would send someone to cover…events here in Jersey.”
She was being intentionally coy, so Remo decided to cut through the façade. “Oh, you mean the secret peace talks? Yeah, that stuff goes over big with our audience. They get together later that night at the corner café and debate the issues we air. Mostly, though, they just debate which weather girl looks the hottest, and which talking head should go back to doing sports.”
Avital’s eyes widened. “So you were aware of the proceedings? That explains why ya Homaar was here.”
“How do you figure that?” he asked.
“Well, if my people knew about the secret talks, and your people knew about the secret talks, they really couldn’t be that much of a secret, could they?”
Remo had to admit the lady had a point. “Once it gets past more than five people, secrets are impossible to keep,” he said, recalling something someone had told him early in his career at CURE.
“Five?” she said with a mild scoff. “I’d always heard that it was two could keep a secret, if one of them were dead. I think that’s an old Chinese proverb or something.”
“Korean,” Chiun called, before muttering, in Korean, something about misappropriation, plagiarism, and visiting a scourge upon someone’s house.
“I like that,” Remo said. “I think I’ll steal it. If you don’t mind, that is?” He stopped and looked into her brown eyes, his own steely orbs taking on an uncharacteristic charm.
She returned the gaze. “You’re welcome to anything I have,” she said, stepping well into his personal space. “Perhaps we could talk about things later? Over dinner, perhaps? I promise, my hotel doesn’t have anyone trying to blow it up.”
“That you know of,” Remo added.
“Are you aware of something I’m not?” She arched an eyebrow and rested her hand so delicately on his shoulder that it was like it wasn’t even there.
“Sweetheart, you’d be surprised,” he replied with confidence.
“Good,” she said. “I despise boring dinner conversation. Shall we say 8 o’clock?”
“Make it 7,” Remo said. “I like to get to bed early.”
She blushed. “Then let’s make it 6,” she purred. “I’m staying at La Haule Manor.”
Remo whistled. “Pretty fancy digs for a reporter.”
She looked back over her shoulder at Remo. “It’s a national paper. Almost everybody reads it,” she teased. Remo watched her walk away, timing the tick-tock sway of her departing derriere.
· · ·
“They’re called the ya Homaar,” Remo spoke into the phone. He was sitting at an outdoor table at a café that specialized in something it called “Korean Fusion.” Chiun, after making a cursory study of the menu, had decided to have words with the chef, which seemed like a good time for Remo to make a personal phone call to Smitty. It wasn’t privacy, but with everyone’s attention on the string of Korean and English profanity emanating from the kitchen, it was almost better.
“I’ll look into them,” Smitty said, the sour terseness of his voice somehow managing to lose none of its potency even across thousands of miles, two satellites, and some electronic disassembly and reassembly. “Can you trust this source?”
“She says she’s a reporter or something,” says Remo.
“‘She,’” Smitty repeated. “Of course you trust her.”
“Well, there’s trust and then there’s trust,” Remo said. “If you mean do I trust that she knows what she’s talking about when it comes to these yahoos, then yeah. If you mean do I trust that she’s a reporter, not a chance. She’s way too smart.”
“And what did you tell her you were?” Smitty asked.
“A reporter.”
“Maybe she’ll buy that.”
“I thought I sold it rather well. By the way, I’m going to need a new hotel room. My last one is covered in shattered glass. Any openings at La Haule Manor?”
There was a pause on the other end, and Remo could picture Smitty pinching his sinuses with frustration. “Is it completely necessary?”
“Well, I don’t care, but Chiun saw the brochures and said something about surroundings befitting the Master of Sinanju, yada-yada. He’s right here, if you’d like to speak to him about it.”
Remo heard the sound of keys tapping. “You’re on the top floor.”
“Which room?”
“All of them,” Smitty asked. “Try not to burn the place down.”
“Pleasure doing business with you, Smitty.” He winced only a little at the sound of the phone being slammed down on the American end of the communication, and thought about how elated Chiun would be at the upgrade.
A saucepan flew out into the street and embedded itself handle-first into a light post, which pretty much guaranteed the chef wasn’t the pitcher. “Guess I’d better go cancel this season of Hell’s Café,” he said, standing up and heading into the rapidly-evacuating restaurant.