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guardrail until his surprised nose was jammed up against the breath-steamed
glass.
"According to this, it's still a free country," Remo snarled bitterly.
"Absolutely," the guard said quickly. "Life, liberty, and the pursuit of
happiness is what I always say. Always." As a reward, his feet clicked back on
the polished marble floor. The hand at his collar released. He adjusted his
uniform.
"Enjoy your reading, sir," the guard said. He faded back toward a doorway
where he could keep his eye on the strange tourist in black, yet still stay
out of reach of his strong hands.
If the guy made any weird moves, he would trigger the alert that would cause
the Constitution housing to descend by scissors jack into a protective well in
the marble flooring.
Then he would get the hell out of the building. The guy's eyes were as spooky
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as an owl's.
Remo finished reading in silence. Then, turning hard on his heel, he left the
Archives Building and glided down the stairs like a purposeful black ghost.
Harold Smith picked up the blue telephone, frowning.
"Yes, Remo?"
"Smitty? I have some good news for you and some bad."
"Go ahead," Smith said in a voice as gray and colorless as his apparel.
"I'm quitting CURE."
Without skipping a beat, Smith asked, "What is the good news?"
"That is the good news," Remo returned. "The bad is that I can't quit until I
finish this assignment."
"That is good."
"No, it's bad. I may not survive this one, any more than Chiun survived our
last one."
"Come again?" Smith asked, his voice losing its studied neutrality.
"Smitty, you gotta get those computers of yours replaced. They blew it.
Big-time."
"Come to the point, Remo."
"If they're still working-which I doubt-you're going to get a report on a
couple of strangled call girls found in the offices of the Diplomatic Escort
Service."
"I trust you interrogated them before you strangled them?"
"Nope. I didn't strangle them. My guess is our happy hooker did."
Smith paused. Remo could hear the hollow clicking of his computer keys. "What
did you learn from the office?"
"That Washington is in the grip of a strangulation flap-something your
computers should have picked up, if they were working."
"I am aware of only two homicides by strangulation other than those you have
reported," Smith said. "A medical-supply salesman named Cosmo Bellingham and
an insurance adjuster by the name of Carl Lusk. One was found in the elevator
of the Sheraton Washington Hotel. The other in an alley near Logan Circle."
"And that didn't ring any bells?"
"Two strangulations. Statistically within the norm for an urban center like
the District of Columbia."
"Well, counting the two call girls, four hotel maids, and the late ambassador,
we have nine. How statistical is that?"
"Are you saying that all of these homicides are connected?"
"You tell me," Remo said acidly. "Does your computer tell you what they were
done away with?"
More clicks. "No."
"Silk scarves," Remo said. "Yellow silk scarves."
"Like the ambassador?" Harold Smith croaked. "Oh, my God. Are you certain?"
"The cops I overheard at the escort service say it's the killer's trademark.
Now, think. Who do we know who strangles with yellow scarves?"
"The Thuggee cult," Smith said hoarsely. "But, Remo, you wiped that group out
long ago. It was the work of that pirate who ran Just Folks Airlines, Aldrich
Hunt Baynes III. He's dead. The cult was smashed. Even the airline is out of
business now."
"Tell me, Smith, were those two salesmen traveling when they got it?"
"Let me check." Smith's fingers attacked his keyboard like a feverish concert
pianist. Presently, expanded versions of the wire-service reports on both
homicides appeared on the screen as side-by-side blocks of text.
"Bellingham was killed shortly after checking into his hotel," Smith reported.
"The other man died before reaching his."
"Travelers. Same M.O., Smitty," Remo pointed out. "They always hit travelers.
Make friends, get their confidence, and when they're lulled, wrap the of silk
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