"Destroyer - 027 - The Last Temple" - читать интересную книгу автора (Murphy Warren)

"Enough," Smith said. "Have you fixed that faulty French connection?"

"Is the Fonz cool?"

"Where is the Fonz?" asked Smith.

"Never mind," said Remo. "Job's done."

"Good. I have another assignment for you."

"What now?" asked Remo. "Don't I ever get any sleep? Who've we got to zap this time?"

"Not over the phone," Smith said. "The outdoor cafe on the north side of the hotel. In twenty minutes."

There was a click, then a dial tone that Remo swore sounded as if it had a French accent.

"That was that lunatic Smith," Chiun said, still immobile in the lotus position on the mat.

"Who else at this hour?"

"Good. He and I must talk."

"If you wanted to talk to him, why didn't you answer the telephone?"

"Because that is servant's work," Chiun said. "Did you send it?"

"Send what?"

"The message to Norman Lear, Norman Lear," Chiun said.

"Little Father, I just got up."

"I cannot trust you to do anything right. You should have sent it by now. He who waits waits forever."

"And a stitch in time saves nine, a penny saved is a penny earned, early to bed and early to rise. Which way is north?"

Harold Smith, the director of CURE, sat among the colorful, babbling young French patrons at the early-morning bistro like a cockroach at a cocktail party.

As Remo slid into a seat across the simple white table, he saw that Smith wore his customary gray suit, vest, and annoying Dartmouth tie. Countries changed, years passed, some died and some lived, but Harold W. Smith and his suit remained eternally the same.

Chiun parked himself on the next table, which was, mercifully, unoccupied, so that Chiun did not have to unoccupy it. Customers stole glances at the trio, and one young man identified Chiun as Sun Mung Moon in town for a pop rally.

The hired help had seen the trio's kind before, however. The older one in the twenty-year-old suit must be the producer. The thin one in the black T-shirt was the director, and the Oriental couldn't be a servant since he was sitting on a table as if he owned the restaurant, so he must be the actor playing Charlie Chan or Fu Manchu or something. Just another silly American film company.

"Hi, Smitty," said Remo. "What's worth waking me up for?"

"Remo," said Smith, by way of greeting. "Chiun."

"Right again," said Remo.