Chiun stood in the middle of the concourse, looking after the departing Remo Williams as he disappeared into the men’s room. The departing and arriving travelers were forced to swerve around the small and seemingly frail Korean as he stood immobile, his arms tucked into the folds of his kimono sleeves. A shuttle cart pulled up to him, its driver beeping for him to get out of the way. Chiun did not seem to move, but the toe of his sandal made contact with one of the front tires. The rubber casing made a loud pop! sending a few nearby travellers rolling out of the doorless sides of the vehicle. He did not take his eyes off the entrance to the men’s room, his wrinkled brow furrowed with worry, his eyes narrowed to slits.

  · · ·

  Abner Dibble had a good, cushy job. Nobody envied him his job when he told them what it was—plunging toilets and picking up litter at Memphis International. His beige coveralls made him almost invisible to the crowds of travelers, who were usually too preoccupied with their phone conversations to notice anyone else. Or, in this case, too distracted trying to soothe a colicky baby, while a little girl begged for a souvenir from the gift shop.

  Abner knew where all the cameras were, and knew all their blind spots. He rolled his wastebasket and his cart of cleaning supplies, using his extensible trash picker to reach for discarded candy wrappers, empty soda bottles, and pocketbooks sticking haphazardly out of the sides of diaper bags.

  The latter was usually his cue to clear out one of the johns so he could squirt the commodes with bleach and have a few private moments to take a quick count of his profits. He was doing just that, when a skinny guy in the black t-shirt and chinos came around the tiled privacy wall.

  “Restroom’s closed, sir,” Abner said. “There’s another one toward Gate A past the coffee shop.”

  “I really don’t think I can make it that far,” the man said. He kept coming, too. Most people stopped in their tracks out of sheer embarrassment. But this guy walked with purpose. Abner slipped the nabbed pocketbook into one of the plastic buckets on his pushcart, out of sight.

  “Well, I haven’t mopped the floor yet, or sprayed down the urinals,” Abner said. “Go ahead and do your business.”

  The man smiled in an odd way. “Funny,” he said. “Just what I had in mind, Abner.”

  Abner looked the man over more cautiously. “We know each other, mister?”

  Remo Williams continued to casually advance. “We’ve never met, if that’s what you mean,” he said. “But I know you. Or people like you. Preying on your betters. You’re a remora attached to a shark. A bottom feeder.”

  Abner’s brow darkened, and his hand went toward his radio, ready to call security. “What the hell are you talking about? How do you know my name?”

  “I think you and that nice lady’s pocketbook know exactly what I’m talking about, Abner. Not that you care what she’s going to do without her credit cards and cash while she’s away from home, or how she’ll feed her kids when they get hungry, or get a hotel room until all her credit cards get cancelled and replaced. And why should you? They’re not your kids, are they?” By now Remo was just a few feet away. “As for your name,” he said, “it’s typed on your nametag, presumably so you won’t forget it.”

  Abner moved his hand away from his radio. He could not call security now, not with the pocketbook in his possession. But the situation was not unsalvageable.

  “Look mister...”

  “Call me Remo.”

  “Sure, sure. Reno. Got it,” Abner said, in a tone reserved for approaching a growling dog. “Maybe we can split it, you and me?” He pulled the pocketbook back out of the plastic bucket. “You wouldn’t mind an extra couple of bucks, right?”

  Remo’s expression did not change. “Money’s not really a problem for me these days.”

  Abner’s eyes went to the man’s wrists, which were rotating as if preparing for some kind of action. He noticed how thick they were, as if the forearm went straight into the hand. The guy was a fighter, and Abner was decidedly not. So he went for the Hail Mary.

  Abner took the pocketbook and tossed it toward the man, who caught it effortlessly.

  “Looks like I make Employee of the Month again,” Abner said, grinning triumphantly. “Caught another purse snatcher in the john.”

  He reached for his radio, registering surprise that it suddenly was not there. The guy in the black t-shirt somehow had it in his other hand. “That’s a neat trick, mister,” Abner said, cautiously. “Why don’t we just cut to the chase? What is it you really want?”

  Remo advanced, his grin a tight grimace, his deep-set eyes suddenly in shadow beneath his prominent brow. “World peace. Snow at Christmas. A quiet retirement.” He took Abner by the throat, closing off any chance for the man to cry out. “But those are all long-term goals. What do I really want right now?”

  Remo squeezed.

  “Let me show you.”

  · · ·

  Attentive visitors to the Memphis International Airport might have noticed, had they been passing by that particular men’s room at the moment, a whooshing sound of multiple toilets flushing in unison. Being an airport, however, the only attentive person was Chiun, who remained standing impassively with his arms folded while two airport security personnel tried to push the disabled golf cart to the side so they could repair the blown tire.

  Remo exited with a satisfied expression, carrying a woman’s pocketbook. He turned left, back the way he had originally come down the concourse, and tapped a harried mother on the shoulder as she bounced a screaming infant on her lap.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. “This was lying under the seat next to you. Is it yours?”

  Her eyes widened in recognition of the pocketbook, with the edges of her boarding passes sticking out the ends. “Oh my God,” she cried, nearly letting the infant tumble from her lap to the floor as she reached for the item. “Oh my God, thank you,” she exclaimed. She quickly snapped open the pocketbook and did an immediate inventory of the cash contents in front of Remo.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, walking away.

  Only when he was once again even with the Master of Sinanju did Chiun move. “And what was that all for?” Chiun asked, casting a baleful glance at Remo.

  “What?” Remo asked innocently. “You mean the bathroom? It’s a quaint American custom they should adopt in North Korea. See, when people have a certain urge in their bellies, the bathroom is where they go to flush away their…”

  Chiun’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

  “…human waste,” Remo concluded, more seriously.

  “Human waste like amateur cutpurses who should be beneath your notice?”

  Remo sighed. “Okay, fine,” he said. “Let’s just say what happened in there was…justice.” He turned away from Chiun and resumed his path toward the luggage carousel.

  Chiun cast a heavenward glance, as though he could see something past the drywall ceiling. “That is what I feared it would be,” he murmured to himself.

  · · ·

  Remo’s TSA clearance gained him swift and easy access to the disaster site. Unlike the Black Hawk bridge, this site was swarming with authorities. Helicopters beat the air overhead, police boats carefully patrolled, and divers went in and out of the water, pulling out dozens of dripping, broken corpses.

  The rubble on both sides of the river teemed with agents in bright yellow ponchos from a variety of agencies, like ants crawling over dropped candy—dozens and dozens of yellow ants, among which prowled two very keen black ones.

  Remo Williams—Remo D’Cantrill to anyone who asked for credentials—once again gingerly picked through concrete and steel. While the different agents employed a variety of instruments from digital cameras to clipboards, Remo used his hands, picking up one chunk of rubble, seeming to feel it, then dropping it in favor of another.

  “Where’s your gear?”

  Remo looked up and saw a young man with close-cropped hair and an inquisitive smooth-shaven face. He was the recruitment poster boy for the FBI if the bold black letters on his yellow safety vest were any indication.

  Remo jerked his head toward the shore. “He’s my gear,” he said, indicating the frail looking Asian man in the black silk kimono with the embroidered red salamanders facing each other on it. The little man seemed to be practicing a form of Tai Chi, dipping gracefully to the ground and picking up things off the ground—pebbles, the agent assumed.

  “Seriously?” the agent inquired.

  “I’m always serious,” Remo said. His tone indicated he was done talking to the younger man, as he turned and walked back toward the shore.

  He tossed a fist sized chunk of broken concrete in Chiun’s direction, without warning. None was needed. The Master of Sinanju, his gaze taken with another curiosity on the ground, reached up a hand without looking and plucked the chunk from the air as lightly as if it were made of Styrofoam.

  “What do you think, Little Father?” Remo asked.

  Chiun looked at the concrete in his hand. He squeezed his nimble fingers around it, and the piece crumbled, dust trailing between his fingers. “It is about as strong as one might expect stone made by whites to be,” he sniffed.

  “So you don’t see any algae either,” Remo said.

  “None that should not be there,” Chiun confirmed. “It is not river scum that has broken apart the foundations of this bridge.”

  “It wasn’t explosives either,” Remo said.

  “Of course not,” Chiun stated. “I have already told you what has crumbled the concrete.”

  “What?” Remo asked.

  Chiun huffed. “The bridge fell down on it.”

  “No kidding,” Remo said. “But what made it fall if it wasn’t explosives and it wasn’t —”

  “Algae! Ay, I found the algae here!” The shout came from a woman further down the bank. Her leather pants and boots shone with wetness, but it was her leather halter top, visible under her EPA vest, that struck Remo as an odd choice of wardrobe for a government employee. It did not seem to be appropriate for any of the offices currently present, and it certainly was not suitable for the environment being canvassed.

  She held up a sealed jar of river water, the side still dripping with moisture from where it had been dipped. Several agents gathered toward her, both EPA and DHS, to question her certainty and to ascertain the veracity of the sample. They were all interested in the sample. None seemed interested in her. They took the sample from her like she was the Madonna and had just entrusted them with the baby Christ, and they put all their attention to it as she clutched at her gut and backed away toward one of the hastily erected portable toilets.

  “By the pricking of my thumbs,” Remo muttered.

  Chiun looked sidelong at him. “When do you take time to read?”

  “Saw it in a movie,” he said as he made his way purposefully toward the portajohns.

  · · ·

  Twelve malodorous and noisy minutes later, Anna Conde exited the pale green plastic outhouse.

  “Hi there.”

  She started and turned to see a thin man leaning casually against the side of the portajohn. “Ay!” She exclaimed, then laughed. “I did not see you there, señor.”

  “I wanted to talk to you,” said the man, his muscular lean arms crossed against his chest, which was covered by a black t-shirt. “You’re the one who found the algae?”

  “Sí,” she said. “I mean, yes. Just over there.” She indicated where Remo had seen her standing earlier.

  “Right,” he said. “How sure are you that whatever you found is the stuff responsible for this disaster?”

  Anna Conde straightened as much as her perpetual stomach cramps would allow. “One hundred percent,” she said. “I am a botanist, you know. I am trained to know these things. And this algae—” she smiled warmly, as though talking about the precocious deeds of her children “—this is really something else. It’s very, what’s the word?”

  “Annoying?” Remo said.

  “No, no, that’s not it,” she said. “It’s very unique.” She pronounced the word as though it started with a ‘j.’

  “No chance that this could be something more benign,” Remo asked. “That any mistake was made?”

  “Señor,” she said. “I do not make such mistakes. As far as the EPA is concerned, this is the result of an ecological disaster. Nature, she is not happy with us.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not a big fan of hers at the moment, either,” he said, walking away.

  “Señor!” She called after him. Something—some animal part of her she detested—craved this man’s attentions, and whimpered at the thought of his departure. “I could show you more,” she said. “So much more.”

  The man in the t-shirt and chinos continued walking. She sighed, cursing her inner animal tendencies. She wondered where the nearest vegetable slave market was. She was going to need to liberate a cucumber tonight. Maybe a nice handsome zucchini.

  When Remo returned to the Master of Sinanju, he appeared more perplexed than ever. “Well, Chiun, this is getting frustrating. I say it’s not the algae that caused this. You say it’s not the algae that caused this. But everyone else says that it is.”

  “Perhaps not everyone,” Chiun said enigmatically.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Is a killer crop of algae assassins out to get us? Have we burned our bridges when it comes to environmental sanity? That’s the subject of conversation on this hour of The Leah Meadow Show. Hello America, I’m your host, Leah Meadow, and with us this week I have the distinct privilege and honor of speaking with someone you surely all recognize, the idol of the women’s movement and the hero of the Bosnian Sniper Fire attack, our former First Lady and Secretary of State!”

  As the crewcut blonde swiveled in her chair to face the Secretary, she pressed a button under her desk that initiated the sound of a stadium of applause. “Madam Secretary,” she gushed. “Words can’t express how thrilled I am to have you on the program tonight.”

  PHONUS straightened up in her chair and forced a smile, feeling the adrenaline rush of the injection her personal handler had given her in the green room. She would be alert and pleasant for the next forty minutes. “It’s good to be here, Leah,” she said.

  “I just wish it could have been under happier circumstances,” said Meadow. “And certainly our thoughts go out to the families of the victims of the Memphis Tragedy.”

  The practiced bright smile of the candidate flickered momentarily as she sought the right empathic expression, showing a glimpse of her annoyance at the subject of her presence having been so quickly shifted to the bridge collapse in Memphis. But then she remembered that this was the reason she was here in the first place. Her somber expression found, it settled onto her face like a comfortable mask. “Yes, Leah,” she said. “It’s a terrible, terrible tragedy, one that’s occurring with alarming regularity across this great land of ours.”

  “But it’s certainly got to be a boost to your campaign,” Leah offered brightly. “The environment has always been one of the Democratic Party’s strong platform planks.”

  The Secretary blinked, the left eye slightly out of sync with the right. Was she supposed to treat this good news as good news? Was she supposed to deflect?

  I don’t want to politicize a national tragedy. The candidate jerked to attention at the voice of Yaba Dabadouin in her ear, speaking through the earring speakers.

  “I don’t want to politicize a national tragedy,” she dutifully repeated. “What’s important at this time is that we come together as a country, and put all our support behind the people of Memphis, as well as the families of everyone who died. That’s why my campaign believes so firmly in our motto, ‘Healthier When United.’” The motto had initially come out as a rebuttal to questions about the candidate’s own health, and was quickly spun to serve as a promise to continue the healthcare policies put in place by the outgoing administration. Since that time, the Secretary had attempted to apply it to every situation encountered, no matter how much the term had to be tortured and stretched.

  “So when you’re elected,” Leah said, then stopped herself with a self-deprecating laugh, “I’m sorry, I suppose I should say ‘if’ you’re elected...”

  The secretary laughed with her, a harsh grating sound. “Can’t count our chickens before they’re hatched,” she drawled.

  “But if you’re elected,” the host continued, her eyes twinkling with amusement, “what do you plan to do to prevent further ecological catastrophes like these bridge collapses?”

  “Face the camera. This is your moment, just like we practiced,” Yaba whispered in her ear.

  PHONUS turned, took a breath, and squared her shoulders. “Well, let me tell you, Leah. And let me tell the American people. We will not stand by and let Wall Street bankers and Big Pharma manufacturers continue to skirt regulations and pollute our waterways. This kind of reckless and wanton disregard for our fragile ecosystem has got to—is going to—come to an end. Under my administration, we will enact stringent regulations, with harsh penalties, to ensure this kind of thing never happens again.” Her eyes grew stern as she stared directly into the camera. “Make no mistake. We are at war.”

  · · ·

  “We are at war!” Shane Vanity, a broad-shouldered man with a banker’s haircut stated this emphatically into the camera. “It’s not pretty, but it’s true. The Democrats would have us believe we’re living in a bad horror movie, where plants have declared war on us. I prefer to live in the real world, where we know our real enemies are the proponents of radical Islam, as evidenced by the horrors enacted by the agents of Daesh, and most recently through the Disciples of Mohammad and Fathers of the Caliphate, who have not only blown up the Lake Shore and Michigan Southern bridge, but we have also just learned they’ve destroyed the Tilley Mill Bridge in Barstow County, Georgia.” An image appeared behind him, showing an archive image of the ancient bridge with the word ‘BOOM’ superimposed across it.

  “Now,” he continued earnestly, “We’re thankful there were no casualties reported, and we can only hope our Creator continues to bestow His Divine protection over this great nation of ours. But that surely can’t last if we, as a country, continue on the path we’ve been on for the past eight years.”