It would have been the end of the United States of America. Both men knew it.
So when the President-only months away from being struck down by an assassin's bullet-told Harold W Smith about CURE, an autonomous secret agency sanctioned to circumvent constitutional restrictions to put America's social house back in order, Harold Smith saw the wisdom of it. He became the first and only director of CURE-not an acronym, but a prescription of a sick society.
Above the law, independent of the executive branch and licensed to neutralize anyone who was deemed a threat to America's continued survival, Harold Smith of the Vermont Smiths had run CURE in its first decade purely as an information-gathering agency. Enforcement was up to the justice system, which Smith frequently set on malefactors by anonymous tips and surreptitiously guided public exposure.
But as the justice system began to unravel during that turbulent decade and lawlessness only grew, Smith received Presidential sanction to kill.
It was a job that required a combination secret police and Superman, Smith knew. He also understood that CURE would not long remain a secret if he employed an army of agents. He found his solution in the legends of the House of Sinanju, an ancient guild of assassins who had for three thousand years protected thrones from Egypt to Rome. Every century or so the Master of Sinanju trained his successor in the sun source-so-called because it was the first and most potent of the martial arts, from which everything from kung fu to tae kwon do came.
Smith had sent an emissary to the fishing village of Sinanju on the bitter coast of western North Korea and recruited Chiun, the last Master of Sinanju, to train a white man in the ancient assassin's discipline.
Smith had already chosen his one-man enforcement arm in an ex-Marine turned beat cop. Remo Williams was an unmarried orphan whose cool killer instincts had been proved in the jungles of Vietnam, and it had been a simple matter to frame him for a killing he never committed and, by manipulating a corrupt judicial system, railroad him to the death house.
Over the years Remo Williams, code-named the Destroyer, had operated secretly, trained and guided by Master Chiun, destroying America's enemies. They had performed effectively and ruthlessly, if sometimes messily.
Somehow, through it all, Harold Smith, CURE and America had survived.
Still, when it came down to it, Smith preferred his computers. They were tireless, efficient, predictable and virtually infallible. Best of all, they never asked for cost-of-living raises or vacations.
And now the new hybrid system promised to increase his data storage and outreach exponentially. So far, all Harold Smith noticed was a marked increase in response time and ease of handling. The familiar plastic keys of the foldout keyboard brought information to his gray eyes at the slightest touch. But for an aging man who had toiled behind this desk for three decades managing the ultimate firebreak of American democracy as his eyesight steadily worsened, any improvement in capability was a godsend.
A faint breeze touched Smith's face, and he looked up in alarm, one finger flashing to the stud that would send the CURE terminal dropping from sight.
Standing before the closing door was the Master of Sinanju. He stood barely five feet tall, a little mummy of a Korean wrapped in a white linen kimono resembling a death shroud and no hair on his skull except a cloudy puff over each ear.
"Master Chiun!" Smith said. "Er, I did not hear my secretary announce you."
Chiun bowed slightly, his parchment features crinkling into a web of wise wrinkles.
"That is because she did not see or hear me pass her station," Chiun said in his squeaky voice, often querulous but now purring with good humor. "For what benefit to the Eagle Throne is an assassin who cannot enter his emperor's inner chambers unseen and undetected?"
Harold Smith swallowed his objection. If the President who had founded CURE could look down from the next life and see his handpicked director being addressed as "Emperor," he would have concluded he had given over the reins of ultimate power to a dangerous megalomaniac. The truth was that Chiun had taken to addressing Smith that way because the House of Sinanju had always worked for absolute rulers, and to act otherwise would mean risking the wrath of his Korean ancestors who might also be looking on from the next life.
"I see," said Smith. He adjusted his hunter green Dartmouth tie, the only spot of color in his otherwise gray wardrobe. Smith's suit, hair and even his face were all shades of gray. Adjusting his rimless eyeglasses, he went on.
"You have looked over our contract?"
"Yes."
"And it meets your approval?"
"The gold is no more than it was last year."
Smith repressed an inward groan. "We have discussed this," he said.
"We have discussed this," Chiun said, his voice growing thin, "but it has not been properly explained to me how it is that the greatest house of assassins in history is not entitled to increased compensation."
Smith did not remind the Master of Sinanju that the matter of the gold that was to be shipped to his village by submarine had not only been explained, but explained in exhaustive detail. Instead, he said with more patience than he felt, "We have a very great deficit in this country. An increase in the gold is impossible this year."
"But the next?"
"Next year is possible. Theoretically,"
"If it is possible next year, why not this year? I would gladly forgo a significant raise next year for a modest one this year."
Smith blinked in the face of a flash of déjà vu. He was certain Chiun had spoken those exact words last year. He had got around it by providing a home for Chiun and Remo to live in.
"I am very sorry, it simply is not possible this year, and I cannot promise for next. But by waiting a year, the odds increase."
"It is the fault of the new President, is it not? The flint-skinned Democrat,"
"The President is under great pressure from Congress and the electorate to slash the federal operating budget."
Chiun slipped up to the desk and pitched his voice low. "Perhaps it would be better for all of us if the stubborn Congress and insensitive electorates all die."
"Congress," Smith tried to explain, "in fact raises the money that enables America to pay you so handsomely. And the electorate are the taxpayers who give their money."
"Then let taxes be raised," Chiun cried, flinging one fist into the air.
"The President is under great pressure not to raise taxes any further," Smith countered.
"I am willing to accept campaign donations. Remo could go door-to-door on your behalf. I am certain he would not mind."
"Impossible."
Chiun flinched as if stung. "That is your final offer?"
"I am afraid so."
Chiun closed his clear hazel eyes. One old ivory hand lifted to brush at the tendril of a beard that clung to his tiny chin. He seemed to be thinking, but Smith knew otherwise. The old Korean was simply trying to psych him out.
Harold Smith had been through all this before. This time he was prepared. "I took the liberty of arranging for the submarine carrying your gold to depart for Sinanju, in anticipation of our coming to an understanding," Smith said in a neutral voice.
Chiun said nothing.
"If I was premature, I will need to know at once," Smith added. "It is very expensive to send a nuclear submarine across the Pacific Ocean without a mission."
Eyes still closed, Chiun remained still and unspeaking.
At length, his eyes popped open, and in a sorrowful voice the Master of Sinanju intoned, "I have a village to support. If some of the babies must be drowned in the cold waters of the West Korea Bay because the food is insufficient, so be it. I will instruct the village caretaker to spare the male children, and do away only with the surplus females."
And the Master of Sinanju cocked a cold eye toward Harold Smith.
Smith wasn't buying. "I am certain it will not come to that," he said.
"If it does, you will be the first to know," Chiun returned in a chi
lly tone.
"If there is no other business, I will be happy to confirm the arrangements to ship the gold to Sinanju," Smith offered, making a point of touching one of the telephones on his desk.
The Master of Sinanju hesitated. "We will have the formal signing of contracts this evening?" he asked at last.
"As you wish," said Smith, repressing a smile. He had been forced to send the submarine two days ago because it was the only launch window he had for the next two months. If the gold was not in the village of Sinanju on time, Chiun-and for all he knew, Remo-would refuse all assignments until delivery was made.
It was a gamble the parsimonious Smith had been loath to make, and he breathed an inward sign of relief that all had turned out. Perhaps, Smith thought, he was getting the hang of negotiating with the Master of Sinanju.
At his elbow a telephone rang. It was the blue contact telephone. Smith brought the receiver to his ear before the second ring could start.
"Yes, Remo?"
"I've had it."
"What?" squeaked Chiun, rushing to the desk.
"Is that Chiun?" Remo demanded.
"Yes," said Smith. "He is here with me. We have just concluded negotiations for another year of service."
"Well, I hope you and he will be very happy together, because I've had it with these piss-ant hits. Count me out."
Smith clapped his hand on the receiver mouthpiece and said, "Remo seems to be trying to resign. What do you know about this?"
"I know he is obligated to me for his every breath," snapped Chiun, snatching the receiver from Smith's hand. "Remo, stop behaving like a child. Speak! What is wrong with you?"
"From now on I only take assignments I agree with," Remo said tightly.
"This is blasphemy. You accept whatever assignments your emperor deems worthy of you."
"Change in plan. You can have my rejects."
"Remo, what has gotten into you? Think of the poor babies of Sinanju who look to you for sustenance."
"I'm thinking of the little girl I orphaned tonight. No more. From now on I see background checks on my hits. You tell that to Smith." And the line went dead.
Chapter 4
Harold W Smith had already initiated the callback trace program before Remo could hang up. The new system offered up the number and location of the phone from which Remo Williams had called as if Smith had simply wished for it.
Smith hit a function key, and the number was automatically dialed through his blue contact telephone. "Yeah?" Remo said when he picked up. His voice was unhappy.
"This is Smith."
"Don't tell me you bugged my B.V.D.'s," Remo said sourly.
"Hardly. My new computer system traced your call. You are at the Wilmington, North Carolina, Holiday Inn, I see."
"I'd be on the first flight out of here except Hurricane Elvis has the airport shut down," Remo growled. "Next time you send me to terminate a guy, make sure his wife and kid aren't hanging around."
"Are you referring to the Roger Sherman Coe matter?" asked Smith.
"No," said Remo. "I just did David Cassidy, and the entire Partridge Family is up in arms."
Smith cleared his throat to cover his confusion. "I don't quite follow-"
"Follow this. I found Coe right where you said, and I took him out just like you wanted. Only as I was walking away, his wife and daughter popped out in time to see him breathe his last-"
Smith sipped a sharp intake of breath. "You were not seen, were you?"
"Forget security. Listen to me, I did a guy in front of his wife and daughter. I made that little girl an orphan. You know what that means? No, you wouldn't, you cold-blooded fossil. Well, I know what it means. I grew up in an orphanage. I wouldn't wish that kind of childhood on anyone. You know what my Christmases were like?"
Harold Smith cradled the receiver against a gray shoulder and attacked his keyboard. The plastic clicking of the keys sounded like hollow dice rattling.
"Are you listening to me, Smith?" Remo said angrily.
"Yes, I am pulling up Coe's file."
"He's dead. Why bother?"
"Because I do not recall him having a wife or daughter."
"Well, he does. I can vouch for that because I just spent the past three hours standing on the frigging beach protecting them and their house from Hurricane Elvis."
Harold Smith didn't respond. He was moving digital packets of data at high speed, his face tight with concentration. The Master of Sinanju hovered nearby, his features anxious.
At length Smith gave out a dry groan. "What?" said Remo.
"What is it?" said Chiun.
"Remo," Smith said in a low, horrified voice, "are you certain you had the correct house?"
"I went to the number you gave me."
"What number?"
"Forty-seven, I think."
"Think! You were supposed to write it down."
"I did. I threw away the paper after I was done. It was 47 Ocean Street. Yeah, I'm sure of it now."
"That is the correct address of Roger Sherman Coe. Did you ask him his name?"
"I'm a Master of Sinanju. I know enough to identify a target before I do him."
"Hear! Hear!" said Chiun.
"And he identified himself as Roger Sherman Coe?" Smith pressed.
"Yes."
"Something is wrong," Smith said hoarsely. "Something is very wrong. According to my data base, Roger Sherman Coe is not and never has been married. In fact, he is a homosexual."
"Then he deserved to die," said Chiun loudly. "Hobosexualism is a despicable crime-unless one is a soldier in the U.S. Marines."
"The Roger Sherman Coe I killed had a wife and daughter," insisted Remo. "She couldn't have been more than five years old."
"The Roger Sherman Coe on my data base in fifty-six years old, red haired, and has committed an estimated sixteen contract killings that have been tied to him."
"This guy was on the sunny side of forty."
"Oh, my God. You may have killed the wrong man."
"Smith, don't say that. Don't tell me that. Making a widow and an orphan is bad enough, but don't tell me I hit the wrong guy."
Chiun bustled up to the telephone. "Remo, take heart. If a mistake was made, it falls not on your shoulders." Then, in an urgent voice, Chiun added for Smith's benefit, "Take responsibility, quickly. Remo is in a very fragile state of mind. We must not lose him to this tragedy."
"But my computers do not make mistakes," Smith said dully.
"Yeah? Well, they did this time," Remo Williams said bitterly. "Thanks a lot, Smith. Remember what I said earlier about picking my assignments? Cancel that. I quit. I'm through. Take CURE and shove it up your tight New England ass."
"Remo, you do not mean that!" Chiun wailed, seizing the phone. "Tell Emperor Smith you did not mean that! Smith, do not sit there like a ghost-faced white. Say something to absolve my son and my heir of this terrible guilt that overwhelms him."
"Stuff it," said Remo. And he hung up again. Harold Smith sat in his cracked leather executive's chair and stared into space. He seemed oblivious to the buzz of the dial tone in his ear. He seemed oblivious to the Master of Sinanju as he tore at the puffs of hair over each ear and paced the room in frustration.
"My contract! That impulsive white idiot has ruined a perfect negotiation," Chiun wailed.
And all Harold W Smith could do was mutter as if to himself, "My computers have never been wrong before. Never."
He sounded like a man who had lost faith in the sanity and order of the known universe.
If he was aware of the Master of Sinanju leaving his office, it was not reflected in his shell-shocked face.
Chapter 5
Hurricane Elvis had skirted Long Island, started out to sea and run into a cold-air mass that stalled it thirty miles out in the Atlantic. It couldn't go forward. Unable to go back, it festered over the water, churning up ocean brine and recycling it as hard, bitter rain that flattened spirits and human activity from Eastport to Block Island.
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One by one airports up and down the affected area reopened, and Remo Williams was on the first flight out of Wilmington. Maybe it was the dampening effects of the overcast skies and the relentless rain, or maybe it was the hard scowl he wore on his face, but the stewardesses all left him alone during the short flight to Boston.
At Logan Airport Remo recovered his car and drove south to Quincy, Massachusetts, and home.
Home had long been an unknown concept to Remo Williams. In his pre-CURE days, a succession of walkup flats in Newark, New Jersey, and after that, motel rooms and hotels all over the US., had served as temporary residences. Every time he and Chiun had settled down in a condo or a house, security considerations beyond their control drove them out.
For the past year home had been what Remo mentally thought of as a Swiss/ Gothic/mock-Tudor stone church converted into a condominium. Chiun had dubbed it Castle Sinanju. It looked enough like a castle that at the last contract negotiation, Smith had been able to foist it off on the Master of Sinanju as a pre-Revolutionary War American castle. And Chiun had happily accepted it. Remo had not. But he had grown to enjoy having its sixteen units and accompanying parking spaces all to Chiun and himself.
Now Remo thought of it as home, and in his pain, it was where he was retreating to.
Chiun would not be home. Knowing the Master of Sinanju, he would be on his way to Wilmington to talk sense to him. Remo didn't want to talk to anyone right now. He just wanted to be alone. He just wanted to think. He had a lot of serious sorting out to do.
As he sent his blue Buick coupe into the handicapped parking slot, Remo thought of how for the past twenty years of his life he had been pulled in two opposing directions. There was his duty to CURE and his country. And there was his growing and unwanted responsibility to Chiun and the House of Sinanju that he would one day inherit. He used to feel good about being the first white man to master Sinanju, but as he unlocked his front door, he felt only a cold emptiness in the pit of his stomach.
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