"No need to tell Remo. "
"I agree. Aren't you going to throw those knives?"
"Soon, soon," said Chiun, glancing at Remo's hurtling form.
"And shouldn't Remo slow down? He's going to hit that wall."
Remo did hit the wall. And kept on going. His feet flashed ahead of him, and suddenly he was running up the wall, carried by sheer momentum. He was literally running against gravity.
"How high can he go?" Smith asked.
"To the moon, if you had such a wall," Chiun said blandly.
"Come now," Smith scoffed.
Then Smith's thin mouth puckered like the frame for a life-saver. Remo was running along the ceiling. Running upside down.
Chiun's hands went to work. In a series of overhand flips he sent the daggers away. They streaked toward the ceiling. He folded his empty hands into his voluminous sleeves.
Remo, seeming to float like a runner in a weightless environment, began to zigzag across the ceiling. Daggers sprouted around his feet. None hit him. He neared the opposite wall.
"This is the most difficult step of all," Chiun confided.
"I would think it would be the easiest. All he has to do is jump."
"No. Jumping is not allowed. Remo is now running against gravity. In the opposite direction. When he reaches the wall, he must run into the direction of gravity, but not so fast that he does fall. He has ascended the dragon. Now he must descend the dragon."
"From a physics standpoint, I don't think this is possible. "
"For American physics, perhaps not. This is Korean physics."
Remo hit the wall. This time, he seemed to backflip into place. He was halfway down before he began to skid.
Remo flailed about for a minute and gave up. He twisted like a cat, landing on both feet. He hit without a sound.
Smith started to applaud. "Very good! Bravo, bravo!"
The Master of Sinanju turned to him with blazing hazel eyes. He forced Smith's hands apart. "Are you mad? He has bumbled this simple exercise and you give him a reward. How will he relearn perfection if he is applauded for failure? Worse, when he does succeed, he will expect greater rewards. I am training an assassin, not a performing dog."
"Sorry."
Chiun folded his arms imperiously and bestowed upon Remo a cold, agatelike stare. Remo walked up dejectedly. "I think I lost my concentration at the end," he admitted.
"Obviously," Chiun said, his voice dripping disappointment. "And in front of Emperor Smith. Smith is very angry with you. He just now explained to me that he may offer me a new pupil, the eldest son of the President. I am considering his offer. I could work with a younger student, one with fewer ingrained habits. A young pupil would not shame me as you just did."
"If I did so badly, who was that applauding just now?" Remo asked.
"Applause? I heard no applause. Did you hear any such noise, Emperor?"
Smith looked uncomfortable. "Ah . . ."
"I heard it distinctly," Remo insisted.
"You must be referring to the sound of your emperor's feet stamping in frustration and anger," Chiun informed him coldly. "That is the only sound you heard-the only sound you deserve."
"Thanks a bunch. Any word on those negotiations, Smitty?"
"Um, nothing has changed. There has been progress, but not real change."
"You know, Smitty, if you're going to lie like that, you should try to get better at it."
"Yes, well ... how are you feeling?"
"Like my old self," Remo said, rotating his thick wrists impatiently.
"You're sounding like your old self too."
"Do not be fooled, Emperor Smith. He still sometimes babbles about how the war was unfair to him and if he could only go back, he would have won it. All by himself. He sounds like that film creature, Dumbo."
"The flying elephant?" Smith asked.
"I think he means Rambo," Remo said hastily. "And I was not babbling, just making conversation. Honest."
"I see," said Smith:
"In fact," Remo said airily, "I feel so much better, I think I'll go for a walk, if that's all right with everybody. I've been cooped up in this gym too long. I need fresh air. "
"What do you think, Master of Sinanju?" Smith asked good-naturedly.
"I think fresh air would be good for Remo."
"Fine. Thanks," Remo said, heading for the door.
"You're not thinking of anything foolish, are you, Remo?"
Remo turned, his hand gripping the doorknob. He smiled tightly and asked, "Who, me?" His face was open and innocent, like a child's.
"Because if you are, you should be aware that I've revoked every credit card under each of your cover identities. "
"Appreciate the vote of confidence, Smitty." Remo's face was still frozen in an icy, ingratiating smile.
"Nothing personal. Just a precaution."
"Do not worry, Emperor," Chiun said expansively. "Remo may sometimes appear foolish, but only Remo. I am not foolish. And I am going nowhere, especially to Vietnam. And Remo thinks too much of his trainer to bring humiliation upon his name. And I say to you now that I give you my word as a Master of Sinanju that Remo will not leave this country except by your leave. Is that not so, Remo?"
"Chiun speaks for both of us," Remo agreed, his knuckles whitening on the doorknob. "What better guarantee could you ask for?"
"I am relieved to hear that. Have a good time, Remo."
"The best. " And Remo was out the door like it had swallowed him.
Remo walked the dark streets of Rye, New York, with his hands in his pockets. The night was cold, but he didn't feel it. The wind rippled his black T-shirt and chinos, but inside he was warm.
And angry.
"Damn Smith for canceling my credit cards," he muttered to himself. That left him without an easy first step. He wondered how he was going to get out of the country, never mind all the way to Vietnam, without money. He wondered how far he could get on foot. Phong had gotten out of Vietnam on foot, and Phong was not Remo. Lately, even Remo hadn't been Remo. But after a week under Chiun's hard tutelage, he felt up to the job. And he had fooled both Chiun and Smith into thinking he had abandoned his plans.
Remo was pondering his problem when a voice growled at him from a shadowy doorway.
"Take 'em out of the pockets, friend," it warned. Remo saw a gleaming barrel of a chrome-plated .357 Magnum revolver aimed at him. He considered ignoring the man, when a better thought occurred to him. Remo stopped in his tracks. Slowly he took his hands out of his pockets and turned to face the man in the darkened doorway.
"Easy," Remo said, a catch in his voice. "I don't want any trouble."
"Well, ain't that too damn bad." The man sneered, stepping into the light. "Because you sure got it. Now, fork over your wallet."
"Please, mister, don't shoot me," Remo pleaded. The man inched closer. His breath, like sour milk, wafted into Remo's face.
"The wallet," he repeated. The man was close enough now. Remo's foot lashed out and made contact with a kneecap. The gunman screamed as a kaleidoscope of pain-induced lights exploded behind his eyes. His kneecap felt like a fragmenting grenade. His arm flew up and struck the wall behind him. When he tried to yank it down, it wouldn't pull free.
"I said I didn't want trouble," Remo told him in a grating voice. "I didn't say I don't like trouble, because I do. I didn't mean I can't handle trouble, because as you'll plainly notice, your knee is broken and your gun is embedded six inches into a brick wall with your hand still wrapped around it. What I meant was, I wasn't in the mood for trouble. But now that I don't have a choice, I plan to make the best of it."
The gunman looked at the brick wall above his head. He saw that his leather jacket cuff was touching brick. He pulled it back and there was his wrist, and then there was the brick. There was no sign of his hand. The wall wasn't shattered or cracked. Not even the mortar was disturbed. It looked as if the wall had grown around his hand. He felt the trigger under his finger and decided agains
t pulling it. No telling what might happen.
Instead, he looked into the dead, flat eyes of the skinny guy who had done this to him. He decided an apology was in order.
"I apologize," he said sincerely.
"Too late. My night is ruined. You're going to have to make it up to me."
"How? Just tell me. I'll do it."
"I need some fast cash."
"Left-front pants pocket. Help yourself. Just leave me bus fare, okay?"
"Thank you," said Remo. He extracted the man's wallet. It was fat and black. Remo riffled through it. He counted out nearly thirteen hundred dollars in wrinkled bills.
"What were you sticking me up for?" Remo demanded of the would-be holdup man. "You got a small fortune here."
"How do you think I come to be carrying that large a wad? Working as a hairdresser?"
"Well, you're donating it to a new fund. The Free the U.S. POW's Fund. It so happens I'm president and treasurer."
"I'm a charitable man. Easy come, easy go."
"I can use this credit card too," Remo said, stuffing the wallet back into the man's dungaree pocket.
The gunman scowled. "Hey, have a heart, man. That ain't fair. That's my own credit card. I didn't steal it. You can have the money, okay? I can always steal more. But getting square with the credit-card people, that's real work."
"Think of yourself as Robin Hood. You're stealing from the rich and giving it to the poor. Me."
"This ain't fair."
"No, it ain't," Remo admitted, starting off. "Toodle-oo."
"Hey! What am I gonna do about my hand? It's still caught in this wall."
Remo turned. "You still have your own teeth?" he asked.
"Yeah. So?"
"Start gnawing brick."
The woman at the travel agency was a crisp, no-nonsense blond in a black-and-white business suit set off with a string tie. Remo decided he liked the way a lock of her hair fell over her smooth brow. She had the shiniest ears he'd ever seen. Remo wondered why it was that blonds always had ears that looked as if they were waxed daily.
"And where would your travel plans be taking you?" she asked.
Remo hesitated. He decided to trust her. He leaned closer and let her get the full impact of his magnetic charm.
"Between you and me, how close can you get me to Vietnam?"
She leaned into Remo's face conspiratorially. "Hanoi or Ho Chi Minh City?" she asked breathily.
"You can do that?" Remo asked, taken aback.
"Uh-huh," she said. "We have a package plan. It's called the Trans-Vietnam tour. Vietnam is hungry for tourist dollars. Of course, there are no direct flights from this country."
"Of course," Remo said, blinking. This seemed almost too easy.
"But we can book you to Bangkok, Thailand, where you can pick up a connecting flight. It's a two-week tour and includes all meals and hotels."
"I'll be brown-bagging," Remo said. "I've eaten Vietnamese before."
"Oh, were you there? During the war, I mean?"
"Does it show that much?" Remo asked.
"Not on you. You look kinda young, actually-now that I think of it. But this tour is very popular with servicemen. Nostalgia, you know."
"Nostalgia is a terrible thing," Remo said, thinking of his year in Nam.
"So-Hanoi or Ho Chi Minh City?"
"Ho Chi Minh City-that used to be Saigon, right?"
"Um-huh." The blond was wetting her lips with her tongue.
"I'll take it."
"When would you like to depart?" she asked, calling up a schedule on her desk terminal.
"When's the next flight?"
"Well, there's one tonight, but obviously-"
"I'll take it," Remo said quickly.
"You'll need a connecting flight to Kennedy International. "
"First class," Remo said. "All the way. A friend is paying for it."
The blond lifted penciled eyebrows quizzically and got to work.
"How do you plan to pay for this?" she asked.
"Credit card," Remo said, placing one on the desk like a bridge player laying down his trump.
The blond picked it up and began entering the information on her terminal. A minute later, she presented Remo with a sheaf of airline tickets.
"There you are, Mr. Krankowski. Is that how you pronounce it'?"
" 'Krankowski' is fine," he said, pocketing his receipt. The blond had forgotten to verify his signature, which was a break.
"Well, if you expect to make your nine o'clock flight, I suggest you get going. Too bad, though. I was kinda hoping we'd have a drink. I'm about to close."
Remo stood up to go. "Another time. For sure."
"Oh, don't forget your credit card, Michael. Do they call you Mickey or Mike?"
"Remo. "
Her eyebrows shot up. "Remo?"
"It's my stage name," Remo explained. "Remo the Awesome. I'm a professional magician. I've toured every continent."
"Oh," said the blond, cupping her chin in one hand and smiling warmly. "And just what sort of magic is it that you do?"
"At the moment, I'm working on my disappearing act. "
Chapter 10
Saigon had changed in more than name.
Remo had checked into his room at the Thong Nhat, one of the few presentable hotels in what was now called Ho Chi Minh City. Because he had no baggage, Rema couldn't change clothes. He plopped down on the bed and turned on the suite's Vietronics TV. There were two channels. On one, a jagged-voiced woman with severe hair droned on while scenes of hardworking peasants flashed on a graphic insert beside her head. Remo's Vietnamese wasn't up to following the thread of the talk. The other channel showed a cartoon. A pack of mice in black pajamas harassed a band of GI cats waving a tattered American flag. The mice were winning.
Remo snapped off the TV and shoved up the window. He leaned out. Whatever they called it now, Saigon still smelled like New York's Chinatown. Once, the city streets had been clogged with little cars and military vehicles. Now everyone rode bicycles. Remo saw only one car in twenty minutes of watching. And only two Honda motor scooters, which had once been so plentiful. Whatever Communist rule had brought to the South, prosperity was not part of the package.
There was a little service-bar refrigerator in one corner. Remo opened it up. It was stocked with sick-looking water in bottles, several bottles of Viet Min beer, and cans of a soft drink that said, in English and Vietnamese, "Melon Grass Drink."
Remo decided the water was his best bet. He was wrong. He took one mouthful and spit it into the bathroom sink.
"Well, maybe it will rain," he muttered hopefully. The telephone buzzed raucously.
"Mr. Krankowski?" The desk clerk mangled the name all out of shape. Remo said yes.
"Tour group leaving in ten minutes."
"You people don't give tourists much time to settle in."
"Tour group on very strict schedule. Please be in lobby in ten minutes."
"Okay," Remo said, hanging up. He looked at the Trans-Vietnam tour booklet. It included chaperoned tours of portions of the Ho Chi Minh Trail, and as a capper, three luxurious days in Hanoi, the former North Vietnamese capital. Remo didn't expect to ever see Hanoi. He planned to leave the tour group when he got as close to Cambodia as he could get. He left the room.
The tour group was composed of several Russians, an East German couple, and a thick-set man who said he was from North Carolina.
The North Carolinian sidled up to Remo nervously. "Sure glad to see another American on this trip, friend. "
"Same here," Remo said noncommittally. He decided not to get too friendly with the man. It would only complicate things.
"Stick with me, friend, and I'll tell you about the war. I was here in those days. I was a REMF, myself. I'll bet you can't guess what that means."
"It means rear-echelon-motherfucker," Remo said flatly. "I was in Nam too."
"You pulling my leg? You couldn't have been. Not unless the Army was drafting eight-year-old
s."
"I was a Marine. First Battalion, Twenty-sixth Marines."
"No kidding?"
"No kidding," Remo said.
"You look, what-twenty-eight?"
"What I look like and what I am are two different things. "
"I'll take your word for it. Hey, this looks like the bus. Did they paint it that color, or is that jungle rot?" Remo didn't answer as he climbed into the bus. He made a point of taking a seat next to one that was without a cushion. The North Carolinian frowned, but took the hint. He sat in the back and the bus rattled down potholed streets and past the gates of the old Doe Lap Palace and then north. Remo stared out the window in thought. He was surprised that he'd revealed the military background to the other American. But the words had just slipped out. Remo had once been so proud of the Corps. But all that had happened to him since Vietnam made everything that had gone before insignificant like comparing the gold star you got in the third grade with a Congressional Medal of Honor.
The road turned to dirt and the last houses gave way to sugarcane fields. A chubby tour guide turned in his seat behind the driver. He picked up a microphone and introduced himself as Mr. Hom. Then he began his talk, speaking alternately in German, Russian, and English. It was the same speech in each language, about how the peoples of North and South Vietnam had been finally reunited after years of forced separation by the imperialist Americans. Remo tuned the man out and thought about his old life. A passing flash of elephant grass made his stomach clench involuntarily. Fear. He had not felt fear in a long time. Fear meant his training had not completely reasserted itself. Remo wondered if maybe he had left America too soon.
As Mr. Hom droned on, Remo felt the years melt away, back to 1968. And suddenly a thought occurred to him-a simple thought. He had always thought of his life as divided into two parts. Each was separate-almost as if he'd been two people sharing the same memories. His old life had ended when he was arrested for a crime he didn't commit and sentenced to the electric chair. It'd been a frame, with Dr. Harold W. Smith the framer. Thus had Remo Williams, former Newark cop, been drafted into service for CURE.
All that happened before had belonged to a previous life. There was only one link. A CIA agent named Conn MacCleary, whom Remo had encountered in Vietnam. Remo had single-handedly executed a critical mission under MacCleary's orders, a mission that should have required a battalion: storming a farmhouse and getting important security papers before the VC could burn them.
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