"Rupees. Twelve bushels."
He stopped as Smith held up a hand.
"Master of Sinanju. Many of those items are priceless museum pieces."
"Yes?" said Chiun.
"Tang-dynasty silk, for example, is not easily come by."
"Of course," said Chiun. "We would not ask for it otherwise. "
"I don't think any Tang-dynasty silk exists in the modern world," Smith said.
"I have Tang-dynasty silk," said Chiun. "Back in the treasure house of my ancestors. In Sinanju."
"When why do you want more?"
"You never asked that question during previous negotiations when I asked for more gold. You never said to me, 'Master of Sinanju, why do you want more gold? You already have gold.' "
"True," said Smith. "But this is different."
"Yes," said Chiun, beaming now. "It is different. This time I am not asking for more gold. I have enough of gold, thanks to your generosity. But in times past my ancestors were paid in tribute, not always gold. Now I wish to be paid in tribute as befits my heritage."
"My government pays enough yearly tribute to feed all North Korea," Smith said evenly. "You have brought to Sinanju more wealth than it has seen in all the thousands of years of Sinanju history before you."
"No Master before me ever was forced to dwell in a foreign land-an odious land-for so long," said Chiun. "I am the first to be treated thusly."
"I am sorry," said Smith, who despite being the only person in charge of an unlimited secret operating fund kept track of his secretary's consumption of paper clips. "I think your requests are unreasonable."
"I must restore the glory of Sinanju," said Chiun. "Did you know that just yesterday Remo told me that he was planning to run a benefit concert for me. He said that he was tired of seeing me poor, hungry, and destitute and that he was going to ask Nellie Wilson to run an aid program for me. Did you know this?"
"No. Who's Nellie Wilson?"
"He is a noble singer who stands on the side of the poor in this oppressive land. Remo said he would gladly sing for me, but I told him that it would not be necessary, that Emperor Smith would not fail the House of Sinanju." His eyes looked down at the floor. "But I was wrong, I see. Still I will take no charity from anyone, even so great a man as Nellie Wilson. If America cannot help me, I will simply seek outside employment."
"The terms of our contract expressly forbid it," Smith said.
"The terms of our old contract," Chiun said with a small smile. "And it appears- there may be no new contract. "
Smith cleared his throat. "Don't be hasty," he said. "Of course, we want a new contract with you, but we cannot provide you with things that no longer exist in the world. Nor, I must point out, could any other prospective employer. "
"We are not intransigent, O great Emperor. While our heart aches at your inability to provide us with the few meager items we requested, perhaps something else could be worked out."
"I will double the amount of gold we now ship to your village."
"Triple," said Chiun.
"Double is a gift. Triple is impossible," Smith said.
"Whites are impossible," said Chiun. "Beyond that, the word does not exist in Sinanju."
"I will triple the gold," Smith said wearily. "But that's it. That's final. Nothing more."
"Done," Chiun said quickly. Smith relaxed.
"That takes care of the gold," Chiun said pleasantly. "Now on to other items. . . . "
Smith tensed. "We agreed. No other items. No other items."
"No," Chiun said. "You agreed no other items. I agreed to the gold."
"What other item?" Smith said.
"Only one. Land. Remo and I have no permanent home in this odious land of yours."
"We've been through this before, Master of Sinanju," said Smith tightly. His legs were tingling from sitting on the floor. "It's too dangerous for you and Remo to stay in one place for long."
"The land I have in mind is in a far place," said Chiun, who noticed from Smith's fidgeting that his legs were falling asleep. In negotiating, he always waited for that to happen before asking Smith for the really difficult items. "The place I have in mind is large, with many fortifications, and therefore easily defended. Remo and I would be safe there. "
"Where?" asked Smith.
"Yet it is a small parcel, compared to the lands the Egyptians once bestowed upon Sinanju."
"Can you point it out on a map?"
"And it is near no dwellings," continued Chiun. "Oh, there are some minor structures existing on the land but no one lives in them. I would not even ask that they be razed. It may be that Remo and I could make do with them, although they are not really houses."
"Can you be more specific?"
Chiun made a show of searching his scroll.
"I do not know its exact location," he said. "It is . . . yes, here it is. It is in the province of California. But it is not even on the ocean. And I understand it is overrun with mice and other vermin."
"California is a big place," said Smith.
"It has a name," said Chiun.
"Yes?"
"Ah. Here it is. It is a funny name, but I do not mind. Remo and I will learn to live with it. And the mice."
"What is the name?"
Chiun looked up from his scroll hopefully. "Disneyland it is called."
Lloyd Darton paid his $49 and accepted the room key from the desk clerk. On the seedier side of Detroit, he could have rented a room for just an hour, but that was the kind of hotel where a man could get killed just standing at the registration desk and Darton wasn't the sort to take chances. Better to waste a few dollars, especially since he was here on business. He waved off the bellhop and took the stairs to his room rather than wait for the elevator.
He carefully double-locked the door of the room, placed his single suitcase on the bed, and unlocked it with a key.
It held an assortment of weapons, locked in place by straps and plastic blocks. Satisfied that nothing had been damaged, he closed the lid and sat on the bed. It was 8:45 P.M. His customer should be along soon and Lloyd Darton hoped to be out of the room by 9:30 at the latest.
There was a knock on the door at 8:56. The man who stood there was tall, fiftyish, with the kind of eyes Lloyd Darton had seen many times before. All his customers had them. A scar was faintly visible along the right side of the man's jaw.
"Hello," Darton said.
The man just nodded as he entered the room. He waited until the door was locked again before he spoke.
"You made the changes I asked for?"
"Sure did. Over here." Darton flipped open the suitcase lid. "I fixed the sight for you too. It was a little off. Of course, that won't matter with these new add-ons."
"Skip the sales pitch," said the man with the scar, whose name Darton did not know. All his customers were nameless. They knew him, knew where to find him, but he never asked their names. It was a one-sided business relationship, but so was the money. That was one-sided too and it all fell on Darton's side of the ledger.
"Here it is," said Darton, hefting a shiny black handgun. He took an assortment of devices from the case and in a few quick motions, he attached a folding stock, a telescopic sight and barrel extension, converting the pistol to a takedown sniper's rifle. He inserted a clip, snapped back the slide to show the action at work, and presented it to the other man.
"Don't get much call for this kind of custom work," Darton said. "While you're here, why don't you look at some of the others? You might see something you like better than-"
"There's nothing better than my old Beretta Olympic," the other man interrupted, sighting down the pistol's long barrel.
"If you say so. It's just . . . it's not considered, well, a professional weapon, if you know what I mean."
"It's a target pistol. I'm going to use it on targets. What could be more professional?"
Darton nodded wordlessly. The man had a point and he certainly had the professional look to him. Except that he
was sighting down the barrel with Darton at the other end. That was not professional at all. It was not even good gun safety. Or good manners for that matter.
"I can understand your affection for the Olympic," Darton said quickly. "But I find that most people in your business like to change their tools. It reduces complications."
"Don't you think I know that?" asked the man with the scar. "This piece has sentimental value for me. It reminds me of my ex-wife." He lined up on Darton's sweat-shiny forehead. Darton winced. He loved guns. He bought them, he sold them, he repaired them, he remodeled them, and he hunted with them. They were both his hobby and his business and he loved them. But he didn't like to have them pointed at him.
"Do you mind?" Darton asked, looking at the gun barrel.
The man with the scar ignored him. "You test-fire this?" he asked.
"Of course. It fires true. No bias. It's perfect for the kind of work you do."
"Oh? What kind is that?"
"You know," Darton said.
"I want to hear you say it."
"My guess--is that you kill people with it."
"You keep trying to tell me my business," said the man with the scar.
"I didn't mean anything by it, Mr.-"
"Call me Remo. "
"Mr. Remo. I just want you to have the best your money can buy, Mr. Remo."
"Good. I'm glad to hear that. Because I want this weapon and I want something else from you."
"What's that."
"I want to check the action myself. I have some serious work ahead of me and I don't like to work with a cold piece just out of the shop."
"How can I help?" asked Lloyd Darton.
"Just stand still," said the other man and split Darton's sweat-shiny forehead with a single shot. The floral bedspread behind him suddenly developed an extra pattern. In red.
"I don't like people telling me my business," said the man to himself. He disassembled the Beretta, slipped the pistol into a spring-clip holster, helped himself to extra clips, and quietly left the room with the attachments nestled in a briefcase Lloyd Darton had thoughtfully planned to throw into the bargain.
Walking down the steps, he thought of the work ahead. Detroit was a new city for him. A new start and maybe a new life. It all felt strange to him.
But he had work to do and that was the most important thing. In his pocket was a list. Four people. And the contractor wanted them hit in public places. Imagine that. Wanted the whole thing done out in the open. It was crazy, but the money was even crazier and that made it worthwhile. Even if he didn't know the name of his employer.
As he walked through the lobby, he thought of Maria. Lately, she had been on his mind a lot.
He hadn't wanted to kill her. But he was a soldier, a soldier in an army that wore no uniforms, belonged to no country, and yet had invaded almost every civilized nation. There were those who referred to the Mafia as a family but that was a myth, like claiming the Holocaust had never happened. The Mafia was no family; it was like an enormous occupying army.
As his capo, Don Pietro Scubisci, had once told him:
"We own the banks. We own the courts and the lawyers. We own pieces of the government. And because we don't dress like soldiers," he had said, tapping his chest with palsied fingers, "because we deny everything, people don't know. Our hands are at their throats and because we smile and talk of 'business interests' and donate to the Church, the fools pretend we're not there. Their foolishness is our greatest strength. Remember that. And remember, we always come first."
"Always," he had agreed.
"Your mother, your father, your wife, your children," Don Pietro had said, ticking them off on his fingers, one by one. "They come second. If we ask, you will deny them. If we tell you, you will leave them. If we order it, you will kill them."
It was true. He believed it so deeply that when it came down to his honor as a soldier and the woman he had loved, he made the right choice. The only choice. He had acted instantly, ruthlessly. Like a soldier. Maria had planned to talk, and to protect the Invisible Army of the Mafia, she had had to die. And he had come here, to Detroit, to begin a new life.
As he got behind the wheel of his rented car, he could not stop thinking of Maria and the last words she had spoken to him.
"He will know your name and you will know his. And that will be your death warrant."
"This time, Maria," he said half-aloud, "you're wrong." But he thought he heard her tinkling laugh somewhere in the night.
Chapter 4
Remo Williams smelled the fumes even before the jet skidded to a stop. He glanced up and saw the trickle of smoke insinuating itself between two of the wall panels. It was all unnaturally quiet. People were still in their seats, hunched over, stunned from the carnival-ride impact of the plane's crash landing.
Remo heard something sparking. It was an electrical fire and he knew it would start small but could spread through the cabin as if it were lined with flashpaper.
And even before that, the deadly acrid fumes of burning plastic would kill everyone aboard.
All six emergency exits were blocked by the bodies of unconscious passengers and Remo found the place in the ceiling where the hijacker had fired the warning burst that had depressurized the cabin and tossed the giant craft out of control. He could see sky through the pattern of bullet holes. Remo balanced on the top edge of a seat, inserted his fingers into as many of the holes as he could, and made two fists. The aluminum outer skin gave under the pressure of his hands, hands that instantly sensed weak points, flaws in the alloy, and exploited them. The ceiling tore with a harsh metallic shriek.
Remo ran with the tear, racing the length of the cabin from tail to cockpit, peeling the metal as if it were the lid of a sardine can.
Now the hot Utah sun filled the cabin. People were beginning to stir, coughing into their oxygen masks. He started to free the people from their seat belts in the fastest way possible, grabbing a handful of seat belt and ripping it free from its moorings.
"Okay," Remo called as he moved along the rows. "Everybody up for volleyball."
He had to get them moving. But some of them, he saw, would never move again. Their heads hung at impossible angles, their necks snapped on impact.
Behind him, the sparking of the electric fire turned into a hissing sputter. Remo turned and saw Lorna, the stewardess, turning a red fire extinguisher on the galley. The chemical foam beat down the licking flames but also sucked away the breathable air.
The young blond woman fell to her knees, her face, purpling.
Remo hauled her back and boosted her up to the roof. "Catch your breath," he called up. "I'm going to start passing people up to you."
She tried to speak but could manage only a cough. With red eyes, she made an Okay sign with her fingers.
Remo hoisted a man up out of his seat and over his head in a smooth, impossible motion. He felt Lorna take the man from his grasp.
Other passengers began to revive. They pulled off their oxygen masks and with a few quick words, Remo organized them. The strong lifting the weak. The first ones to reach the top of the fuselage pulled those who came after. In a few minutes, only Remo remained in the cabin. Even the dead had been removed.
"That's everyone," said Remo. "I think."
Lorna called down, "Make sure. Look for children on the floor."
"Right." Remo checked every seat. At the very rear of the plane, he found the hijacker, huddled under his seat. "Oh, yes. You," Remo said. "Almost forgot about you." He grabbed the man by his collar, took hold of his belt, and swung him like a bag of manure. The hijacker screamed as Remo let go, and the man sailed up and out the hole in the roof.
Remo started to reach for the ceiling but a faint sound made him stop. He opened the rest-room door. There was a little girl inside, perhaps five years old, crouched down under the tiny sink, her thumb in her mouth and her eyes squinted shut. She was moaning softly; that was the sound Remo had heard.
"It's all right, ho
ney. You can come out now." The little girl shut her eyes more tightly.
"Don't be afraid." Remo reached in and pulled her to him and carried her from the plane just before the flames exploded into the cabin.
An hour later, the aircraft fire had burned itself out, leaving a smoking, gutted hulk lying in the coral-pink sandstone desert. The sun was starting to go down in the sky.
Lorna finished splinting a woman's broken arm. She stood up and brushed dust from what was left of her uniform. She had been using scraps of the skirt and sleeves as makeshift bandages.
"That's the last of them," she told Remo. "Have you seen anything?"
"Just flat desert in all directions," Remo said. "But there should be rescue here soon. Radar should have picked us up, right?"
Lorna shook her head. "Not necessarily," she said. "Sometimes you get in between the two radar coverages and you're in a dead spot. But when we don't show up on time, they'll start tracing us backward. They should get here. "
"You did good work, Lorna," Remo said.
"You did too. The others think the cabin split open on impact, you know."
"And you?" Remo said.
"I saw you tear it open. "
"You better take something for that concussion," Remo said. "You're imagining things."
"Have it your own way," she said. "Anything you want done?"
"Why me?"
"The cockpit crew died on impact. I guess you're in charge."
Remo nodded. He was watching the little girl he had pulled out at the last minute. She was kneeling in the sand beside two still figures, a man and a woman. Someone had placed a handkerchief over each of their faces.
Remo walked over and knelt alongside the girl. "Are these your parents'?" he asked.
"They're in heaven," the little girl said. There were tears in her eyes.
Remo hoisted her in his arms and brought her back to Lorna.
"Take care of her," he said.
"What are you going to do?" the stewardess asked.
"What I've been trained to do," Remo said, and he walked out into the desert alone.
The wind had shifted the sands, covering the tracks, but it made no difference to Remo. The wind followed its path and the sand moved according to subtle laws that in some way were clear to him.
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