Chiun said loudly, "They are not worth knowing because they thought so little of you that they left you on a doorstep. "
Chiun had stalked off and Remo closed his eyes again but he was not able to recall his parent's faces. A moment before, he had been all the way back into his early days at St. Theresa's Orphanage, and was sure that in another minute, he would have his parents in his mind. But not now. Chiun had ruined it with his remark and he wondered if Chiun had been right. After that failure, Remo never tried to summon up those infant's memories again.
And now that he had found his father, alive and not dead, Remo wondered if it would have been better to have left the past alone, as Chiun had said. Because now Remo could trust neither Smith nor Chiun. Both had betrayed him and while he could have expected it from Smith, he felt bewildered about Chiun's reaction.
Remo knew he had now lost a father who was not really his father, and he had gained one who was, but who didn't seem like it.
Maybe when we get to know each other. Maybe then it will feel right, he told himself. Maybe it will feel like it did between me and Chiun. But even as he thought that, he knew it would never be. Between Remo and Chiun, there had been more than a relationship of human beings; there had also been Sinanju. And now it was no more.
Remo did not know what Chiun would do next. But he knew Smith's next move. Smith would order Chiun to find Remo and return him to Folcroft and if Remo refused, Smith would order his death. Smith would not hesitate. It was his job never to hesitate when CURE's security was concerned.
But what would Chiun do when he was given such an order? And what would Remo do if Chiun came to kill him?
Others who had seen their fight on the roof might have been fooled, but Remo was not. Both he and Chiun had pulled their blows, making sure not to try to hurt the other. The result had been a long stylized kung-fu match, the kind seen in Chinatown movies. But Sinanju wasn't like that. Sinanju was economy. Never use two blows where one would do. Never fight for two minutes when the job could be accomplished in two seconds.
Neither of the men had tried to hurt the other. But that might not be the case the next time they met. And Remo did not know what he would do.
So he waited alone in the darkness. A dream had come true in his life, but he knew a greater nightmare was about to begin.
Chapter 19
The Dynacar was waiting for him at the landfill on the Detroit River.
As the gunman got out of his car, he thought that it was appropriate that the car that ran on garbage should be here, surrounded by building-high mounds of garbage.
"I'm here," he said to the opaque windows of the Dynacar.
"I can see you," the unseen man behind the wheel said. "Millis didn't die."
"He's in a coma. He may not be dead but he sure ain't moving, either," the gunman said.
"I wanted him dead."
"And he would have been if I was allowed to pop him in the head."
"I told you before-"
"I know," the gunman said. "No head shots."
"I still want him dead."
"Hey. They've got guards on him around the clock. Let's let things cool down and then I'll finish him."
"Finish him now," said the voice from inside the car.
"Why not Lavallette? I can get him next, then finish Millis."
"There's time enough to get Lavallette. He's making a million public appearances with his new car and he'll be easy. But I want Millis dead now."
"Suit yourself, but hitting a guy surrounded by cops isn't as easy as it might sound."
"Millis next. Then Lavallette."
"What about Revell?" the gunman asked.
"I don't think we'll have to bother with him."
"There's another problem," the gunman said.
"There's always another problem with you. When I hired you, I thought I was getting the best."
"I am the best," the gunman said coldly. "So what's the problem?"
"The old Oriental. The one at the Dynacar demonstration. He showed up at the Millis hit."
"So what?"
"I think he works for the government," the gunman said.
"Doesn't matter to me. If he gets in the way, get him out of the way. Permanently. Anything else?"
"No. I guess not."
"All right," said the voice from inside the car. "I'll pay for the Millis hit when it's done."
And the Dynacar silently moved out of the dumping ground like a black ghost on wheels.
The gunman got back into his car. It was too chancy for him to go after Millis. The automaker would be surrounded by guards. But there was another way perhaps.
He lit another cigarette as he thought it over.
And he also thought that it would be very interesting when it came time for him to go after Lyle Lavallette again. Very interesting indeed.
Chapter 20
There was no longer any doubt in Smith's mind. The unidentified woman who had been killed at the grave of Remo Williams was Remo's mother. And her killer-the same man who was running amok in Detroit-was Remo's father.
There was no other explanation. As Smith had reasoned it out, it must have been a family argument and probably the only close relative the dead woman had was the husband, her killer. That explained why no one had reported her missing to police.
Smith still did not understand how, after so many years, the parents had found Remo's grave. They had never attempted to contact Remo in all the years he was a ward at St. Theresa's Orphanage. They had kept their distance during Remo's tour of duty in Vietnam and during his years as a Newark beat patrolman.
But somehow, later, they had accomplished what Smith had long assumed was impossible. They had found their son, or, more precisely, they had found the grave that they believed contained their son's body.
But now Remo was really dead. And his father was slaughtering the heads of Detroit's automotive industry. Even with all the pieces in place, it still made no real sense to Smith. And there were still loose ends.
An exhaustive records search had turned up no Remo Williams Senior living anywhere in the United States. Smith still did not have a name for the woman who must have been Remo's mother. The woman's morgue shot, circulated nationwide after Smith pulled some behind-the-scenes strings, had yet to bring forth anyone who knew the woman.
Where had the couple been living all these years? Smith wondered. In another country? Under assumed names? On the moon?
Whatever the truth was, Smith had made a mistake many years ago. The mistake was in selecting Remo Williams to be the man who did not exist. Smith had done it, supposing Remo to be a man without a past, but he had had a past and now that past had caught up with him. It had caught up with all of them.
Even with most of the answers in front of him, Smith wondered about the loose ends. He would look into them. But that would have to wait. First, there was still the Detroit matter.
Drake Mangan was dead and Hubert Millis was near death in a hospital. Confidential reports said that James Revell had gone out of the country. That left Lyle Lavallette and the more Smith thought of it, the more sure he was that the gunman would be back to finish the job on Lavallette.
Perhaps not, if Smith could help it.
Remo was gone, but there was still Chiun. Smith picked up the telephone.
The Master of Sinanju was packing his steamer trunks when the phone rang and he answered it in the middle of its first ring.
Smith's voice crackled over the line. "Chiun?"
"Hail, Emperor Smith," Chiun said. It was his customary greeting but its delivery was anything but customary because the voice sounded barren and tired and Smith realized he should proceed cautiously.
"Master of Sinanju, I know how you must be feeling at a time like this," he said.
"Hah! No man can know. No man who is not the blood of my blood."
"All right, then. I don't know. But just because Remo is gone, it doesn't mean that the world stops. We still have a mission."
&nbs
p; "You have a mission," said Chiun, folding the last of his sleeping robes and gently packing it in the final open trunk.
"Let me remind you, Chiun," Smith said sternly, "that we have sacred contracts. One stipulation of our contract is that in the event of injury, incapacitation, or the death of your pupil, you, as his trainer, are obligated to render whatever service is necessary to dispose of unfinished business. This Detroit matter comes under that obligation."
"Do not speak to me of obligations," Chiun hissed. "All whites are ungrateful. I gave Remo what no white has ever before achieved, and I gave you the use of Remo. And what have I to show for all my sacrifices? Obligations!"
"You have been well paid. In gold. You are a rich man. Your village is rich."
"I am a poor man," snapped Chiun, "for I have no son, no heirs. My village eats, yes. But will their children eat, or their grandchildren, after I am gone and there is none to take my place?"
Smith resisted the urge to remind Chiun that the United States government had shipped enough gold to the village of Sinanju to feed its entire population well, for the next millennium. Instead, he said, "I've always understood that a Sinanju contract is unbreakable. And that the word of Sinanju is inviolate."
Smith felt strange throwing back Chiun's own arguments at him, but it worked. Chiun was silent for a moment. In his hotel room, Chiun felt something hard under the sleeping robe he had just packed away and reached for it. It was a silken pouch containing the shard of speckled gray rock, the rock of the Master Shang, the rock which Sinanju tradition said Master Shang had taken from the mountains of the moon.
Hefting the rock in his hand, Chiun remembered the lesson of Shang and, his voice clear again, he said to Smith, "What would you have me do?"
"I knew I could count on you, Chiun," said Smith, who knew no such thing.
"This killer who goes by Remo's name," Smith said. "My belief is that he will next attack Lyle Lavallette of Dynacar Industries."
"I will go to this carriagemaker. I will protect him. This time there will be no excuses from Sinanju."
"Don't just protect him, Chiun. Stay with him. Ask him questions. We still don't know why those auto men are targets for assassination and I don't believe it has anything to do with environmental protests. Maybe there is some common link between them all, other than their business, that you can find out. Anything would be helpful. And if the killer shows up again, take him alive if possible. We've got to know if he's doing this for personal reasons or if he's in someone's employ."
"I understand. I will protect the carriagemaker. And I will find out what he knows. Which, of course, is very little because he is a white and an American besides."
Smith ignored the remark. He paused a moment, then said, "Would you tell me how Remo died? Do you mind talking about it?"
"He fell into bad company," Chiun said.
Smith waited but the old man spoke no more. Finally, the CURE director cleared his throat and said, "Well, okay, Chiun. Communicate with me as soon as you have something. "
"I have something now," said Chiun. "I have the ingratitude of whites. It is a larger thing than any Master of Sinanju has ever had before."
He hung up and at Folcroft, Smith thought that the bitterness Chiun felt toward Remo was strange. He would have thought Chiun would be racked by sorrow, but there was no sign of it. Still, you could never tell about Chiun and Smith forced it out of his mind and turned his attention back to the loose ends surrounding the murder at the grave of Remo Williams. Even at this critical time, in the last few hours that CURE might continue to exist, those loose ends ate away at him.
Chapter 21
"So what have you been doing all your life, kid?" the gunman asked after the cocktail waitress had brought them drinks. They were in a quiet corner of the best restaurant in Detroit. The lighting was dim and there was a view of the downtown area through the spacious windows. By night, the dirt was forgotten and Detroit looked like a city carved from ebony and set with jewels of light.
"I've been working for the government," Remo answered after a pause. He felt uncomfortable talking about his work.
"Come on. You've got to level with your old man. Before, you told me you were in the same line as me," the gunman said.
"I am. For the government, sort of."
"I get it. Secret stuff, huh?"
"Right," Remo said. "Secret stuff."
"Well, tell me about it. And drink up. That's good bourbon."
"I can't," Remo said.
"You can't tell your own father what you've been doing for a living all these years?" the gunman said.
"I can't tell you that either," Remo said. He pushed the tumbler of brownish fluid away from him. Even the smell bothered him. "What I meant was, I can't drink this stuff. "
"That's the way it goes. Name your own poison," the gunman said. He looked around for a cocktail waitress.
"I can't drink anything."
"Jeez, my son, the teetotaler. Is that what you're telling me, Remo?"
"My system won't handle alcohol," Remo said.
"You got something wrong with you?"
Remo stifled a laugh. It wasn't that there was anything wrong with his system. It was just the opposite. He was such a finely tuned human machine, thanks to Sinanju, that like a racing-car engine, the wrong mixture in the fuel tank would throw his performance off. In some cases, as with alcohol, it could have serious or fatal effects.
"What are you smiling about?" the gunman asked.
"Just thinking of Chiun," Remo said. "He said we're funny people because we eat the meat of dead cows and we drink the juice of rancid grass."
"Forget Chiun," the gunman said.
"What I mean was I can't drink stuff like this. It screws me up."
The gunman took a healthy sip of his own drink. "If you ask me, a man who doesn't drink is already screwed up."
Remo was silent. The man across the table from him was a stranger. He kept looking into the older man's face, looking for something, a flash of recognition, a long dormant memory, a hint of a shared experience, but there was nothing. Remo was confused and sad and more than a little uneasy. In another time and place, he and this man could have been enemies, and over the years for CURE, Remo had killed hundreds of professional hit men. But for circumstances, he might have killed the man who sat across from him without hesitation, never dreaming that the target might be his own father.
The waitress came back and asked for their order.
"Prime rib. Bloody rare. Mashed potatoes. Any green vegetable's okay."
Remo said, "I'll have rice. Steamed."
When Remo did not add anything else to his order, the waitress said, "And?"
"No 'and.' That's it. Just the rice. And a glass of bottled water, please."
"Yes, sir," the waitress said dubiously, taking away their menus.
"Rice?" the gunman said, "Just rice?"
"I'm on a special diet."
"Skip it for just one night. How often is it you find your father? Isn't that reason to celebrate? Have a steak."
"I can't," Remo said
"Those nuns really did a job on you," the older man sighed. "Or maybe it was hanging around with that old Chinese character?"
He quickly changed the tone of his voice when he saw the look that came into Remo's eyes. It scared him and he reminded himself to go light on that subject in the future. Or there might not be any future.
"Okay, suit yourself," the gunman said. "I want to talk to you about something."
"You never told me where I was born," Remo said suddenly.
"You never asked. Jersey City."
"I grew up in Newark," Remo said.
"That's where I worked. We moved there."
"What other relatives do I have?" Remo said.
The gunman shook his head. "Just me. I was an only child and so was your mother. Both our parents are dead. You've got nobody else but me. Listen to me, now. This is important."
"I'm listening," Remo said, but
he was thinking of Chiun. The old Korean had, through the legends and history of Sinanju, given Remo more family than this man, his own father, had. He wondered what Chiun was doing right at that moment.
The gunman said, "Before, up on that roof, you told me you were a professional. Okay. I'm not going to ask you who you worked for or anything like that. I just want to know if you were straight with me when you said that."
"I was straight," Remo said.
"Okay. I believe you. Now listen to your old man. That guy I clipped. Millis. He didn't die."
"No?"
"No. And that means I don't get paid."
"Right," Remo said.
"That means I gotta finish him."
"Why don't we just forget him and leave town?" Remo said. "We can try some other place. Maybe some other country. Get to know each other."
"Look. I gotta finish him. And the way I see it, if you hadn't been screwing around on the roof, I would have gotten a clear shot and he would have been history."
Remo shrugged. "Sorry," he said.
"That doesn't cut it. I've got a reputation to maintain and this is going to hurt it. I'm not a rich guy. I need to work from time to time."
"I said I was sorry."
"I accept that," the gunman said. "But what are you going to do about it, son?"
"Do about what?" Remo said, who was getting an idea of what the older man was hinting at. The thoughts of Chiun fled from his mind.
"I mean that you owe me, Remo. You owe your old man for screwing up his hit and I want you to take care of Millis for me."
"I can't do that," Remo said.
"Can't? Everything I'm hearing from you tonight is can't. I can't drink, Dad. I can't eat, Dad. That one word is seriously going to jeopardize our relationship, son." Remo looked down at the table and the gunman said, "Millis is in a coma. It should be easy. I'll even loan you my best piece."
Remo's answer was a growl. "I don't need a weapon to take somebody out. "
"No, I guess you don't," the older man said and lit a cigarette. "Then it's settled?"
"This isn't right," Remo said.
"I know you've killed for the government. You told me that. I'm just asking for my due. If you can work for them, you can work for me. Do it or take your 'can'ts' and get out of my life." The gunman set himself. If the kid was going to turn on him, it would be now.
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