"Sometimes I don't know why I put up with his crap," Remo told Pullyang. His face wore a grim expression like a skull. Dark eyes gleamed in their hollows above prominent cheekbones. His mouth was an angry slash.
"You do not appreciate his awesome magnificence," Pullyang said sagely.
"Well, take it from me, he's a lot less magnificent when you have to deal with him every dingdong day."
Pullyang left Remo in a room furnished with only a tatami mat, murmuring, "You will miss him when he has journeyed into the Great Void."
"Who are you kidding?" Remo snorted. "That old reprobate will probably outlive me. Good night, Pullyang."
Pullyang padded off in ghostly silence.
Remo had trouble sleeping. Chiun's snit was not the cause. Chiun had had inexplicable snits like this one since the day, almost twenty years before, when Remo Williams-then a young Newark excop-had been introduced to the frail Korean.
Remo had just come off death row. The hard way. He had been strapped sweating to the electric chair and shocked into oblivion.
Folcroft Sanitarium had been the name of the hell he later regained consciousness in. He was not dead. He had not died. He had been erased. All his identity records had been expunged. A fresh headstone bore his name. An orphan, he had no relatives, so the memory of Remo Williams, a good, if dumb, cop who had been framed for killing a pusher, existed only in the fading memories of a small circle of friends and coworkers.
All this was explained to Remo Williams as he got used to the too-tight skin of his new plasticsurgery-created face by Dr. Harold W. Smith, the head of Folcroft and director of CURE, a secret government agency that had been set up to salvage America, which was then falling into anarchy.
Remo had been selected to be its savior. He would become the instrument of righteousness in a corrupt world. And Chiun, disciple of the Sinanju martial-arts tradition, would be the one to transform him into that instrument.
Remo expressed his profound gratitude at the second chance at life by attempting to shoot the Master of Sinanju with a .38 revolver.
Chiun had not been young then. He looked as if he would topple in a brisk wind. Yet he had sidestepped, dodged, and eluded the attack in ways Remo had never imagined.
All five bullets missed. And unlike the average foot patrolman, Remo had been a pretty good shot.
That was the first icy breath of the power of Sinanju that blew through Remo Williams' soul.
Reluctantly he submitted himself to the training. He learned first to breathe, then to kill, and most important, not to be killed. In those early days, he thought he was being turned into a kind of government enforcer, but as the years passed and he learned not only to duplicate Chiun's bullet-dodging but also to climb sheer walls with the silent ease of a spider and run faster than a car, Remo realized he was becoming something more. He was becoming part of the House of Sinanju, the greatest assassins in human history.
That had been long ago. Their relationship had been through many rocky periods since.
The smell of pine needles wafting through the cool air brought Remo back to other days, previous trips to Sinanju, the center of the universe to the Masters of Sinanju, of which Remo was the first white man to qualify.
He remembered the first time he had come here, wounded and afraid, to battle his rival, the renegade Master Nuihc. Years later, Remo returned for the Master's Trial, in which he fought warriors from other lands, including the Scandinavian warriorwoman, Jilda, who later bore him a daughter. More recently he and Chiun had returned because he thought the Master of Sinanju was dying. Chiun had not been dying, but during those dangerous, uncertain days Remo had met and fallen in love with a tender maid of Sinanju named Mah-Li. Although circumstances tore him from her, he had returned to marry Mah-Li. With tragic consequences.
The thought of Mah-Li brought Remo to his feet. He drew on his chinos and slipped barefoot out into the night. Like a pale ghost, he floated to the burial yard of Sinanju.
He stood over the grave of Mah-Li the Beast-so called by the villagers because of her Western-style beauty-killed by an old enemy, the pupil of long-dead Nuihc. Had it really been four years ago? Remo wondered. Time was flying. Remo's new life was flying. His other life seemed like a half-remembered dream now.
Remo reached up into a towering fir tree and plucked several needles. As he sprinkled them onto Mah-Li's grave, he found it hard to remember her face with clarity. They had known each other less than a year. He wondered how his life would have gone had they wedded. He wondered how his life was going. How much longer could he work for America? Could Chiun?
He stood there turning vague unsettling thoughts over in his mind. No answers came. Slipping back to Pullyang's hut, he tried to find sleep.
Remo slept fitfully, as if plagued by nightmares. But when he awoke with the dawn, he could not remember any of them. But a cold unease sat in his belly like dry ice.
Pullyang padded up, carrying an awkwardly long reed pipe in one gnarled claw, as Remo stepped out into the light.
"What's up, Pullyang?" Remo asked.
"The Master bids me to inform you that he travels to America this day," Pullyang said in his thin cracked voice.
"Already? Where is he?"
"Packing. And he requires that you do the same if you intend to accompany him to America."
Remo lifted an eyebrow. "Intend?"
"Those were his exact words," Pullyang said solemnly.
"Tell him I'm packed," Remo growled.
Remo pulled on a white T-shirt, and slipping his bare feet into his loafers, he checked his rear pocket for his toothbrush. This constituted his packing.
Remo found the Master of Sinanju sitting in the saddle of a fine Mongolian pony, wearing a dull gray traveling robe. His face was sere.
"We going now?" Remo asked, approaching.
Chiun patted his pony in studied silence.
"Be that way, then," Remo muttered. He mounted his own pony, which Pullyang had saddled for him.
The Master of Sinanju forked his pony around and started up a dirt road. "Farewell, Pullyang," he intoned. "Keep my village safe in my absence."
Remo followed, calling back, "Catch you later, Pullyang."
The dirt road lifted among rocks and leveled off at the edge of three huge empty superhighways marked Sinanju 1, 2, and 3. Chiun selected Sinanju 2 and sent his pony clopping along it.
His face unhappy, Remo rode in his wake.
They rode all the way to the Pyongyang airport, where the communist officials cheerfully stabled their horses for them and so retained their heads. Memories were long in Pyongyang.
Relations between North Korea and the civilized world being what they were, Remo and Chiun had to fly to Beijing to obtain a flight back to the U.S.
The layover in Beijing reminded Remo of his last assignment, the rescue of a Chinese dissident student named Zhang Zingzong, who had left the safety of America with Chiun, seeking the treasure of Genghis Khan. They had found the treasure, but the student had lost his life in the quest. It was the first time in many years that a CURE assignment had ended so badly, although from Chiun's point of view that was irrelevant. He had ended up with most of the treasure.
"Smitty's gonna have a fit about that student when we report in," Remo said casually. "Although I guess he has some idea, since it's been almost two months since we reported in."
They were seated in an airport waiting room. At the sound of Remo's voice, Chiun had flounced around to present Remo with his small back.
"Two can play this game," Remo muttered, ignoring him in turn.
Remo was ignored all the way across the Pacific Ocean too. He was forced to sit by himself during the five-hour transcontinental leg. And the taxi ride from Kennedy Airport to their home in Rye, New York, was thick with interminable silence.
Finally, pushing open the door to his house, Remo relented.
"Do you want to call Smith or shall I?" he asked in a subdued voice.
Chiun said n
othing, so Remo reached for the phone. Clapping the receiver to his ear, he started dialing Folcroft Sanitarium when he realized the dial tone in his ear should not be there.
"Hey!" Remo said. "This phone is working."
Chiun, bent over a steamer trunk in another room, declined to look up.
"The line was disconnected before we left, remember? Smith must have had it repaired. That means he's been here. Probably planting more listening devices," Remo added sourly.
Chiun did not react.
"Don't you care?"
This time the Master of Sinanju did reply.
He said, "No." His voice was chilly. Then he shut the door.
"This is ridiculous," Remo exploded, "even for you."
He slammed the receiver and sidled up to the closed door.
"You know," he called through the wood, "I'd suffer a lot more if I knew what I did or said to piss you off."
Silence. Then a squeaky voice said, "It is not what you did, but what you did not do."
"Any hints?" Remo said, brightening. At least he wasn't being ignored anymore.
No further sound came through the door.
"I asked if you wanted to clue me in," Remo repeated in a hopeful voice.
The protracted silence made it clear to Remo that he was being ignored once again.
Remo stood in the middle of the living room-only a big-screen television gave any clue to the room's purpose, for there was not a stick of furniture in it-debating whether to call Smith or drop in, when the phone rang.
Remo scooped it up. His "Hello?" was a bark.
"Remo? This is Smith."
"Nice timing," Remo said, leaning on one hand against a wall. "We just got in."
"Er, I've been calling every half-hour for weeks."
Remo felt tiny vibrations under his palm. Frowning, he drove two stiff fingers into the plaster and extracted a round black microphone.
"It wouldn't be because you've got sensors planted in this place to warn you when we got back?" he asked suspiciously.
The pause was lengthy enough to let Remo know that Smith was debating whether or not to lie.
"What makes you say that?" Smith said at last. His tone was lemony and sharp.
"Well, the phone's fixed. I know the mice didn't do it, because the cheese is untouched."
"A necessity which I attended to as your superior," Smith said quickly. "Now, please, Remo, we have important matters to discuss."
"Yeah, well, Zhang is dead," Remo said, pocketing the bug. "I did what I could, but he bought it."
"I know."
"What'd you do?" Remo asked acidly. "Bug Mongolia?"
"The U.S. has intelligence assets in Asia," Smith explained. "That is the past. I was alerted to your presence in Pyongyang and in Beijing. There was no secure way to contact you en route. That is why I've been calling hourly."
"You said half-hourly," Remo pointed out. "But let it pass. If you're not upset about Zhang, what's the problem?"
"We have lost the town of La Plomo, Missouri. It has been eradicated."
"How so?"
"Poison gas. Every man, woman, and child was killed in his sleep."
Remo's voice tightened. "Is that a lot of people?"
"Less than a thousand. It was a small farm town, but that is not important. The La Plomo gassing took place three weeks ago. An FBI investigation has turned up nothing-no leads, no suspects. We're stymied. Washington has asked me to put you and Chiun on it."
"There's a problem with that," Remo said wearily.
The lemons in Smith's voice gave a sudden juicy squeeze. "Yes?"
"Chiun and I aren't currently on speaking terms."
"What have you done to offend him this time?"
"I like how I'm automatically branded as the instigator," Remo said sourly. "As for why, you'll have to ask Chiun. All I've gotten since Korea is cold silence interspersed with the occasional game of charades."
"Ask Chiun to come to the phone," Smith ordered crisply.
"Gladly," Remo said. He went to Chiun's room and knocked once. "Chiun, Smitty needs to talk to you."
There was no response.
"And boy, is he ticked off about losing Zhang," Remo added warningly. "He says we're through. Both of us. Hope you haven't unpacked."
The door banged open like a mousetrap snapping. Face stricken, the Master of Sinanju shot across the room like a gray ghost. The receiver came up to his wizened face and his squeaky voice poured out a torrent of plaintive words.
"It was all Remo's fault, Emperor Smith," he said rapidly. "He was careless, but all is not lost, for we have recovered the treasure of Genghis Khan, the greatest in history. You should see it. Rubies, emeralds, gold, and jade beyond description-"
Chiun paused, cocking his bald yellow head.
"No, I do not intend to contribute it to the national debt. Are you mad!"
Folding his arms, Remo leaned against a doorjamb, listening. He grinned.
"I thought you would be pleased that we did not allow Zhang to fall into unscrupulous hands," Chiun went on testily. "He was really quite unimportant. America has many defective Chinese students. Almost all of them are such, in fact."
"Chinese student defectors," Remo called over helpfully.
Chiun turned away, placing one hand over his free ear to block out the unwanted intrusion. He listened intently.
"Yes, Emperor. This is a private matter. I will explain later. I have my reasons. Very well. For this urgent assignment I will suffer whatever communications with the ungrateful one that are necessary. We shall leave at once."
Chiun hung up. He turned to Remo. His tiny mouth parted, causing his straggly beard to wriggle.
Remo beat him to the draw by a full second.
"Leave at once!" Remo shouted. "We just got here!"
"Silence," Chiun said imperiously. "I have agreed to suffer your companionship until this assignment is completed. But I will not be drawn into petty arguments. Remember this. Now you must pack."
"Pack? I haven't unpacked!"
"Then let us hasten to the airport without delay." The Master of Sinanju floated to the front door.
Remo hesitated. Frowning, he followed Chiun out to the car, grumbling, "All right, all right. But you could at least tell me who we're supposed to be this time out."
"I will be the unsurpassed Master of Sinanju," Chiun said haughtily, standing by the car door so that Remo could open it for him. "And you shall be what you always are-an insensitive clod."
"In that case," Remo said, stepping around to the driver's side, "open your own freaking door."
Chapter 3
La Plomo, Missouri, was under siege.
Three weeks after the last of the stiff-limbed dead had been carted away, a crowd was gathered around the barbed-wire perimeter posted with "Keep Out" signs, where Missouri National Guardsmen stood guard wearing butyl rubber chemical-warfare garb and overboots, their heads enveloped in glassy-eyed gas masks.
The lawyers came first. The initial wave arrived a solid hour before the first weeping, bereaved relatives of the deceased. The anguished relatives had chased off the lawyers. The lawyers had retreated and returned with reinforcements.
Now, weeks later, the lawyers outnumbered the relatives, most of whom had quietly buried their dead and returned to their own lives.
The representatives of the media had dwindled down to single digits. Those that were left were trying to find someone who hadn't been asked the question "How does it feel to know that your blood relatives died in excruciating agony from improperly stored poison gas?" That no one had as yet had determined that an improperly stored nerve agent had had anything to do with the La Plomo disaster seemed not to faze them in the slightest.
When they couldn't extract an appropriate supporting sound bite from a distraught visitor or a stiffnecked National Guard sentry-who were completely unintelligible behind their gas masks anyway-the TV representatives simply sought out a handy spokesman from one of the many protest groups t
hat had clustered around La Plomo with the same voraciousness as the big bluebottle flies buzzing the trampled-down cornfield at the north edge of the wire. Remo tasted the smell of death hovering around the town of La Plomo before he saw the town itself. The airborne particles were probably less than one part per million, but his highly acute sense of smell detected the vaguely unappetizing stench as he coasted along U.S. 63 in his rented car.
"I think we're getting close," Remo called over his shoulder. "I'm gonna roll up the windows."
In the back seat, where he would not have to suffer a too-close proximity to his ungrateful pupil, the Master of Sinanju said, "You are too late by a mile. A country mile," he added.
Remo rolled up the windows anyway. He could endure the death smell-it went with the job sometimes-but poison gas was another thing entirely. Just as Remo's sense of smell was highly refined, so were his hearing, his vision, his reflexes, and-this was the downside of Sinanju-his susceptibility to irritants that would do no lasting harm to an ordinary person.
"Tell me if it starts getting too bad," Remo said, "and we'll go back. No sense ending up in the hospital if the air isn't breathable yet. According to the TV reports I caught at the airport, the National Guard are still wearing their gas masks."
"The lawyers did not seem affected," Chiun sniffed.
"Lawyers must not breathe the same mixture as you and I."
On either side of the road, stereotypical red barns and tall grain silos marched by. The early-spring breezes toyed with the lush prairie grasses. It seemed all very pastoral to Remo Williams-until he noticed an unusually thick cloud of flies swarming up ahead.
As they passed the cloud, Remo saw directly beneath it stiff hooves pointing up to the sky. He couldn't tell if the hooves belonged to a horse or a cow. Remo was a city boy.
The stench was sour, maggoty. Like rotted meat in old garbage cans. His brow grew worried. If there was any poison gas still in the air, it would be hard to separate from the overripe stink of corruption.
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