"Remo. Talk to him, please," said Consuelo. But Remo did not answer.
"I'll do it myself then. Remo, if you can hear me, remember I am going to NCA headquarters. I believe what you said. I believe we're the only ones who can save the country. I want you to carry on if I don't come back. I know you love America too. I guess I was always ambitious to prove I was as good as any man. But right now, all I want to do is save our country."
"Are you through?" said Chiun.
"Yes," said Consuelo. There were tears in her eyes now and she was not ashamed of them.
"Then close the door behind you, thank you," said Chiun.
"If Remo didn't hear me, and he comes to, would you tell him what I said?"
"Of course not," said Chiun.
"And I used to think you were the nice one," said Consuelo.
"And you were correct, too," said Chiun.
"You're horrible, you know. Really horrible. Remo was right."
"Did he say that?"
"He said you were difficult."
Chiun smiled. "I can't believe that," he said. His trainer had been difficult. His grandfather had been difficult. But the one thing about Chiun that Chiun understood above all things was that he was not difficult. If he had a problem, it was his tendency to be too nice. That was Chiun's problem. That was where all the trouble came from.
Chiun felt her turn on her heel and walk out the door. He examined the chest, the legs, the ears, all the meridians of the body. Good. Not much damage. The unity of the body, the rhythms, were off. But they would come back. He would be the same again, but this time Remo would meet a different Chiun. No more Mr. Nice Guy. No more being pushed around. He was through taking it anymore.
Since it was midday, he turned on the television. Ordinarily he did not watch advertisements between the daytime dramas. But this day he saw an advertisement that moved him. Someone had finally woken up to the trouble America was in.
An American businessman was addressing the nation. He called for an end to random violence. He called upon America to make its streets safe. He called upon every citizen to report horrendous acts of unpunished crimes to his clearinghouse. The man had a proud high-bridged Spanish face. He spoke with haughty grandeur. There was something nice about the man.
With an American writing implement of crude blue ink, Chiun sat down to write a letter to this man on motel stationery. It began:
Mr Dear Mr. Harrison Caldwell:
You have finally come to save this wretched country from its excesses. Too long has America suffered from the amateur assassin violating the standards of the noblest profession, throwing the streets into chaos ...
If Consuelo Bonner had any thought about trying to get help, she gave it up as soon as she checked with her McKeesport plant.
"Better not come back here, Ms. Bonner," said her secretary. "They're looking for you."
"Who?"
"Everyone. Police, federal authorities, NCA. You're listed as a fugitive."
"I wasn't running from anything, I was chasing something."
"I told them, Ms. Bonner. I told them you were the best security chief this plant ever had. I told them you were better than any man. All they said was that I had to let them know if I heard from you. Or I'd face federal charges."
"I'll get this straightened out myself. I just need my records."
"We don't have them anymore. All the files were seized. They're evidence."
"I see," said Consuelo.
She could turn herself in and explain everything. But would they believe her? Only if she had the files she had left at headquarters, the ones leading to the man who contacted James Brewster. Maybe Brewster didn't know who had reached out for him, but there couldn't be too many people at headquarters who knew a lowly dispatcher outside of the plant.
She would have to break in herself. If she had Remo, he could get in any number of ways. The man could probably break through a wall when he was well.
She had one thing going for her. She was one of the security people who set up the original procedures to protect vital NCA files. She knew what guards would look for and what they would not look for. Such as a clearance badge. They never cross-checked the names, or even compared faces. What they did look for was the number.
Consuelo Bonner carefully cut her badge out of its laminated container, painted in new numbers that looked original, gave herself the name Barbara Gleason, and then resealed it all. Then, at midday, she marched into the vast concrete buildings of NCA as though she belonged there.
Expecting to be arrested any moment, she was almost horrified at how easy it was to get into the records center.
After a short time in front of a microfilm machine she nearly forgot there was any danger at all.
She got Brewster's file easily, saw his date of employment, his early retirement. She even saw some of her queries about him. She had sought background checks on everyone who had anything to do with the missing uranium. But on Brewster, the queries just sat in the file. A note was attached to them. It was dated the moment they came in. The memo said: "Brewster okay."
It seemed to have the highest authority. She checked out the authorization code. When she saw who it was, she couldn't believe it. It was Bennett Wilson himself. The director of the whole shebang.
He was the man she was intending to report to when she unraveled everything.
She closed the file. A guard was looking at her. Something puzzled him about her. She had seen him a few days before when she was here with Remo and Chiun.
She pretended she was busy in the file. She reread Brewster's early application for government employment as though it were a best-selling novel.
What did Brewster want to do with his life? "Retire," was his answer.
If Brewster saw a mother and child drowning and he still had an envelope to lick for a magazine subscription, would he:
A. Save the mother and child, forgetting about everything else?
B. Put down the letter and then save the mother and child, leaving the letter for later? or
C. Make sure he had the correct postage and leave the fate of the mother and child to those who might be qualified to help?
Brewster chose C.
Consuelo glanced up. The guard was still looking. She went back to Brewster's entrance test.
The next question was another multiple choice. Which of the following would he prefer to watch?
A. The last minutes of a Super Bowl game tied 48 to 48.
B. Swan Lake performed by the Royal Ballet.
C. Rembrandt at work.
D. The clock.
Brewster had chosen D, for one of the highest scores ever recorded for a federal job, so high the examiner said that if there was a person born for government service, it was James Brewster.
"You."
It was the guard. Consuelo looked up. "Yes?" said Consuelo.
"Let me see your identification badge."
Consuelo handed it to him, making sure the ends of the laminate she had just glued got one last pressing together.
"Didn't I see you here the other day?"
"You may have, I don't know."
"I have a photographic memory."
"Then you must have."
"You weren't named Barbara Gleason then. Consuelo Bonner? Right. Consuelo Bonner, McKeesport security. Right? Right?"
Consuelo swallowed.
"Right," she said. It was all over.
"I knew it. I have a photographic memory."
"What are you going to do?" said Consuelo. It was over. Having been caught, her accusations now would only look like trying to protect herself.
"What do you mean, what am I going to do?"
"You've found me with questionable identification."
"Right. But this ain't my floor. I just came here to get a look at my own file. I legally have a half day's vacation due from my 87-35 revolving vacation leave, 803967 transfer code."
"So you are going to do nothing."
"This i
s the last part of my lunch hour. I am not going to cut into my lunch hour for this. I don't know that I'd get it back. Could you guarantee me compensatory time for my lunch break?"
"No," said Consuelo.
"Then forget it. I just wanted to see if I was right." Almost sadly she returned the folder to the file she had gotten it from. She hated the idea that it could be so easy to break in here, even if she had done the breaking. She had tried to change things at the McKeesport plant and felt to a large degree that she had succeeded, except for the thefts. But what could she have done when they were masterminded by the very head of the agency?
As she was about to leave, she saw an "all-staff memo" posted on a wall. It was from the new chairman of the NCA. It was a notice of regrets for absence of Director Bennett Wilson, and assuring everyone NCA would run even better while they looked for his replacement. Until then the chairman would personally run everything.
But it also added that things would now be changed. Too many employees were just waiting around until retirement. Too many ignored their duty because they felt their jobs were guaranteed safe. Well, said the new chairman of NCA, he was going to appoint someone soon who felt nuclear materials were too important for a nine-to-five attitude. Heads were going to roll. People were going to do more than what they could be blamed for or he personally would shut down the entire system himself and start from scratch.
The warning was that the job endangered was yours. And until he got a replacement for Wilson who felt the same way, he would run things himself.
Salvation, thought Consuelo. Barely able to control her excitement, she hastily scribbled the notes on Brewster and Wilson. This was what she had hoped would always happen to the NCA. It had seemed as though there was so much protection for the comfortable jobs of employees, none was left over for the uranium.
This man was going to change it. This man would listen to her. This man would make sure they would track down whoever was working with the director. She was sure there were other Brewsters in the system. They would account for the massive amounts of missing fissionable material.
She had broken the case and the new chairman would do the mopping-up. The guard cut into his lunch hour to tell her that the new chairman never came to the building itself, but worked from his home in a nearby state. Since it was only two hours' drive from Washington, Consuelo Bonner rented a car. She just knew that this sort of person would drop everything to hear her information. She headed north into New Jersey.
He lived on an estate that appeared well-guarded. No little phony badge would get her through these people, she knew. She explained who she was and why she was there. She guaranteed to the guard that if they got her message through, he would see her. The guard wasn't sure.
"I know that when he finds out what I have, he will be grateful to you. Tell him that I am a security officer from one of the nuclear facilities in America and I have evidence with me now that Bennett Wilson, the late director, was involved in a scheme to steal uranium. I know because one of my dispatchers was helping him do it."
The guard hesitated.
"Look, my name is Consuelo Bonner and the police are looking for me and I wouldn't be here risking myself if I didn't have the goods."
"Well . . ." said the guard. He wasn't sure. Finally he shrugged and phoned the main house. He went through four people, each more important than the last. Consuelo knew this because the guard's body became more rigid with each person he spoke to. When he hung up the phone he was shaking his head.
"You're right. I never thought he would see you. But he'll see you right now. Just drive right in, and go to the biggest house you'll see and ask. Someone will take you to him immediately. Mr. Harrison Caldwell wants to see you right away."
Mr. Caldwell seemed like an odd choice for the chairman of such an agency. Recently very wealthy, he had donated grand sums to all political parties, and could have had the best ambassadorship at the disposal of any president. But as he explained it to Consuelo, he wanted to help America. Give something back for what he'd taken.
He had grand haughty features, dark eyes peering over a proud nose. He sat erect in a high-backed chair, in a velvet robe bordered thickly with gold lace.
He drank a dark liquid from a goblet and did not seem to feel obliged to offer Consuelo anything, although she mentioned she was very thirsty. Caldwell said that would be taken care of later.
"That's all I know now," said Consuelo. "But I am sure if we pursue this, we will find others. Lots of uranium has been stolen. And this explains why this man who tried to kill my friends got clearance so easily. The man was obviously a killer, and yet he had a security clearance from NCA. His name was Francisco Braun."
"And what happened to him?"
"Well, I guess it has to come out sooner or later, and we were defending ourselves. We did him in."
"We? Then you worked with another ally of good government. Good," said Caldwell. "We should help him. We should thank him. That's the sort of man we need. Where can we reach him?"
"Well, it is a him," said Consuelo. "But there were two. Both men."
"You are insulted that I assume they were men."
"Well ... yes. I was. They could have been women. Although I've never seen men like them."
"Yes, well, we have to get them on our side, don't we?" said Caldwell. "We'll take them away from whoever they're working for."
"I don't know who they're working for. The white guy, Remo, just calls himself one of the good guys. He's getting better now, I hope."
"From his fight with this man Braun?"
"No. Some form of old curse."
"You have done well for us, Ms. Bonner. We are pleased. 'Consuelo' is Spanish. Do you have any Spanish ancestry?"
"My mother's side. Castilian."
"Any noble blood?"
"Only if someone got out on the wrong side of the mattress. Illegitimate noble blood possibly."
"We can tell, you know," said Caldwell.
"The Nuclear Control Agency?"
"No," said Caldwell, pointing to himself. "Well, thank you very much for your time. Now you may leave."
"You are going to do something about this?" asked Consuelo.
"You can be sure of it," said Harrison Caldwell. Consuelo was taken from the immense gilded room, through an exquisite hallway bordered by massive paintings and statues. Gilt seemed to be everywhere. She saw one banner thirty feet high embroidered with what seemed to be a gold coat of arms against a purple velvet background.
She had seen that coat of arms before but couldn't place it. Only when they locked the iron bars behind her did she remember it. It was the apothecary jar on Remo's pendant.
The bars did not open. The room was dark and had a single cot. The walls were stone. There were other small rooms with bars. It wasn't exactly a jail. It was too dank for that. She was in a dungeon. And then the bodies started being brought down. All she could make out was that there was some kind of contest upstairs somewhere where people were killing themselves to see who was the toughest.
Out on Long Island Sound a boat stopped, and several men with binoculars pointed to a large brick-enclosed institution. It was Folcroft Sanitarium.
"Is that it?" asked one. He was loading a clip in a small submachine gun.
"That has to be it. No confluence of electronic signals could come from anywhere else," said the engineer. "All right," said the man with the submachine gun. "Tell Mr. Caldwell we found his target."
On one high corner of the building was a room with mirrors reflecting outside. Inside was Harold W. Smith, and he did not know whether he was lucky or unlucky.
Folcroft's defense systems could read anything sending and receiving signals within a radius of twenty miles. And when he had focused it on that suspicious boat out in the sound, he read that someone had found him and was told to wait until reinforcements arrived so they could surround the sanitarium and make sure no one got away.
Chapter 12
Remo could see the roo
m, feel the bed, feel his arms, and most important, breathe properly, breathe to get his balance, his center, and himself. But his head was still ringing when Chiun told him for the seventeenth time, he was not going to say he told him so.
"Say it. Say it and get it over with. My head feels like it was sandpapered from the inside."
"No," said Chiun. "The wise teacher knows when the pupil understands."
"Tell me it was the curse of the gold that did it to me, and then leave me alone," said Remo.
"Never," said Chiun.
"Okay, then don't tell me you're not going to tell me again. I don't want to hear it."
"All right, I'll tell you. I told you so," said Chiun. "But would you listen? No. You never listen. I told you the gold was cursed. But no, you don't believe in curses even when their secrets are chronicled in the glorious past of Sinanju."
"You mean Master Go and the Spanish gold?"
"No. Master Go and the cursed gold."
"I remember it. Master Go. Somebody paid with the bad check for the day-rotten gold-and he refused to take it. That was around six hundred years ago. Maybe three hundred. Somewhere in there. Can I get a glass of water?"
"I will get it for you. If you had listened to me about the cursed gold at the beginning, then you would be able to get it yourself."
"You said you weren't going to mention it."
"I didn't. I said I was getting you water. But it would not hurt for you to recite Master Go again."
"Not now. The last thing I want to hear now is a recitation of the Masters."
"Just Go."
"But even the Lesser Wang would be too much," said Remo, who knew that the entire history of the Lesser Wang was exactly two sentences, while the Great Wang took a day and a half if you rushed. Wang the Lesser was a Master of Sinanju during an odd period of history when peace settled over most of the world. This era was called the unfortunate confluence of the stars. Since there seemed to be a minimum of strife among rulers, the Lesser Wang spent most of his life sitting in Sinanju waiting for an overthrow, an attack, or a decent usurper to come along. When he finally got one request for service, it turned out not to be worth even leaving the village for. As a result, the tales of the Lesser Wang went like this: "Wang was. And he didn't." It was the only brief thing Remo had ever heard Chiun recite. But even that seemed overwhelming to Remo.
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