"Environmentalists," said the secretary of interior. "I knew they'd cause us trouble. What has an environmentalist ever produced?"
The president sighed again. Maybe his secretary of the interior would be happier back in private industry too. But that was for later. For now was this problem,
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and the president understood it better than anyone else at the table. The bacterium had been created for a purpose. The people who might be able to stop it had already been removed from helping. That had been part of the plan too. And now civilization was ready to get thrown back to the Bronze Age if he did not stop this evil force, whoever or whatever it was. He knew he would now have to use that one power he had said he would never use.
He went to his bedroom and to the top drawer of the bureau. This was what every outgoing president showed the new one. He remembered his predecessor opening the drawer and telling him, "You don't control it. You can only suggest. It won't do everything you suggest."
"How do you know?" asked the new president.
"You're still alive, aren't you?" said the old president. "And I lost the election, didn't I?"
"I'll never use it," said the new president. And he had meant it.
Then.
He picked up the red telephone.
The bacterium had to be stopped. The people behind it had to be stopped. It would do no good to worry about the sanctity of the Constitution because if the bacteria were loosed on the world, there would be no Constitution. No America. He had to use the secret agency he had sworn never to use.
There was a sharp, lemony voice on the other end of the line.
"Yes, Mr. President."
"Civilization has a problem. It's rather sudden, but there is no one else I can turn to. It must be stopped."
"If you are talking about the rapid-breeder bacteria, we are already on it," the lemony voice said.
"Then you know about the missing scientists at MUT and the fact that there's nobody left to help us."
"We already have people at MUT," said the acid voice.
"Then you must know what in the Lord's name is 94
r
behind this. What possible purpose could anyone have in eliminating the world's oil supplies?"
"We don't know that yet. But we are fairly certain that that is the purpose. And what this person, whoever he is, has done by removing the oil scientists is to eliminate the defenses against him before we ever had a chance to deploy them."
"How many men do you have on this?" asked the president.
"One man. And his trainer."
"One man? One man? What kind of an operation are you running? The world's facing disaster, and you've got one man and a trainer on it?"
"He is a very special man," the acid voice answered coolly.
"Will he be enough?" asked the president wearily.
"If he isn't, then nothing will be."
"I hope so," said the president.
After he replaced the telephone in his office inside Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, Dr. Harold Smith looked at the phone and said softly, "I hope so too. I hope so too."
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Chapter Six
Chiun watched porters carrying the fourteen lacquered steamer trunks out of the door of the suit in the Copley Plaza Hotel. Remo knew he referred to the porters as "cheap white help" even though half of them were black.
Remo was glad Chiun had the porters. If he didn't have them, he would have tried to get Remo to move the trunks around. Or some passerby. Remo had seen Chiun directing women and children whom he had conned into carrying the great steamer trunks of the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun saw Remo watching and used the occasion to' lecture him. "The problem with America is the amateur assassin. Nay, the problem with the world. And we are living in an age of great debauchery, where these services are given away. Randomly given away. Willy nilly given away. On street corners."
"We have a noon plane to Anguilla," said Remo. "We're going to sail to St. Maarten's. Smith just made contact with me on that. They're making that germ stuff on St. Maarten's."
"Decent competent assassins are now being affected by this wanton attitude of giveaway," said Chiun.
"We'd better hurry," said Remo. "Boston traffic is a mess."
"Years of training, poof. Gone like the wind that never was, and all that is left for a tired old man is the
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ingratitude of he who has benefited from years of the old man's wisdom."
"Smitty asked if you'd like a lighter, more portable tape machine," said Remo.
"But who cares?" said Chiun. "Who cares that the training will begin to suffer because of bad attitudes? Who cares that the Masters of Sinanju are, have been for ages, responsible for the food and the roofs of the whole village? Oh, no. We do not care anymore. What is tradition? What is responsibility? Poooffff."
"I told Smitty no," said Remo. "I told him it took you a month to learn how to work the tape machine you've got. I told him you didn't like new things."
And then in somber fury, the Master of Sinanju turned to his pupil and said in majestic and awesome tones, "You should have taken it, idiot. Suppose the one I have now breaks?"
In the hotel lobby, a man in a three-piece suit and a monocle, with a British accent you could paddle a canoe on, inquired if Remo were perchance a professor at MUT? And did he, perchance, work with an Oriental? And was he, perchance, an authority on bacteria, the fast-breeding bacteria that consumed oil?
"That was yesterday," said Remo. "We know where your headquarters is now, so we don't need you anymore to find your boss. Go home and get lost."
"I beg your pardon."
"I am catching a plane. I am too busy to kill you. You are going to try to kill me, right?"
"How impertinent," said the Briton.
Fourteen steamer trunks came out the fire exit in a caravan, led by Chiun, an Oriental wisp in a golden day robe.
"Ah, your colleague."
"Hey, Chiun, this guy wants to kill us, but we've got a plane to catch."
"Another amateur," said Chiun haughtily.
And then, as in no other time in his life, Merton Lord Wissex felt the sting of insult.
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"I beg your pardon. My family goes back to Henry the Eighth."
Remo smiled tolerantly. "That's very nice."
"What did he say?" asked Chiun, turning back from his trunks for a moment.
"He said his was a new house," said Remo.
"New?" said Chiun.
"Less than a thousand years, right, buddy?" said Remo. He saw the tight British face turn pale. "Yeah, Chiun. Less than a thousand years. He wants to kill us, I think."
"Is he getting paid?" said Chiun. "Tell me, good man, are you being paid?"
"Of course," harrumphed Merton Lord Wissex.
"See, Remo. Even this gets paid," said Chiun. "Even this." And his bony hands and long fingernails pointed to the tweed vest of Merton Lord Wissex.
Traffic to the airport was held up by a religious procession. Remo could make out the signs of the parade: "Stop Racist Murder."
"What's that?" he asked the driver.
"A civil rights leader got killed yesterday. Here. It's in the paper."
The Blade landed on the back seat. Chiun looked back to make sure the three extra taxis for his trunks were following closely.
Remo read the story and shook his head. Apparently, a civil rights leader had been horribly murdered for the "crime of wanting to be free."
There were statements from the religious leaders of the community. The archbishop said racism must be rooted out of the mind of Boston. A rabbi compared the hatred that killed the civil rights worker to the hatred that created the Holocaust. A protestant minister called for armed protection of all civil rights workers.
It seemed the civil rights worker and his friend were found on Memorial Drive, mangled. The civil rights worker's name was Bubba. Remo wondered if he had seen the killer because he was at Memorial D
rive the
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day before, just before the bodies had been found. He was dropping off his own bodies at the time.
This man, however, was not a killer, like the two who had barged into Remo and Chain's office, but a person who had struggled for prison reform, a proud black revolutionary voice challenging the white conscience. His name was Bubba and Remo felt sorry that he had never met him. He probably would have liked him.
"Why don't we fly to St. Maarten's directly?" Chiun asked.
"Because the whole island had been quarantined. We have to sail in."
"Why don't we sail all the way?"
"We don't have time. Western civilization may go under unless we get this cleaned up right away."
"Why don't we sail all the way?" Chiun repeated. "On a slow boat."
Merton Lord Wissex heard the horrible news.
"But, sir," he said into the public telephone, "I know I can put them away. You don't want them."
"You have described two people whom I wish to employ. What is the problem?" Friend asked.
"If they are dead, they are no problem, sir."
"And if they are employed by me, they are an asset."
"Do you know you can trust them?" asked Lord Wissex.
"We will find out, won't we?" said Friend.
So with great bitterness in his craw, Lord Wissex rushed to the airport, where he followed the parade of fourteen lacquered steamer trunks until he found Remo and Chiun.
He approached the old Oriental. The Oriental seemed a bit more polite.
"Sir, may I speak to you about employment?" said Lord Wissex.
"Absolutely. You're hired," said the Oriental. "Talk to Remo about salary."
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"No, sir. You misunderstand. My employer wishes to hire you, sir," said Lord Wissex.
"And he is?" asked Chiun.
"I call him Friend."
"We don't work for friends," said Chiun. "We are professional. Are you sure you wouldn't care to work for us, carrying things, taking care of our clothes? The thing I like most about you Britons is that you know your place."
Raging hatred filled the marrow of Lord Wissex. Words did not move up through the throat. Even the blood felt still and hot in his body.
"Yes, I would love to buttle for you, sir," said Lord Wissex. Those were the words that finally came out of his mouth. He smiled. Once, as a boy, his foot had gotten caught in a trap on his father's estate. The teeth of the trap had bitten to the bone. But that trap hurt far less than the smile he pushed out onto his face at this moment as he said he would love to serve the Oriental.
"I am the Master of Sinanju, and this is my pupil, Remo. Remo, come here. We have a real British servant. They are so good. Not as good as Persian but the best whites in the world."
On the plane, Lord Wissex insisted he serve the tea to his new masters. He would not allow the stewardesses to do it. They lacked proper respect.
"See," said Chiun. "The British know."
Remo still had his copy of The Blade. He turned to the front page. There was a big article about the publisher, Bradford Wakefield III, having died of a heart attack in a mystery death. His boat had been found floating off the coast of Maine, with Mr. Wakefield dead of a heart attack and his crew also dead. The crew's deaths appeared to have been from natural causes, too, because it looked as if they had fallen and hit themselves.
Lord Wissex had a very big subservient smile on his face as he served first Chiun, then Remo, the tea. It was a special blend, he said. Chiun sniffed the wafting aroma. Then he nodded.
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If.
"Very good," he said.
Remo was interested in The Blade's article. It was sketchy, but from the coroner's statements, Remo thought he had spotted something.
"Little Father," he said, "look at this. Don't these sound like some of our blows? You know, when it looks like the person just fell down and cracked crucial bones. Here. Read what the coroner says about the fracture of the neck bones."
Chiun glanced at the newspaper. Remo pointed to the paragraph he wanted Chiun to read.
"What is that?"
"That's a newspaper report. Something strange in it about the blows killing the sea captain and his first mate. Someone else was killed in such a way to make it look like a heart attack. I'm sure of it."
"How can you be sure of anything from reading?" Chiun asked. "One gets beauty from reading, not information. I won't look at it."
Remo lifted the tea to his lips. Lord Wissex smiled, rubbing his hands. Remo put down the cup.
"I don't know," he said. "In a newspaper you can get information."
"Is there something wrong with your tea, Master?" said Lord Wissex. wrong."
"What?" said Remo, looking up. "No. Nothing
"Then why don't you drink it?"
"I will. I'm just interested in something," said Remo and, turning to Chiun, he showed how the neck of the captain was reported to have been shattered.
"A variation," Chiun said. "Karate, judo. A variation. Who knows what it might be? It might be any of that junk they teach now to children all over your stupid country. An inferior blow, nevertheless."
"Sure. But for someone without Sinanju, it makes you think. I mean, someone must have gotten on board and gotten off quickly. And this guy Wakefield owned a newspaper. I was supposed to get some kind of word on getting hired from a newspaper. Therefore ..."
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"Therefore you are doing work you shouldn't. A proper assassin eliminates the threats to good government, assures the throne, establishes the peace of a true regency in his land. There is nothing better for a people than a good king assured his throne by his professional assassin. A professional assassin is not a policeman. A puzzle solver. A worrier about such people as this Bradford Wakefield."
"Your tea, sir," said Lord Wissex. "I'll take the tea," said a plump woman across the aisle. She wore a straw hat with artificial cherries. She had rushed on at the last minute.
"No," said Lord Wissex. "This tea is a special blend for my masters."
"Well, if it's being served on board, I should have a right to it too. I don't think it's fair," said the woman with the straw hat.
"Give her the tea," said Remo. "It smells funny anyhow."
"It's for you, sir," said Lord Wissex. "I made it just for you."
"All right," said Remo. He took the cup and drank it down in one draught.
Lord Wissex waited. When the American curled up in agony, he would attack the old Oriental. He did not care about the difficulty in getting off the plane. He did not care about the orders from Friend. He had never been so humiliated by anyone, and only the death of these two would make up for the shame burning inside his Britannic bosom.
And so Lord Wissex, who had restored his family fortune by service to Friend, waited to watch the American die, prepared to watch his grovel in the aisle of the plane, at which time Lord Wissex would lean over to pretend to help him and in the confusion put a death blow into the throat of the old Oriental.
Then, of course, he could tell Friend that they had attacked him first and it was purely self-defense. The American returned the empty cup. The Ameri-102
can looked to the Oriental. The American said something to the Oriental. Then he smiled at Lord Wissex.
"Are you feeling all right, sir?" asked the butler.
"Sure," said Remo.
"Oh," said Lord Wissex.
"There is something wrong," said the Oriental.
"What?" said Lord Wissex. They know, he thought. And now they will kill me.
"You didn't bow. How can you serve tea without the proper bow?"
"I will remember that, sir," said Wissex.
"They usually can bow quite well," Chiun said to Remo.
Wissex returned to his seat. He thought of burning them alive. He thought of catching them while they slept, pouring gasoline around wherever they slept. He thought of them running screaming from their rooms, their bodies aflame, thei
r skin charring and their voices pitiful wails.
And on this good thought did Lord Wissex manage to overcome his rage of humiliation. He would await the proper time.
But why was the poison taking so kmg to work?
In Anguila, Lord Wissex supervised the loading of their small sailboat.
"Hey mon, nobody be aHowed off that island," said a dockworker. He was helping to load Chiun's trunks in the hot crystal sunlight of the Caribbean neighbor to St. Maarten's. He pointed to St. Maarten's. "The army and navy has that island sealed off, mon."
The man had little clumps of hair hanging down in braided ropes. He was a Rastafarian and he believed that Haile Selassie, the dead emperor of Ethiopia, was God and that marijuana was a beneficial religious experience. He worked very hard, and the sweat glistened off his body.
"Mon, I will load for you. But I will not go with you. I lové Anguilla and do not wish to leave."
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"All these islands are the same," said Remo. "What's your problem?"
"St. Maarten's is cursed," he said.
"Why?"
"Because they have not acknowledge Haile Selassie as God."
"God? He's dead," Remo said. "He was killed in a palace coup."
"You believe what you read in the newspapers?" laughed the Rasta man.
"Inside America," Remo said. "And outside of Boston."
The Rasta man shook his head. "The white man is through around the whole world, he is."
"See. Even a dock laborer can make sense," said Chiun. "But for servants, no one beats a white."
"It's too hot to listen to this nonsense," said Remo.
"That means you're not breathing properly," said Chiun.
"Holding my breath, it'd be too hot to listen to this."
"I tend to agree with Mr. Remo," said Lord Wissex, sweltering in his tweeds. He was still waiting for the American to fall unconscious from the poison. Why didn't that bloke drop? There was enough poison in that tea to fell a platoon.
"Where did you pick up this servant?" Chiun asked Remo. "Talking without being spoken to. Next time, check references."
With all the trunks aboard the little sailing boat, and a commercial captain at the wheel, the three set out for St. Maarten's, in the distance. Lord Wissex slipped a thin needle from the lining of his coat. He moved first behind the American. He brought the needle smoothly up to the American's neck. Then, with a short lunging jab, he drove home the point.
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