"Thank you," said the Vice-President in a shaken voice.
"For both of us," added Governor Princippi.
"Looks like we're just in time," commented Remo.
"Sinanju is always on time," said Chiun.
"We gotta get out of here," said Remo, glancing toward the door where the Secret Service agents were screaming that they were going to shoot everyone blocking the door if the way wasn't cleared immediately. "But we want you to know that this is the end of it. There'll be no more assassinations. We took care of the guy behind it all."
"I think I can speak for the governor when I say we appreciate your help," the Vice-President said sincerely, buttoning his jacket.
"Thank Smith," said Remo. "It's his operation. And just so you know, we're back in the fight."
"Glad to have you," said the Vice-President warmly.
"And you can forget about Adonis. He was part of the plot too."
"I can't understand it," muttered Governor Princippi, looking around the studio. "Where's my ninja? He said he'd always be by my side even if I couldn't see him. All I had to do was whistle."
"Did you whistle?" asked Chiun blandly.
"Actually, no. I was too busy ducking."
"It would not have mattered," Chiun said. "Everyone knows that ninjas are tone deaf. "
Governor Princippi placed his pinky fingers at the edges of his mouth and whistled sharply.
"Nothing," he said disappointedly.
"See?" said Chiun. "Remember, with Sinanju you do not even have to whistle. A phone call will do."
And Remo and Chiun slipped into the knot of struggling people at the door. Even though the door resembled a New York subway car during rush hour, they filtered through the people as if by osmosis, right past the frantic Secret Service agents.
When the Secret Service finally got into the studio, they found the two presidential candidates calmly replacing their lapel mikes.
"You're too late," said the Vice-President cockily. "But why don't you people do something useful like getting rid of this body? We've got a debate to finish."
All over America, blackened TV screens came to life again. News anchormen apologized in uncertain terms for what they called "technical difficulties." And when the debate resumed they had no explanation for why the presidential candidates were standing instead of sitting, or for the bullet holes and tears in the ruined studio backdrop.
Governor Princippi picked up his unfinished remarks in a serious, unruffled voice.
"Before we were interrupted, I was saying that we need to curb our intelligence services. But I want to make it plain that there will be a place in my administration for certain necessary intelligence operations. Specifically, counterintelligence. After all, these agencies exist so that our armed forces will not have to be used. And I want to publicly thank the anonymous Americans-the Toms, the Dicks, and the Harolds-who toil in these agencies. They keep America strong. Don't you agree, Mr. Vice-President?"
"Heartily," said the Vice-President. "We got 'em, and God knows we need 'em. And the Browns and Joneses and Smiths who keep 'em running."
It was the fastest position switch America had ever witnessed. But few Americans were surprised. The presidential candidates were, after all, politicians.
Dr. Harold W. Smith watched the debate from his hospital bed. Only he could guess what had transpired during the network blackout. Remo and Chiun. They had done it again. CURE would go on. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Remo Williams stopped the car at the rusting wrought-iron entrance to Wildwood Cemetery two days later and slipped through the squeaking gates.
The Master of Sinanju walked at his side. Remo's pace was eager.
"Smith would be upset if he knew you were here," Chiun warned.
"It was the only place I could think of to meet."
"Smith is already upset."
"How could he be? We saved his bacon. And America's bacon. There's a new President coming into office who thinks CURE should go on forever. And the Dutchman is going to spend the rest of his life in a Folcroft rubber room picking lint out of his navel. He's never going to bother any of us again. Our problems are over. I can't wait to tell Jilda."
"Smith is upset because when his vision returned, he was able to read the contract."
"What'd you stick him with? Double the last contract?"
"Double would not be enough to pay for the indignity of bargaining the Master of Sinanju down to a lower fee and tearing up that last contract. I charged triple. "
"I can see why he's upset. That's a big jump."
"It was necessary. He was paying for the Master of Sinanju, for certain disreputable acts visited upon the Master of Sinanju ... and for you."
Remo stopped dead in his tracks. Chiun looked up at him with a placid expression.
"Me? You signed me on for another year?"
"Two years. Consider it a form of job security."
"Don't I have a say in this?"
"No. I am still Master. You are the pupil. Technically, you are an apprentice. And as such, I negotiate for you. As always. "
Remo shook his head. He continued walking. "We'll see what Jilda says," Remo said.
"Yes," said Chiun in a hollow voice. "We will see what Jilda says."
At the grave bearing the name of Remo Williams, there were flowers. Remo stopped.
"Funny. Who would put flowers on my grave?" he said. He bent over and picked them up. Inside, there was an envelope. It was slightly soggy from the recent rain. Remo dropped the flowers and opened the paper. He saw that it was addressed to him and signed "Jilda."
Remo read.
"What does she say?" Chiun asked quietly when Remo was done.
"She's not coming," Remo said thickly. "Ever."
"It is not meant to be. "
"Not as long as I'm in the business I'm in, she says. And she knows that it's the only business for me. She says that this time, it was me who left her. That's what made up her mind. The way I took off for America with you. She says I belong here."
"You know it too," said Chiun.
"She says that Freya misses me already," Remo went on, looking at the letter with caved-in eyes. "And that when the time comes and I wish it, and Freya wishes it, Jilda will consider allowing her to be trained in Sinanju."
"She is dreaming," Chiun said haughtily. "No woman has ever been a Master of Sinanju. No woman can ever become a Master of Sinanju. It is impossible."
"There's a P.S.," Remo said. "It says that Freya has been working on her breathing when she isn't riding her pony. She sends a present to show you that she's trying to grow up to be big and strong like her daddy, as well as her mommy."
Remo reached into the flower basket and came up with a small horseshoe that had been bent into the shape of a pretzel.
"Look, Chiun."
"A twisted horseshoe," Chiun sniffed. "So?"
"Don't you get it?" Remo said. "Freya did that. With her own little hands."
"Impossible!" sputtered Chiun. "She is too young, she is white, and she is a female. I could not do that until I was twelve! "
"So?" Remo said. "You're not white or female."
Chiun stamped his foot angrily. "I do not believe it."
"But I do," Remo said. "And I'm going to keep this forever. "
Chiun frowned. "Are you not even going to attempt to pry Jilda's whereabouts from my inviolate lips?" he asked. Remo thought for a long time before he answered. When he spoke, he stared at the twisted horseshoe wistfully.
"Nope," he said at last. "Jilda knows what she's doing. I guess she's right. Besides, she's not living in Wales anymore. The letter said so."
"What!" cried Chiun. "You mean she left no forwarding address! How will I send my granddaughter presents on her birthdays? How will I monitor her progress through the early years of her life?"
"We'll see them again," Remo said. "I just don't know when. "
"Then you will remain in America-with me?"
Remo
sighed. "Yeah, I don't have anywhere else to go, I guess. Back in Sinanju, the villagers think I'm a jerk. There are too many bad memories back there anyway."
"It is not the ideal situation," Chiun agreed. "Not when living in the pearl of Asia is preferred, but we will make the best of it. For two years at least."
"Wait a sec," Remo said. "I thought you wanted to live in America. And what about that whole wardrobe of Western clothes you bought so you could be more American?"
"I have burned them. Sadly, I discovered they are inadequate for climbing purposes. It is a major flaw for those in our honored profession."
"Okay, but didn't you finally admit that Sinanju was a dung heap?"
Chiun puffed out his cheeks. "Remo!" he said, shocked.
"I said no such thing. And I will deny any slander to the contrary. "
"But you do admit you're happy with the way things have worked out, and there'll be no carping from now on?"
"I am not! I am an old man, with an irresponsible white for a pupil and no worthy heir for either of us. It is my sad fate, but I will bear up. I will not complain about these things. I will not mention to you that because of your inability to sire a male, I am forced to work into my final days instead of entering into the traditional period of retirement. It may be that I will have to work forever. No Master of Sinanju has ever been burdened. But I will not complain. Not I. "
"Pterodactyl dung," replied Remo. And in spite of the pain he felt, he smiled.
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