Harold Smith arrived in Boston and almost had a heart attack at Logan Airport. In World War II he had been parachuted into France with the OSS, and even floating at the end of a chute in darkness over Limoges, he did not feel quite so helpless as he did now, holding this Boston newspaper. He hadn't even bought it to read the news, since he already knew the news, but for the sports section, hoping to find something on Dartmouth football.
His gaunt lemony face suddenly became white, and even the cabdriver noticed it.
"Are you okay?" the driver asked.
"Yes, yes. Of course," said Smith. He straightened the gray vest of his gray suit. Of course he was all right. He had been dealing with shocking situations all his life. That was why he had been chosen for this position.
But he had not expected this. Not in a newspaper. Just three days before, Smith had been in the White House to assure the President that CURE was a secure organization.
"I'm sure you know how the press would treat something like this," the President said. "Especially in my administration. It wouldn't matter that I wasn't the President who started your little operation."
"Security, sir, is paramount with us," Smith had said. "Are you aware how we established our security arm?"
"No."
"We used a dead man. We framed someone for a crime he didn't commit. We altered the execution mode to let him live and then we trained him. He's a man who doesn't exist working for an organization that doesn't exist."
"If you framed him, why didn't he resent it?" the President asked.
"He did."
"Why didn't he just walk away?"
"He wasn't the type," Smith said. "That's why we picked him. He is a patriot, sir, and he can't fight that."
"And the older one? The one you said was well into his eighties?" The President smiled when he mentioned that.
"He is no patriot," Smith said. "Not to us, and I believe he would leave us if the gold stopped. But he has developed some form of attachment for his pupil. The pupil loves him like a father. They are always together."
"The older one is better?" the President asked with a melon-wide grin.
"I'm not sure."
"I'll bet he is," the President said.
"I don't know. Those two would know, but I don't, sir," said Smith.
"So there is no danger of exposure," the President said.
"There are no guarantees in this world. But I think you can rely on us. We are nothing if not secret," Smith said.
"Thank you, Smith. And thank you for doing what has to be the loneliest job in America. My predecessors were right. We have the best of men running that shop."
"May I ask you a favor?" Smith said.
"Of course."
"I will, of course, come here whenever called. But every contact, no matter how well executed, is another small danger of exposure."
"I understand," the President said.
"If you understand, sir," Smith said coldly, "then please refrain from asking for a contact just to be reassured that everything is all right and to give me compliments. If there is any danger, you will know about it because we will not be there anymore. I will collapse the organization as planned."
"I just wanted to tell you I appreciate what you're doing."
"We all have wants, sir, but with the responsibility for so many lives, it behooves us all to control them," Smith said.
The President realized his predecessors had been right about Smith in another way too. The coldest SOB ever put on this green earth, they had called him. And they were right. The President tried to smile.
Smith remembered that smile, trying to cover up the President's hurt at being so coldly rebuffed. Smith had not wanted to hurt his feelings, but secrecy was paramount. To be exposed was to be a failure in every respect; it was to admit that America could not work within its own laws.
Secrecy. It was everything.
And now Smith was in Boston and there on the page facing the sports page was an advertisement with a familiar face, the slit eyes, the wisp of a beard. It was a public appeal to stop amateur assassins. It was Chiun.
Chiun's face, right there in the newspaper. Hundreds of thousands of people looking at his face.
Smith realized he had read the advertisement several times before recovering. There was no mention of Remo and no mention of the organization. Chiun, fortunately, had never seemed to understand what they were doing anyhow. Smith saw that the paper was shaking in his hands. He tried but couldn't stop it. There was that face that was supposed to share secrecy, right there in the paper along with that insane appeal: "STOP AMATEUR ASSASSINS."
Smith put the paper on the cab's backseat. He could see the worst coming on. Television cameras surrounding Chiun. There in the background would be Remo. And that would be the end. To have Remo's face on the television news. It would all be over and it had started unraveling right here with this newspaper ad.
Smith tried to calm himself. He could not go directly to the hotel; his presence before the TV cameras would just make things worse. He changed his destination to a good restaurant named Davio's, a mile or so down Newbury Street. He ordered salad and tea and asked to use the telephone. He told the hotel operator that he wished only to speak person to person to the occupant named Remo. No one else.
"He's not in, sir."
Good, Smith thought. Remo must have seen the ad and understood that he could not be compromised. Remo probably already was calling Smith's special number. Smith checked the small computer terminal inside his briefcase. No message had been received, according to his readout screen.
By evening, when Remo still did not make contact, Smith had a cab drive him to the Ritz Carlton. There were no television cameras in front, no newsmen in the lobby.
He had made a mistake, underestimating the ability of Boston newsmen to miss a news story. CURE had lucked up and maybe gotten out of this one alive. But no more. He was going to speak to Chiun. No. He would speak to Remo. They could not afford to keep Chiun in America -anymore.
While Smith was planning his ultimatum to Remo, numbers 105 and 106 were about to unpack their bags in a small motel in North Carolina when some downright friendly travelers who had helped them with their luggage said something funny about a pale yellow handkerchief that they wanted to put around their necks.
"Well, sure, but don't you think you've done more than a good Christian service already?"
"We're not Christians."
"Well, if it's a Jewish custom . . ."
"We're not Jews either," said the young people, who did not wish to discuss their religion with people who were going to be part of the services.
Chapter Three
"So?" said Remo. He handed the advertisement back to Smith.
"You know this compromises us," Smith said.
"Compromises," Remo snapped. "You compromise Chiun's honor every day. What have you given him? You ship gold to his village so that those deadbeats who live off him can stay alive. You tell him a few nice words and then you expect him to fall down all over himself. Listen, Smitty, this country has given him beans of respect."
"Respect?" Smith said. "What are you getting at?"
"You know, in the Ming Dynasty, there was a special chair for the emperor's assassin. The old shahs of Persia made their assassins nobles of the court. In Japan, they even imitated the walk of the old Masters of Sinanju. So he took out a little ad. So what?"
"I would have assumed," said Smith, "that you, most of all, would understand."
"Just give me the job," Remo said. "Who do you want killed?"
"You're sounding strange," Smith said.
"Maybe. So he bought an ad. What difference does it make?"
"The difference between whether this little island of law and democracy, this very small island in a very big sea of time, is going to make it. The world has never seen a place where so many people come from so many places to live so free. Do we help preserve it or not? That's the difference it makes."
"I'
m surprised that you would be giving a speech," Remo said.
"I give it to myself sometimes," Smith said. The old man lowered his head. Remo saw that the years had taken their toll on him. He was not like Chiun, for whom time and pressure were only ingredients in a larger cosmos. To Smith they were burdens, and the burdens showed. Smith was old while Chiun would never be old.
"Don't feel bad," Remo said. "I give myself the same speech sometimes."
"But do you listen?" Smith asked. "You've changed, Remo."
"Yes, I have." He wondered how he could explain it. He still believed as Smith believed. But now he knew that Smith was carrying some kind of death in the left pocket of his gray vest, something to kill himself with. Probably a pill, should he be facing some situation in which he might be captured and talk.
In the beginning of his training, when Remo was still an American patriot first, last, and always, he would have known how he could tell that there was death in that vest pocket. He might have observed the tender way that Smith treated that pocket. There was always some obvious tip-off. People never forgot they had death on them, and they touched it. Their bodies moved differently. They sat differently. And at the beginning of his training, Remo noticed those things and knew what they meant.
Now he no longer noticed those things. He just knew. He knew that Smith had death in his vest and he did not know anymore exactly how he knew. This is what made him different from before.
What he did know was that although he was still an American, he was now also Sinanju. Chiun was the reigning Master of Sinanju, but Remo was a Master of Sinanju also. The only other one in the world. He was two things in one place. America and Sinanju. Oil and water. Sunlight and darkness. And Smith had asked him if he had changed. No, he hadn't changed. Yes, he had changed completely.
When he said nothing, Smith said, "We have a problem with airline travelers."
"What else is new? Get the airlines to spend less money on advertising and more money on baggage handling and you won't have any more problems with travelers," Remo said.
"These travelers are being killed," Smith said.
"Hire detectives."
"They've had them. All over the country. Travelers are being killed. They fly on just Folks Airlines and then they're strangled."
"That's too bad, but what's it got to do with us?"
"Good question," Smith conceded. "This has been going on for a couple of years now. More than a hundred people have been killed."
"I haven't heard anything about it," Remo said. "I watch the news sometimes."
"You haven't been paying enough attention. They are always discovering somebody who killed fifty or sixty people and you've never heard of those killings either until the murderers are arrested. These killings are happening all over the country, so none of the newspeople have noticed yet. Every one of the victims is robbed."
"I still say, why us? So there are a hundred more deaths. So what? Nobody does anything about anything anymore anyhow. They just count the bodies." There was bitterness in Remo's voice. He had been with CURE for more than a decade, killing whoever Smith said to kill, all in the service of some greater common good. And America didn't look one damned bit better than it had before he had started.
"The whole thing's endangering travel," Smith said. "It has that potential and it could be quite serious."
"So that's it. We don't want some airline somewhere to lose a buck," Remo said.
"No, that's not it," said Smith sharply. "If you look at every civilization that has collapsed, the first thing that went was its road network. The first thing a civilization does is to establish safe roads. That's what makes commerce and the exchange of ideas possible. When you give up your roads to the bandits, you give up your civilization. And our roads are in the sky."
"Another speech," Remo said sourly. "People will still fly. Why should our airlines be any safer than our streets?"
"Cities died in this country when they couldn't use the streets anymore. The whole country would die if we couldn't use the sky. It's important, Remo," Smith said, and the total sincerity of his voice was such that Remo said with a sigh, "Okay. Where do I start?"
"First things first. We can no longer afford to have Chiun in this country. You're going to have to tell him to leave. He's become a danger to our organization."
"Good-bye," Remo said.
"You won't do it?"
"If Chiun goes, I go. If you want me, Chiun stays." Smith thought a moment, but a very small moment. There was no choice really.
"All right for now," he said. "You go to the corporate headquarters of just Folks Airlines. They have been investigated before and nothing's ever been found."
"So why there?"
"Because people are getting killed all over the country and there isn't any other place to start. Maybe you can find something at just Folks that other investigators have missed. Some of these victims have been killed for just thirty dollars. And please take Chiun with you. Maybe we can get him out of town before the Boston press wakes up."
"I don't think you've treated him very well," Remo said, glancing out the windows at the darkening Boston sky. Just then, Chiun returned. He had two more signatures. One was written as if it had been done during an earthquake. There were squiggles in the line. Remo thought that either a child or someone held upside down out a window until he saw the wisdom of stopping amateur assassins had signed it.
Chiun had heard Remo's last remark, and when he turned to Smith, he was all sweet oil and incense. His long fingernails made the gentle but flamboyant sign of the fan in Smith's honor.
"Emperor Smith," Chiun said. "We must apologize for the disrespect of our pupil. He does not know that an emperor cannot mistreat anyone. Whatever you did, we know was justified. It should be even more. Speak. Tell me who is this insolent one who has deserved even harsher treatment from your mightiness. Give me but his name and I will make him quake in honor of you."
"No one, Little Father," said Remo without taking his eyes off Smith.
"Silence," Chiun commanded him, and turned back to Smith. "Speak but the word, O Emperor. Thy will be done."
"It's all right, Master," Smith said. "Everything has been settled."
"I bow to your wisdom," said Chiun in English. In Korean he muttered to Remo: "This is an emperor. Tell the idiot anything he wants to hear."
"Thank you, Chiun," said Smith, who did not understand Korean. "You've been . . . uh, very gracious."
"Good-bye," said Remo.
"Good luck," said Smith.
"May the sun reflect your awesome glory," said Chiun in English; and in Korean: "He certainly has a lot of work for us lately. Maybe we are not charging him enough. "
"It's not that," Remo said in Korean.
"It's always that," Chiun said. "Should I ask him to sign my petition?"
Remo's loud laughter followed Smith from the hotel suite. When he was gone, Remo told Chiun: "Smith is not an emperor. We don't have emperors in this country."
"They all like it, though," Chiun said. "It's standard in the vocation of assassins. Always call them Emperor."
"Why?" Remo asked.
"If I must explain it now again, then certainly I have wasted my time with you these many years," said Chiun, the squeaky voice again resonating with the magnitude of the offense.
Chiun was still offended when they reached Denver, Colorado, the headquarters city of just Folks Airlines. Remo was to be identified as an agent of the NAA, the National Aeronautical Agency, and Chiun-if he would wear an American suit and take off the more extravagant wisps of hair around his chin and ears-could do the same.
Or, refusing that, Chiun could stay at the hotel. Remo explained this to him. Chiun had a choice. One or the other.
There was a third way available, Chiun explained, as without changing anything, he accompanied Remo to the offices of just Folks. On the way, he explained the virtues of the kimono over the tight three-piece suits that white men wore and which Chiun called "caveski
ns."
Aldrich Hunt Baynes III, president of just Folks Airlines, was wearing a gray "caveskin" with a dark tie. He had set aside up to ten minutes for the NAA representatives who wanted to see him.
A. H. Baynes had a smile with all the warmth of a giant salamander. His fingernails were polished and his light blond hair looked as if it were cared far by a nurse. He believed in the old adage that everything in life has its place. He had a time for emotions, too, all the emotions, as he often told key stockholders and others close to him. He even liked to roll around in the dirt once in a while. Usually, around late May, for seven minutes in the sunshine with a company photographer present to record his humanity for the company's annual stockholders' report.
A. H. Baynes was thirty-eight years old. He had been a millionaire since he was twenty-four, a year after he graduated from the most prestigious business school in America. When he had entered Cambridge Business School, he put down on his application under, "goals": "I want to be the richest son of a bitch in the world and I have absolutely no qualms or inhibitions about what I do to get there."
He was told that sort of statement was unacceptable. Accordingly, he wrote: "I hope to be part of a community-based synergism, responsibly and effectively answering the deepest needs and aspirations of all people within the structure of a free-market economy."
It meant exactly the same thing, he knew. He was president of just Folks by twenty-six and at thirty-eight, with two children, one white male, age eleven, one white female, age eight, a white female wife and a photogenic dog, he kept piling up money by answering the deepest needs and aspirations of all people.
A short while before, he had bought a company in a small Ohio town. The company was barely breaking even and was a prime candidate for closing down, even though everyone in town worked for the company. The town was so happy when Baynes bought the company that it held an A. H. Baynes Day.
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