The resignations started at about 4:00 p.m.
Five congressmen in the President's party had held a joint news conference to say that they were resigning. Since the entire House was up for reelection in the fall, the resignation of these five players was a critical blow to the President's legislative agenda. It was probably already too late for the party to field viable candidates in these five crucial races, and so the President was looking to take some major hits in the House—the wing of Congress his party had hoped most to retake in the fall midterm elections.
Because of his obvious insider's knowledge, the three major networks competed to get Kaspar on their
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nightly news shows. He had appeared on two, both BCN and MBC, being interviewed in-depth by the networks' respective anchormen about the latest problems facing the president.
On both programs Kaspar had predicted two more major resignations before the evening was through.
By nine o'clock, eastern standard time, two ranking senators of the President's party had quit, each citing "personal reasons" for his unexpected decision.
Smith had run a computer check on all seven men and had traced several payments—through various agents—to the Church of the Absolute and Incontrovertible Truth.
It all came down to Kaspar.
Smith's thoughts immediately turned to T. Rex Calhoun and the child-molestation charges. Kaspar must have had information just as damning against the other legislators to force them to step aside so quickly. One of the senators had served in Congress for over thirty years.
Smith was thinking of the telephone call from the President as he approached the door at the end of the long corridor. It was odd, but as he raised his knuckles to knock on the thick metal panel, Smith realized that getting chewed out by the President of the United States was far less threatening to him than what he was about to do.
Smith rapped sharply on the door.
"Enter."
Inside the room the Master of Sinanju sat cross-legged on his woven reed mat. Smith allowed the door to swing closed behind him.
Chiun rocked back and forth, humming quietly to
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himself. His ancient eyelids, as thin as the most delicate rice paper, were closed in meditation.
Smith cleared his throat. "Am I disturbing you, Master Chiun?"
The old Korean's eyes remained closed. "Does the bee disturb the delicate flower?" he asked. Of course the answer was yes, but Chiun did not speak the words as an insult. It was always good to leave the employ of an emperor on the best possible terms. ' 'Has your mighty warship arrived?"
Smith hesitated. "I'm sorry?"
"The vessel that will return Remo and myself to Sinanju."
"Ah, the submarine. There has been a slight, er, delay."
Chiun ceased his subtle rocking motion. His parchment eyelids fluttered open.
"It has already been two weeks," he said, eyes narrowing.
"It will arrive any day now," Smith assured the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun closed his eyes and resumed the side-to-side motion. "Then my heart soars that I will see my homeland once again." His tone was colored with the unmistakable message that he considered this meeting with Smith finished.
"Master Chiun?" Smith asked.
Chiun checked his meditation chant. "What is it now?" he asked impatiently. The rocking motion was more forced as the Master of Sinanju labored to maintain a level of inner peace.
"I thought that I should prepare you...." Smith
considered his next words carefully, as if revealing a secret shame. "Remo has been injured," he said quietly.
Chiun stopped rocking at once. "Explain," he said sharply.
"He has been shot," explained Smith. "Twice. He has also sustained a few minor injuries—multiple cuts and abrasions. I am not certain what else is the matter, but he suffered some kind of fainting spell when I spoke to him earlier today. I have arranged for his transport back to Folcroft."
Inwardly Chiun allowed himself a sigh of relief. This was obviously a transparent attempt by Smith to retain the services of Sinanju. Remo could not be shot. No full Master of Sinanju had ever been shot with a gun since the invention of the weapon, and Remo had become a full Master years ago.
"Poor Remo," said Chiun, shaking his head sadly. The white tufts of hair over each ear seemed to swirl with the subtle violence of the gesture.
Smith was surprised that Chiun wasn't more upset. The Master of Sinanju had long ago developed a paternal affection for Remo, and for his part, Remo looked on the old man as the father he never had. There was something unsettling about Chiun's easy acceptance of the situation.
"One of the Thermopolis kidnapping victims has been recovered," Smith continued. "I have had her rerouted to Folcroft. In our conversation Remo suggested some kind of new drug is being used on the Truth Church followers, which could explain Remo's fainting spell. We may be able to learn something from the girl that will help Remo. He will be here within the hour himself."
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Chiun's hazel eyes locked on Smith's, freezing the CURE director in his tracks like a frightened deer in the blazing headlights of an oncoming car. He spoke only two words: "Truth Church?"
Wary of those two menacing eyes and of the deadly power behind them, Smith tensed. "Yes," he said hesitantly. "At my insistence Remo returned to the Truth Church yesterday."
The life seemed to drain from Chiun's face. "My son," he said softly. "He is truly ill?"
Smith nodded. "I am sure he will be fine," he said haltingly.
Chiun's hazel eyes flared like twin candles.
"This child you spoke of—was there an odor about her?"
"The girl from Hot Springs State Park? As a matter of fact, there was. A very strong sulphur smell. The doctors think that it may be a side effect of the drug she was taking. I have placed her in this wing, two floors above."
"The Remo with whom you conversed, did he hack?"
Smith frowned. This was a puzzling line of questioning. "Hack?" he asked, confused.
"Did he clear his throat thusly?" Chiun hacked loudly.
Smith shrugged. ' 'Yes, now that you come to mention it, Remo did display coughing spasms. He mentioned that he had inhaled some of the drug-laden smoke."
"It is no drug," Chiun said, and there was a deep sadness in his voice. "What were the last words spoken to you by Remo?"
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Smith considered a moment. ' 'He said, 'Sinanju is mine.
Chiun's eyes strayed forlornly to the faded carpeting.
"We were to leave your employ." The words of the Master of Sinanju were soft and far away, bitter waves in a sea of regret. ' 'Only a matter of days, and we would be free."
"The contract was still in force," Smith countered. "I was within my rights to send Remo back on assignment."
"Do not speak to me of rights," Chiun hissed. "My son is lost."
Smith cleared his throat uncomfortably. He understood Remo and Chiun's relationship, but he also understood his job. And that job involved placing his two operatives at risk whenever missions required it.
Smith assumed his most reasonable tone of voice. "Master Chiun, if Remo has become infected with something at Ranch Ragnarok, it is possible that we can find a cure. His fainting might only be a result of blood loss, nothing more. I will let you know when he arrives. If he is ill, I am certain he will appreciate a visit from you."
Smith issued a farewell nod and left the room.
For a long while after he had gone, Chiun sat motionless on his coarse tatami mat. He no longer hummed.
"This was one of the greatest days of my life," Michael Princippi enthused over the telephone. He had coordinated with the networks to get America's latest political guru, Mark Kaspar, on television as quickly
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as possible to comment on the departures of the various congressmen and senators. Unbeknownst to all but the highest elected officials under the Capitol dome, Princippi was also the man who had placed
the phone calls that had forced the seven men into premature retirement. All of these machinations were engineered by Mark Kaspar himself, behind the scenes. As he listened to Kaspar's voice from Ragnarok, he knew that more was to come.
"You are not having a problem with access inside the Beltway now?" Kaspar asked.
"Are you kidding? They're scared shitless not to talk to me," Princippi said joyfully. "The power boys are afraid I'm going to give them the same whammy I gave to the President's allies today."
"It is good that they fear you," Kaspar droned.
"Good, bad, what do I care?" Princippi said. "Just so long as they fear. So what's all this about anyway?" Kaspar had given him the dirt he needed to unseat the "Capitol Hill Seven"—as the media had dubbed the departing members of Congress—but had yet to give him a reason for the action. Privately, he suspected Kaspar was weakening the current administration in anticipation of the next national campaign. Everyone knew the vice president was considered virtually an heir apparent.
"I want you to place some discreet phone calls to the highest-ranking members in both houses of Congress," Kaspar instructed. "Find out if they possess any knowledge of the Master of Sinanju or his protege Particularly the whereabouts of the younger Master."
"Wait a minute, let me get a pencil."
While Princippi fumbled around his Washington
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hotel room, Kaspar glanced impatiently at the Pythia chamber.
He wore his street clothes, having left his white priestly vestments in an outer room. No sense in dressing for ceremony since his Master was no longer present.
Even the tripod was empty. Esther Clear-Seer had sequestered the latest virgin vessel in a sealed antechamber.
The bare brick room felt empty and cold.
"I'm back," Michael Princippi's whiny voice announced over the cellular phone.
Kaspar detailed his instructions slowly, making certain Princippi repeated every word back to him.
"Okay, I'll ask around," Princippi said once he had copied down the information.
"Make it clear that I will smile favorably on anyone who is able to give me information concerning the young Sinanju Master. Encourage them to go to the highest authority if necessary."
"Will do."
"You've done your job well so far, Prince," Kaspar said by way of encouragement. He could almost hear Princippi beaming over the phone.
"You know, Mark, you embarrassed the President a lot with that State Department thing this morning," Princippi said, getting back to what he felt was the day's most important business. "I have the results of a poll they took after the vote. Your name-recognition factor has jumped up to the high thirties. That's not bad for someone who just yesterday was a political unknown. And I can guarantee you that your appearances, coupled with these resignations, are going to
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push you higher up in the public awareness. You're building a strong platform."
"First things first," Kaspar said. "If I do not find the one I seek, I am destined for failure."
"Then we better find this guy," Princippi responded, sobering. "Because I can tell you from experience, failure sucks."
The ambulance passed through the iron gates of Fol-croft Sanitarium a little after 9:00 p.m. The white-and-blue vehicle circled the meticulously landscaped traffic island at the main entrance, stopping before the lone figure who stood waiting like a ghost in gray.
The attendant in white uniform and orange jacket climbed from the cab. He walked to the rear of the vehicle, the gravel driveway crackling beneath his shoes. He lugged a clipboard beneath his arm, which he handed to the sour-faced man in gray.
"You sure you want this one?" the young man asked, chewing languidly on a huge wad of gum.
Harold W. Smith had already begun signing the sheaf of forms jammed under the clipboard's metal fastener. He felt his heart skip a beat. "Is something wrong?'' he asked, looking over the tops of his glasses as he signed another sheet.
The attendant laughed. "Just that this nutcase trashed the first ambulance the company sent to fetch him." The young man was like a rusty faucet that, once it was pried open, could not be stopped.
As Smith hastily filled out forms, the other launched into his story. "First he tells Buck—that's the other driver—that he wants to ride up front. Buck says no
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way. Company policy. Fine, everything's hunky-dory. Buck barely makes it out on the highway from La-Guardia before it starts raining."
"It hasn't rained in six days," Smith said levelly.
"It wasn't raining water," explained the driver slowly, turning the wad of gum over in his mouth. "It was raining stuff. You know—blankets, plasma bottles, tongue depressors. Finally Buck spots the oxygen tanks and gurney come sailing over the roof. When he looked in the rearview, he saw your psycho ripping the back door off the ambulance." The ambulance driver paused and singled out one of the forms on the clipboard.
"That one is for the door, and the one below is for the damage this guy caused when he threw it over the ambulance roof. It took out the right front tire and shattered the axle."
"Yes, fine," said Smith unhappily. He signed the final forms hurriedly, handing the clipboard back to the driver.
"I heard how these crazies can be superstrong sometimes," he added. "But, man, throwing something as heavy as an oxygen tank over the roof of a moving ambulance? I hope you got a sturdy rubber room, Doc."
Smith followed the ambulance attendant to the rear of the vehicle, and the young man unlocked the door, taking special care to stand clear in case the lunatic in the back let loose with another tantrum.
The door came open.
And the rear of the ambulance was empty.
"What the—?"
The driver climbed up into the back of the large van
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and began digging through boxes and peering behind assorted medical equipment.
"Where is my patient?" Smith demanded anxiously.
"Hiya, Smitty," a familiar voice said.
Smith spun around to find Remo leaning casually against the side of the ambulance, his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his torn chinos.
"Lose someone, pal?" he called airily toward the rear door.
The driver stuck his head out of the back of the ambulance. "Hey, how'd you get out there?" he asked.
"I opened the door and climbed out of the cab," Remo said, a smile of utter contentment spreading across his harsh features. He pointed to the ambulance cab. The passenger's door was hanging open. "Be sure and tell Buck how you waived the 'no front riders' rule." He coughed quietly into his balled fist.
This was more than the driver could comprehend. "But you were in back," he sputtered. He removed his cap and scratched his head pensively.
"If there is any further damage," Smith said quickly in a rare display of generosity, "be sure to send any additional bills to Folcroft."
He grabbed Remo by the arm and hustled him up the steps.
Wearing a look of utter bafflement, the young man closed the rear door of the ambulance and climbed back up into the cab. As he leaned over to close the passenger's door, he noticed that the seat was pushed forward slightly. When he glanced behind it, he found a wide hole had been ripped in the sheet metal sepa-
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rating cab from body. He hadn't noticed it from the back because it had been blocked by an equipment-laden shelf unit.
He looked up at the building. The mental patient had already disappeared inside the sanitarium with the doctor. The attendant stuffed a new stick of gum in his mouth as he considered the damage to the ambulance.
Finally he shrugged, started the engine and circled back around to the main road. He had resolved to let whoever signed out the ambulance after him take the blame for the damage.
After all, how was he going to explain this to his supervisor?
"Where's Chiun?" Remo asked.
Smith was stooped, carefully examining the bullet w
ounds in Remo's legs. "The Master of Sinanju is in his quarters," he said vaguely.
The scrapes and bruises on Remo's arms and back had long since healed, Smith saw. His system was now working furiously to repair the internal damage caused by the Pythia's bullets.
"I kind of figured he'd meet me out front." Remo sounded disappointed.
Smith stood. "This is remarkable, Remo," he said. "Your wounds are healing so rapidly I would swear they occurred weeks ago. The scabs have even dropped off."
"Right," Remo said disinterestedly. "Smitty, you did tell Chiun about the yellow smoke?"
Smith's steady gray gaze was drawn away from the injuries. "I informed him before your arrival."
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"And?"
"He wishes to meet with you downstairs." Remo cleared his throat. "Bet he's pretty steamed."
Smith did not respond. He didn't feel it was his place to tell Remo that the Master of Sinanju had seemed more sad than angry.
"Chiun did seem concerned by your cough," he admitted.
"Not half as concerned as I am," Remo said. He poured himself a glass of ice water from a nearby frosted metal pitcher and downed the liquid in one gulp.
"You have recovered from your fainting spell," Smith said.
Remo shook his head. A minor coughing spasm racked his thin frame. "You have an unerring ability at stating the obvious, you know that, Smitty?" he said. "Besides, it feels like whatever knocked me out could come back any time."
Remo made a face. "It was strange. The last thing I remember in Wyoming was talking to you on the phone. I don't know what was in that yellow smoke, but it knocked me for a loop. I woke up on the plane. Guess Buffy must have told you where to find me, huh?"
"The girl from the motel," Smith said, nodding. "What does she know of our operation?"
"Nothing," Remo answered. "She probably saved my life. Besides, she's a Fed."
Smith grew interested. "The missing FBI agent?"
"She didn't look very missing to me," Remo said.
Smith considered telling Remo that the girl had returned to Ranch Ragnarok to try to free the Cole girl,
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but decided against it. He didn't want CURE'S enforcement arm risking another trip west until they were certain of what they were dealing with.
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