The door to Chiun's room was unlocked and Remo stepped inside. The room was empty.
He turned to leave and then stopped as he heard voices from the adjoining room. He stepped to the connecting door between the rooms.
He heard a telephone being replaced on the receiver.
Then he heard Baya Barn's voice. "Now we can leave," Rachmed said. "And start our new lives together."
"Yeah, sure," come Theodosia's voice in answer. Her voice was surly and bitter.
"What is it, sweet missssss?" asked Baya Bam. "What troubles you?"
"Look, Rachmed," she said, very briskly. "Our business deal is over. You were supposed to con Wesley into going ahead with the sun energy project. You did it. That's it. Cold cash. Nothing else."
There was a sinking feeling in Remo's stomach as he listened, and then the feeling seemed to swell back up and turn into a bitter burning anger.
"But our love?" Rachmed said. Remo heard Theodosia laugh. Suddenly everything had become very clear.
"Love?" Theodosia said. "Come off it."
Remo slammed the heel of his hand against the door. It shuddered on its hinges, then swung back into the next room.
"That's right, Rachmed," Remo said as he stepped inside. Theodosia turned to him, her face startled. "She never loved you. You're not her type. No man is. Isn't that right, Theodore?"
Theodosia ran toward him. "Oh, Remo," she said. "I've been so worried." He could almost hear her mind clicking as she thought of what story might work. "We heard the assassin had been seen over here and we..."
"Nice try," Remo said. He pushed her away, hard, and she fell back onto the bed.
"Ssssir, you are no gentleman," Rachmed hissed.
"Quiet, pimp. You're so dumb you don't even know this bull dyke conned you."
Rachmed looked stupidly confused.
"That's right," said Remo. "Conned. She used you to keep Pruiss involved in the solar energy thing. Then she kept telling him the oil people were after him, and when she got him fired up enough, he signed a paper she gave him that turned everything over to her if anything happens to him. Isn't that right, Theo?"
She looked up at Remo and a hard glint came into her deep brown eyes. She nodded.
"But our love?" Baya Bam pleaded to her.
"Where'd you get him?" Remo asked. "He's got a loose upper-plate."
"He comes cheap," Theodosia said. "You don't. But you don't have any more brains than he's got. When did you catch on?"
"I didn't," Remo said. "When you were cold during sex, I should have gotten a clue about you. But I didn't. It was only today. Flamma said something about the lesbian around Pruiss. She called you 'Theodore.' It didn't register. You know I came here to save you? I still didn't know until I heard you two talking."
The woman glanced at her thin gold wristwatch.
"Waiting for someone?" Remo asked. "Maybe your assassin?"
Theodosia shook her head, a vicious smile spreading her lips wide.
"No," she said slowly. "He's not coming here. Right now, he should be walking into Wesley's house to do the job right this time. No near-misses like I contracted for the first time. In about five minutes, I give or take a couple, Wesley should be dead."
Remo smiled back at her. "Fat chance," he said. "He's got to get past Chiun first. He's got as much chance to swim the Pacific."
"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Theodosia said. "Chiun is on his way here. I just talked to him on the telephone, and told him we had spotted the assassin here. He was worried you might get hurt so he said he'd be right over."
Conned. Even before she spit out the awful cold truth, Remo knew. He had been suckered into leaving Pruiss alone, suckered because he had trusted this woman and feared for her safety.
He turned and ran from the room. There was no time to spend expending his anger. Judgment would have to wait.
Behind him, he heard Theodosia laughing. "Too late," she called. "Too late."
Remo floored the gas pedal of the ambulance as he raced back toward the Pruiss mansion. He realized just how much he was the son of Sinanju now, because he had no feeling for Pruiss, he did not care if the publisher lived or died, but his job was to keep him alive and like Masters of Sinanju for uncounted centuries, he just wanted to do his job.
The puzzle sorted itself out in his mind as he drove. Theodosia had hired the assassin, not to kill Pruiss, but to injure him and frighten him. She had hired the bodyguards just to make it look good and when Remo and Chiun had arrived, she had been forced to hire them too. Rachmed's faith healing was supposed to keep Pruiss interested in solar energy, because Theodosia needed that to justify the story she was peddling Pruiss-that the oil interests were after him. And she hammered that story and hammered it and hammered it, until finally she convinced Pruiss and in anger, he turned everything over to her if he should die, with orders to make sure solar energy went through.
If he should die. Right now, that assassin was supposed to be changing "if" to "when."
Only another mile. Almost there.
Chiun had walked from the front door of the house and down the driveway. The assassin had watched him go. The old Oriental had looked both ways, then turned and began to walk rapidly in the direction of the town.
The Wa assassin allowed himself to wonder. Who was this old Oriental? Did he too have some knowledge of Sinanju? What was his relationship with the young, big-mouthed American? As Chiun walked away, the assassin shrugged. His job was to get rid of Wesley Pruiss. But then he would stay around. As a bonus, not for pay but for pleasure, that American would go too. And, if he got in the way, the old Oriental also.
He walked across the practice green toward the front door of the house, where Pruiss now lay, alone. It was not true, the Wa knew. The American had said he struck only from behind, but that was not true. The Wa worked from behind when he had to, for silence, but he would rather work face to face.
He liked to see the faces of his victims, see the shock and horror when they saw him, watch it change to pain and the dumb look of death when the knife struck home. The face and eyes always looked dumb, puzzled, just before death came. That is what he wanted to see now.
He hoped Wesley Pruiss was sitting up in bed so he could see the Wa enter the room. Then the Wa could watch the growing terror as he spoke the words, "I have waited for you," and then the fright and shock as he drew his knife, and Pruiss's desperate crippled efforts to escape, or to plead for his life, and then the whir as the knife flashed across empty space toward the bed and the satisfying thunk as it bit deeply into the throat, crushing Adam's Apple, severing nerves. Then the look of dumb stupidity on the face as death arrived.
And then there would be time for the American who said he was from Sinanju, Sinanju. What was it anyway but a foolish legend?
The Wa moved silently up the stairway of the empty house, his light footfalls making no sound on the thick carpeting. He walked down the center of the hall. His belt of knives was slung low around his hips, in the way Wa assassins had carried their weapons from the time of the very first Wa.
He paused in the center of the hallway. He heard only one sound, that of Wesley Pruiss breathing. It was a soft low sipping of air, the kind of mouth breathing most Americans inflicted on their bodies.
There were no other sounds in the building. He continued walking down the hall, then paused. The door to Wesley Pruiss's room was open.
He reached behind him and took one of the red-handled knives from his leather belt. He held it at his side, then stepped forward, and took two steps into the room.
Wesley Pruiss was propped up on pillows, looking toward the door. His eyes were confused, frightened. The Wa smiled. He extended the knife before him.
He opened his mouth to speak.
And then a voice echoed through the room.
"I have waited for you," said the voice, a strong voice, deep as rolling thunder, and it sent a chill down the spine of the assassin.
He looked toward the right side
of the room. Stepping from behind a large wardrobe chest was the aged Oriental, his powder blue robe swirling about him, a thin smile on his parchment face.
He stared at the Wa and the power of those eyes seemed to burn into the assassin's skull. The Wa blinked once, as if to release the bond that connected them, then wheeled toward the aged intruder.
"It is all right, old man," he said. "Now my knives will have two instead of one."
"Fool," intoned Chiun. "I am the Master of Sinanju. My ancestors banished you to far-away lands, and now I banish you to death."
The Wa reached behind him with his left hand to withdraw another knife. Even as he was reaching, his right hand raised up over his head, and the knife flashed across the room toward the open, inviting throat of Wesley Pruiss.
But then, as quick as a spark, the old Oriental flashed across the room. His open fingertips touched the blade of the knife, just a split second before it opened Pruiss's throat, and the knife fell to the floor. The Oriental lay across Pruiss's body, and the Wa saw this was his chance. His left hand came above his head and then down, with all the power in his slim, conditioned body. The knife flew toward Chiun.
It made one slow half-turn and then the point reached the old man's chest. And then, as the Wa watched in horror, the old man's right hand moved down with a speed so blurring it was beyond speed, and he caught the tip of the knife between his fingers, short of its target. He rose to his feet, still holding the spent weapon by its point, and with a smile, extended it toward the assassin. Then he took a step toward the slim young man.
The country club looked quiet and peaceful as Remo rolled the ambulance up to the front of the building. He was out of the vehicle before it finished rocking on its springs. The house looked peaceful but death, he knew, was a peaceful thing. Only amateurs made noise.
As Remo started up the steps of the house, the front door flew open and the Wa assassin raced out. He saw Remo and vaulted the small railing alongside the porch and ran around behind the ambulance to the practice putting green.
Remo looked after him. Chiun appeared at the upstairs window and saw Remo.
"It is all right, Remo," he called. "I saved him for you."
"Thank you, Little Father," Remo said. He walked slowly behind the ambulance to the putting green.
The Wa assassin, his breath coming nervously in short puffs, watched as the American stopped ten feet away from him and waited, hands on hips.
"It's all over, peanut," Remo said.
Not yet, the assassin thought. He had missed upstairs, something that had never happened before. But that was no guarantee that he would miss now. The young white man stood facing him, offering up his body to the assassin's knives, and with both hands at once, the Wa ripped knives from his belt, and flew them toward the waiting victim.
Remo posed, hands on hips, until the knives were almost on him, and then his hands moved. His left hand slashed against the handle of the knife aimed at his throat and knocked it harmless to the ground. His right hand moved only a few inches upward, just barely touching the knife aimed at Remo's eyes, but enough to veer the knife off course. It soared over the white man's head and travelled ten feet more before it buried itself deep into the trunk of a fat tree.
The Wa turned to run. Panic overcame pride in him and he fled. But as he reached the stand of trees, suddenly, there was a movement alongside him, and then the American was standing in front of him, smiling at him.
The Wa turned away. He ran back, across the putting green toward the trees on the other side. But again he saw a flash of movement from the side of his eyes, and then there was the American again.
He was beckoning the Wa to come on, to come closer.
The assassin stopped. In bitter desperation, he cried: "Who are you? Who are you two?"
"Tell your ancestors about us," Remo said. "They'll know who we are."
The Wa reached desperately for one last knife on his belt. One final chance. Even as he reached he knew it would not work, but his hand closed around the red leather grip and he slipped the knife from his belt and raised it up over his head, and then he felt the white man's hand close over his. The Wa's knife moved downward, but the white man held the Wa's hand closed, and the knife, instead of releasing and flashing forward, kept moving down, and then he felt a burst of pressure against his hand, and the knife drove itself into the assassin's stomach.
So this was how it felt, he thought, and then the knowledge that he had a knife buried in his stomach came fully to him, and so did the pain, and it hurt. It hurt terribly.
Remo stepped back and looked at the assassin. Their eyes met.
And then the Wa's eyes began to glaze over and a dumb, puzzled look came over his face, and he fell forward onto his own knife. But he no longer felt any pain.
Remo looked down at the body for a moment, then up at the window of Pruiss's room. Chiun was in the window, shaking his head.
"No grace," he said. "Awkward with no grace."
"That's what I thought, too," Remo said. "I thought he was kind of clumsy."
"I didn't mean him," Chiun said bitterly, and turned from the window.
Remo confronted Chiun inside Pruiss's room.
"All right," he said. "So you get word that the assassin's around and maybe I'm in trouble, and you don't even come to see if you can help me," Remo said. "Fine partner you are."
Chiun folded his arms. "I knew you were in no danger," he said.
"How'd you know, hah? How'd you know?"
"Must we really do this?" Chiun asked.
"Just answer the question. How'd you know I wasn't in any trouble?" Remo demanded.
Chiun sighed.
"When the woman who thinks like a man called, and told me to come to save you, I knew it was a lie," he said.
"How?"
"Because she is not to be trusted. Did you not see when we were at the place of airplanes that she knew a boom..."
"Bomb," Remo said.
"... was going to explode?" Chiun looked at Remo. "No," he answered himself. "You did not see that."
He turned toward the window. "And of course you never asked yourself why the Wa assassin missed the first time. He missed because he was ordered to miss. But who would benefit by keeping this publisher person alive, but damaged? No. You did not ask yourself that either."
"What's going on here?" Pruiss demanded. "What's going on here?" He lay on his pillows watching the two men argue, his head moving from side to side as if watching a tennis match.
"And then of course you told me about your reaching twenty two steps with her and I knew that was not possible for a white woman who acted like a woman. It was obvious she was a manly woman. You would even have seen it if you had looked at the strange size of her masculine fingers. But you look and do not see, look and do not see."
"What the hell is going on here?" Pruiss roared.
"So I knew it was a trick to get me away from here," Chiun said. "And of course I did not go."
"All right," Remo said. "I'll let it go this time."
"What..." Pruiss started.
Remo turned to the publisher and told him that Theodosia had been behind it all. Her goal had been to get him to sign his empire over to her, and then to kill him.
Pruiss shook his head.
"What for? Just for the money?"
Remo shrugged. "Who knows? Who can figure out lesbians? Probably the money."
"I would have given her the money," Pruiss said. "For that, she left me a cripple?"
"I wanted to speak to you about that," Chiun said. "What would it be worth to you to use your legs again?"
"Anything."
"You will publish my stories?" Chiun asked.
"I'll publish your damn poetry," Pruiss said.
"We have a bargain," Chiun said. "Go to sleep. I must prepare."
He followed Remo out of the room.
"Prepare?" Remo said. "What are you going to prepare?"
Chiun shook his head. "That is just for effec
t. There is nothing to prepare."
"And you're going to make him walk again?" asked Remo.
"Of course. He can walk now," Chiun said.
"How do you figure that?"
"You did not really believe that that Indian charlatan was bringing life back to his limbs by allowing his legs to sunburn, did you?"
"No. Of course not," said Remo who was not quite that sure.
"But Mister Pruiss felt life in his limbs every morning," said Chiun. "After his sunbath."
"So?"
"And then the manly woman brought him inside again to give him his medicine and he felt no more life in his limbs."
Remo slowly began to nod.
"She called it medicine to kill Mister Pruiss's pain. But I tasted it while you were gone. It is medicine that keeps his limbs paralyzed. I have thrown it away. Without it, tomorrow his legs will return to life."
"You're awful, Chiun," said Remo.
Chiun looked at him with an angelic blank expression.
"Whatever do you mean?" he asked.
"Some people will do anything to get published," he said.
Chiun smiled, "And what of the woman?" he asked.
"I'll take care of her," Remo said. "I'll take care of all of them."
The next morning, when the previous day's medicine had worn off. Wesley Pruiss felt life returning to his legs. The feeling grew stronger all day long.
Two days later, he was able to stand again, and within two weeks he was walking.
A day later he held a press conference and announced that he was returning the ownership of Furlong County to the people of the county who had been "so hospitable and gracious in welcoming me among them." He also announced that he was setting up a private foundation that would go ahead with his plans to make Furlong County the nation's solar energy laboratory, and he would pick up all the bills for the work.
His final announcement was that he was beginning a new magazine. It would be dedicated to bringing to the public a realization of the ancient glories and beauties of the great Korean literary form, Ung poetry.
Pruiss's announcements did not get the kind of Page One coverage they normally would have. Unfortunately, they were crowded off the front pages by a terrible tragedy at the Furlong County Airport.
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