"I wanted to kill this guy so bad it hurt."
"Your job is not to hate, but to eliminate your emperor's enemies with dispatch and professionalism."
"I did it right. He didn't suffer."
"But you did."
Remo stopped what he was doing. He put aside a box of silver-blue bulbs and sat down on a tatami mat. Quietly, fervently, he told the Master of Sinanju what he had encountered. When he was done, he asked a question: "Did I do the right thing?"
"If a tiger turns man-eater," Chiun intoned sagely, "he must be hunted down and destroyed."
"A tiger knows what he's doing. I'm not sure he did."
"If a tiger cub mauls a child, he too must be put down. It matters not whether he knows that what he did was wrong, for he has tasted blood, and the taste will never cease haunting him. So, too, was it with this unfortunate cretin. He committed great evil. Some might not judge him harshly, but in truth that is not the issue. He had tasted blood. Better that he be liberated from his physical prison and be free to return to earth in another life, to atone for his transgressions."
"You sound like Shirley MacLaine."
"I will take that as a compliment."
"Don't."
"Then I will assume it is an insult," Chiun snapped, "and leave you to your misery, you who would rather suffer in ignorance than be unshackled by wisdom."
And with that, the Master of Sinanju jumped to his feet and flounced back to his room. The door closed so hard it made a breeze that ruffled Remo's hair. Oddly, for all that violence, the door closed without a sound.
Remo went back to his tree. But his mind was troubled. The phone rang. Remo went to answer it. "Remo. I need to see you," the lemony voice of Dr. Harold W. Smith told him. Smith was the head of CURE, and Remo's boss.
"Don't you want to hear about the mission?"
"No, I assume that if it had gone awry, you would have reported it before I called."
"Take me for granted, why don't you?"
"I have something more important. Please come to Folcroft at once."
"Chiun and I will be there in a half-hour."
"No," Smith said hastily. "Just you. Please leave Chiun out of this."
The door to Chiun's bedroom opened suddenly. The Master of Sinanju appeared, his mien hard.
"I heard that!" he said loudly.
"I guess you just stepped in it, Smitty," Remo said. Harold Smith sighed.
"Contract-renewal time is coming up. I wanted to avoid premature negotiations."
"No negotiations are premature," Chiun announced, loud enough to carry to the receiver.
"Are you using a speakerphone?" Smith asked sharply.
"No. You know Chiun can hear an insult clear across the Atlantic Ocean. "
"One-half hour," Smith said. "Good-bye."
"That man is growing more impossible with each passing day," Chiun said huffily.
"What are you trying to bag him for this year? Disneyland again? Or are you still trying to get him to match Roger Clemen's salary?"
"Our Disneyland negotiations have collapsed." Remo feigned horror.
"No!" he gasped.
"Smith claims that the current owner refuses to sell," Chiun said bitterly. "I, however, may bring it up again. For too many years have I accompanied you on your missions for insufficient recompense."
"I thought we were co-equal partners, to use your own phrase."
"True, but that is an understanding that exists betweenyou and me. It has nothing to do with Smith. For the purposes of contract negotiations, I am the Master and you the pupil. I have been trying to impress this upon Emperor Smith, but to no avail. The man is invincibly dense."
"Is that why you didn't go to Providence with me?"
"Possibly. It might have helped my cause had you failed miserably. But I do not hold your uncharacteristic success against you. I am certain it is not deliberate."
"Nice of you to be so understanding, but I do feel like I failed miserably."
"May I quote you? To Smith?"
"Do what you want," Remo said. "I'm leaving." The Master of Sinanju hastily padded after him.
"And I am accompanying you," he said. "Perhaps Smith has an assignment for you of such magnitude that he will beg me to accompany you. For a suitable price, of course." Remo cast the half-decorated tree a wistful glance as he left the house. He had no inkling that by the time he would see it next, all the needles would have dried up and fallen to the floor.
Bartholomew Bronzini left the Yuma police station in smoldering silence. He was escorted out by a trio of Nishitsu Corporation Lawyers. Jiro Isuzu led them.
At the bottom of the steps, Jiro Isuzu turned to Bronzini and said, "Authorities wirr not make trouble now. Don't want to roose movie. Also, promise to use porice in firm." He pronounced it "fir-em."
"Why didn't you let me speak up back there? I wanted to tell my story."
"Not necessary. Situation under contror now. Porice brame picketers."
"Hey, I had a part in that little fracas. I got in their faces. I'm as much responsible for what happened as anybody. And what the hell did you think you were doing by ordering your goons to open fire like that?"
"Your rife in danger."
"The hell it was. I was decking them reft and light -I mean left and right."
"Action necessary to save your rife. Also to discourage picketers."
"They had a right to picket. This is America.'
"Arso this is Japanese production. No bad pubricity must attach itself to our work."
"No bad publicity! Four IATSE protesters are dead. You think that won't get in the newspapers?"
"Porice have agreed to hold suspects untir firm complete. "
"What? You can't hide a thing like this forever."
"Not forever. For two week."
"Two weeks!" Bronzini exploded. "That's our shooting schedule? It's im-fuckin'-possible. Pardon my French."
"We do outdoor scenes first," Isuzu explained. "Break production into nine units, arr shoot at once. Other actors fry in to do their work. This way, we come in under budget in ress than arrotted time. Now prease forrow. "
"Where to?"
"Other probrem need fixing. Prease forrow van." The Nishitsu team loaded into the waiting van. Bronzini straddled his motorcycle, waiting for them to start.
"This isn't right. None of it," he muttered.
But when the van started off, he followed it through the gridlike streets, out of the center of town, and along a dusty desert road. They were leaving the city proper. The high battlements of the Chocolate Mountains loomed in the distance. On either side of the road, stucco and exposed-beam houses gave way to endless beds of lettuce fields, one of Yuma's principal crops. In the distance a chevron of F/A 1-18's etched silent contrails against the cloudless sky.
Then the lettuce beds gave way to scrub desert and sandhills. The hardtop road stopped but the van kept going. It wound in and around the sandhills and Bronzini wondered where they were going.
They passed through a chain-link fence guarded by Nishitsu personnel and up a dusty road. Behind a cluster of hills lay a group of candy-striped tents. Bronzini recognized it as a location base camp. But what was it doing way out here in the desert?
The van turned into the base camp and parked beside a row of Nishitsu RV's and Ninja jeeps.
"What's this all about, Jiro?" Bronzini demanded as he dismounted.
"Base camp for firm."
"No shit. Isn't this a little out-of-the-way?"
"We are firming in desert."
"You are what!" Bronzini ground out. "What are you going to do, paint the sand white and pretend it's snow? I got news for you, it won't wash. And I won't stand for working on a stupid backlot street set either. We film in the city with real buildings and local people as extras. My films are known for their authenticity."
"Crimax of firm set in desert. We wirr shoot it here." Bronzini threw up his hands.
"Wait a minute, wait one little minute here. I
want to see the script."
"Script sent yesterday. You no get?"
"My agent got."
"Oh," Jiro said. "One moment, prease." He went to one of the RV's and returned with a copy of the script. Bronzini snatched it from his hands. He looked at the cover. The title was visible in a cutout window.
"Red Christmas! What happened to Johnny's Christmas Spirit?"
"Title change in rewrite."
Bronzini flipped through the pages until he found some dialogue featuring his character, whose name was Mac. The first words he came to were "Up yours, you Christless commie bastards!"
"What!" Bronzini shouted. "This isn't my script."
"It is rewrite," Isuzu said calmly. "Character names are same. Some other things changed."
"But where's the little boy, Johnny? I don't see any lines for him."
"That character die on page eight."
"Dies! He's the focus of the story. My character is just the catalyst," Bronzini shouted. He pointed to a page. "And what's this crap here? This tank fight?"
"Johnny die in tank fight. Very heroic scene. Very sad. Defends home from Red Chinese invader."
"That wasn't in my script either."
"Story improved. Now about Red Chinese invasion of Yuma. Set on Christmas Eve. Much tinser. Many carors sung. Very much rike American Christmas story. It very beautifur."
Bronzini couldn't believe his eyes. He was reading a scene in which Christmas carolers were blown apart by Chinese shock troops throwing hand grenades.
"The fuck. Why don't you just call it Grundy IV and be done with it?"
"Nishitsu not own Grundy character. We try to buy. Owner refuse to serr. It important you not wear headband in this firm. Rawsuits."
"That's the least of your problems, because I'm not doing this piece of regurgitation. If I wanted to do Grundy IV, I would have signed for Grundy IV. Savvy?"
"You sign for Christmas story. We wirr firm same."
"No chance, sake breath."
Jiro Isuzu's blank eyes narrowed at Bronzini's epithet. Bronzini raised a placating hand. "Okay, okay, okay, I take it back. I'm sorry. I got carried away. But this isn't what we agreed to."
"You sign contract," Isuzu told him blandly. "If there is something in contract you not agree to, take up with rawyer tomorrow. Today you talk to Indian chief. Make him agree to arrow firming in varrey."
"Indian chief?"
"Rand needed in Indian reservation. Onry place to firm. Chief say yes, onry if you ask personarry. We go to meet him now."
"Oh, this just gets better and better."
"I am happy you say so. Cooperation essentiar to maintain shooting schedule."
Jiro Isuzu smiled as Bartholomew Bronzini leaned against the van and set his broad forehead against its sun-heated side. He shut his eyes.
"How could I get into a situation like this?" he said hollowly. "I'm the world's number-one superstar."
"And Nishitsu soon to be world's number-one firm company," Izusu said. "You wirr have new, greater career with us. American pubric not care for you anymore. You wirr talk to chief now?"
"All right, all right. I've always been as good as my word. Or my signature."
"We knew that."
"I'll just bet you did. But as soon as I can find a phone, I'm firing my agent."
Chapter 5
Most babies are pink at birth. A few are as red as a crab.
Dr. Harold W. Smith was blue, He had blue eyes, which the doctor who had delivered him did not consider unusual. All human babies, like kittens, are born with blue eyes. Blue skin was another matter. At birth, Harold Smith-he didn't become a Ph.D. until much later in life, although it was a matter open to debate among his few friends-was as blue as a robin's egg.
The Vermont obstetrician told Smith's mother that she had given birth to a blue baby. Mrs. Nathan Smith politely informed him that she understood all babies cried at birth. She was confident her Harold's disposition would improve.
"I don't mean that he's a sad baby," the doctor said. "In fact he's the most well-behaved baby I've ever seen. I was referring to his medical condition."
Mrs. Smith had looked blank.
"Your son has a minor heart defect. It's not at all rare. Without going into the pathological details, his heart is not pumping efficiently. As a result, there's insufficient oxygen in his bloodstream. That's why his skin has that faint blue tinge."
Mrs. Smith had looked at her little Harold, who was already sucking his thumb. She firmly pulled the thumb out. Just as firmly, Harold stuck it back in.
"I thought it was these fluorescent lights," Mrs. Smith said. "Will he die?"
"No, Mrs. Smith," the doctor assured her. "He won't die. And he'll probably lose that blue tint in a few weeks. "
"What a shame. It matches his eyes."
"All newborns have blue eyes. Don't count on Harry's staying blue."
"Harold. I think Harry sounds so ... common, don't you agree, Doctor?"
"Er, yes, Mrs. Smith. But what I'm trying to tell you is that your son has impaired heart function. I'm sure he'll grow up to be a wonderful boy. Just don't expect much of him. He may be a little slow. Or he may not develop as soon as his friends, but he'll get along."
"Doctor," Mrs. Smith said firmly, "I will not allow my Harold to be a slacker." She pulled his thumb from his mouth again. After she had turned away, Harold availed himself of his other thumb. "He is heir to one of the most successful magazine publishers in this country. When he comes of age, he must be able to fulfill his responsibility to the Smith family, tradition."
"Publishing isn't very strenuous," the doctor said musingly. "I think Harold will do fine." He patted Mrs. Smith on one bony knee with a familiarity the New England matron resented deeply but was too well-bred to complain about, and walked away thanking his lucky stars that he had not been born Harold W. Smith.
He winced at the small slap that sounded from her room. Mrs. Smith had caught Harold sucking on his other thumb.
Harold Smith's eyes turned gray within a matter of days. His skin remained blue until his second year, when, as the result of exercises his mother insisted he perform every day, it assumed a more normal hue.
Normal for Harold Smith, that is. Mrs. Smith was so pleased with his fishbelly-white complexion that she kept him indoors so he wouldn't lose it prematurely.
Harold Smith never went into the family publishing business. World War II had broken out and he went off to war. His cool, detached intellect was recognized early on and he found himself in the OSS, working in the European theater of operations. After the war, he switched to the new CIA, where he remained an anonymous CIA bureaucrat right through the early sixties, when CURE was founded by a young President only months before he was cut down by an assassin's bullet.
Originally set up to fight crime outside of constitutional restrictions, CURE had over the course of two decades grown into America's secret defense against internal subversion and external threats. Operating with a vast budget and unlimited computer resources, Smith was its first and so far only director. He ran CURE as he had always done, from his shabby office in Folcroft Sanitarium, CURE's cover and nerve center.
The desk had not changed in those years. Smith still held forth in the same cracked leather chair. The computers in the basement had been upgraded several times. Presidents had come and gone. But Harold Smith went on as if embalmed and wired to his chair.
If Smith could have been accused of having sartorial concerns, a person meeting him for the first time might have assumed that he selected his gray three-piece suit to go with his hair and eyes, both of which were a neutral gray. The truth was that Smith was by nature a colorless and unimaginative person. He wore gray because it suited his personality, such as it was.
One thing had changed. As he grew older, Smith's youthful pallor had darkened. His old heart defect worsened. As a consequence, his dry skin looked as if it had been dusted with ground pencil lead.
On another man, gray skin would h
ave looked freakish. Somehow the coloring fitted Smith. No one suspected that it was the result of a congenital birth defect, any more than anyone would have believed that this harmless-looking man was second only to the President of the United States in the raw power he wielded.
But for all his power, Smith trembled inwardly this day. It was not from the awesome responsibility that weighed on his coat-hanger-like shoulders. Smith was ordinarily fearless.
This morning, Dr. Smith dreaded the imminent appearance of the Master of Sinanju, with whom he was deep in contract negotiations. It was an annual ritual, and it wrung more from his constitution than would entering an Iron Man competition.
So when Smith heard the elevator outside his secondfloor Folcroft office hum as it ascended, he looked around his room for a place to hide.
Smith gripped the edges of his desk with whiteknuckled intensity as the door opened.
"Greetings, Emperor Smith," said Chiun gravely. His face was an austere network of wrinkles.
Smith rose stiffly. "Master Chiun," he said in his lemony New England voice. He sounded like a dishwashing liquid. "Remo. Good morning."
"What's good about it?" Remo growled, throwing himself onto a couch. Chiun bowed and Smith returned to his seat.
"I understand you have an assignment for Remo," Chiun said distantly.
Smith cleared his throat. "That is correct," he said. "It is good to keep him busy. For he could lapse into indolence at any time. As he was before I accepted the thankless responsibility of training him in the art of Sinanju."
"Er, yes. Well, the assignment I have in mind for him is rather unusual."
Chiun's hazel eyes narrowed. Smith recognized that narrowing. Chiun was looking for an opening.
"You have heard, perhaps, of Remo's most recent assignment," Chiun began.
"I understand it went well."
"I killed Santa Claus," Remo growled.
"That was your job," Smith told him.
"Yeah," Remo said vehemently, "and you have no idea how much I looked forward to it. I wanted to wring his neck!"
"Remo," Chiun said, shocked. "One does not dispose of an emperor's enemies the way one would harvest a chicken. Death is a gift. To be bestowed with grace."
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