The average human had powers he had ignored since the day he started to rely on tools. Spear or guided missile, every dependency on a tool caused the death of those powers. So today when someone discovered little parts of it, they called it extrasensory perception, or some extraordinary act of strength like a mother being able to lift a car by herself when her baby was underneath it.
The truth was, she always had that power, and so did everyone else, except they did not know how to gain access to it, except in extraordinary situations when the body took over.
Sinanju was the way to the full use of man's power. Remo was no more extraordinary than anyone else. He simply knew how not to let his mind interfere with his intelligence.
Ordinarily.
When Chiun was not staring at him. When Remo was not so depressed. On other days, and at other times.
"I give up. I don't have the foggiest what's going on in this room."
"Perhaps it is not going on now," said Chiun. "Now that you have given up."
"What are you talking about? Just tell me," said Remo.
"Are you breathing in gulps of air, without thinking? Are you letting your nervousness and body decide how to breathe instead of your essence? Are you gulping air?"
"No. Of course not."
"Then just as perfectly known as it was to the first Masters of Sinanju, beyond the pitiful recorded histories of the world, so it is known to you undiminished. No one time will wear away your excellence. No little war will end your skills as some empires have ended. No thieves can enter as they have in the pyramids. You have the only thing that will last all the days of your life. The skills that I have given you."
Remo looked at his hands. They were thinner than they were when he began, decades ago. But they had knowledge now and sensitivity he could not have even imagined before.
"You're right, little father," said Remo.
"So let us leave this temporary country you happened to be born in, and once, just once, serve Sinanju, whose treasures you lost."
"I didn't lose them, little father. They were stolen," said Remo. Chiun headed for the door.
"We're missing Sea World and Future World while you deny guilt," said Chiun.
"There was this thing that could have melted the polar ice cap. I am sorry that the collected treasures of Sinanju were stolen, but I didn't steal them. That Korean intelligence guy stole them. Not my fault someone killed him before he told you where he put them. It was his trick to get you to work for North Korea."
"Exactly. Your fault," said Chiun.
"How is it my fault?" asked Remo.
"If you had been willing to serve other countries, North Korea never would have had to steal our treasures to get our services."
"That's like blaming the people who won't give in to the terrorists for what the terrorists do. It's nonsense."
"We have never recovered the treasure. Five thousand years of treasure. Gone. Your fault."
"You didn't spend it anyhow, little father. It sat there for five thousand years. Tribute from Alexander and the Mings. How many thousands of mint-condition Roman coins lay in that house? And stuff that isn't even valuable nowadays. A chunk of aluminum from 1000 B.C., when it was a rare metal; hell, a case of soda would be worth more today. "
Remo was feeling good again. And so was Chiun, seeing Remo come back with his usual ingratitude. He was healthy again. As they walked out to the road that would take them to Epcot Center, Chiun told Remo of the wonders of the world and emperors yet to be served, of treasures they could exact, of tricks they could use to manipulate the wisest leaders. There was a great new day waiting out there for the services of Sinanju, but first, Chiun wanted to see Future World.
Smith arrived at the condo and found Remo and Chiun were out. He had to wait until evening. When he noticed the unmistakable smooth movement of Remo and Chiun's walk, it was getting dark.
"I'm glad you're back, Remo. We don't have much time," said Smith.
"Yeah, I want to talk to you about that, Smitty. I'm afraid this is the end of the line."
"Stop joking, Remo. America has been penetrated by a Russian no one's been able to stop. The world's going to end. "
"That's what you said when the treasure of Sinanju was stolen. Five thousand years of Sinanju tributes stolen, and almost none of it recovered," said Remo.
Chiun was so pleased he almost cried. Of course, Remo was breaking the basic rule in dealing with an emperor. One never told an emperor the truth. One allowed an emperor to find the truth one presented. An emperor was never wrong or to blame. An emperor was the person who could take the right course when that course was laid out clearly for him.
Remo should have learned the proper good-byes. Chiun would show him. Remo would need them now that they would be servicing many clients. The long years of serving the mad emperor Smith, who had never used Sinanju to seize the American throne called the presidency, were over now.
Chiun chose the most florid of laudations to lay at the feet of Harold W. Smith, who had already gone down in the histories of Sinanju as the mad white emperor in the land discovered by Chiun.
It took twenty minutes to deliver them, and at the end, Smith thanked Chiun, and then said to Remo:
"What are you waiting for? We've got to start the briefing. This is a complicated matter."
"Smitty, when Chiun told you the glorious name of Harold W. Smith would live on in the histories of Sinanju, eclipsing Alexander, Augustus of Rome, and the great pharaohs, he meant good-bye. It's good-bye for me, too."
"But you can't. Not now."
"Now's as good a time as any, Smitty. I think I've done my job for America. Good-bye."
Smith followed the two of them into their condominium. It was on the ground floor and had a small screened porch facing the water fountain. The spray masked sounds more effectively than any electronic device.
"Which country are you going to serve? You can tell me that at least," said Smith. The problem here was that in his heart, Smith knew Remo was right. Remo had done more for the country than any single man ever had. He had done it year after year after year. He never flagged and he never failed. And what had America given him'? There had to be a time when it all stopped, even for a patriot.
Remo answered that he did not know which country they were going to.
"I may not even work for anyone. I may just rest and look at palm trees and pyramids. I don't know. I'm tired. I'm more than tired. I was tired years ago. It's over, Smitty. Good-bye. And good luck."
"So it isn't determined yet who you will work for?"
"No," said Remo.
"Let me speak to Chiun a moment, if I may."
"You won't understand him."
"Let me try," said Smith.
Remo went into the main bedroom, where Chiun was packing his kimonos.
"He wants to talk to you," said Remo.
"Aha. Now you will see him bid for our services. You should come and watch. Now you will see as I have always suspected that the tributes of gold brought by American submarines to the village of Sinanju might only have been a pittance."
"I'd rather not see," said Remo. He knew Chiun would never understand that Smith served a country he believed in and it was not his private gold but the property of the taxpayers of America. It was a country Remo still felt for. He would always be an American, and he didn't want to be there while his country was twisted by a thousand-year-old manipulation.
Remo was going because he was going, and that was it. Smith did not hear Chiun enter the porch, but then he never heard Chiun. He was gazing at the fountains when he noticed Chiun was there, totally composed as always, and looking not one day older than he had when first they met and he was told this was the man who would train the one enforcement arm for CURE.
"It's been a long time, Chiun. I want to say thank you, for America is honored to have had the magnificent services of the House of Sinanju."
"Sinanju is honored, most gracious one," said Chiun. Just when they were le
aving, Mad Harold of America was learning how to speak to his assassin.
"I hear you are going to bid out your services," said Smith.
"We can never find one as gracious, O Emperor," said Chiun.
"May we bid also?"
"We will always consider the offer of the gracious Harold. "
"We have shipped gold regularly in amounts that are now twenty times the size of what they were the first year. How can we improve?"
"If it were just gold, O wise one, we would never leave your sublime service. But as you know, the treasure of the House of Sinanju is missing. Five thousand years of collected tribute is gone."
"Gone is gone, Master. We can help replenish it."
"Can you replace the obols of Alexander, the marks of Demetrius, the tolons of the Ming? Where are the bracelets from the great African tribes, or the statues from Athens? Where are the boxes of coins with the visage of Divine Augustus therein stamped?"
"I'll make you an offer. What we cannot find for you, we will replace. We will never stop until we replace it. There is no country as capable of this as we are."
"You will undertake to replace fifty centuries of tribute to the House of Sinanju?"
"Yes," said Smith. "We will do that."
Chiun thought a moment. This was awesome. America was going to match what all the previous civilizations in the world had contributed. Ordinarily an offer like this from a king or emperor would be suspect. But Chiun had seen America, had visited its cities and factories, villages and farms. He had seen its great electronics and land so rich that crops grew in a profusion never before seen in the world.
As he had always thought, there was plenty of money here. Now Sinanju was going to get a real piece of it. America just might be able to do what Mad Harold had promised. This could mean only one thing. Smith had to do the sane and reasonable thing for the employer of Sinanju. He was going to have Sinanju do what Sinanju did best. Replace the current president and put Smith on the throne. There could be no other reason for such an awesome sum.
"Agreed. It is our true honor."
"I'd like to speak to Remo, please," said Smith.
"Of course. A fine selection. Let Remo hear it from your lips himself."
Remo had packed his one small suitcase when Chiun entered the bedroom, chortling.
"We have one last mission for Wise Harold," said Chiun.
"Why is he no longer Mad Harold? And I thought we were tired of this place."
"Remo, if you do this one thing for Wise Harold, then I will forgive you forever for the loss of the treasure of Sinanju. It will make up for your chasing around the world on foolishness while our treasures remained unfound. Smith has agreed to replace the treasures. I must prepare the list. It is very long."
"He must be desperate. What does he want?"
"Not desperate. He realizes the time has come. I have agreed on your behalf to kill the President of the United States so that Wise Harold might bring order and decency to a ravaged land."
"I don't believe it," said Remo.
"We have promised. There is no greater sin than for an assassin to break his promise."
"I'll handle one more, little father. But I am sure it is not doing in the President."
"What else could it be?" asked Chiun.
"Something extraordinarily big that only we can do." Chiun had barely begun on the list when Remo returned, asking him if there was nothing in the history of Sinanju showing how a man could enter a country two times with more than 150 men and not be even noticed until he was gone.
General Matesev knew the moment he had lost his tail. That was the first part of his invasion of the United States, that he had pulled off twice before and had no reason to believe he could not do again, at least once more.
He moved through the giant and busy New York City for two hours, testing to see if by some miracle a tail could stay with him. When he was assured it did not, he went into an American bank and pushed a five dollar bill through the window.
"Ten quarters, please," he said.
The teller shuffled out the coins quickly. Without knowing it, she had just given General Matesev the tools he needed to bring about another successful invasion of America.
He took the ten quarters and went to a phone both. Within three hours, 150 select Russian commandos would be operating within America itself. The special force would have invaded again without a trace.
With the ten quarters he made ten phone calls. With each phone call, he said:
"Good afternoon. The sky seems a bit yellow today, don't you think?"
And with each phone call he got back a statement: "More blue, I think. But who knows. Life is so strange, yes?"
And to that answer he said ten times: "Riker's Island Stadium."
Joe Wilson's wife saw him pick up the phone. She had been sure he was having an affair until she listened in to one of the conversations. There was never another woman on the end of the line.
Joe didn't work. He didn't play much, other than exercising by running around the backyard five miles every day in a simple circle, and doing jumping jacks and other routines that reminded some neighbors of basic training.
Yet he didn't need money. He had income from a Swiss bank account his father gave him and the checks were deposited in his Queens bank account with more regularity than his mother received her social security.
In fact, the only way Joe's wife had ever gotten him to marry her was to agree to have the wedding at the house. And why not? That's how they met. That's how they dated. And that's how he insisted on living. Well, that wasn't so bad. Lots of people had the disease called agoraphobia that kept them chained to their homes all the time.
Yet this was entirely different. She had picked up the phone for him in the other room because he was outside exercising. When she said it was a man talking about the sky he practically ran through the door. She listened in.
"Good afternoon. The sky seems a bit yellow today, don't you think?" asked the man on the other end. "More blue, I think. But who knows? Life is so strange, yes?" answered her husband, Joe.
"Riker's Island Stadium," said the man.
Joe hung up and began dialing other numbers. And giving orders. She had never heard him give orders before. He made fourteen phone calls and told every person at the other end the same thing.
"Riker's Island."
And then for the first time since she knew him, Joe Wilson, her husband, left their home. He kissed her lovingly good-bye and said something that terrified her.
"Look. I wasn't supposed to marry you in the first place. And you're a good kid. You've put up with a lot. An awful lot. You've let me stay at home all this time. But I want you to know that no matter what happens, it doesn't mean I don't love you."
"Are you leaving me, Joe? Are you leaving?"
"I love you," he said, and he was gone. The house seemed woefully empty without him in it. He had never left before, and the way he left so quickly and so easily told Mrs. Joseph Wilson he had never suffered agoraphobia at all.
The man called Joe Wilson took a New York bus to Riker's Island. The bus was unusually crowded that day, crowded with men, all going to Riker's Island, all in their late twenties and early thirties, all quite fit.
Riker's Island Stadium was not being used that day, and their footsteps echoed through the tunnels out onto the field. They all took seats at the fifty-yard line, looking every bit like some large team getting ready for a game.
But the man who came out of the tunnel was not a coach. No coach ever got this sort of respect.
He snapped his fingers and said, "Group captains," and ten men left the stands where the other 140 sat, and walked out onto the running track to speak to General Matesev, in his fine English suit.
"We are going to be out of America in two days maximum. If we can't leave on a plane peacefully we will shoot our way out at any point I select along the Canadian border. Any of you have men who you think are unreliable?"
All ten shook t
heir heads.
"I didn't think so. You were all well selected," said Matesev with a little smile. The joke was that he had selected every one of them individually, men who could keep in training and wait for that one phone call.
Because the method he had devised to invade America at will with 150 men was as simple as good logic could make it. No 150 men could invade in a single body without being seen. But 150 separate men coming into a country one at a time over the course of a year would never be noticed, 150 men who would only have to wait for a single phone call to become a unified force again. One hundred and fifty men each trained to speak American English fluently, each trained as part of a team years before in Russia, now becoming that team again.
Matesev had pulled this off twice before so that the only time America knew he had been around was after he had left, after it had seen the force leave.
It had cost the services of three hundred men, because none of them could be used again. Each operation used one deep-planted force. Expensive in training and time, but during a crisis like this so definitely worth the cost.
"We have a special problem," he said. "We have to do a snatch on someone who might be unsnatchabie."
"Explain, sir," said one of his captains.
"He is an escapee from the parapsychology village in Siberia. He has special powers. He can hypnotize others instantly. A KGB unit failed to stop him at Berlin. He got out of the best protection in the village. I don't think he's stoppable. I think the minute he knows someone is going to try to snatch him, he will use his powers."
"So we are going to kill him?"
"Wrong. We are going to make sure we kill him."
"How?"
"Give me a little flexibility on that. I want to see what he's got. I'd rather spend forty-seven hours of the forty-eight hours we have to do our job in planning and preparing, than forty-seven hours of shooting up a building and one hour figuring out what went wrong. We'll get this little hypnotist good. "
"What about drugging him?"
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