A war for control of the deadliest assassin to ply his trade in this century. A war in which there could be but one winner and the price for losing was absolute and final.
A war the United States could not afford to lose.
The Master of Sinanju sat in the meditation tower of the castle bestowed upon him by the grateful Emperor of America. Sixteen were the chambers, and each chamber boasted its own kitchen and bathing room, as well as two bedrooms.
As he inscribed the words on a parchment scroll set on the hardwood floor and held flat with semiprecious stones set at each of the four corners, Chiun wondered if it would appear to future generations that Chiun, who was Master for the majority of what the West called the twentieth century but was actually the fiftieth—Western culture having flourished late—was a shameless braggart.
Chiun didn't wish to appear to boast to his descendants. Perhaps it would be better to strike the description of the chambers. Sixteen chambers was sufficient to convey to future Masters, especially considering that the land known to Koreans as Mi-Guk was unlikely to prosper much beyond this century.
Looking at the scroll with its fresh-inked pre-Hangul characters, the Master of Sinanju weighed the consequences of striking these offending lines. It would be messy. He didn't wish to be called Chiun the Messy Scribe.
On reflection, he let them stand. It would be better to move Castle Sinanju, block by block, to the village of Sinanju, where his descendants could examine it for themselves. This way no one could deny the generosity of America the Forgotten—and by implication understand that Chiun the Neat was a superb negotiator.
Now that he was leaving America forever, there was no point in abandoning such a fine building merely because its inhabitants had offended him so greatly.
When the telephone rang later in the day, the Master of Sinanju was struggling over the proper phrasing of his reasons for abandoning the client who had paid the House a thousandfold greater gold than any client in Korean history. Chiun hesitated.
It might be a new suitor to the House.
On the other hand, it might also be Emperor Smith, who was doubtless gnashing his teeth, rending his garments and bewailing his anguish over having lost the services of Sinanju.
Goose quill poised, he decided to allow the instrument to ring. And so it rang. And rang and rang.
After some forty unbroken rings, it finally went silent. Only to immediately start up again.
Chiun nodded. Emperor Smith. Only he would punish the ears so with his stubborn refusal to accept the harsh truth that had descended so crushingly upon his kingly head. No self-respecting seeker of Sinanju services would betray such unbecoming eagerness before negotiations even commenced.
And so Chiun wrote on, serene in the knowledge he was not ignoring one of the new rulers who was now counting his gold and calculating his ability to secure absolute security for his throne and his borders.
It would be good to feel wanted again, he thought.
Harold Smith slammed down the telephone in frustration after the fifth series of forty rings had gone unanswered.
It was possible that the Master of Sinanju was out for the day, he knew.
It was just as possible that he was simply not answering the telephone. Chiun hated telephones. Or at least he pretended to. One of the biggest expenses—other than Remo throwing out brand-new shoes instead of polishing them—was monthly telephone replacement. If a phone rang at an inopportune time, Chiun simply shattered it with his hand or squeezed it to melted plastic in his fingers. Smith had seen Chiun's handiwork many times and never understood how crushing fingers could cause plastic to run like taffy. He just replaced the telephones.
Another telephone drew his eyes. A dialless red instrument now reposed in its proper place on his pathologically neat desk for the first time in a year—the While House hot line. Simply lifting the receiver caused an identical red telephone to ring in the Lincoln Bedroom of the White House.
Smith had refrained from lifting the red receiver however.
Before the incident at the UN, he had planned a courtesy call to the Chief Executive, informing him that the hot line was back in operation and CURE remained ready to field any mission requests.
It was a peculiarity of the CURE mandate that the President of the United States had no authority to order CURE into action. He could only suggest missions. Harold Smith had absolute autonomy in wielding the awesome responsibility set on his spare shoulders. That way no rogue President could co-opt CURE to pursue purely political ends.
But Harold Smith wouldn't call the President. Not yet. Not when the only news he had to convey was bad news. CURE was without its enforcement arm.
That revelation might tempt the budget-conscious Chief Executive with the only direct order he was allowed to give: shut down.
Smith restored the hot-line instrument to a desk drawer and locked it, then checked his vest pocket for the coffin-shaped poison pill and took down his briefcase from atop an old-fashioned oak filing cabinet.
He took a cab to the local train station and purchased a round-trip ticket to Boston. He didn't have to consult a schedule. He knew the timetables by heart.
Four hours later Smith stepped off Amtrak's Patriot Limited in Boston's South Station. Switching to the Red Line, he was momentarily chagrined to discover that the Boston subway system had had a serious fare increase since his visit.
"Eighty-five cents?" Smith asked the man at the collection booth.
"In New York City they charge a buck twenty-five."
"This is not New York City," Smith objected.
"And this isn't a flea market. It's eighty-five cents or take a cab, which charges a buck-fifty just to sit in the backseat and tell the driver where to go."
From a red plastic change holder, Harold Smith grudgingly counted out exactly eighty-five cents. He didn't buy a second token for the return trip. Life was too uncertain. What if he were to injure himself and be taken to the emergency room, and worse, pass away? The token would be completely wasted.
Leaving the North Quincy T stop, Smith followed West Squantum Street to Hancock, crossing over to East Squantum. Just past the high school, he turned into the grounds of the big fieldstone condominium that had once been a church.
Smith had purchased it at auction for a price so low it had almost brought a rare smile to his sour patrician countenance. The building had been originally erected as a church, and during the condo-crazy days of the late 1980s a developer had converted it into a multiunit building—and promptly went bankrupt when the boom went bust.
Smith rang the doorbell.
And received no answer.
He rang it again.
When no one came to the door, Smith peered into the glass ovals set in the double-leaf doors. He could see the sixteen mail boxes and separate apartment buzzers and the inner door, tantalizingly out of reach.
Smith abruptly walked down the street to a market and tried to purchase a single stick of gum.
The clerk set down a pack.
"I only want one stick," Smith told him.
"We don't sell it by the stick. Only by the pack."
Smith made a prim mouth. "Do you have any gumballs?"
"No gumballs. You want gum or not?"
"I'll take it," said Smith, unhappily dispensing fifty-five cents in change from his nearly depleted change holder.
As it turned out, Smith needed two sticks of gum to do what he had to, which saved him a second trip but still left him stuck with three unnecessary sticks.
Chewing the gum furiously, he pressed the sticky blob into the doorbell. It jammed the button solidly in.
Carefully lifting the fabric of his trousers so the knees wouldn't bag, he lowered himself onto the steps, set his briefcase on his knobby knees and waited while the doorbell buzzed incessantly behind him.
The door opened in less than ten minutes.
Smith stood up and turned.
The Master of Sinanju was wearing a gold-chased ebony kimono and an annoy
ed expression. It flickered into a bland web as soon as he recognized Smith. "Emperor," he said thinly.
"Master Chiun," Smith replied with equal thinness.
The two stood silent. There was no flowery outburst, no greetings or gracious offer to enter.
Smith cleared his throat. "I have come about the next contract."
"You did not receive my sorrowful message?"
"I received it."
"And the tablet Remo asked me to return?"
"Yes."
"And you have not used it?"
"No," Smith said coldly.
Silence.
Smith cleared his throat. "May I come in?"
"Alas, I cannot."
"Why not?"
"I await a visitor."
"Remo?"
Chiun gestured to the still-buzzing doorbell. "No. The repair person who is to fix this balky device is overdue. It will require my full and undivided attention to insure that the job is done properly and without overcharging."
Harold Smith reached out and removed the gum from the buzzer button. It fell silent.
"You may turn him away. The buzzer is functioning again."
Chiun bowed his head. "Great is your knowledge of things mechanical."
"I need only a few minutes of your time."
"Then you may enter."
The Master of Sinanju led Smith up the steps to the meditation tower, where the cool fall sunlight flooded in through the high windows.
The fresh, clean scent of rice clung to the walls and minimal furniture. It was probably steamed into the painted walls forever, Smith reflected.
Chiun waited until Smith had lowered himself awkwardly onto a tatami mat before floating down to his own mat to face him.
"My time is short," he intoned. "You have interrupted my packing."
"You are leaving America?"
"Regrettably."
"May I ask why?"
"This land is full of painful memories I can no longer abide."
Smith frowned. "Where is Remo?"
"I am forbidden to say."
"Forbidden by whom?"
"Remo has gone his own way. Now I must go mine."
"Is this why you are breaking the contract between America and Sinanju?" Smith asked.
"I break nothing. The contract expires on the eve of the eleventh month, where it has always ended. I chose not to renew."
"I would like to convince you otherwise."
"I cannot."
"Why not?"
"I am an old man now. The strenuous work of America is too much for my frail shoulders."
Harold Smith opened his briefcase, removed his automatic and leveled it at the Master of Sinanju's thin breast.
"I do not believe you."
Chiun regarded him without a flicker of concern. "I speak the truth."
"Then I apologize if I have erred, but I am giving you fair warning of my intent to pull the trigger."
Chiun stuck out his chest like a pouter pigeon. "Pull. The wound you inflict will be far less than that inflicted by the ingrate you charged me with training."
The Master of Sinanju closed his hazel eyes.
And Harold Smith squeezed the trigger.
The weapon roared in the close room. The sound made Smith blink once. Gun smoke made his eyes smart.
When they cleared, the Master of Sinanju was sitting serenely just as before, only there was a chill light now in his eyes.
Smith gasped. "What happened?"
"You missed."
"I did not see you move."
"I did not."
"Then where did the bullet go?"
And taking one gnarled hand from his sleeve, the Master of Sinanju uncurved an index finger to indicate Smith's briefcase, which had sat between them.
Smith looked. The briefcase hadn't appeared to move, but on the side facing the ceiling smoked a bullet hole. The lead slug had mashed itself against the leather, stopped only because the lining was plated with bulletproof Kevlar.
"Amazing," he breathed, understanding that Chiun had lifted the bulletproof case to intercept the bullet, letting it fall back too fast for any other human eye to read.
"A trifle," said Chiun dismissively.
Smith composed himself. "I would like to know the truth."
"Which truth?"
"Master Chiun, America has paid you well."
"I do not dispute this."
"If it is a question of money, I will see what I can do. But I cannot promise anything," Smith said.
"It is not money. The work of America requires two Masters to perform. This has never been the case in the past. Unless one counts the days of the night tigers. In the days before Wang, a Master did not work alone. He was accompanied by his night tigers. It has been my lot to work for a client state that required me to train its own assassin. Not a Sinanju heir. But an assassin who belonged to a foreign emperor. In this I had no choice, for my first pupil had gone bad. There was no one to take his place. No one worthy."
"Remo is free-lancing?"
"Remo is vegetating. He will perform no service. Not that I could stop him if he so chose."
"Where is Remo?" Smith asked.
"I cannot tell you."
"You fear the competition?"
"I am beyond fear. My feelings are like the pit of a peach—hard and bitter. Sorrow sits like a wingless and wet bustard in my belly, for I have trained a pupil who will do no work."
"Remo has retired, then?"
"Pah! It is I who should retire. I forswore retirement and the comforts of my village to guide him through his assignments. Assignments he should have fulfilled on his own. And what did this wastrel give me in return for my sacrifice? Abandonment."
"Again?"
Chiun dropped his frail shoulders. "I have been dumped."
"Dumped?"
"It is a despicable custom of this ingrate land, I am told. Granny dumping."
"That does not sound like Remo," Smith said slowly.
"I have been betrayed by my American pupil. This land holds no more joy for me. Therefore, I must depart these bitter shores."
"What will you do?"
"I am too old to train another. Even if I found a worthy pupil, I do not have forty years to work another miracle. I have trained two Masters, and both have turned on me like vipers."
"I am prepared to offer you the same contract as before."
"And I have told you the work of America is too strenuous for my aging bones. I must seek less demanding an emperor."
"I am prepared to offer you the same contract as before to take your services off the open market," Smith countered.
"Who has said that the services of Sinanju are on the open market?"
"There was an incident at the United Nations yesterday. I believe you know what I refer to."
"Perhaps," Chiun said thinly.
"The same contract as before to do nothing."
"Alas, I cannot."
"Why not?"
"I cannot, O Smith, because it would dishonor my ancestors to accept gold for no work. This is not done. First it will be no work, then as you see your treasure deplete without return service, you will ask me to perform light errands, possibly janitorial in nature. It is a slow slide into servitude, and I will not countenance this."
"I am prepared to pay partial gold if you will refuse all offers from a list of nations I will draw up."
Chiun's back stiffened. "You seek to bribe me?"
"I am concerned about the security of the United States, as always."
"It is my duty to my House to weigh all offers and accept the most rewarding, for I am the last Master of Sinanju and there is none to take my place. The money I will earn before my days dwindle to nothingness will have to sustain the village for untold centuries to come. I cannot go into the Void knowing that my inattention to duty may lead to suffering in times to come."
"Without you the organization will have to be shut down."
"That is not my concern."
"And I must go with it."
Chiun's eyes narrowed to crafty slits. "If you can locate Remo, perhaps you can strike a deal with him."
"Tell me where he is."
"Consult your oracles. They may tell you. I cannot."
Harold Smith frowned. He stood up, his legs stiff. "This is your final word?"
"I am sorry."
"I must go now."
"If the the House survives my reign," said the Master of Sinanju, "know, O Smith, that the scrolls of Sinanju will record that this Master looked with favor upon his service to America and will record no objection to your lawful sons treating with my descendants."
"I have no sons," said Harold Smith coldly, turning and leaving the room without another word.
The Master of Sinanju sat quietly, his ears tracking the footfalls on the steps, the opening and closing of the door and the empty silence that followed.
It was done. One door was closed. But others would open.
Tomorrow the bidding would begin.
Chapter Nine
Remo woke refreshed and went in search of Sunny Joe.
"Sunny Joe couldn't sleep, so he lit off for Mexico," an Indian told him. He wore faded jeans, a flannel shirt that was once red and a face like a sandstone rain-god mask.
"Mexico? Just like that?"
The Indian shrugged. "Sunny Joe likes to ride down Mexico way now and again. Maybe he's got a señorita down there."
"Did he leave a message for me?"
"Not with me."
"Any particular place in Mexico?" Remo asked.
The Indian spit on the ground. "Why look? Sunny Joe'll be back when he takes a mind to."
"Does a straight answer cost extra around here?" Remo demanded hotly.
"Try Cuervos. He always goes to Cuervos."
"Thanks,'" Remo said, not meaning it.
"Don't mention it," grunted the Indian in a matching tone of voice.
Remo headed for town on foot. Before the women started to die off, the Sun On Jos had lived in a small strip of brick-and-clapboard buildings resembling an old Wild West town with a poured-concrete boardwalk. Remo had left his rented Mazda Navajo there.
The place had the look of a ghost town now. An old Sun On Jo woman worked a squeaky well pump, her iron gray pigtails rattling with every exertion. She paid him no mind as Remo claimed his jeep.
Remo drove south, windshield wipers lazily scraping the accumulation of dust off the windshield. Why had Sunny Joe lit off like that? Without a word. It wasn't like him.
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