Corbish did not have to brick up the deep basement anymore so he drove back into town, every once in a while braking the increasing speed that came when he brooded about the empty cellar. The bricks rattled loudly in the back of the truck, but none bounced out. By the time Corbish was at his Manhattan appointment with T.L. Broon on the other side of the country, he was smiling confidently, assured, gracious and rather humble as praise was heaped upon the youngest senior vice president for policy planning in the history of International Data Corporation.
He spoke before the executive committee of IDC—nine men who looked remarkably like Blake Corbish and T.L. Broon himself—and before T.L. Broon's father, whose portrait hung in the Manhattan boardroom, a pastel-carpeted expanse of low-ceilinged space with indirect lighting and a table so long and so wide it made everyone sitting at the sides feel insignificant. Only the person at the head of the table could feel he mattered. And that, Corbish reflected, was T.L. Broon. At least for the moment.
Only one face in the door did not exude dynamic optimism. It was the portrait of Josiah Broon, who had started IDC with a sales route for a cash register that was much like all other cash registers, until Josiah came up with the slogan, "It thinks for you." As more and more executives realized the dangers of doing any sort of thinking at all, at least any that could be traced to them, IDC grew and became a giant.
The expression of old Josiah looked down on the boardroom as if someone had created an unpleasant odor. It was much the same expression he had worn in life and had worn when he transferred the company to T.L. Broon.
"I don't think even you can fuck it up, sonny. We're too rich for that now."
In the published history of IDC, these words mellowed, with the help of the public relations department, until they became: "You represent, son, what is best in America."
Those words were engraved in a bronze plaque beneath the portrait of Josiah before which Blake Corbish now spoke.
"I accept this promotion on behalf of the IDC team," said Corbish. "IDC always has meant the future and the future is youth."
There were smiles and applause around the table. Corbish reveled in the insincerity of the smiles because here insincerity was the sincerest form of compliment. If youth was the future, then these members of the executive board were the past
Broon called Corbish to the head of the table and shook his hand.
"You are now senior vice president for policy planning," said Broon.
And it was done.
Senior Vice President Blake Corbish. Who would have thought it? Blake Corbish from Mendocino, California. And maybe one day, President of the United States Blake Corbish.
Of course, there were still some obstacles. One of them was at that moment in a San Francisco hospital, insisting that he not only felt good enough to walk, but to make a phone call himself.
He dialed a Miami hotel.
"I'm sorry, sir. That party has checked out," said the operator to Dr. Harold Smith.
CHAPTER SEVEN
There were guards now at Folcroft, young men with neat snappy uniforms and polished black holsters who stopped people at the entrance to examine identification. Remo noticed that only those with little printed badges that glowed purple under a scanner were allowed to pass.
Camera eyes scanned the old brick walls of the onetime estate.
"It doesn't look the same," said Remo. "Not just the guards and the cameras, but the walls don't look as I remember them. They used to seem so big and thick and impenetrable."
"This is not the same place you left, because you are now different," said Chiun.
"I guess so," said Remo.
"The weather in Persia must be beautiful at this time of year. Have you ever tasted melon at the very moment of ripening? It is one of the truly rare fruits."
"It's Iran, now, Little Father," said Remo, who had been fielding these suggestions since Miami. First, it had been Russia. The czars always paid reliably and generously, Czar Ivan being the finest.
"You mean, Ivan the Terrible?" asked Remo.
"Terrible for whom?" Chiun had answered. He suggested that perhaps one of those new South American countries might have the proper need and respect for an assassin of the caliber of Sinanju. Why, Remo and Chiun could make economic history by opening up these markets. They could always train Samurai, and incidentally, keep them in line for the emperor, who had always had trouble with the Samurai which was the real reason why centuries ago the throne of the White Camelia had declared itself divine—to place some fear in the hearts of the wild bandit Samurai. An undisciplined wild country was Japan, with many bandits roaming the mountains.
Thus spoke the Master of Sinanju who said he was even now receiving correspondence through the American postal system at a post office box in the northeast, and who knew, one day it might bring him and Remo a job offer.
Remo looked at the camera eyes on top of Folcroft which, like most scanners, left areas uncovered for brief moments. Ordinarily, this would be good-enough protection, especially on a high wall such as Folcroft's.
Before a camera caught them, Remo and Chiun were over the wall and down into the vast lawny courtyard smelling of spring blossoms. Chiun commented that the blossoms here were nothing compared to the blossoms of the courtyard of the moguls of Jodhpur.
The administration building still had the one-way windows facing the Long Island Sound which was as nothing compared to the beauty of the Bay of Bengal
The ledges near the one-way windows were pathetic brick outcroppings compared to the temples of Rome.
And there was supposed to be a new temple in Rome greater than all the others. This recent architectural sensation, Remo discovered upon questioning, was St. Peters.
Remo and Chiun worked themselves flat against a large gray moulding encrusted with bird droppings. They could hear voices in nearby windows but not from the one-way window.
They entered through a clear window, excused themselves to startled secretaries, pushed through two doors until they were in the office that looked out on the Sound through the one-way glass.
A blondish man in a neat gray suit, white shirt and not-too-wide tie was conducting a meeting at a long conference table. The other men were dressed remarkably like him, almost as if they were in uniform. The blondish man was in his late thirties and he looked upon the aged Oriental and the taller white man with some confusion and much indignation, but before he could speak, he was spoken to.
"Who the hell are you?" asked Remo.
"I was just about to ask you that," said Blake Corbish.
"None of your business. Who are these dingalings?" asked Remo, pointing to the new executive staff coordinating committee of Folcroft, presently composed of IDC executives on loan to Corbish.
"I beg your pardon," said Corbish, who reached under the long table to press a buzzer, but suddenly saw the intruder move very close to him and then felt his fingers go numb.
"You're the new director of Folcroft, right?" said Remo.
"Yes," said Corbish wincing. The other executives said they had never seen an impropriety such as this before.
The Oriental informed them that he who sees disturbing things perhaps has no need of eyes.
"C'mon, old fella," said the assistant coordinating director of programming, a former tight end for Purdue, trying to be gentle with the frail old Oriental in the wispy kimono. He placed a friendly hand on the old man's bony shoulder. At least he thought he placed a friendly hand on the bony shoulder. He remembered it going down to the shoulder and then he saw tubes coming out of his nose, bright lights above his head and heard a doctor reassuring him he would live, and in all probability, even walk again.
When the assistant coordinating director went down in a massive heap at the feet of the Oriental, it was decided by the executive staff coordinating committee that the meeting should be adjourned and that the director of Folcroft, Blake Corbish, should conduct a private interview with the two guests of the sanitarium. The vote was taken
by feet moving rapidly to the door and it was unanimous. Shortly thereafter, five guards came running into director Corbish's office to see what the commotion was about. They too agreed that private meetings should be kept private. This agreement was reached so amiably that four of them were able to leave under their own power.
Blake Corbish smiled very sincerely.
"You must be Williams, Remo," he said. "Smith told me a lot about you before the accident."
"This man is backwards," Chiun whispered to Remo.
"What accident?" said Remo.
"I guess you couldn't have known," said Corbish with a forthright look of concern on his face. "Please sit down. You too, sir. If I'm correct, you also are an employee. Sinanju, Master of."
"The Master of Sinanju is never a servant. He is a respected ally who receives tribute," Chiun said.
"I'm glad you could see your way to making your way here, sir, since we're in the process of reorganization and we've noticed some unusual expenses relating to your employment, I mean, your profile as respected ally."
"What happened to Smith?" asked Remo. His voice was lead heavy.
"That later," said Chiun. "Important matters first. Explain yourself, you."
"Who's first?" said Corbish. He felt sensation return to his fingertips like the buzzing of fresh soda pop. His shirt had become wet with perspiration.
"I'm first," said Chiun.
"What happened to Smith?" said Remo.
"Let him do one thing at a time," Chiun said to Remo. "Even that which appears simultaneous is one thing at a time."
"Thank you," said Corbish.
"The expenses," said Chiun.
Corbish ordered a printout by voice over an intercom. This seemed very suspicious to Remo, since when Smith had run things, only he himself had had access to the organization's printouts.
The expenses Corbish referred to were the cost of the delivery of gold to the village of Sinanju in North Korea, approximately 175 times the value of the gold itself. Now this wasn't sound business planning. Why not take delivery here in the States and Corbish could see his way clear to doubling the annual tribute?
"No," said Chiun.
"I'll triple it," said Corbish.
"No," said Chiun. "The gold must go to Sinanju."
"Perhaps we could mail dollars."
"Deliver gold," Chiun said.
"Then we have another item, a special television device that records simultaneous shows I gather, then feeds them back consecutively into a single television set. The explanation has something to do with soap operas, I believe."
"Correct."
"Would it be possible to have tapes mailed to you, sir? It would really be much less expensive."
"No," said Chiun.
"Well, I'm glad we've settled that," said Corbish.
"What about Smith?" said Remo. He noticed that Chiun, who had railed against serving a succeeding emperor, now seemed satisfied. Chiun placed himself on the floor in a full lotus position and with barely casual curiosity observed the goings-on.
"Your instructor's profile prohibits his participation in these matters."
"He doesn't understand what's going on anyhow. He thinks of Smith as an emperor. He's all right," Remo said.
"As you know," said Corbish somberly, "this is a very delicate organization. You are one of the three men, I guess now four, who knows specifically what we are about. These are hard times and it is a hard thing I must tell you. Dr. Smith—perhaps it was the pressure of the job, I don't know—but Dr. Smith suffered a nervous breakdown a week ago. He fled the sanitarium and has not been heard from since."
"But why you in his place?" said Remo. He rested a hand on the new long conference table that butted up against Smith's old desk.
"Because you failed, Williams. Your assignment, according to your employment profile, was, if Smith showed mental aberrations, to kill him. Now did you or did you not observe that he was deteriorating?"
"I saw some unusual things but he's often ordered unusual things."
"Like terminating an employee strata of a major American corporation? Didn't you question his actions?"
"I was too busy."
"You were too busy following his demented instructions, Williams. What you have literally done is fail your country. This organization was set up with enough checks and balances so that if any move were made to endanger this country through this organization, it would begin to disband. You know that. Your job was to kill Smith. I believe when he was sane he personally gave you those instructions. Am I correct?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you?" asked Corbish.
"I wasn't sure he'd lost his marbles," said Remo.
"That's not so, is it?"
"Well, I knew he was under a lot of pressure."
"You knew you didn't want to kill him, isn't that so?" Corbish said.
"Yeah, I guess it is," said Remo.
"That makes you unreliable, doesn't it?"
"I guess so," said Remo.
"What do you think I ought to do about it?"
"Try pissing up a rope," said Remo.
Chiun emitted a cackle. Corbish nodded solemnly. He talked about a nation struggling for its survival. He talked about each man doing his duty. He talked about Remo's life and he talked about many lives. He said he could not force Remo to help undo the damage of Smith's last months. But he said he was going to go ahead by himself and try to return the organization back to its original objectives. That was how Smith, in his saner moments, would have wanted it.
Remo felt old stirrings of allegiance that he thought were long since gone. He glanced at Chiun. In Korean, the Master of Sinanju had one word: "bird droppings."
"Who appointed you?" Remo asked Corbish.
"The same person who appointed Smith. Frankly, I didn't want this job. I saw what it did to Smith. I think it might do that to me. If you should decide to continue to work for us, I would hope that before I deteriorated like Dr. Smith has, you would do your duty properly and prevent me from causing the severe sort of damage Smith did in his last days."
"Bird droppings," said Chiun again in Korean but Remo ignored him. Chiun had never understood the love of country or loyalty to a cause, considering them a waste of talent. Well, so be it. That was the Master of Sinanju. He had been trained since childhood to think that way. But Remo was an American and there still lingered in him an ember of childhood patriotism that would not die no matter how he changed. Looking at this man who had replaced Smith, Remo thought that he just might give this man and his country another chance.
Corbish apparently was not as rigid as Smith. Remo realized that he had come to think of the organization as Smith's, that he had incorrectly believed it could not exist without the parsimonious old wet blanket. Maybe it would even be better with this man who seemed to be more reasonable than Smith, and definitely less fidgety.
"I'd like to think a few moments," said Remo.
"Yes," said Chiun in English. "He wants to exercise muscles never used before."
"I think you're the kind of man we need on the team," said Corbish.
"I think I'm going to be unable to eat for a month," said Chiun.
Corbish left his office to Remo and went outside.
"Little Father," said Remo, "I must at least try."
"Of course," said Chiun. "You have nothing invested in you. Minimal talent and less energy. I have created you. I have a great investment."
"I appreciate what you have done for me, but I also have other loyalties. I think I can trust this man. He may even be an improvement over Smith."
"The second emperor buries the sword of the first," said Chiun.
"If that's so, why does Corbish want me to continue?"
"What makes you think he does?"
"He just asked me. Didn't you hear?"
"I heard," said Chiun.
"I'm going to give it a shot," said Remo. "I'm going to see what happens."
"With my gift of wisdom," said Chiun disdainf
ully.
"Your village will be supported. The gold will get there to care for the elderly and the orphans. You have no worries, no worries at all," said Remo.
"Bird droppings," said the Master of Sinanju.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In previous corporate battles, there had been memoranda, positions to be taken, charts to show one's corporate posture to be superior to another's, sales progress, corporate responsibility well accepted.
Blake Corbish looked around his home den, examined his own corporate resources, and said:
"Bullshit. I don't have to wait for anyone anymore."
"What did you say?" asked Teri Corbish, a sandy-haired young woman in high turtleneck sweater and full, cleanly-styled bell bottoms. Her face was beautiful but beaten. Her beauty was only befitting the wife of the youngest senior vice president for policy planning in IDC history, but her tired appearance betrayed the fact that she was an alcoholic. She was washing down a librium with a martini, a little concoction she said helped her sleep better now that Blake was so busy with his recent success that he didn't have the energy for other things. But then, of course, he hadn't had the energy for other things for a long time, as she often reminded him,
"I said bullshit. How would you like to be married to the president of IDC?"
"You're kidding," said Teri Corbish.
"Nope," said Blake.
She put an arm on his shoulder and kissed him on the chin, spilling some of her martini on the floor.
"When will this happen?"
"When would you like it to happen?"
"Yesterday," she said, putting her martini on her husband's desk and using the free hand to tickle the buckle on Blake's belt.
"Try within a month."
"Is Broon retiring?"
"In a way."
"You'll be the youngest most powerful executive in America. In the world."
"Yes. It's what I've wanted."
"Then will we be happy?"
Corbish ignored the question. He felt his wife's hand work at his pants zipper.
"Later, Teri. I've work to do. Have another martini."
It took Remo three minutes to realize he had been ordered to eliminate someone. Corbish gave the order personally in his Scarsdale home, apologizing to Remo because he had not introduced his wife, who was upstairs asleep.
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