"Monkey spit," Remo snapped. "They were jealous of her."
"Your whiteness blinds you to the truth," Chiun retorted. "Name me one positive quality she possesses."
"She's kind. I can talk to her."
"That is two. I asked for only one. Besides, if you wish conversation and kindness, I have both in full measure."
"Don't duck the issue. Maybe I love her. Maybe I should marry her."
"You have loved unwisely before. You got over those ones. You will forget this one. I will send her away, if that will help you."
"I want Mah-Li. But she won't have me without your permission. Dammit, Chiun, I'm giving you what you want. Give me something in return. Give me one good reason I can't be with her."
"She is without family."
"And I have sixteen brothers and sisters? We already know it's going to be a small wedding party."
"She has no dowry."
"So?"
"In Sinanju, no maiden may enter into marriage without offering something to the father of the groom. Custom demands that the father of the bride provide this tribute. But Mah-Li has no family. No dowry. No marriage. These rules were made before our great-great-great-grand-ancestors. They are inviolate." Remo jumped to his feet angrily.
"Oh, great. Because of some horseshit tradition, I can't marry whoever I want? Is that it? Is that what you're telling me, Chiun?"
"Tradition is the foundation of our house, of our art."
"You just want the freaking tribute. Isn't that it? You don't have enough gold in this place already?" Chiun looked shocked.
"Remo," he squeaked. "There is no such thing as too much gold. Have I not drummed that into your head?"
"Into my head, but not into my heart. I want to marry Mah-Li. You want me as the next Master. That's my price. Take it or leave it."
"We will speak of it another time," said Chiun, changing the subject. "I have already postponed the investment ceremony. Perhaps you are not ready yet."
"That's your answer?"
"No. That is my thought. I will think more on this matter, but there is first another, more pressing."
"Not to me," said Remo. "And why didn't you tell me the story about Kojing and Kojong before this?"
"Where did you hear the tale?" demanded Chiun.
"Mah-Li told me."
"I was saving that tale for the investment ceremony. And now she has ruined the surprise. Another reason not to marry her. She is a carrier of tales. They make inferior wives."
"No Mah-Li, no Master of Sinanju. You think about it," Remo said, and walked toward the door.
Chiun called out: "The spy you caught is dead."
Remo stopped. "So?"
"I did not kill him. Someone with a gun entered the village last night and butchered him."
"Why is it butchery when someone uses a gun? Dead is dead, isn't it?"
"Remo!" Chiun said, shocked. "Sinanju does not slaughter. Sinanju releases one from life. Is there no end to your insolence?"
Remo shut up.
"Better," said Chiun. "The one who invaded Sinanju took with him the cassette from this recording machine."
"What was on it?"
"Who knows? You. Me. All of us. Our words. Our secrets. Emperor Smith's secrets."
"You think someone's going to make trouble?"
"I hear a breeze in the distance," said Chiun.
Remo cocked his ear to the door. "Sounds quiet to me."
"This is not a breeze that blows through the air, but one which blows through the lives of men. It is just a breeze now, but soon it will gather force and become a wind, and as a wind it will grow bolder still, and it will be a typhoon. We must be ready for this typhoon, Remo."
"I'm ready for anything," Remo said, rotating his thick wrists impatiently.
Chiun shook his head sadly. Remo was obviously not ready at all. And there was so little time left. Chiun felt the weight of the future of Sinanju-a future that might now be smoke-on his frail shoulders.
Chapter 13
No history book would ever record the superpower summit in Helsinki, the capital of Finland. No one knew it took place, except for the President of the United States and the General Secretary of the Soviet Union, and only a handful of very trusted aides. And of the group only the two world leaders knew what was discussed.
"A summit?" the President's chief of staff said. "Tomorrow?"
The President had just gotten off the hot line. The Soviet General Secretary had called unexpectedly, offering to meet secretly on a matter of critical international concern.
The President had accepted. He had not wanted to, but he knew from the brief conversation that he had no choice.
"I'm going," the President said firmly.
"Impossible, sir," the chief of staff stated. "We have no preparation time."
"We're going," the President repeated.
The chief of staff saw the cold anger in the President's eye. "Very well, Mr. President. If you'll kindly inform me of the agenda of matters to be discussed."
"That's classified," was the tight-lipped reply.
The chief of staff almost choked on the jelly bean the President had handed him.
"Classified? I'm chief of staff. Nothing is classified from me."
"Now you know different. Let's get going on this."
"Yes, Mr. President," the chief of staff said, wondering how the President was going to hold a meeting with the Russian leader so that no one, including the press, knew about it.
He found out that afternoon when the President's personal press secretary announced that the President was, on the advice of his doctor, taking a week's vacation at his California ranch.
The White House press corps immediately descended upon the topic of the President's health. Instead of issuing the usual denials, the press secretary gave a tight-lipped "No comment."
The press secretary walked away from the White House briefing room trying to conceal a satisfied smile. By tonight, the White House press corps would be encamped outside the perimeter fence of the President's California compound, trying to shoot telephoto pictures through the windows, which, if they hadn't been the press and the President a public figure, would have gotten them all arrested on Peeping Tom charges.
When Air Force One left Andrews Air Force Base that evening, it vectored west as the network cameras recorded its takeoff. What the cameras did not record was Air Force One setting down in a small military air base and suffering a hasty makeup job. The presidential seal was painted over, and the plane's serial numbers changed. A quick application of enamel spray paint changed the aircraft's patriotic trim.
When Air Force One was again airborne, it was a cargo plane. It flew east, out over the Atlantic on a heading for Scandinavia.
In Soviet Russia, no such subterfuge was required. The General Secretary ordered his official TU-134 aircraft readied for a flight to Geneva. His aides were not informed of the reasons. There didn't have to be any.
The next morning, the Soviet plane descended on the airport in Helsinki. The freshly painted cargo plane carrying the President of the United States was already sitting on a runway that was closed, ostensibly for repairs.
The Soviet General Secretary sent a representative to the disguised Air Force One. The President at first refused an invitation to board the Soviet plane.
"Let him come to me," the President said through his chief of staff.
But the Soviet leader was insistent. As leader of a great power, he could not be expected to enter a lowly cargo plane of dubious registry, even in secret. "They have us there," the chief of staff groaned.
"Very well," the President said. "I'm on my way."
"We're on our way," the chief of staff corrected. The President fixed his chief of staff with a baleful glare. "You stay here and make fresh coffee. Strong. Black. I have a feeling I'm going to need it when this is over."
The Soviet General Secretary greeted the United States President in a soundproof cabin in the rear of his persona
l jet.
They shook hands formally and sat. The cabin smelled of the Russian's musky cologne. There was a small TV and video machine on a tabletop. The President noticed it subconsciously, no idea of its critical importance touching his thoughts.
"I am pleased you could meet me on such short notice," the General Secretary said. He smiled expansively. The President hated it when he smiled like that. It was the same shit-eating grin he had flashed at Iceland.
"What's on your mind?" the President asked. He was in no mood for small talk, even if this was the first time the two leaders had met since the Russian, in his continuing quest to appear more Western, had gone to the trouble to learn English.
The General Secretary shrugged as if to say: I just want to keep this friendly. But he said: "I will get to the point. As I hinted over the phone, I know all about CURE."
"Cure?" the President asked, trying to sound calm. "The cure for what?"
"I mean CURE, as in all capital letters, CURE. The secret American agency whose existence demonstrates that the U.S. Constitution is a sham, a piece of political fiction."
The President knew it was all over, but he decided to play the hand out.
"Knowledge is not proof," he said pointedly.
"No," the General Secretary admitted, tapping the Play switch on the video recorder. "But proof is proof. Allow me to entertain you with this. It was filmed in the People's Democratic Republic of Korea." And when the President looked perplexed, he added: "North Korea. More specifically, in the modest fishing village known as Sinanju. I believe you have heard of it." There was that grin again.
The video screen came to life. And there was the Master of Sinanju. The President recognized him. Chiun had personally guarded the oval office during a recent threat to the President's life. It was impossible to forget Chiun.
Chiun spoke in Korean, and at first the President was relieved. No matter what secrets Chiun spilled in Korean, they would have less impact shown over U.S. television, even with subtitles.
But then an American appeared beside Chiun. The President knew he must be Remo, CURE's enforcement arm. As Chiun spoke to a crowd ofvillagers, Remo interposed comments, some in Korean, but others in English. Remo had to ask Chiun for the proper Korean words for "Constitution."
"Here is a complete transcript of what they are saying."
The President took it wordlessly and glanced at the first few pages. It was all there. America's greatest security secret, and it had been handed to him by the Soviet General Secretary.
"We know all about it," said the General Secretary. "About Master Chiun, Remo, and Emperor Smith."
"If you call him emperor, you can't know it all."
"We know enough."
And the President agreed. Looking up from the transcript, he had deep pain in his eyes.
"What do you want?"
"It is simple. It is fair. For more than a decade, America has had a secret weapon to handle its domestic affairs."
"That is our right," the President bristled.
"I will not disagree with you. The question of the illegalities of this enforcement arm of yours is your political problem. We in Russia have had similar arrangements in the past, our KGB, and before that the Cheka. But my country is concerned over the use of this CURE apparatus in international affairs."
"Specifically?"
"Specifically, we do not know. We have no proof yet that your CURE has operated on our soil. But there have been many strange incidents among agents of our foreign service. Projects mysteriously abandoned. Agents killed in odd ways. Others who disappeared. We have never been able to account for these failures. I will not ask you about them now. Most took place prior to my regime, and they belong to the past."
"What do you want?" the President repeated.
"Before I place my demands before you, let me point out to you that you have been employing an agent-I refer to the illustrious Master of' Sinanju-who comes from our sphere of influence. You have made numerous secret submarine landings-according to this tape and another in our possession-in North Korean waters. Communist waters."
"No comment."
"Good. You understand the political damage of that revelation alone and apart from the business of CURE. Then understand I am only asking for what rightfully belongs to Mother Russia."
"Belongs-!"
"We want the Master of Sinanju. We want CURE erased from existence. And we want this Remo person."
"So you can meddle in international affairs? This is blackmail."
"No. We merely want an advantage that America has enjoyed in secret for many years. Now it is Russia's turn."
"Blackmail."
"Such a harsh word. I prefer to call it parity."
"Remo is a patriot. He won't work for you. And I can't turn him over to you. That would be a deed more politically damaging than if the world sees that tape."
The Premier considered.
"Abandon CURE. Give us the Master of Sinanju. And let us negotiate with this Remo. If he turns us down, what would you do with him?"
"Remo would have to die."
"So let it be that way. Our mutual problem is solved."
"I can't turn CURE over to you. It would be a knife at America's throat."
"I understand your fear. Let me quell it. I do not want the Master of Sinanju to enforce our political will in your hemisphere. I wish to use him as you have, to make our system of government work in spite of its flaws. Crime is growing in Russia. Drunkenness, laxity in the work force. These are Russia's deepest ills. You know that I have been trying to solve them."
"Yes, I know."
"Then you can sympathize with my plight. The plight of Mother Russia. We want a dose of your CURE, too."
The President's mind worked furiously. He wished he had his advisers here now. But if he did, they would have to die after advising him. He was all alone in this one.
Finally he said, "I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't."
"Not exactly. If you'd like I could draw up a treaty assuring you that Russia would not employ the Master of Sinanju outside of the so-called Soviet bloc for a grace period of, say twenty-five years. Surely that is a greater period than the lifespan of the current Master of Sinanju."
"Who would draw up the treaty? You? Me? We can't trust anyone else with the knowledge."
"I see your point," the General Secretary said. "Then let us trust to a handshake."
"I have no choice," the President said stiffly, rising to his feet. "I will issue the directive to disband CURE immediately. Give me a day to work out the details. The rest is up to you."
The General Secretary shook the President's hand warmly, and grinned.
"And our representative will approach the Master of Sinanju about new employment. As they say in your country, it is a pleasure doing business with you."
The President mumbled something under his breath that the Russian leader took to be some informal acknowledgment, and he nodded even as he made a mental note to ask his official English tutor the meaning of the colloquial American phrase "Up yours."
In Rye, New York, Dr. Harold W. Smith was having an ordinary day. The sun shone through the big one-way windows. Outside it was pleasantly warm for this late in the fall and there were boaters on Long Island Sound.
His secretary, Eileen Mikulka, a bosomy middle-aged woman wearing bifocals, had just dropped off the preliminary budget sheets for Folcroft's next quarter.
"That will be all, Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said.
"Yes, Dr. Smith," Mrs. Mikulka said crisply. At the door, she turned to add, "Oh, I spoke with the electrical contractor this morning."
"Um-hum," Smith said absently, immersed in the budget forms.
"They'll be here tomorrow to look at the backup generator."
"Fine. Thank you."
"You're welcome, Dr. Smith," Mrs. Mikulka said, closing the door. She wondered if her employer had understood any of what she had said. That man could get so absorbed in his columns of figures. Wel
l, she would remind him again tomorrow.
It was an ordinary day. Which in the life of Harold W. Smith meant an extraordinary day. His early-morning scan of incoming CURE-related data had revealed only updates of ongoing situations. No action was required on any of them. And so Dr. Harold W. Smith was spending his day actually working on Folcroft affairs-something he usually delegated to his secretary.
He did not expect the phone call from the President of the United States. And he did not expect this particular call.
Smith let the direct line to the White House ring several times before answering. He did not do this out of self-importance, but to emphasize the true nature of CURE's unwritten charter. The President who had originally set up CURE had been aware of the possibility of abuse of the enormous power of the organization. Not by Smith-who was considered too patriotic and, more important, too unimaginative to implement a power grab-but by a future President. Thus, Dr. Harold W. Smith was entirely autonomous. The President could not order CURE into action. He was limited to three options: imparting information on developing situations; suggesting specific missions; and-and here, the check-and-balance system reversed itself-he could order CURE to disband.
Dr. Harold W. Smith picked up the telephone on the fifth ring, assuming the President was calling to invoke one of the first two options.
"Yes, Mr. President," Smith said coolly. He never let himself become friendly with any of the Presidents under which he served. He refused to vote for the same reason.
"I'm sorry to have to do this, Dr. Smith," said the familiar garrulous tones, now strangely subdued.
"Mr. President?"
"I hereby direct you to disband your organization. Effective immediately."
"Mr. President," said Smith, betraying surprise in spite of himself, "I know America is edging closer to no longer needing this organization, but don't you think this is precipitous?"
"I have no choice."
"Sir?"
"We've been compromised. The Soviets know all about us."
"I can assure you there's been no leak from this end," Smith said stiffly. It was typical of him that he thought first of his reputation, and not of the more personal consequences of the presidential order.
"I know. I have just met with the Soviet General Secretary. The bastard handed me a videotape of your people. They spilled their guts to the camera."
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