"Oh, for heaven's sake," Esther snapped. "Give me that." She grabbed the knife away from Michael Princippi and slit the throat of the terrified animal. At the top of the rock incline, the ecstatic twitching of the young girl became a bizarre parody of the spastic death movements of the bleeding goat.
The smoke from out of the fissure grew more dense.
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Kaspar slowly mounted the hewed-rock steps and took his place beside the dazed girl.
"The Apollo Pythia awaits your question," Kaspar intoned.
The former governor of Massachusetts swallowed hard. "Can you make me President?" he blurted out. His glowering features brightened momentarily with a hopeful half grin. His fat black eyebrows bunched together like butting sheep.
The Pythia's reply was immediate. "I foretell events. I do not affect them." The girl bounced like a palsy victim on her tripod.
Princippi appeared crestfallen. "You've got to," he begged. "I've got to get back in the game. Please. I gave you twenty grand."
"It is as I have spoken."
Kaspar interceded. "That is not to say, Mr. Princippi, that foreknowledge of events does not allow you to alter your approach to those events, thus changing the presaged outcome."
"I can change the future?" Princippi asked. "Is that what you're saying?"
"Most assuredly."
Princippi faced the Pythia once more. "Tell me how to affect the future so that I can one day become President," he asked boldly.
The Pythia twitched on her tripod.
"Your future exists as one with him who stands before you. You are the past. My priest is the future. Together you will change tomorrow."
Princippi scrunched up his face.
"I don't understand."
The girl appeared to be tiring. Her body twitched
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less spastically now, like the faint spasms of someone in her death throes.
"My priest," she wheezed. "He is your destiny."
And with that, she fell from the tripod.
"Shit!" snapped Esther Clear-Seer. She bounded up the stone staircase as Kaspar made his somber way back down to Princippi's level.
"I still don't get it," Princippi said, once Kaspar was beside him again. "What did she mean?"
"She's dead, Kaspar," Esther Clear-Seer shouted down. "You told me she'd last a while longer. It's been barely ten hours."
Kaspar ignored her.
"You have maintained your contacts with your state organizations?" he asked Princippi.
"Some," Princippi admitted with a shrug of his sagging shoulders. "But they're not mine anymore. They go with the flow."
"But there are people who are loyal to you exclusively. People who would obey your orders. People who, if asked, would help you mount another campaign?"
Princippi felt an old thrill return to the pit of his stomach. "Absolutely," he replied quickly.
"Then the wish of my master will be realized," Kaspar said with certainty. "Together we will change the course of tomorrow."
Michael Princippi could hardly contain his excitement. "Then that's it?" he said, awed. "Finally? After all these years in the wilderness I'm going to get another shot at being President?"
Kaspar allowed himself a small smile.
"Not you," the strange little man said. "Me."
It was early Sunday morning when Harold W. Smith pushed open the side stairwell door of Folcroft Sanitarium and stepped out into the light of a brand-new day.
His weary eyes winced at the brightness of the rising sun.
Smith had stayed at his desk throughout the night, awaiting Remo's report. When dawn broke without a call from his enforcement arm, Smith decided to allow himself the luxury of a brief trip home for a shower and a change of clothes. As he walked from the building, he fumbled in his pocket for his car keys.
Smith rarely used the building's main entrance, preferring instead to use the parking-lot door. This allowed him to come and go with relative anonymity, without alerting the civilian staff to his irregular work hours. But this early on a Sunday the sanitarium was operating on skeleton staff, with most staff spending time with their families. So there was no one to see the spare-framed old man as he crunched across the gravel driveway toward the staff parking area.
The parking lot was spotted with only a few cars. Smith's ancient station wagon sat unobtrusively in the space nearest the building.
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As he approached, Smith noted with some concern the growing patch of rust that had formed the previous winter over the right rear tire well. He had been warned that if the spot wasn't properly attended to it would continue to eat like a cancer at the helpless fender.
Smith placed his battered leather briefcase on the ground before him and stooped to examine the scab of rotted metal. He pursed his lips disapprovingly as he squinted at the jagged, rusted edges.
While he contemplated having the rust patch taken care of, he noticed a blur of yellow in the dull surface of the pitted chrome strip along the side of the car.
Placing his left hand carefully beside the rust spot for support, he turned on creaking bones and noted with some curiosity the arrival of a Checker cab by Folcroft's main entrance.
There was a guard's shack near the closed gate, and the man on duty leaned out the door. Smith could hear him shout something to the cab and he assumed that the guard was informing the cab's occupants that visiting hours at the sanitarium did not begin until eleven o'clock.
The taxi didn't move. In fact, it sounded as if someone inside the vehicle was yelling.
Still crouched near his own car, Smith pitched an car toward the gate, his face puckering unhappily as he attempted to discern the focus of the commotion.
A shrill voice began squabbling with the driver from the cab's rear, and it was with a sudden burning sensation in the pit of his acid-churned stomach that Smith realized he recognized the voice.
All at once the taxi's rear door burst open, and the
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Master of Sinanju spilled from the back seat like an angry summer squall. Before Smith's horrified eyes, Chiun wrenched the driver's door from its hinges and hurled the offending chunk of metal and glass down the road as if flinging papier-mache.
This accomplished, Chiun plucked the driver from behind the steering wheel and repeated the same maneuver, except the door had bounced less.
Ignoring the stabs of pain in his knees, Smith pushed himself quickly to his feet. Briefcase in hand, he hurried down the driveway to the gate.
The Master of Sinanju had ducked back inside the cab by the time Smith got there. The guard had abandoned his post and now stood on the Folcroft side of the gate, uncertain what to do, but obviously wishing he could do it somewhere else.
Through the iron bars of the gate, Smith spied the cab driver up the road and was relieved to see the man dragging himself up on wobbling legs.
"Is there a problem?" Smith asked crisply.
The guard spun around, surprised. "Oh, Dr. Smith." He relaxed slightly. He had unfastened the snap at the top of his hip holster, and his hand rested nervously on the butt of his revolver. "We've just had an assault on that man up there," he said, pointing at the taxi driver, who stood about twenty yards away from the cab and seemed unwilling to come any closer. "I was just going to call the police."
"Don't bother."
"Huh?"
"Have the driver treated for any abrasions he may have suffered. I will see to it that he is compensated for his trouble."
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"But the cabbie," the guard said, pointing. "That old guy tossed him up the road like he was a rag doll."
Smith dismissed the guard's complaints. "He is on a special vitamin diet."
The guard looked toward the cab where the parchment-covered skeleton had vanished moments before. "Whatever he's on, better cut the dose down," he said.
Chiun chose that moment to exit the taxi a second time and, simultaneously, the opposite rear door sprang open and Remo
popped from the cab like a tightly wound jack-in-the-box.
"It's about frigging time!" Remo yelled at Chiun.
Smith's eyes darted around the empty road, grateful that it was still early morning.
"There is no need to shout," the Master of Sinanju said calmly.
"There is every damn need to shout!" Remo shouted. "In fact, I don't think I'm shouting enough!"
"Perhaps we should discuss this matter inside," Smith suggested nervously through the metal bars. He ordered the guard to open the gate.
Remo wheeled on him. "Perhaps I don't want to discuss it inside. Maybe I want to discuss it out here, in front of the whole damn world."
The guard had unlocked the gates but held the bars open only one inch. "Shouldn't I check their ID or something?" he asked. He still wasn't sure this wasn't some kind of bizarre security drill.
"That's quite all right," Smith said quickly. "He . is a former patient."
With a great deal of hesitation, the guard pushed the • gate open and Chiun breezed through.
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"Do not tip the driver, Emperor Smith," he instructed. ' 'The lazy lout would not carry a lone inert, bundle."
"Stop talking about me like I'm some frigging hat-box,' ' Remo snarled, storming through the gate behind Chiun.
Smith pulled the Folcroft checkbook from the pocket of his gray suit and reluctantly filled out a generous amount to ensure the driver's silence. He then hurriedly ushered Remo and Chiun up to his office.
Once he had closed and locked the office door and taken his seat behind his black-topped desk, Smith asked the pair what had happened in Wyoming.
"Nothing happened," Remo groused. "Chiun got a breeze up his skirt and dragged me from the ranch before I could make the hit."
"Would you have come voluntarily?" Chiun asked, calmly.
"Hell, no," Remo snapped.
"My actions, therefore, were justified." With the smug expression of a television commentator, Chiun sank to a lotus position in the center of the threadbare
rug.
"Justified, my ass," Remo snapped. He whirled to Smith. "He froze my vocal cords over South Dakota."
' 'It was the most peaceful airplane ride I have taken in years," Chiun chimed in.
"Master of Sinanju, am I to understand you paralyzed Remo and carried him through a public air terminal?" Smith asked.
"Right onto the damn plane," Remo interjected.
Smith thought of all the people who had seen the tiny Asian transporting the much larger man through
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the airport parking lot, into the airport terminal, onto the plane, off the plane at LaGuardia, through the terminal and out to a waiting cab. His eyes darted longingly to the drawer where his antacids and aspirins were stored.
"The Clear-Seer woman is still, er, with us?"
"Could be," Remo said sarcastically. "Unless Chiun has her stashed in the taxi's glove compartment." He slumped into Smith's office sofa.
"This is important, Remo," Smith said. "I would like a straight answer."
Remo sighed. "Yeah, she's still alive. Chiun was too busy hauling me like a donkey from there to here to worry about her."
Smith forced his thoughts away from Remo and Chiun's trip to Folcroft and considered the problem at Ranch Ragnarok.
"Perhaps it is for the best at the moment," Smith said absently.
"Best?" Remo asked. "What the hell does that mean? Did you want her snuffed or didn't you?"
Smith winced at Remo's choice of words. "It may be that you were sent in before I learned all the facts," he said. "Was Moss Monroe at the ranch when you arrived?"
"Barely," Remo replied. "He almost ran us down on our way in."
"Did you notice any other celebrities on the grounds?"
"Yeah, Soupy Sales tried to get the jump on us, but Chiun creamed him," Remo said dryly. "What the hell kind of question is that?"
"I have just learned that in recent months Ranch
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Ragnarok has become popular with a great many famous people."
"Well, I didn't see any paparazzi there," Remo said. "Just a bunch of weekend warriors with guns. And that's another thing," he said suddenly. "Everyone knew we were coming."
Smith sat up even straighter in his chair. "Explain," he said.
"It was like they were expecting the freaking queen or something. They met me and Chiun in the woods and escorted us through the gates like we were royalty."
Smith considered the information for a moment. "Perhaps this is the way they treat all their guests," he said slowly.
"They meet them in the middle of the woods, Smitty?" Remo asked sarcastically. "Besides, they said they were looking for two guys. Me and Chiun. They even seemed to know where we were hiding in the bushes. They called out to us. I have to admit, they were pretty polite about the whole thing."
"Is it possible they saw the two of you with surveillance equipment?"
Remo shook his head. "There were cameras and motion detectors and a bunch of other stuff, but Chiun and I don't have a problem with gizmos. The only way these guys could have known we were there is if we made noise."
Smith's mouth had grown dry. "They were somehow alerted to your presence," he said, shaking his head. "Is it possible you made some noise you were unaware of?"
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"Hey, I didn't make a sound," Remo said defensively.
"And I do not make sounds," Chiun said from the floor.
Smith shook his head. "It is a coincidence," he said. "It cannot be anything else. A sentry must have seen you enter the woods. His companions merely guessed your position."
"Brace yourself for an even bigger coincidence, Smitty. Esther Clear-Seer knew who we were."
Smith placed his palms flat on his desk. What little saliva remaining in his usually parched mouth dried to sand. "What do you mean?" he croaked.
"She knew it was us specifically," Remo explained slowly, as if to a particularly thick child. "She called me Remo and called Chiun the Master of Sinanju." A concerned frown crossed his face. "She even knew my real last name, Smitty."
Smith felt his larynx constrict like a knotted drinking straw. He gulped but could pull nothing down his cracking throat. "CURE," he ventured, his voice a grating rasp. "Did she know about CURE?"
"Relax," Remo said. "She never mentioned the organization. She just went on about me and Chiun and Sinanju."
Smith felt some of the pressure drain from his chest. He loosened the knot of his green Dartmouth tie and forced himself to swallow calmly.
"That is somewhat of a relief," Smith said. "But until we learn more, we cannot disregard out of hand her knowledge of Sinanju." He turned to Chiun. "Master Chiun, is it possible that you have, er, advertised your services?"
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This had been a problem several times in the past. -Chiun would sometimes take out a full-page ad or buy airtime on a local television station in order to scare up business or to rail against "amateur assassins." It was possible that one such advertisement had eluded Smith.
"I know of your desire for secrecy, Emperor Smith," Chiun informed him. "Inexplicable as it might be, this wish will remain inviolate evermore."
Smith raised a puzzled eyebrow. "I appreciate that, Master Chiun," he said.
"You might want to check up on a guy named Kas-par and his connection to all this," Remo suggested. "One of this Clear-Seer woman's cronies mentioned him. It sounds like there's some sort of schism going on at the Truth Church. Kaspar's the head of one of the factions."
"I will look into it," Smith assured Remo. With practiced fingers Smith booted up his computer. "I must sift through this new data before I decide our next course of action," he said, drumming his fingers atop the surface of the gleaming black desk. The faint glow of the buried keyboard responded to his touch. "In the meantime I want you to remain on alert. It may become necessary to send you back to Ranch Ragnarok on short notice."
"On alert?" Remo complained. "Geez, Smitty, what
do you think we are—a couple of battleships?"
Chiun had slipped from the floor like a puff of steam rising from a teakettle. "Know you this, Emperor," he intoned. "That even in the darkest center of the coldest night, Sinanju is alert. Distance does not
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weaken the mighty bond of my House to one as great and worthy as you."
Smith shot a confused look to Remo. ' Thank you, Master of Sinanju," he said in puzzlement.
Chiun bowed to Smith across the room. "The thanks are mine," he said. "Your name, Wise Emperor Harold, shall be recorded in the histories of Sinanju by my very hand. Rest assured, you will be remembered forever as the greatest and most benevolent of rulers. Great reverence for your limitless beneficence shall grace the lips of Masters of Sinanju long after your earthly form has taken glorious flight into the Void. All hail, Emperor Smith."
Smith seemed more embarrassed now than confused. "Again, thank you," he said, nodding awkwardly. The formality of Chiun's words made him feel as though he should stand or bow or something equally unseemly.
Remo recognized the big kiss-off when he heard it. "Um, Smitty," he said, casting a weary eye at Chiun. "He's telling you he's quitting."
Smith shot to his feet. "Quitting?"
Chiun wrinkled his nose distastefully. "A crude term," he said to Smith. "And inaccurate." He shot a withering glare at Remo. "I assure you that Sinanju does not quit. It moves on. But you need not be concerned, Wise Harold, for only a very small percentage of former emperors have met with foul play. Your safety is virtually assured, though vast oceans separate us."
"But—but we have a contract," Smith sputtered. "Remo?"
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Remo held up his hands. "Don't look at me. I'm not getting into the middle of this again."
"The gold for the unfulfilled portion of the current contract will be returned to you," Chiun assured him.
"Whoa," Remo said, wheeling on Chiun. "You're giving rebates now?"
"Quiet, insolent one," Chiun shushed.
Smith was calculating quickly. "It will take several days to prepare the submarine for your return to Korea," he said. "I assume this is still the mode of transportation you prefer?"
"I do not wish that fat-faced son of Kim Il-Sung to greet me like a weepy maiden at the Pyongyang airport," Chiun sniffed.
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