Chapter 7

“Not today,” Remo Williams said. “I have a headache.”

“Liar!” Chiun spit.

“Okay, I made up the part about the headache. I’m just not in the mood for a history lesson,” Remo said to Mark Howard. “I’ve had enough tall tales in the past couple of days.”

“They were not tall tales,” Chiun responded. “They were brief, accurate and compact with relevance—but it takes a wise man to see it.”

They were in the office, in uncomfortable and ancient chairs that had served Harold Smith’s office forever. With the chairs, an equally old couch and the two desks, the office was tight. Smith would return momentarily.

“When you moving back to the other office, Junior?” Remo asked.

Mark was tapping at his keyboard. “We work pretty well together in here.”

“You wouldn’t want some privacy?”

“Not really.”

“You’ve got a girlfriend, you know.”

Mark didn’t look up. “I do know that, thanks, Remo. But I don’t plan on having make-out sessions while working. So it’s, okay sharing an office with Dr. Smith.”

“You could use some more space in here, if that’s the plan long-term. There’s nobody next door. Why not break out the wall?”

“We’ll see.”

“Hush,” Chiun said.

“I could do it while we’re waiting.”

“You speak to hear yourself talk,” Chiun admonished.

“Shutting up now.”

Remo watched the tides batter the shore of Long Island Sound. He listened to Mark Howard tapping his keys and making small sounds when he found something of interest.

“Huh. You know what? I’m missing that idiot bird. He was rude, but at least he was interesting. Maybe I’ll buy Smitty a big bird for Christmas. Bring a little life into this room.”

“Emperor Smith has no desire for a big bird,” Chiun said. It was his habit to refer to the CURE director as Emperor. Masters of Sinanju hired out their services only to state leaders with true power. Smith qualified easily—he wielded great influence around the globe, although almost no one was aware of it. Still, the title of “Director” was insufficient in Chiun’s eyes.

“Feel like I’m waiting at the dentist’s office,” Remo complained, but even then he heard Smith’s footsteps coming through the reception area.

“Remo,” Smith said sourly. “Chiun.”

The door opened again before it had closed. The late arrival was Sarah Slate, newest addition to the CURE staff, and the girlfriend of Mark Howard. In contrast to Smith, Sarah gave Remo a smile. She always gave him a smile, although they rubbed each other the wrong way. She placed her hand gently on the narrow shoulders of the ancient Korean man. It was the kind of intimate touch that Remo still couldn’t get used to. Chiun just didn’t take to people like he took to Sarah Slate.

Still, everybody seemed to take to Sarah. She was annoyingly likable. Remo had to admit he had some affection for her—above and beyond his appreciation for the fact that she had saved his life. Above and beyond the fact that she was as hot as a tamale and as cute as a button.

“How was the bird?”

“He is at home with his People, healthy and content,” Chiun reported. “His leg gives him no more trouble.”

“You’ve heard about the business in Newfoundland?” Smith asked when Sarah had departed.

“Yawn. I mean yes,” Remo said. “Doesn’t sound like a threat to U.S. security.”

“The Newfoundland coup is no threat,” Smith agreed. “The next coup attempt might be.”

“Is there another one?”

“Not yet.”

“Then call me.”

“Sit down and listen,” Chiun admonished. “The Emperor clearly has more to say.”

“Thank you. Master Chiun,” Smith said. “The man who occupies the capital building in Newfoundland is claiming his actions are legal, based on a document called the Proclamation of the Continuation of the British Empire.”

“I must have slept that day in history class,” Remo said. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“You’re not alone. Nobody heard of the proclamation until today, when it was posted on an Internet Usenet group. The proclamation uses all original, authentic source material, but combines them in unorthodox and creative ways. They’ve got several royal documents in here, dating from 1655 through the middle eighteenth century. They were mostly put in place to strengthen the authority of the British Crown by giving more incentive to its field agents. Essentially, it bestows salvage rights on colonies whose control has slipped from England’s hand—either through negotiated treaty or revolt.”

“Snore.”

“It gives this authority only to the knights of the j realm and former colonial governors. Theoretically, a man who has a knighthood is too honorable to abuse his power.”

Remo shook his head. “Yeah, right. So they give some knight the authority to take back a piece of real estate that England stole from somebody else in the first place?”

“They then have the right of taxation and authority in the restored colony,” Smith added.

“They’re sanctioned despots,” Mark Howard explained. “Remember, these rules were established when England was wrestling with all kinds of colonial problems—not the least of which was the developing crisis in North America.”

“So what?” Remo said. “The 1700s were a long time ago—I know it because I saw it on TV.”

“But this morning, Sir Regeddo Tulient staged a takeover of the Newfoundland government seat, called the Confederation Building, and used the proclamation as justification for it,” Mark Howard said, “He claims his knighthood makes it his right and duty to restore the lost holdings of the British Empire.”

Remo stared at Mark Howard. “Don’t tell me people are buying into that load of bulldookey.”

“Not exactly,” Mark Howard said.

“But the situation is politically delicate,” Harold W. Smith added.

Remo got to his feet. “Fine. I’ll handle it delicately. Where should I mount his head?”

“Sit down,” Chiun said.

“Tulient’s mercenaries killed fewer than a dozen security staff—plus the former premier of Newfoundland and Labrador,” Smith explained. “They hired back most of the staff at triple wages, paying U.S. dollars. They’re promising business-as-usual in St. John’s and throughout the provinces if the people accept the new leadership.”

“So?” Remo demanded.

“So, we have a man who has received a high honor from the queen of England. We have hundreds of Canadian citizens. We have a relatively peaceful assumption of power, and we have a rationale that smells almost credible.”

“To take out Tulient you would have to risk Canadian lives, humiliate a British knight and violate what some would consider a legal warrant.”

Remo pantomimed a duck quacking. “Do you want us in Newfoundland or not?”

“Not,” Smith said carefully, “as of yet.”

“Can I go back to my room?”

“Uh. Hem. There’s another matter I must bring up.” There was an awkward silence.

“Well?” he said.

“Be patient,” Chiun said quietly.

“Why?”

“Can you not see that the Emperor wishes to discuss a matter of some embarrassment?”

“Embarrassing to him?”

“More likely you.”

“It’s not a problem of embarrassing someone,” Smith said.

“Why me?” Remo demanded.

“The logical assumption is that it has to do with your hygiene,” Chiun pointed out.

“There’s nothing wrong with my hygiene,” Remo told Smith.

“I didn’t say there was,” Smith said.

“Also likely, your alley-dweller attire,” Chiun suggested. “Just a conjecture.”

“It’s the Technicolor kimonos that get people staring,” Remo countered.

“Gawking rabble are of no consequence. The unprofessional image you present reflects badly on the Emperor.”

Harold W. Smith could have launched into a lengthy argument with just about everything Chiun had just said. The old Master did attract attention in his brilliant Korean robes, and Smith preferred Remo’s nondescript attire because, obviously, he didn’t want any sort of attention whatsoever directed toward CURE activities.

There was a time when Smith enforced the anonymity of CURE to a harsh degree, but the truth was that such activities, performed by two such, well, personalities, could not stay invisible. In the past twenty years this became all the more difficult as the rest of the world closed in on Harold W. Smith in terms of his ability to collect and archive information from around the world.

Now his efforts were focused solidly on managing the inevitable exposure of CURE’S activities. The real threat was not about the information being gathered, but about what information was gathered by whom—and how it was analyzed for patterns. The true risk to CURE was that someone might come to realize, from circumstantial evidence, that some sort of an extraordinary and covert force was at work on behalf of the United States.

It had happened before.

How close these investigators would get to learning any dangerous truths about CURE would be a testament to the spin doctoring of the intelligence by Smith and his assistant, Mark Howard.

On that note, he had an issue to address with the Master of Sinanju. Emeritus.

“Master Chiun, I’m afraid I must discuss this problem with you directly.”

Chiun went blank. Before the ancient Korean could leap to a hundred conclusions, Smith pushed on. “There is a security issue caused by your mode of dress, as we have discussed in the past.”

Chiun seethed—which was a good sign, actually. Smith considered. The old Master could have simply dismissed the subject and refused to discuss it. A delay tactic like that could stall the issue for weeks. On the other hand, he could rebel rancorously, lashing out at everyone around him and causing CURE’S performance to suffer.

“Master Chiun, the Korean robes you wear are beautiful and fine,” Smith said.

“Of course they are, Emperor.” Chiun was stiff and formal. “The great assassins of Sinanju dress in attire befitting their station—recent draftees notwithstanding.”

“Such finery is not necessary,” Smith pointed out.

“It is,” Chiun said, putting great weight into each word. “When one serves an Emperor, when one serves the leader of the world’s most potent nation, when one is honored to hold the position of preeminent court appointee of such a ruler, then one must project the image of grace and cultivation that reflects best upon the Emperor.”

Remo shifted in his chair, forcing his lips to stay shut.

Smith nodded. He was not an emperor and he did not see himself as the true leader of the United States, but he had long ago given up any serious hopes of convincing Chiun of these things. “And yet, your traditional robes, as fine as they are, compromise your abilities to serve your leader,” Smith said carefully.

Chiun simmered. Remo stopped wriggling.

Smith knew what he was doing. Casting doubt on Chiun’s effectiveness risked insulting the old Master, but it might breach his stubborn mind-set. “You are surely unique, Master Chiun,” Smith said almost casually. “You’re too special for most of the world. How can lesser men of any nation help but notice a personage such as yourself?”

Smith folded his hands and tried to remain neutral, inside and out. Had he laid it on thick enough? Had he laid it on too thick?.

Chiun said just one word. “Unique.”

“Yes.”

“If I dressed in the styles of the teeming rabble, then I would not be subject to such insults?”

“I meant no insult.”

“A Western double-breasted suit of machine-woven wool is common. Would this suffice?”

“Certainly.”

“Golf shirts and pleated trousers and loafers of leather. This is the garment of the casual business. Is this common enough?”

“That would be perfectly accept—”

“Shirts of the Hawaiian islanders are today often seen in any airport in the world, worn by all races of people who are not Hawaiian. Is such a garment common enough that it would pass muster? I use this only as an example.”

Smith was trying to figure out where this was headed. “Hawaiian shirts are acceptably common.”

“Perspiration garments?”

“Sweatshirts would be fine.”

“Denim slacks? Even those that are obscenely lowcut in the front?”

Smith could see Remo biting his lips to keep them closed. “Jeans are common garments, of course.”

“Turtleneck sweaters?” Chiun looked at Smith sharply. “What of them?”

Smith’s mind was racing. Was Chiun about to trip him up? Why was the old Master talking about turtleneck sweaters, of all things? Mark Howard saw Smith’s trepidation and came to the rescue.

“I’m not sure if they are in style,” Howard pointed out. “I get this men’s lifestyles magazine. I’m no fashion buff, you know, but I think it said turtlenecks are out.”

“And yet, they are always about,” Chiun said. “Such is the ignorance of the world that does buff fashionably. They rediscover the cut of dress that was discarded only five years before. There are always those who adjust too slowly, and thus, one sees them as commonplace at all times.”

Smith said somberly, “Master Chiun, I would have no objections to you wearing turtleneck sweaters, regardless of the current fashion.”

“Pah! They are hideous!”

Smith gave a rehearsed, helpless-looking gesture. “There must be some middle ground that we can reach.”

Chiun rested a baleful glare on the window behind Smith. “I shall carefully consider what we have discussed today, Emperor.”

Chiun folded his hands and adopted a pleasant expression that said he was waiting for the next topic of conversation. As if prompted by the old Master, Smith and Howard were both alerted by small sounds from their computers and began concentrating intensely on the displays.

“Well, I can see you’re busy guys,” Remo said. Watching Cybernerd Senior and his young intern play with their computers was almost as bad as trying to work a computer himself. “We’ll be going.”

Smith didn’t look up. “To Ayounde.”

“What’s Ayounde?”

“Please hurry. We just might have time to avert another crisis.”

“In Ayounde?” Remo asked, as he was heading for the door.

“Come, simpleton!” Chiun held Remo’s elbow suddenly, and Remo yelped.