Line of Succession

Destroyer 73: Line of Succession

By Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir

Chapter 1

Old Pullyang was the first to see the strange purple birds.

Pullyang squatted in the dirt, smoking a long-stemmed pipe and letting the last warming rays of the day soak into his elderly bones. Smoking kept him awake, for he was the caretaker of the village of Sinanju, the birthplace of the sun source of the martial arts, which was also known as Sinanju. And being the guardian of the sleepy little town on the West Korea Bay meant unrelieved boredom.

No one came to Sinanju who was not of Sinanju. Sinanju had no enemies, no natural resources, no desirable real estate. It did have a treasure, but few knew of it. Those who knew dared not seek it. The reputation of the Masters of Sinanju, a line of assassins that went back some three thousand years, was a greater deterrent to thieves than an armored division.

Thus, old Pullyang squatted in the sun, smoking to keep awake and patiently awaiting the return of the Master of Sinanju, knowing that he had nothing to fear except nodding off. If he nodded off, the other villagers would note the day and the hour and inform the Master of Sinanju upon his return. Then Pullyang would surely be punished and one of them would be appointed in his place. The post of caretaker of the treasure house was much coveted in Sinanju for it allowed one to indulge in the chief village trait, which was a kind of studied laziness, without fear of scorn or punishment.

Pullyang watched intently as the sun set over the surging waters of the bay, falling between the twin rock formations on the beach that were known as the Horns of Welcome. The ocean turned red. This was Pullyang's favorite time of day. It meant that mealtime approached.

Just as the solar disk touched the water, Pullyang's pipe went out.

Old Pullyang muttered imprecations under his breath because relighting the pipe meant a good deal of work. The stem was over four feet long. First he would have to reel in the bowl. Then he would have to stand up and walk over to one of the cooking fires for a smoking ember. That was the difficult part.

Old Pullyang never got to the difficult part. After he had peered intently at his pipe bowl, he happened to look up. He saw the birds.

There were two of them. They flew over the village in a languorous circle. At first Pullyang thought they were very near. Their wingspans seemed huge. But on closer inspection, he realized that they were very, very high up.

That bothered old Pullyang even more. The birds were so high above that they were black against the sky, yet they still seemed large.

Old Pullyang thought the large birds might be herons. They had long-billed heads and very long necks like herons. Their floating wings resembled heron wings. But they were too big for herons. It was a puzzlement.

Clambering to his feet, he called down to the other villagers. He called them as a group, adding the words "lazy ones" because it made him feel good after squatting all day to call the others lazy.

"Look!" he called, pointing to the sky. His long-stemmed pipe quivered in his hand.

The villagers stopped their preparations for the evening meal and looked up.

They all saw the lazily circling birds, black and indistinct because they were so high.

"What are they?" someone asked fearfully.

But Pullyang, who was the village elder after the Master of Sinanju, did not know.

"It is an omen," he proclaimed loudly.

"Of what?" asked Mah-Li, who was the betrothed of the next Master. She was very young, with lustrous black hair framing an innocent face.

"Of evil," said old Pullyang sagely, who knew being ignorant was not the same as admitting it.

The villagers gathered about the treasure house of Sinanju, which was built of fine woods on a low hill in the center of the village, because it represented safety. All of them watched the ominous birds. The sun's glowing rim slipped into the water, making it seem to bleed. It appeared as if the birds were dipping lower too.

"They are coming down," said Mah-Li, her eyes wide.

"Yes," said Pullyang. He could see their color now. It was purplish-pink, like the internal organs of the pigs they slaughtered for food.

"They have no feathers," whispered Mah-Li.

It was true. The birds were featherless. They had wings like bats-leathery purple wings that flapped and folded nervously as they circled lower, their hatchet faces twisting so that their side-mounted eyes could look down.

Their eyes were bright green, like lizard eyes. They were definitely not herons.

The children were the first to break and run. Naturally, the mothers ran after them, screaming. The men were next. There was a frantic exodus to the path that wound beyond the rocks to higher ground, away from the village.

Old Pullyang turned to Mah-Li. "Go, child," he quavered.

"You come too," Mah-Li urged, pulling on his skeletal arm.

Pullyang struggled free, dropping his pipe. "No! No!" he spat. "Go! Away from here!"

Mah-Li looked up at the purple birds, and she backed away.

"Please!" she cried.

Stubbornly Pullyang turned his back to her. Mah-Li turned and ran after the others.

Old Pullyang was left alone. He shrank back under the curving edges of the treasure-house roof, where he hoped the circling birds could not see him.

The birds swooped over the Horns of Welcome. Pullyang saw that their huge wings were bright and shiny like the plastic toys that were sometimes brought to the village from the cities. And then they settled, one on each horn, folding their wings close to their hairless bodies like creatures in mourning. They were three men high.

Old Pullyang huddled on the ground. He was alone and the baleful green eyes of the birds-that-were-not-birds were fixed squarely on him. The birds did not move. They simply stared. The sun disappeared under the ocean, its dying rays backlighting the purple birds.

Old Pullyang was determined not to leave his post. It was his duty. He would not shirk it. He would remain. No tattletale villager would ever say to the Master of Sinanju that Pullyang, the caretaker, had forsaken his sacred responsibility.

Night fell. The two birds became two shadows with eyes. The eyes did not wink in those bony hatchet faces. They stared at Pullyang as if they had all eternity in which to stare.

Pullyang set his teeth together to keep them from chattering. Let them stare. They could stare for all time. Pullyang would not flee. He wished he had gone for that smoking ember, though. His pipe would have tasted very good right now. More than anything, he wished his pipe had never gone out. Perhaps if it had not, Pullyang would not have looked into the sky and seen the circling birds in the first place. Superstitiously, he believed they had come to earth because he had seen them. He was convinced of this. It was the way they stared at him with their unwinking serpent eyes.

Pullyang huddled before the door of the treasure house, a determined old man, and squeezed his eyes shut.

When the moon came up, throwing the beach into relief, Pullyang could not resist checking to see if the purple birds still roosted in the moonlight.

He saw that the moon had thrown long shadows across the rocky beach. The Horns of Welcome made those shadows. Then Pullyang noticed that the birds, perched on top of the Horns, cast no shadows.

With a screech of fright, Pullyang ran-away from the treasure house, away from his responsibility, and most of all, away from his fear. He ran up the inland path after the others.

Pullyang did not look back. He did not want the evil purple birds to follow him.

The moonlight transformed the village of Sinanju into a landscape of stark peace. Into this peace strode a man. He was a white man with a too-handsome face that was just beginning to take on the angular planes of maturity. Sea breezes tossed his long blond hair. He wore a two-piece garment of purple silk, a yellow sash belted around his middle. Serpents retreated from the path of his sandaled feet, as if in fear.

He did not gaze in the direction of the Horns of Welcome as he sauntered cool and catlike up from the rocks and through the fragrant steam from the deserted cooking pots in the village square. He went directly to the door of the treasure house, called the House of the Masters.

The door was locked. Not with a padlock or by a key, but by a cunning arrangement of wooden bolts concealed within the teak of the door. Reaching up, the man pressed two tiny panels simultaneously. They clicked, and a hidden locking mechanism slid from its receiver. Kneeling, he then removed a long panel that ran the width of the door. It revealed a wooden dowel in a recess. With great care he extracted the dowel.

When he got to his feet, a firm push opened the door. A wave of must and candlewax rolled out to greet him. Wiping his sandals at the threshold, he stepped inside. No one must know he had been here.

The white man looked around the room. Moonlight, coming through the open door, cast irregular shadows, causing the stacked gold ingots inside to gleam and striking fire off the open jars of cut jewels.

The white man disturbed none of these things. He desired no treasure. Not all the money in the world would have mattered to him. It was too late for money, for anything. He walked into an inner room where there was no available light, disdaining the unlit tapers on the floor. He needed them even less than he desired the wealth of Sinanju.

In this central room lacquered trunks lay about in profusion. He fell to his knees beside them, swiftly lifting each lid.

The scrolls were in the fourth trunk.

Carefully he lifted one out, undoing its gold ribbon. The parchment unrolled stiffly. He read the ideographs at the head of the roll. It was an old one, describing Mesopotamia thousands of years ago. He wanted the more recent scrolls. Squatting on the bare mahogany floor, the white man with the uncut yellow hair carefully opened scroll after scroll, reading and retying the ribbons until finally he found the ones he sought.

He read them slowly, knowing that he had all night. The purple birds would keep the villagers away.

After he had read the scrolls through, he took paper and pen from his yellow sash and, referring to the scrolls often, wrote a letter. Then he copied the text of the first letter exactly, but changed the salutation.

With great care he retied the scrolls and restored them to the lacquered trunk.

He stood up. His eyes were bright, like blue neon. He had succeeded. No one would know he had been here. Not even the Master of Sinanju.

In his hands he held the letters containing the secrets of the present Master of Sinanju. All that remained was to mail them. And sign them. He had not signed them yet.

Struck by a sudden inspiration, the man with the yellow hair pressed the letters to a wall and wrote one word at the bottom of each.

The word was "Tulip".

He reset the door mechanism on his way out.

And then he disappeared down the shore road, past the Horns of Welcome, which awaited the rising of the sun, naked and forbidding. The snakes did not reemerge from their holes until long after he had gone.

Chapter 2

His name was Remo and he was trying to catch the fly with a set of chopsticks.

Remo sat in the middle of the room in which he had lived for nearly a year. He sat completely still, because he knew that the fly would not come near him if he moved. He had not moved in more than an hour. The trouble was, neither had the fly. It clung to the windowpane. Remo wondered if it was asleep. Did flies sleep?

The room had bare beige walls, a television and videorecorder setup on the floor, and a sleeping mat in one corner. Remo sat on a sitting mat, which was thinner and made of reed. A small eating taboret stood before him and on it rested a bowl bearing the remains of Remo's most recent meal, duck in orange sauce. Remo had deliberately left it there to attract the fly, but the fly didn't seem interested.

Remo could have gotten up and moved to the window faster than the fly could react to him. Before the fly's multifaceted eyes could register his presence, Remo could easily swat him. But Remo did not want to kill the fly. He wanted to catch it alive between the wooden chopsticks which he held in one hand.

Eventually the fly stirred, spun on its multiple legs, and after brushing its wings clean, lifted into the air.

Remo smiled. Now he would get his chance.

The fly was fat, black, and flew silently. It looped around Remo and settled on the rim of the bowl filled with duck remains.

Remo allowed the fly enough time to get comfortable. He carefully separated the chopsticks with his fingers.

The door suddenly opened and the fly jumped. Remo's hand was already in motion. The chopsticks clicked shut.

"I did it!" Remo said, bringing the chopsticks to his face.

"What is it that you have done?" asked Chiun, reigning Master of Sinanju. He stood on the threshold to Remo's room. He was a birdlike Korean in a canary-yellow suit with bell-shaped sleeves, very old, but with very young hazel eyes watching curiously from a face which might have been molded from Egyptian papyrus. What little hair he had collected in white tufts above his ears or trailed from his chin.

Remo looked closer. The chopsticks grasped air. He frowned. "Nothing," he said unhappily. The fly was circling the ceiling.

"So it appeared to these aged eyes," said Chiun.

"Could you please close the door, Little Father?"

"Why?"

"I don't want the fly to escape."

"Of course, my son," said Chiun amiably, complying with Remo's request. The Master of Sinanju stood quietly, his head cocked to one side as Remo tracked the fly with his deep-set eyes, careful not to move unnecessarily. The chopsticks hung poised in the air.

The fly looped, dipped, and circled Remo curiously. "The poor fly," said Chiun.

"Shhh!" hissed Remo.

"Alas for the fly. It is hungry."

"Hush!" said Remo.

"If you would not sit so still," continued Chiun, "the fly would be able to distinguish you from the other garbage. Heh, heh. Then it could eat its fill. Heh, heh, heh."

Remo shot Chiun a withering look. Chiun ignored him. Instead, the Master of Sinanju dug into a pocket of his suit and pulled out a handful of cashews. He ate one, chewing it as thoroughly as if it were a tough morsel of steak, and sampled another.

Remo watched the fly as it spiraled down toward the bowl. The Master of Sinanju balanced a cashew on the index finger on one long-nailed hand. He raised the hand slightly, squinting at the fly with a single bright eye.

When the fly was almost to the bowl's wooden rim, the Master of Sinanju sent the cashew flying with a flick of his thumb.

Simultaneously, Remo's hand flashed out.

"Got it!" Remo shouted, standing up. "Look, Little Father. "

The Master of Sinanju hurried to Remo's side.

"Let me see, Remo!" he said. "Oooh, how clever you are. "

"Thank you," Remo said, holding the chopsticks so that he wouldn't crush the object in their grasp. "Not many people could catch a fly on the wing like that, huh?"

"Not many," agreed Chiun, smiling benignly. "And you are not one of them."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Look closer, O blind one."

Remo looked closer. Caught between the eating implements was a hard brown wingless object. Remo dropped it into his palm.

"What is it?" he asked, puzzled.

"Search me," said Chiun, nibbling on a handful of cashews. "Want one?" he asked politely, offering Remo his open palm.

Remo realized that he held one of Chiun's cashews. He dropped it. "Why'd you have to do that, Chiun?" He demanded angrily. "I almost had him that time."

"O piteous disappointment. O miserable failure," mocked the Master of Sinanju. "Shall I leave the room so that you may end your wretched life from the shame?"

"Knock it off," said Remo, settling back onto the mat. The Master of Sinanju walked over to the window. He came back to Remo's side, executed a deep bow, and offered an upraised palm.

"What's this?" Remo asked sourly.

"The object of your desire. O disappointed one," Chiun said blandly. In his wrinkled palm the fly lay immobile.

"Forget it," Remo said dejectedly. "I don't want it anymore. It's dead."

"It is not," said Chiun. "It is merely stunned. I do not kill flies."

"Unless you're paid," Remo said.

"In advance," Chiun agreed with a smile. "You will not accept this humble present?"

"No," said Remo.

"A minute ago you were most anxious to capture this insect."

"I wanted to do it myself," Remo said testily.

"Then do it yourself," said Chiun, throwing the fly into the air. It took wing and, somewhat unsteadily, orbited the room. "See if I care."

"Okay," Remo said, coming to life. "Just sit quietly and let me handle this."

"While you are handling it, as you say, talk to me, my son. "

"About what?" asked Remo out of the side of his mouth. He had returned to his lotus position and sat still as a stone. "I have invested countless years of my life training a white man in the magnificent art of Sinanju, and I walk into this room to find my pupil engaged in nonsense."

"It's not nonsense. It's a test of skill, catching a fly with chopsticks. The idea is not to hurt him, you know."

"Do tell," Chiun said in a mock-American accent.

"I got the idea from a film I rented."

"What film?" asked the Master of Sinanju, genuinely curious.

"This one," mumbled Remo, surreptitiously touching a remote control unit beside his leg. Across the room, the TV set winked on. Remo pressed another switch and the video recorder on top of the set started to play.

Frowning, the Master of Sinanju watched a scene from the middle of a film. It showed a sweaty teenage boy waxing a car.

"Smith told me about it," Remo said. "He said it reminded him of you and me."

"How so?" asked Chiun.

"It's about an Italian kid from Newark who meets this old Japanese guy. The old guy teaches him karate."

Chiun spit on the floor. "Karate was stolen from us. It is not Sinanju."

"I didn't say it was. But count the similarities. I'm from Newark."

"Your mother's fault, whoever she was."

"Remo is an Italian name. I might be Italian like the kid in the picture."

"Your last name is Williams. That is not Italian."

"No, but Remo is. I don't know who my parents were, but having an Italian first name must mean something."

"It means that your parents could not think of an appropriate name for you," said Chiun.

Remo frowned. "I wish you wouldn't insult my parents so much," he said. "They might be good people. We don't know."

"Better not to know. The disappointment is less painful. "

"Can I finish telling you the story? Now this kid moves to California, where he meets the old Japanese guy, who's a lot like you."

"Show me this old man," demanded Chiun.

Remo, seeing that the fly had returned to the window, came out of his immobile pose and lifted the remote control. He fast-forwarded the tape until a famous Oriental actor appeared on the screen.

"See?" he said, pointing. "There he is. I told you he kinda looks like you."

When Chiun looked at Remo disdainfully, Remo added, "A little. Around the eyes."

"His eyes look Japanese," Chiun sniffed. "If my eyes resembled his eyes I would pluck them out of my head and crush them beneath my feet."

Remo sighed. "Anyway, he teaches this kid karate and the kid goes on to win a big karate tournament."

"How is that like us? We do not play games. We are assassins. I have trained you in the art of Sinanju, from which all the lesser fighting arts have been stolen, to be an assassin. I have turned your body into one of the finest instruments of human power imaginable. Normally I would have done as much for your mind, but you are white and my time on earth is not without limit."

"Thanks a lot," said Remo.

"You are quite welcome. I am glad now that I made the decision not to concentrate on your mind, for it is obviously confused. I ask you to explain your bizarre behavior and you have told me a lame story about this film. I am still waiting for a proper explanation."

"I was getting there."

"I am over eighty years along in life. Do not take too long."

"One of the things he tried to teach the kid to do is catch a fly with chopsticks. It's supposed to be the mark of a great karate master. The Japanese guy can't do it, even though he's been trying all his life, but the kid does it after a few lessons."

"Goody for him."

"I thought I'd try it," said Remo.

"It is as I thought," said the Master of Sinanju sadly.

"What is?"

"You are regressing."

"I am not."

"Denial is the first symptom of regression," Chiun pronounced seriously. "Let me explain this to you, Remo."

"Whisper it," Remo said, suddenly lifting the chopsticks like antennae. "Here comes the fly again."

"The thieves who stole karate from the House of Sinanju were Korean. From the lazy south, of course. They copied the movements, the little kicks and chopping blows of the hand. They were like children pretending to be adults. But because they copied magnificence, as inept as they were, they achieved a certain mediocrity. They could fight, break boards with their hands, and because they were all mediocre and knew it, they insisted on wearing belts of different colors so that some could pretend to be less mediocre than others of their ilk. In truth, they were all inferior to Sinanju. And they knew that, as well."

"I know that story," Remo said, watching the fly. "Then you should know that catching flies with chopsticks goes back to the early days of karate."

"That I didn't know."

"Of course not. If you had, you would not now be shaming me by copying the mediocre karate dancers. "

"I think it's a pretty fair test of skill. I just want to see if I can do it. What's your problem?"

"The karate dancers tried to copy Sinanju in other ways too," Chiun went on as the stubborn fly lingered over the wooden bowl. "They, too, attempted to hire themselves out to kings and emperors as bodyguards. Many karate dancers found that breaking sticks was not the same thing as breaking bones. In their folly, the karate dancers almost became extinct."

"Shhh!" said Remo.

The fly suddenly veered from the bowl toward Remo.

Remo's hand shot out. The chopsticks closed. This time they did not click.

Remo looked. Between the tongs, the fly struggled, its tiny legs working.

"Look," Remo said, grinning.

"Go ahead," said Chiun blandly.

"Go ahead and what?"

"The next step. Surely the film revealed the next step."

"They must have cut that part out," said Remo.

"I will help you," said Chiun happily, edging closer to Remo. "Lift the fly to your face. Keep your eyes carefully upon it so that it does not get away."

Remo did as he was told. The fly buzzed its wings just inches in front of his high-cheekboned face.

"Are you ready?" asked Chiun.

"Yes," said Remo.

"Now open your mouth. Wide."

Remo opened his mouth. His brows knit in perplexity. Chiun took Remo's hand in his and guided the chopsticks closer. As he did so, he continued his story. "The karate dancers who survived gave up trying to be assassins and repaired to their villages, where they searched for other methods of sustaining themselves. But alas, they were poor fishermen and indifferent farmers."

"You mean . . . ?" Remo asked. Chiun nodded happily.

Remo shut his mouth abruptly.

Chiun grinned. "Why do you think they used chopsticks? It saved them so much time."

A pained expression on his face, Remo released the fly and let the chopsticks clatter into his bowl. He pushed the bowl away in disgust.

"You always do this to me," he complained.

"Is this my thanks for being the bearer of messages?"

"What does Smitty want now?"

"Nothing that I know of," answered Chiun. "This message is from Sinanju."

Remo leapt to his feet. His expression became one of surprised joy. "From Mah-LO."

"Who else would waste ink on a fly-chaser such as you?" asked Chiun, producing an envelope from one voluminous sleeve.

Remo snatched it like a hungry man offered bread. Chiun's parchment face wrinkled in disapproval. "Do not be so eager," he sniffed. "She merely asks the same tiresome question put forth in her last twenty letters. Honestly, Remo, how could you think of marrying such a nag?"

"You read my mail?" Remo asked, shocked.

The Master of Sinanju shrugged casually. "It was damaged in transit. The flap was loose and the contents fell out. "

Remo examined the flap. "It's sealed now."

"Of course. If I had not sealed it with my parched old tongue, the letter might have fallen out again and become lost."

Remo ignored Chiun's answer and sliced one end of the envelope open with the sweep of a sharp fingernail. He read the letter eagerly.

"She says everything is fine in Sinanju," Remo said.

"Tell me something I do not know."

"She wants to know when we're coming home."

"Tell her you do not know."

"Cut it out, Chiun. We've only got another few weeks before our contract with Smith is over. We're free after that. "

"What is the rush to return?" said Chiun. "I have been thinking. How long has it been since we've had a vacation? Perhaps we could tour this wonderful land of America before we leave its shores forever. By train. The airplanes are no longer reliable."

"Neither are the trains," said Remo. "And the rush to return is for my wedding. Mah-Li and I should have been married three months ago. The engagement period was supposed to be only nine months. I've been stuck in America now for almost a year, thanks to you."

"Stuck?" squeaked Chiun, shocked. "How can you say you have been stuck when your every waking hour has been spent in the awesome presence of Chiun, reigning Master of Sinanju?"

"I'm bored," said Remo. "Smith hasn't had any assignments for you lately. And I've been cooling my heels in this room so long I'm reduced to catching flies for entertainment. "

"You could get a job," suggested Chiun. "It is not unheard-of for persons such as yourself to find honest work."

"No way," said Remo. "We'll be out of here before I can read my way through the classified section."

"Correction," said Chiun. "I will be out of here. When my year of service is completed-assuming Emperor Smith and I do not come to a new understanding-Smith will offer me return passage to Sinanju as a final payment for the service I have rendered him. Because you do not work for him in an official capacity, that boon will not be extended to yourself."

"You wouldn't leave me stranded in America, would you, Little Father?" Remo asked quietly.

"Of course not. I would allow you to accompany me."

"Then it's settled. I'll write Mah-Li to expect us on the first of the month."

"Be sure to leave the year blank," said Chiun blandly. "For we are not returning directly to Sinanju."

Remo's expression became stony.

"I am considering going on a world tour," Chiun said loftily.

"You've seen more of the world than a spy satellite. So have I, for that matter. Screw the world. And the tour of it."

"Oh, this is not a mere tour of the world," said Chiun. "This is a world tour, like the ones famous people do."

"World tour, tour of the world," Remo said, throwing up his hands. "What's the difference?"

"The difference is that I will be treated like a star in every capital. I will stay in the finest hotels. I will be feted by heads of state as befits my exalted position in the affairs of the world. And of course I will give a benefit concert in every major city. I am thinking of calling it the Sinanju World Tour."

"You can't sing," Remo pointed out.

"Nor will I."

"You don't do stand-up comedy either."

"I was hoping you would perform that function," said Chiun. "I will require a warmed-over act."

"That's warm-up. Warm-up act."

"A distinction without a difference."

"Then what, pray tell, will you do at these concerts?"

"Why, what I do best."

"Heckle me?"

"No, insolent one. I will show the world the wonders of Sinanju. For a price, of course."

"I thought you said these would be benefit concerts."

"They will be," said Chiun. "They are for the benefit of the starving villagers of Sinanju, who are so poor that sometimes they have to drown their infants in the cold bay because they have no food. Did you ever hear of an Ethiopian doing that? No, yet people give them millions." Remo folded his bare arms.

"The picture is becoming clear. But wouldn't performing feats of Sinanju onstage bring us down to the level of the karate dancers?"

"Remo! I am shocked. I do not propose to waste Sinanju doing stupid magic tricks. No, I will first contact the local governments and offer to eliminate their most dangerous criminals and political enemies-at a reduced rate. They will bring these wretches to the exhibition halls, where I will dispose of them before a live audience, who will naturally pay for the privilege of watching perfection at work."

"I'm not sure many people would be interested in watching you kill people onstage."

"Nonsense. Executing criminals was a highly popular entertainment in Roman times. In fact, that is where I will launch the Sinanju World Tour. In Rome."

"You could clean up, at that," Remo said thoughtfully.

"Oh, the live audience is nothing. They will be there merely to provide applause. The real money is in the TV rights. I will sell rights to the concerts to the networks of countries on the formal tour, which will naturally create interest in further tours."

"This could go on for years," Remo said with a sigh.

"By the time we return to Sinanju, we will be wealthy men and will have created new markets for our illustrious descendants. Think of their gratitude, Remo."

"You think of their gratitude. I'm thinking that if I don't return to Sinanju soon, I won't have any descendants."

"Just like you to think of sex when your mind should be on matters of lasting importance," Chiun scolded.

"I'm not thinking of sex. I'm thinking of Mah-Li. You just don't want me to settle down. You think if we go back to Sinanju, the villagers will fall all over me like they did last time and ignore you because I promised to support the village after you retire."

"You lie. My villagers love me. They worship the very path I walk upon."

"As long as the path is paved with gold, yes."

The Master of Sinanju stamped an angry sandal, but said nothing. His cheeks puffed out in repressed fury.

"And I'm not playing second banana to you in any freaking world tour," Remo added. "That's final."

"I will let you be my personal manager, then," Chiun said testily. "But it is my final offer."

"Pass," said Remo.

Chiun opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Enter," said the Master of Sinanju grandly.

"This is my room, remember?" Remo pointed out.

Dr. Harold W. Smith entered the room looking as pale as the gray three-piece suit hanging off his spare frame. He was a symphony in pallor. His sparse hair nearly matched his white shirt, and behind rimless glasses his frantic eyes were color coordinated with his suit. He tightened his Dartmouth tie until the knot threatened to strangle him.

"Hail, Emperor Smith, Keeper of the Constitution and defender of the secret organization called CURE, about which we are in blissful ignorance," Chiun said in a loud voice.

"Shhh!" hissed Smith, his pinched face paling even more. "Not so loud. And what are you two doing together? "

"Singing your praises," said Chiun.

"Having a family argument," said Remo.

"You're not supposed to be seen together while you are residing here at Folcroft Sanitarium. I deliberately gave you separate quarters for that reason. Master of Sinanju, I will have to ask you to return to your room. It is critical that the Folcroft personnel continue to believe you to be a patient here."

"It will be done," said Chiun, bowing. But he did not move from his place in the middle of the room.

Smith turned to Remo Williams.

"Remo, we have a problem. A grave problem," he blurted.

"Don't talk to me. Talk to him," protested Remo, pointing to the Master of Sinanju. "He works for you. I don't."

"This has nothing to do with CURE operations," said Smith, wiping his shiny upper lip with a gray handkerchief. "The grass needs cutting and the hedges are extremely ragged."

"Why talk to me? You have a gardening staff."

"Our agreement was that I provide this room for your use and you would be on the Folcroft employee records as the head gardener. Surely you remember."

"Oh, right. It's just that this is the first time you've asked me to do anything."

"You will have to forgive my son," said Chiun gravely. "He is frightened by work. Just before you entered, he turned down an excellent job opportunity involving fame, travel, and a modest salary. "

"Modest, huh?" Remo shot back.

"I pay according to worth. In your case, I was willing to pay more because we may be distantly related, but you have turned me down, so it is of no use to discuss it further. But Emperor Smith has always been generous to you. Perhaps you should listen to his fine offer."

"This is an emergency, Remo."

"Oh? Has the crabgrass gotten into the computers again?"

"I've just received notice that the Vice-President is coming here tomorrow. Somehow, Folcroft has been selected as a stop in his campaign for the presidency. He's slated to make an important speech at nine a.m. All the networks will be here."

"Can't you wave him off?" asked Remo. "Call the President?"

"I tried. The President thinks that if he pulls any strings, it will just draw attention to Folcroft. I have to agree with him. If we just batten down the hatches and ride out the storm, we should be all right. The Vice-President has no inkling that Folcroft Sanitarium is the cover for CURE."

"So what's the problem?"

"I told you. The grass and the shrubbery. They're a mess. The regular gardening crew has gone home for the day and there won't be enough time for them to spruce up the grounds. They want them fixed up."

"I was never good with gardening tools," Remo said. "I have a brown thumb or something."

"Never mind the tools. After dark, when the advance men are gone and we're on skeleton staff, can't you do something, um ... special?"

Remo looked at his fingernails. They were clipped short, but through years of diet and special exercises they had hardened until they were as sharp as the finest surgical scalpels.

"Oh, I suppose," Remo said airily. "For a price."

"What?" Smith asked cautiously.

"When Chiun's year is up, I get to accompany him on the submarine ride back to Sinanju. "

"Consider it a wedding present," said Smith, who had planned all along to make sure that Remo returned to North Korea with the Master of Sinanju. Twenty years of his life spent dealing with the two of them was more than his share.

"You were right, Little Father," Remo said, grinning at Chiun. "Smith is a generous guy."

"Too generous," said Chiun, turning to leave.

"Just a minute, please, Master of Sinanju," Smith called.

"Yes?"

"I'm afraid I will have to ask you to surrender your American Express Gold Card."

The Master of Sinanju's aged hand flashed to a pocket of his suit. "My wonder card? The one you gave me when I reentered your service? The card which I show to merchants whenever I purchase their wares, which so impresses them that they do not ask me for payment?"

"It's not my doing," said Smith. "The company is recalling it. As cosignatory, they've asked me to make good on all unpaid bills and tender the card to them."

"Bills?"

"Yes, the payment requests they send each month. Didn't you receive them?"

"Since I returned to your shores, I have been plagued by much junk mail," admitted Chiun. "Offers of inferior cards which are not gold, and useless magazine subscriptions. I throw them all out, of course. Isn't that what Americans routinely do with junk mail?"

"Junk mail, yes. Bills, no. You are expected to pay for all credit-card purchases."

"No one told me this," Chiun said firmly.

"I thought you understood. I told you when I got you the card that you were responsible for it. It was not part of our contract, but a way of advancing you spending money until you got settled here. I'm sorry if you misunderstood." Smith held out his hand. "Now, the card, please."

Slowly, almost tearfully, the Master of Sinanju plucked the gold-colored plastic card from his person and surrendered it.

Smith broke the card in half.

"Aiiie!" wailed the Master of Sinanju. "You desecrated it. It was one of a kind."

"Nonsense," said Smith flatly. "Most Americans have them. "

"Then I want one too. Another card."

"You'll have to take that up with American Express. But I think you'll have a problem. Your credit history is a disaster."

"I tried to explain it to him," Remo told Smith. "But he wouldn't listen to me."

"Go tend to the emperor's needs," snapped the Master of Sinanju, stalking from the room. "Oh, woe is me, for I have trained an assassin and ended up with a weed killer. "

Smith looked at the VCR, which was still running. "Did you enjoy the movie?" he asked.

Chapter 3

Dr. Harold W. Smith was in a panic.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's simply impossible. I will be tied up with urgent business all day. "

"What can be so urgent about running a sanitarium?" asked Harmon Cashman. As the advance man for the Vice-President, he was used to dealing with flustered officials. But this lemon-faced bureaucrat, Smith, acted as if the sky was falling.

Smith busied himself trying to get the childproof cap off a bottle of aspirin. He was sitting behind the big oak desk in his dingy office in the south wing of Folcroft Sanitarium. Behind him, the waters of Long Island Sound danced quietly. The cap would not come off and a sheen of sweat broke over Smith's balding forehead.

"Take it easy, Smith," Cashman said soothingly. "Here, let me help you with that." He gently took the aspirin bottle from Smith's shaking hands and worked the cap confidently. As he did so, he kept talking.

"By the way, that was an excellent job your people did on the grounds. The place looks as sharp as an old-fashioned straight-razor shave."

"Thank you," said Dr. Smith, clenching his hands together. He was practically wringing them. "But what you ask is out of the question."

"Look, the speech won't last more than a half-hour. Your part won't take two minutes. It's customary when a presidential candidate gives a speech before an institution like this one to have its highest official formally introduce him."

"I get nervous at public functions. I get tongue-tied. I tense up. I'll ruin the entire proceeding, I just know I will." Harmon Cashman was inclined to agree with Smith. The man was a wreck. He thought of trying the "but-this-man-may-be-our-next-President" approach, but decided against it. Smith might have a heart attack and that would really screw up the day's schedule. The Vice-President's motorcade was already en route.

Cashman considered furiously. He twisted the safety cap until its plastic edges scraped his fingertips raw. "What is this stuff?"

"Children's aspirin," said Smith distractedly. "My stomach is too sensitive for adult dosages."

Cashman recognized a drawing of a famous cartoon character on the label. "A child-proof cap on a bottle of kids' aspirin? Isn't that kind of defeating the purpose?"

"Could you please hurry? My headache is getting worse."

"If it's the pounder you say it is, these won't make much of a dent."

Smith suddenly snatched the bottle from Cashman's hand and cracked it against the edge of the desk. It broke open. Pink and orange tablets scattered everywhere. He gulped down four tablets, chasing them with a glass of mineral water.

Harmon Cashman looked at Smith a long time. This guy needed a long vacation, he decided. Probably in a padded cell.

"All right," Cashman said resignedly. "Maybe we can get the mayor to do the honors. I'll have to give him a call. What's the name of this town, anyway?"

"Rye. New York."

"I know the state. I'm not that overworked. Let me use your phone."

"No, not that one!" Smith screamed, frantically throwing himself across a red telephone in one corner of the desk. Smith swept it into a top desk drawer. "It's broken," he explained weakly.

"Yeah, wouldn't want to electrocute myself dialing a broken phone," Cashman said slowly, accepting the receiver of a standard office phone. As he dialed, he told Smith, "The Vice-President's not going to be happy, you know. He requested that he be introduced by you personally."

Smith scooped up another aspirin and swallowed it dry. He coughed for five minutes without stopping as Harmon Cashman, one finger in his free ear, asked the mayor of Rye to perform a civic duty that anyone would have given a year's salary to perform. Except Dr. Harold W. Smith.

The Vice-President's motorcade arrived a crisp two minutes before the speech was to begin. Over the sprawling grounds of Folcroft Sanitarium, security helicopters orbited noisily. The Secret Service had already been through the grounds and the big L-shaped brick building that constituted the Folcroft complex-but was also the nerve center of America's deepest security secret, CURE.

Smith sat nervously on a folding chair. He had purposely chosen a seat in the back behind two very tall men, so the television cameras would not record his face. He had tried to avoid sitting with the other VIPs on the hastily erected platform, but Harmon Cashman refused to hear of it.

Smith's watch read only 8:54 a.m. and he had already decided that it was the worst day of his life. Folcroft Sanitarium, which had been converted into CURE's operational headquarters in the early sixties, had never been exposed to public attention like this. Smith had run it quietly and efficiently for more than two decades so that no undue attention was attached to it. He had conducted his private life just as self-effacingly. And now this had come out of the blue.

Smith tried to tell himself that it was a brief storm that would soon pass. CURE had been compromised more than once in its long history, and this was after all, merely a scheduling fluke of a politician who might soon be Smith's immediate superior. But the numbers of Secret Service men crawling over the complex made him feel somehow violated. He had taken every precaution to avoid any difficulty, including sending Remo and Chiun away for the day.

But Smith had already slipped up once-forgetting to hide the dialless red telephone which was his direct link to the White House. Fortunately, no one would ever suspect its true function. The only other tangible evidence of CURE operations-his desktop computer terminal-sank into his desk at a touch of a hidden stud. It accessed a worldwide network of data links through computers hidden behind a wall in Folcroft's basement, No casual search would ever find them, either.

Smith tried to relax as the Vice-President's limousine pulled up and the man himself stepped out, buttoning his coat and trying to keep his thin hair from being blown into disarray. The Vice-President climbed the platform steps and the VIPs came to their feet, eager to shake his hand. Smith remained seated, just in case. Maybe this would not be so bad.

"Where is Dr. Smith?" a voice asked. Smith felt his heart clutch. The inquiring voice was that of the Vice-President himself.

Harmon Cashman ushered the Vice-President into Smith's presence. Smith came to his feet awkwardly.

"Here he is, Mr. Vice-President. May I present Dr. Harold W. Smith?"

"Ah," said the Vice-President, grinning crookedly. "Glad to meet you at last. I've heard a lot about you, Smith."

"You have?" Smith croaked, shaking the man's hand limply.

"Harmon tells me you were very nervous about this visit."

"Er, yes," Smith said. He felt suddenly giddy.

"Not many men would turn their nose up at any opportunity like this, so they tell me. Harmon informs me you act like a man carrying a guilty secret. But of course that can't be, now can it? After all, you are the director of this excellent health facility. Your business is curing people."

"Of course not," said Smith, feeling his knees go weak. And then they ushered the Vice-President to a seat, where he was surrounded by Secret Service agents carrying walkie-talkies.

Smith sank back into his chair shakily. His bitter face was whiter than his shirt. The Vice-President's words had hit too close to home. Of course, they were a jest. But even so, Smith was angry at himself for having been so flustered as to draw attention to his reluctance to be a part of the ceremony. Still, if all went smoothly, there would be no permanent harm done.

When the Vice-President was seated, the audience took their seats. Rows of folding chairs had been assembled on the Folcroft lawn. A few members of Folcroft's staff had been allowed to join the handpicked crowd of supporters. Smith noticed his secretary, Mrs. Mikulka, seated in the back, beaming with pride. The mayor strode to the podium, adjusted the microphone, and gave a short speech introducing the Vice-President, ending it with a welcoming sweep of his hand and the words. "And now, the next President of the United States!"

The Vice-President came to his feet and rebuttoned his coat as he walked up to the podium.

"Thank you for the warm reception," he said, trying to still the loud applause with a quelling motion of his hand as, off to the side, his campaign staff gave the secret signals to keep the applause high and loud. The network news crews obligingly recorded what appeared to be a spontaneous outburst of enthusiasm.

"Thank you," the Vice-President repeated. Finally he gave his own signal and his campaign staff passed along the finger-code message for the audience to subside. And they did.

"Well, I haven't had a reception like that since the Iowa caucuses," the Vice-President joked. The audience chuckled in approval.

"I'm here today," the Vice-President went on, "to reaffirm a pledge I made way, way back when this campaign started. Now, it's no secret that there's been a lot of criticism of the current administration-of which I have been an active participant, of course-regarding covert activities. Some people believe that the current administration has been committed to covert action, to extralegal pursuit of its policy aims, and, in general, to operating outside of constitutional authority."

Dr. Harold Smith felt his mouth suddenly go dry. "Now, I wanna tell you that that won't happen in my administration."

The crowd applauded supportively.

"I was not a part of any of that stuff under the current President, a man I very much admire, and I'm not gonna stand for it when I sit in that Oval Office down in Washington. No way. It won't happen. That's a promise."

He's just politicking, Harold Smith told himself, his heart racing. This is campaign rhetoric. It means nothing. "Now, I won't tell you that buried in the CIA or the Defense Intelligence Agency or elsewhere in the intelligence community there might not have been rogue operations in the past. Some may still exist as holdovers from previous administrations. Well, when I get there, I'm gonna root 'em out. Yes, sir."

This is cheerleading, Smith told himself. Nothing more. But he felt a chill that wasn't carried by the late-fall breeze. "For all I know, there are extralegal, extraconstitutional organizations in existence at this very moment, implementing policy and conducting operations," the Vice-President continued, jabbing a finger at the audience emphatically. "I want those folks to know that their days are numbered. When I get in there, I'm gonna clean house."

The audience applauded wildly. Smith sank lower in his seat. His headache was coming back with a vengeance. The Vice-President looked around the crowd. He beamed. He drank in the approval of the audience. His lifted hand could not quiet them. He glanced back at the seated VIP's and grinned boyishly, as if to say: what can I do? They love me.

But when his eyes locked with those of Dr. Harold W. Smith, he winked knowingly.

Smith, seated at one end of the back row, turned around and, under cover of the thunderous applause, vomited over the back of the podium.

When he was done, he twisted back into his seat and wiped his mouth free of food flecks.

The Vice-President knew. His wink was a clear warning. Somehow, he had learned about CURE. And he intended to close it down. It was all over.

Harold Smith sat stony and unhearing as the Vice-President's speech droned on for another twenty minutes. After the last ripple of applause had faded, the Vice-President was hustled back to his limousine by the Secret Service and whisked out the stone gates of Folcroft Sanitarium.

Like a man who had been condemned to death, Smith stumbled back to his office. He did not hear the hard clapping of wood chairs being folded and stacked, or the cheerful chatter of his secretary as she followed him back to the office. He did not feel the wind on his cheek or the sun on his stooped shoulders. He did not hear or feel anything because he knew that his life was over.

Chapter 4

Michael "The Prince" Princippi had come a long way in his quest for the Democratic presidential nomination. When he had first broached the possibility of running for the highest office in the land, they laughed at him. Even his chief supporters voiced serious reservations.

"You're a sitting governor," they said. "If you lose, you'll never get reelected in this state. They'll call you an opportunist who's using the office as a stepping-stone to national office."

"I'll take that chance," he told them.

"No one knows you. Nationally, you're a nonentity."

"So was Jimmy Carter, and look what he did in seventy-six. "

"Yeah, and look what happened to him in eighty. Today the guy couldn't get nominated to run a bake sale."

"I'm not Jimmy Carter. I'm Michael Princippi, the Prince of Politics. Even my enemies call me that. "

One by one, he had shot down their misgivings, their weak arguments, their timid objections, until he knew in his heart he was presidential timber. But his supporters remained unconvinced.

"You don't look presidential," they finally said.

"What do you mean, presidential?" he had asked. "I'm a two-term governor of a major industrial state. I've been in politics all of my adult life."

They had shuffled their feet and looked down at the carpet. Finally one of them had blurted out the objection that was on all their minds.

"You're too short," he said. "Too ethnic," another one added. "You're not the type," a third offered.

"What is the type, then?" he had asked, wondering if he should throw them out of the house. Then he remembered it wasn't his house, but that of a financial backer who had given them the use of it for this strategy meeting. The governor's own house was too small for his family, never mind staff meetings.

"John F. Kennedy," they chorused.

"Look at the rest of the Democratic pack," one of them explained. "You can barely tell them apart. They all have the same haircut, the same hearty face. They copy his mannerisms, his speaking style. Hell, half their speeches are rewrites of the 'Ask Not What Your Country Can Do,' chestnut. You'll never be able to pull it off. We think you should forget it, Prince."

But he didn't forget it. The man his cronies called the Prince of Politics knew that the very reason his supporters didn't think he stood a chance at getting the nomination was going to catapult him into the White House. In a crowded field of tall, rangy Kennedy clones, he was a short, intense man with a slightly hooked nose and dark bushy eyebrows. In a sea of sandy-haired candidates, he was the only brunet. In debate after debate, as the cameras panned the seated debaters, he stood out, distinct and separate.

This strategy had worked for Michael Princippi in one of the most heavily Irish states in the Union. Among the Connollys and the Donnellys, the Carringtons and the Harringtons, the O'Rourkes and MacIntyres, Michael Princippi stood out like a raisin in a bowl of snow peas.

It was even more effective on national television. In debate after debate, Michael Princippi had held his own in his quiet confident manner. The pollsters swiftly singled him out as a dark horse, a long shot, an outsider in a race where every other candidate primped and studied for hours to blend in with the pack. And one after the other, the other would-be candidates had dropped out until the Democratic convention, in one of the swiftest counts in recent history, had gone with him on the first ballot.

The latest polls had Michael Princippi slightly ahead of the Republican nominee, with just days to go until the nation went to the polls. That slight margin was meaningless, he knew. And so he campaigned as if his very political future was at stake. Because it was.

At a campaign stop in Tennessee, he took time out of his busy schedule to watch his rival, the Vice-President, give a speech. He switched on the hotel-room television and, dismissing his key aides, settled onto the unmade bed to watch.

The speech was broadcast live from the grounds of an institution in New York State.

The speech was a bore. The Vice-President gave it his best preppy shot, but it was the standard "I'm going-to-clean-up-the-dark-corners" speech Michael Princippi had given when he was first elected governor. But as the speech went on, the Vice-President grew more intense, his voice filling with conviction. It made Michael Princippi stop and think about a letter he had received over the weekend. A very strange letter.

When the speech had ended, the network anchorman came on with an instant wrap-up that was half as long as the speech itself and not nearly as clear. The anchorman signed off with the redundant reminder that he was "Reporting live from the grounds of Folcroft Sanitatrium, in Rye, New York. "

For some reason, the name Folcroft sounded familiar to Michael Princippi, but he couldn't place it. Then he remembered. The letter.

Princippi bounced off the bed and shut off the TV on his way to his briefcase.

He pulled the letter from a pocket of the briefcase and shook it from its envelope as he settled into a chair. He had assumed it was a crank letter, but it was so crammed with facts and details that he held on to it. Just in case.

The letter was addressed to him personally, the envelope marked personal and confidential. It had been postmarked in Seoul, South Korea. Michael Princippi skimmed the letter again, looking for the name.

Yes, there it was. Folcroft Sanitarium. His eyes jumped back to the beginning and he read the letter quickly. When he was done, he read it all over again more slowly.

The letter purported to reveal the existence of a highly secret governmental agency that operated from the cover of Folcroft Sanitarium and was run by Dr. Harold W. Smith. The organization was known as CURE. Its letters signified nothing, said the letter. It was no acronym, but a statement of intent. Set up to cure America of its internal ills, under Dr. Smith CURE had become a rogue operation, no longer responsible to presidential or constitutional restrictions. With access to the computer files of every government agency and major corporation in America, CURE was the ultimate Big Brother.

More damning than the privacy issues at stake, the letter writer went on, CURE had hired as its enforcement agents the aged head of a house of professional assassins, whose name was Chiun. He was the Master of Sinanju, a ruthless, vicious professional killer. The letter went on to relate that this Chiun had trained a supposedly dead American police officer, one Remo Williams, in the deadly art of Sinanju. Together, under Dr. Smith's direction, the pair had been the unofficial instruments of domestic policy for several administrations, often resorting to assassination and terror. The letter concluded with the hope that Michael Princippi might use this information to further his quest for the presidency. The letter was signed, simply, "Tulip."

Michael Princippi folded the letter thoughtfully and replaced it in its envelope. It was on his mind that maybe he was not the only one to receive such a letter from the mysterious Tulip. Perhaps the Vice-President had gotten one too. That would certainly explain why a speech about covert operations was given at an odd place like Folcroft Sanitarium.

Michael Princippi decided to look into the specific details the letter claimed would prove that CURE existed.

After that he would have his writers prepare a speech in which Michael Princippi, too, promised America that when he assumed office the American intelligence community would be purged of all extralegal operations. Scratch that, he thought quickly. He would ask the writers to put it another way-one which would show both the Vice-President and the head of CURE that Michael Princippi was on top of intelligence matters too.

Dr. Harold W. Smith waited until the Vice-President's entourage had left the Folcroft grounds before he called the President.

To pass the time, he locked his office door on his gushing secretary-who couldn't get over the fact that Folcroft had hosted the Vice-President of the United States-and brought up the concealed computer terminal from its desktop recess.

Smith scanned the digest feeds of possible CURE-related news events. There were the usual gangland murders, updates on ongoing federal investigations, national-security bulletins, and CIA "burn notices." Nothing of immediate importance. Today nothing would have seemed important. But somehow the flashing green blocks of data smoothed Harold W. Smith's unquiet soul. Seated behind a computer screen, he was in his element.

When he was done, Smith removed the red telephone from the desk drawer and picked up the receiver. He cleared his throat as, without any other action on his part, an identical phone somewhere in the White House began ringing.

"Hello?" said the cheery voice of the President of the United States. "I hope this isn't an emergency. I'm really enjoying my last few weeks in office. Do you know that I've had three offers this week to play myself in a movie? My advisers say it would demean the office if I accepted them, but I don't know. I'm going to have a lot of time on my hands and, darn it, I'd like to get in front of the cameras again. What do you think?"

Without skipping a beat, Smith plunged into what he had to say. "Mr. President, we've been compromised."

"The Soviets?" The President's voice shook.

"No."

"The Chinese?"

"No, Mr. President. It is not a foreign matter. I have reason to believe that your Vice-President has learned about CURE."

"Well, I didn't tell him," the President insisted.

"Thank you for volunteering that, Mr. President. I needed to hear it directly from you, just to keep the record straight. That settled, he does know. He just gave a speech on the ground of my cover institution in which he all but acknowledged it openly."

"Well, what's so bad about that? When he's elected, he'll be your boss. At least it won't be a shock to him like it was to me. Why, I remember when the last President broke the news to me, I-"

"Yes, Mr. President," Smith cut in. "That's not the point. Listen carefully. First, somehow the information got out. That means a leak somewhere. Second, the Vice-President's speech contained a not-very-veiled threat to shut down my operation."

"Hmmm," said the President. "Could be just talk. You know, get the voters stirred up."

"No, sir. I'm sure the Vice-President arranged for this speech specifically to send me a message."

"Well, as you know, once I leave office, I will have no influence upon the Vice-President, but I'll talk to him if that's what you want."

"No, Mr. President, that is not what I want. It will be the decision of the next President, once he assumes office, to decide whether or not to sanction future CURE operations. As you know, we exist at the discretion of the current officeholder. I am prepared to be terminated, if it comes to that. "

"Well-spoken. So what's the problem?"

"As I said, if the Vice-President knows about CURE, and you did not tell him, he obtained his information from another source. Which means that someone outside of the loop knows. For security reasons, the person in question must be eliminated, or CURE must go. One or the other. That is the decision I am asking you to make, Mr. President. "

"Well, now, I don't know about this," said the President carefully. "Can I sleep on it?"

"Do you wish me to investigate the leak on this end before you come to your decision?"

"Why don't you do that, Smith," the President said amiably. "Yes, go to it. Let me know what happens."

"Yes, Mr. President," said Harold W. Smith, and hung up. He frowned. The President had not seemed concerned. True, it was his own Vice-President who had learned the truth, but that was not Smith's principal problem. It was the source of the Vice-President's information. For all Smith knew, CURE could be an open secret in the executive branch. And he couldn't very well order the liquidation of the President's entire cabinet and advisers to preserve CURE.

Instead, Smith knew he should be prepared to execute his ultimate responsibility as CURE's director-the destruction of operations and his own suicide.

Chapter 5

He crossed the Green Line on foot.

He carried no weapon. It was suicide to cross the Green Line unarmed. The Syrians often looked the other way, even though they had nominal control over the city. The Lebanese Army was virtually invisible. Even the native militias-of which there were several-did not cross the Green Line with impunity.

But he would. He had business in the western part of the city. And because he was not in a hurry, he walked, his white sandals making no sound on the streets littered with crushed glass. No wind stirred his blond mane of hair. The purple silk of his garments stood out, the only splash of color in a city that had once been the jewel of the Middle East but was now a scorched and shattered ruin.

Tonight Beirut was quiet, as if dead. In a way, it was. He crossed the Green Line where it paralleled the Rue de Damas. Here the Green Line was truly green. It was a sunken strip of perpetually muddy ground fed by a broken water main. Ferns grew profusely. He stepped through them, and although he was quiet, the fat rats scrambled out of his way, their beady eyes bright with a too-human fear.

He found the Rue Hamrah easily. He walked between the cracked facades of its high-rise buildings. The remains of firebombed cars sat rusting on their wheels like permanent fixtures. He felt eyes upon him. No doubt they were peering through the bullet holes that pocked the few buildings which hadn't been reduced to twisted tangles of concrete and reinforced wire. He felt a subliminal pressure against his back that warned him the barrels of automatic weapons were pointed at him.

Even at night, they would see that he was white. He wondered if they would decide to kill him, or possibly take him hostage. He was not worried. He had asked for this meeting. They would at least hear him out. And if they decided to harm him, they would learn that not all people who happened to be born in America were frightened by the Hezbollah.

In the middle of the street, he stopped. The air smelled dead. The stench of gunpowder was a permanent understink. He moderated his breathing rhythms to keep his lungs clear.

They came in pairs, clutching their rifles, their faces wrapped in colorful kaffiyehs so that only the dirty patches of skin around their eyes showed. A few stood with rocket-propelled grenade launchers slung carelessly across their shoulders. That was simply to impress him, he knew. They dared not use them at close quarters.

When he was ringed by seven of their number, he asked a question in their native tongue.

"Which one of you is Jalid?"

A man stepped forward. His face was wrapped in a green checkered kaffiyeh. "You are Tulip?"

"Of course."

"I did not expect you to come in your pajamas." And Jalid laughed.

The blond man smiled back at him, a cool insolent smile. If this warlord only knew the power he faced, he would tremble in his scuffed boots.

"Maalesh," Jalid said. "Never mind. You wish to ransom hostages? We have many fine hostages. American, French, German. Or perhaps we will take you hostage instead. If we do not like you."

They were bandits, nothing more. The world thought the Hezbollah were fanatical Moslems loyal only to the rulers of Iran. He knew different. Their ties to Iran were real, but their absolute loyalty was to money. For the right price, they would release their hostages and Iran's rulers be damned. There were always more hostages to be taken, anyway.

They understood only one thing other than money. That was raw power. When they had kidnapped Russian diplomats during the civil war, the Soviets sent in their own agents, kidnapped members of the Hezbollah, and sent them back to the Hezboilah warlords, a finger and an ear at a time, until the Soviet diplomats were unconditionally released. That was the kind of power they understood.

He would show them.

"I wish to hire your skill, Jalid."

Jalid did not ask: For what? He did not care. Instead he asked, "How much will you pay?"

"Something very valuable."

"I like your words. Talk on."

"It is more valuable than gold."

"How much more?"

"It is more precious than the finest rubies you could ever imagine. "

"Tell me more."

"It is more precious to you than your mother's very life."

"My mother was a thief. A good thief." Jalid's eyes crinkled, indicating that he smiled behind his kaffiyeh.

"It is your life."

Jalid's eyes uncrinkled. "Bnik kak!" he swore. "I think you will die here, ya khara. "

The blond man turned his electric-blue eyes upon the man beside Jalid, whose fine rifle indicated that he was second in command.

"Aarrhh!" the man howled suddenly. The others looked at him, their eyes not straying far from the unarmed white man.

"Bahjat! What is it?"

"I am on fire!" Bahjat howled, his rifle clattering to the cratered pavement. "Help me. My arms are burning!"

The others looked. They saw no fire. But then vague blue flames, like a faintly luminous gas, ran down their comrade's arms. His arms browned delicately, then blackened. Bahjat screeched and twisted onto the ground, trying to put the flames out. They would not go out. The others fell to his assistance, but when the first man touched him, he jumped back, staring stupidly at his hands.

Spiders spilled out of his palms as if from a hole in a dead tree. They were large and hairy, with eight reddish eyes each. They scrambled up his arms and swarmed over his face.

"Help me, help me!"

But no help came. The others were busy, each with their own nightmare. One man felt his tongue swell in his mouth, forcing his jaws apart until the hinge muscle strained beyond endurance. He could not breathe. The pain was excruciating. In despair he fell on a dropped grenade launcher and, bringing the warhead to his face, triggered it with the toe of his boot. The explosion obliterated him from the chest up and killed others who were nearby.

Another man thought his legs had become pythons. He slashed off their heads and laughed triumphantly even as he fell to the street, blood pumping from the stumps of his ankles until there was no fluid left in his entire body.

Jalid saw it all. He saw, too, as if in a dream, an old enemy facing him. It was a man he had killed over a gambling dispute years ago. The man was dead. But here he was again, coming at him with his knife held low for a quick disemboweling thrust.

Jalid shot the man to pieces with his rifle. Standing over the man's quivering body, he laughed triumphantly. But the figure shimmered, revealing a face obscured by a twisted kaffiyeh. Jalid undid the kaffiyeh and beheld the face of his younger brother, Fawaz. He sank to his knees beside the boy, tears starting from both eyes.

"I'm sorry, Fawaz, my brother. I'm sorry," he repeated dully.

"Stand up, Jalid," said the white man with the electric-blue eyes. "You and I are alone now."

Jalid came to his feet. He saw the blond man standing there, his hands loose and empty at his sides, unarmed. He exuded an insolent confidence that humbled Jalid, whose belt bristled with knives and pistols and whose cruelty had ruled this part of Ras Beirut ever since the Israelis had retreated across the Awali River.

Jalid raised his hands in defeat. "You did this," he said resignedly.

The blond man nodded quietly. Then he asked a quiet question.

"You have other men than these?"

"Almost as many as I have bullets," Jalid said.

"An empty boast. But however many men you have, let us gather together three of the best. They, and you, will accompany me. I have work for you. And I will pay you with more than your chicken-boned life."

"What kind of work?"

"Killing work. The only kind you are fit for. You will like the work, for it will enable you to kill Americans. You will return to Beirut a hero to your Hezbollahi brothers, Jalid. "

"Where will we kill these Americans?" asked Jalid. "There are none left in Lebanon."

"In America, of course."

Jalid was frightened. He and three of his best men, dressed in Western business suits and without weapons, sat together on the flight to New York City. They whispered fearful words in their native tongue to one another, hanging over the seat headrest to talk to those in the other seats and warily eyeing the stewardess, who was just as warily eyeing them back.

"Sit still," said the blond man who called himself Tulip. "You are attracting attention to yourselves."

The blond man sat alone in the seat behind them. Jalid called back to him in Lebanese.

"My Moslem brothers and I are fearful."

"Did I not get you through the Beirut airport safely? And did you not walk unchallenged through the airport in Madrid when we changed planes?"

"Yes. But American customs will be different."

"No, they will just be American."

"All my life, I am a brave man," said Jalid.

"I do not choose women to do my work for me. Be not a woman, Jalid."

"I have grown up in a city torn by war. I first fired a machine gun when I was nine. Before I was ten I had killed three men. That was many years ago now. There is little I fear."

"Good. You will need your courage."

"One thing I do fear is America," Jalid went on. "I have had nightmares of being taken captive and brought to America for trial. These nightmares have never gone away. And now I am letting you take me to America. How do I know that this is not an American trick to put me and my brothers on trial before the world?"

"Because if I was an American agent," the man called Tulip replied, "I would also bring back with me the American hostages your people are holding prisoner. Tell that to your brothers."

Jalid nodded his understanding and he and his friends huddled again. The stewardess decided, because they were in the back of the plane and away from the other passengers, to neglect to ask them if they wanted something to drink.

At Kennedy Airport they were escorted to a holding area, where they were given preprinted pamphlets describing customs procedures. When the time came for them to pass through the turnstiles, the customs agents asked them for their passports. This was the moment Jalid had feared. They had none.

But the man called Tulip handed the customs official a collection of green customs passes. The customs official glanced at them briefly and then handed them back, careful to give each man his correct passport.

Jalid opened his passport, intensely curious to see the picture the customs guard had used to verify his identity. He had no idea a photo of himself even existed.

Jalid saw instantly that one did not. The photo in the picture was of a woman.

"Look," whispered Sayid in his ear, showing his passport photo. It was of an old man at least forty years older than Sayid, who was nineteen. The other passports were also clearly the property of other people. The man called Tulip had made no attempt to doctor them at all.

When the customs officials went through their luggage, the others relaxed. Not Jalid. Although Tulip had specifically forbidden them to carry in weapons, Jalid could not resist placing a dagger in the lining of his suitcase. The customs guards saw the evidence of tampering and stripped the lining. The knife gleamed under the cold airport lights. "What is this?" the airport guard asked harshly.

The man called Tulip stepped in, smiling. "Allow me," he said. And with a movement so quick that the human eye could not register it, he was holding the long dagger, bending the blade double.

"It's only a toy," Tulip said. "Rubber painted silver. These men are touring magicians. They could not resist a little practical joke. Please forgive them. "

The customs guard did not see the humor, but he replaced the dagger and returned their luggage without further comment.

Jalid took his suitcase and carried it with a blank, uncomprehending expression on his face.

"That dagger was of fine steel," he said thinly.

"It still is, fool. The guard saw what I wished. All of you did."

"How did you do that?" Jalid wanted to know.

"With my mind."

"With your mind you conquered my best men back in Beirut?"

"With my mind I can conquer the world, just as I have conquered you," explained Tulip.

At the Parkside-Regent Hotel overlooking Central Park, the man called Tulip brought out stacks of weapons. Fine handguns, modern Uzis and Kalashnikov assault rifles, other close-in fighting weapons, and boxes of ammunition. Jalid and his men fell upon them eagerly. With weapons in their hands, they felt like men again.

"I am going to leave you after today," said Tulip, uncrating a case of hand grenades with one hand. "There is spending money in the ammunition boxes. The rental on this room is paid up for the next three months. From this moment on, there will be no communication between us until your mission is completed."

"What is our mission?" asked Jalid, spilling bullets and money onto the sofa.

"You are to assassinate the U.S. Vice-President and the Democratic nominee for the American presidency; whose name is Governor Michael Princippi."

Jalid's men exchanged wide-eyed glances. "The President too?" Jalid asked.

"I don't care. Kill whoever else you want-after you have carried out my orders. Here are photos and the current itinerary of the two targets. You can follow any schedule changes through newspapers and by watching television."

"What about our money?"

The man called Tulip set a leather briefcase on the coffee table and unlocked it for all to see. In neat packages were stacks of American money. Each stack had a thousand-dollar bill on the top. Jalid picked up a stack at random and riffled through it. It was a stack of thousand-dollar bills. So were the rest. Jalid checked every single one of them, showing the bills to each of his men as he did so.

"I will place this briefcase in the hotel safe," promised the man called Tulip. "When your mission is completed, I will return, give you the briefcase, and help you escape America for your homeland, such as it is."

"How do we know you will do this?"

"You may accompany me to the hotel's security safe. I will instruct the hotel manager not to release this briefcase to any of us unless at least two of us are present, myself and you-or one of your men if you do not survive."

"I will survive. I have spent my entire life surviving."

"I know how that is," said Tulip in a flat voice.

"But how do we know you will not abandon us, briefcase and everything?"

"You have met me. You know my face. You can describe it to the American authorities and with my description possibly plea-bargain your way out of any legal difficulty you encounter."

That made sense to Jalid and his comrades.

"Done," Jalid said, satisfied. He felt suddenly confident. How hard could it be to kill two political leaders in a soft country like America, where successful assassinations were often carried out by fools and idiots? He was a trained soldier. The money was as good as spent, Jalid thought as he followed the handsome man with the long blond hair down to see the hotel manager.

On the way, they passed a mother towing a little boy down the hallway. Jalid noticed the boy suddenly cower. He thought the boy was frightened by him, but the boy's wide eyes were fixed on Tulip's impassive face.

"Did you torment that boy with your mind?" he asked.

"No," said Tulip. "Children are sensitive. That boy simply recognized death when it walked by him."

Chapter 6

The Master of Sinanju paused at the door to Remo's room and listened intently. The sound of breathing came shallow and regular through the wood. Good, his pupil was asleep. It was the perfect opportunity to have that important talk Emperor Smith had been avoiding.

Dressed in his ceremonial robe, Chiun took the steps, because he did not like or trust elevators, and knocked sharply at Harold Smith's office door.

It was night, and Smith was still in his office. "Come in," he said hoarsely.

Stepping in, the Master of Sinanju saw a Harold Smith who was more haggard of face than he had been in a long time.

"Hail, Emperor Smith. It is fortunate that you are still holding forth at Fortress Folcroft, the true seat of your power, for the Master of Sinanju has an important matter to discuss with you."

Smith waved an irritable hand. "I'm sorry, Master Chiun, but I'm afraid it is beyond even my abilities to reinstate your American Express card."

"A mere trifle," said Chiun. "I have come to renegotiate the contract between your house and mine."

"I'm afraid that may be premature in this instance."

"Premature?" asked Chiun. "Our current contract has mere days left before it expires. Do you not wish a smooth transition from our current terms to the new ones?"

"Actually, I should have said moot, not premature."

"Excellent." Chiun beamed happily. "Let us make it a point that all our future negotiations are moot. They will be more fruitful that way."

"You don't understand," Smith said wearily. "By this time next month there may not be an operation. The American Vice-President has apparently discovered the truth about CURE and is hinting that he will close it down."

"Whisper the command and I will deal with him as the traitor he obviously is," Chiun said resolutely.

"No, no," said Smith hastily. "It is the President's option to terminate CURE when he assumes office. I go through this every time the administration changes. The President tells his successor about the operation and the new President makes the decision whether or not to retain our services."

"Ah, then I will fly to the President of Vice's quarters and assist him in his decision-making. I guarantee that he will make whatever decision you desire, O wise one." Chiun bowed.

Smith sank back into his chair. He had long ago given up trying to explain the democratic process to Chiun, who still harbored the secret desire that Smith would one day unleash him on the executive branch, the better to install Harold Smith the First, rightful Emperor of America, in the Oval Office.

"No," said Smith. "The decision is the Vice-President's. If he is elected."

"If?" Chiun stroked his wispy beard concernedly.

"There is a chance that he won't be. The Democratic nominee might be elected instead."

"And what does this other person think?" Chiun inquired.

"He does not know about CURE. We'll have to await the election results before we know anything."

"Then let us see that this possibly open-minded person achieves the eagle throne," Chiun said brightly.

Smith removed his glasses and rubbed bleary eyes. "That, too, is out of the question," he said.

"I could do it without your express command. I could take a vacation, and what I do on my own time is my own business. I have watched the hearings on television. I understand now how your government works. Let me be your Colonel South. You will have complete deniable plausibility. "

"Plausible deniability," Smith corrected. "And that is not the way the American government operates. We don't have palace coups or anything of that sort here. Why do you think America has lasted over two hundred years?"

Chiun shrugged politely. He did not say what he thought. That his ancestors had served Egypt and Rome and Persia for longer stretches of time than a mere two centuries. That two centuries was scarcely time enough in which to form a stable government. That obviously it would take much longer for America, where the rulers change every few years, preventing any one man from learning the job well enough to be good at it. To Chiun, America was an upstart nation. Politically it was a mess. Smith's own words proved that. He was saying that the Master of Sinanju might not be able to count on future employment from America simply because its ruler was about to change. Again.

The Master of Sinanju's hazel eyes narrowed in thought. More than anything, he wanted to prevent Remo's return to Sinanju. The last time, he had coerced Remo into staying for the duration of the current contract. The same trick might not work a second time, but Chiun felt he had nothing to lose. Returning to Sinanju and retirement was the same as submitting to an early death. Back in Sinanju, the villagers had shifted their allegiance from Chiun to Remo, ignoring the Master of Sinanju completely. Worse, Remo was poised to marry a woman he had known only days before he had decided to marry her. And although Mah-Li was a good woman, sweet and pure of heart, the marriage threatened Chiun's close relationship with Remo. And Chiun was not ready to accept a subordinate position in Remo's life.

"Is there not a period of transition during the passing of the line of succession?" asked Chiun after a moment.

"Yes. The new President is elected in November, but does not actually take office until the following January."

"Then there is a period of three months in which you may have need of our services," said Chiun happily.

"Yes," Smith admitted slowly. "But as you know, things have been very quiet over the last year. I hardly think that anything crucial will come up, although one never knows. The truth is, Master of Sinanju, even if we are not ordered to disband, CURE may no longer need an enforcement arm."

"Nonsense," snapped the Master of Sinanju. "An assassin is as indespensable as breathing. But let us accept your argument for the moment. If you, as you say, fear the termination of your office, then there is no loss in renegotiating now. If you are laid off, Remo and I will go our separate ways."

"I'm afraid we can't negotiate Remo's role at this time," Smith pointed out. "The current President believes him to be dead. Killed during that crisis with the Soviets last year, remember?"

"We will discuss Remo's role at a later date, then," Chiun said firmly, settling onto the rug.

Smith, knowing that was the signal that negotiations had formally begun, joined him on the floor, a yellow legal pad on his lap. He held a number-two pencil poised to record the terms.

"I propose renewing our contract under its present terms. No additional payment is required," Chiun said loftily, certain that Smith would jump at the chance. Chiun had stuck him with a substantial increase every year for the last decade.

Smith hesitated. His mouth opened to say yes, but he snapped it shut before the word escaped.

"Too high," Smith said flatly.

"Too..." Chiun began, his face clouding. He restrained himself. In the entire history of the House of Sinanju, no Master has ever renewed a contract at terms inferior to those of the preceding year. But Chiun desperately wanted this contract renewed, so he kept his anger within him. Next year-if there was a next year in America-he would more than make up for this indignity. "Make a counteroffer, then," Chiun said stiffly.

Smith considered. "I really think you should make the next offer," he said craftily.

Chiun thought rapidly. He knocked forty percent off the basic terms, and calculated the loss. It made him cringe, but he offered that amount to Smith. "No more, no less," he added.

"Another ten-percent reduction might persuade me," Smith said unconcernedly.

The Master of Sinanju leapt to his feet in a swirl of kimono skirts. His cheeks puffed out. His fingernails, like a thousand flashing knives, made dangerous patterns in the air. Smith recoiled.

The, getting a grip on himself, the Master of Sinanju gracefully sank back onto the rug like a dandelion see alighting on a lawn.

When he spoke, his soft voice contained the merest breath of menace, like poisoned honey.

"Done," Chiun said.

"Draw up the contract and I will look it over," said Smith.

Stonily the Master of Sinanju found his feet and executed a brittle bow, and without another word he walked stiff-legged from the office.

Harold Smith returned to his desk and allowed himself a rare smile. Never in all his years as director of CURE had he gotten the better of the Master of Sinanju. Smith was a parsimonious man. But each year he had regularly shipped enough of the taxpayers' money to the tiny fishing village of Sinanju to refloat the collective debts of many third-world countries.

Too bad that it was all probably going to be for nothing, he though as he brought up the CURE computer terminal for a final news-digest check before going home for the evening.

The first item wiped the remnants of the smile from his dry-as-dust face.

It was the news summary of a speech given by the Democratic presidential candidate, Governor Michael Princippi. The gist of his speech was a pledge to transfuse money in the social-security system from the intelligence budget. Specifically, Princippi promised to go after the countless "black projects" that were built into the federal budget, the namelsss accounting fictions that enabled the federal government to channel billions of tax dollars yearly into covert operations and defense projects so sensitive that they could not be named or described for Congress except behind closed doors.

"Let's shine a light into the so-called black budget and see who and what we find," Governor Princippi was quoted as saying.

Smith clutched the edge of his oak desk as if to get a grip on himself. First the Vice-President and now this. It was obvious that this speech was a tit-for-tat response to the Vice-President's call for an end to rogue intelligence operations. It did not mean that Governor Princippi knew about CURE. That would be a worst-case scenario if one ever existed.

But in the final analysis, it might not matter. CURE was funded by black-budget money. Fully half of the black-project money appropriated for the Central Intelligence Agency, the Defense Intelligence Agency, and the National Security Agency, not to mention certain segments of the defense budget, actually wound up under Dr. Harold W. Smith's operational control.

Either way, it looked as if CURE were going to go under with the installation of the next President, no matter who won the election. Assuming the presidential candidates kept their campaign promises.

Smith groaned and reached for the shattered bottle of children's aspirin. If this kept up, he'd have to go back to adult dosages, and hang his ulcer.

Chapter 7

It had been so hard.

First, in Sinanju. He had summoned the purple birds to scare off the villagers before he entered the village itself. He could have slipped in at night, unseen. But a sleeping guard might have tempted the beast within him. He had let the beast out in Beirut. The beast had decimated Jalid's Hezbollah bandits. That had cooled its lust to kill.

On the flight to America, he had had to restrain himself again. He hadn't believed it was possible to shackle the beast during the long transatlantic flight, but he had. He wondered if he were mastering it at last. He doubted it. But he was older, wiser, and stronger than the last time.

The problem was, so was the beast.

He pulled the rental car off the road when he came to the great piney woods of Maine's Allagash Wilderness. There would be no people in these forsaken woods. No people meant no temptation to kill.

He stepped out of the car and stripped off the American-style clothes that felt so heavy and coarse against his pale white skin.

He was nude only as long as he needed to be to don his purple silk fighting suit. He belted the yellow sash around his waist.

He walked into the forest on his bare feet because he liked the feel of pine needles against his naked soles. As a child, growing up on a Kentucky farm, walking barefoot through the corn meant washing manure off your feet afterward. He carried his white sandals in his hands. That was all he carried. He had no need of possessions. He had nothing. He needed nothing. His life was empty except for the goal which had driven him to Sinanju in the first place.

Even the squirrels fled at his approach. He wondered if it was a scent or a vibration or an aura that caused all animals and children to recoil from him. He was not ugly. He had a pleasant face. Yet they broke before him, the beaver and the bear alike, like the Red Sea parting before the wrath of God.

There was a tiny brown doe nibbling at the grass. He saw her before she saw him. She was beautiful. Just once, he would like to pet an animal. But the beast within him heard and grew jealous.

The doe looked up, saw him, and exploded into a rain of blood, flesh, and fragments of raw bone.

He wept for the doe, even as the beast within him rejoiced at the scent of fresh blood. He walked on.

The cabin stood in a clearing of scattered pine needles. The spiders had retaken the eaves as they always did each summer. The intact webs across the door told him no one had intruded upon his home since he was last here, so many weeks ago.

He opened the door. He had not bothered to lock it. The furnishings were sparse. There was nothing worth stealing, unless someone was desperate enough to walk off with the old black-and-white television that sat in the middle of the living room floor.

He stepped over to the TV and squatted before it like a votary before a pagan idol. He switched it on, but kept the sound turned down. He did not want anything to intrude upon his thoughts.

The television would be his window to the outside. It would tell him when Jalid first struck. That would be his signal that it was time to rejoin the civilized world. In the interim, it was too dangerous for him to remain in the city, where the beast would hunt the innocent, not because he wished it, but because the beast was greater than his own will to achieve his ends.

He focused on the television screen, but it was late and there were only test patterns on all channels. It did not matter. He settled on one and focused all his attention upon it.

It was the only way he knew to focus himself so that the beast remained shackled.

Above his head, the naked ceiling bulb exploded into hundreds of opaque slivers. He had not touched it, except with his mind.

Chapter 8

Jalid Kumquatti decided that America was an amazing place. He had driven his brothers of the Hezbollah all the way from New York City to the city of Philadelphia and he was not stopped once. America, whom the rulers of Iran and Libya and other Middle Eastern countries boasted was a cowering paper tiger whose citizens were not safe even within her own borders, had no roadblocks, no security checkpoints, no tanks in the streets, and no impediments to the free movement of foreign agents.

Although they had passed many police cars and they were obviously foreigners, they were not challenged. Once, outside of Levittown, they blew a tire, and while they were stopped, a state-police car came up behind them, its blue light bar washing their startled faces with illumination.

Jalid almost panicked when the state trooper stepped from his vehicle, but he relaxed slightly when he saw that the gray-uniformed man carried only a tiny .38 revolver in a belt holster. In Beirut the .38 revolver was carried by women and children as they went to market. It was not a man's weapon. No Lebanese took a .38 pistol as a serious threat.

Thus Jalid had hissed to his comrades to relax while they waited to see what the man wanted.

"A little trouble here?" the officer asked politely.

"We are changing the wheel," Jalid said nervously. "We are on our way soon. You will see."

"Better hop to it. I don't want to see any of you rearended by a speeder. New to America, are you?"

"Very," said Jalid, whose English was acceptable. He had learned the language in order to write ransom notes and negotiate with Europeans.

"Then you may not realize how dangerous an American highway is. Why don't I stay here with my lights on so there's no accident," the trooper suggested with a smile.

"Sure, sure," said Jalid, and he busied himself with the lug wrench. When he was finished and a new tire was in place, he and his friends jumped into the car and, waving out the rear window at the trooper, left the scene at a decorous pace.

"He was very nice." said Sayid after a while.

"America is very nice," said Rafik. "Did you notice that we have traveled nearly fifty kilometers and no one has shot at us? In Beirut, one cannot go for cigarettes without taking one's life in one's hands."

"America is a land of fools and so are you all," spat Jalid. "Do not forget our mission." But even he was amazed by America, its vastness, it cleanliness. Once, he had heard, Lebanon had been like this. A rich, fertile happy land. Now it was being torn apart by animals, and Jalid was one of them. But he had been born into a land caught up in civil war, he told himself. His earliest memories were of squalor punctuated by distant explosions. The first music he had ever heard was the daily ululations of Lebanese women in mourning. No, his way was the only one possible now.

But driving through America had shown him what living a normal life must be like, and instead of making him feel guilty for his participation in the dismemberment of Lebanon, he felt a wave of hatred for America, which had so much and deserved it so little. He resolved that he would shoot dead the next police officer who dared to speak to him.

They sat around in their hotel room, not in the chairs, but perched on the chair backs, their feet dirtying the cushions, as they cleaned and oiled their weapons. They looked like vultures squatting on rocks.

"The Vice-President will be having lunch at what is called a Lion's Club," Jalid said, reading a newspaper he had slipped off the lobby newsstand when the counter girl wasn't looking.

"How will we find this place of lions?" asked Sayid.

"Taxicab. We will go by taxicab, because it will save time and we do not wish to be late. When the driver brings us to this Lion's Club, we will kill him." Jalid dropped the newspaper and considered his men carefully.

"Sayid, my brother," he said at last, grinning suddenly.

"Yes?"

"You will have the great honor this day."

"I?" Sayid smiled back. It was not a smile of pleasure but the kind that concealed fear.

"Yes," said Jalid, coming off the chair back. "I have been thinking. There is much money to be had from this work. It would be too bad if we were all killed trying to collect it."

The others looked at one another. They nodded. Except Sayid. His smile grew broader, but his eyes had a sickly light to them.

"We do not know what militias these Americans use to guard their leaders," said Jalid, scratching his sparse dark beard thoughtfully. "Probably they are not much if they guard them as sloppily as they guard their rich and fat cities. Perhaps one man is all that is necessary to eliminate this Vice-President. "

"Alone?" asked Sayid uncomfortably.

"We will be outside, perhaps to come to your rescue if necessary."

"But what if you cannot?"

"It is simple, my brother. We will take hostages, and hold them until you are released."

"But what if I am killed in the course of my duty to the Hezbollah?" insisted Sayid, his smile fixed on his face like a clown's rigid makeup grin.

"Then we will send your share of the money to your aged mother. She would like that, would she not?"

"You will be right outside the building?" asked Sayid after long thought.

"Absolutely," said Jalid, coming over and clapping Sayid on the back. The smile on Sayid's sweat-shiny face broke like a soap bubble.

"It is settled, then," called Jalid, throwing up his hands in celebration. "Sayid will be the one who has the honor of striking first. Come, let us order food from the room service before we are on our way. A well-fed warrior is a strong warrior."

And the others laughed boisterously. All except Sayid, who was suddenly not hungry at all.

The Vice-President did not feel hungry either.

He stared down at his plate. Rubber chicken and drykernel corn crowded a foil-wrapped baked potato. The potato was almost obliterated under a mound of sour cream. With a dessert spoon he tasted the sour cream and decided to pass on the rest. He wished just once one of these testimonial dinners would serve something different like mooshu pork or even barbecued ribs, Texas-style: If it wasn't rubber chicken, it was dry roast beef in greasy gravy. If it wasn't a shriveled potato, it was rice pilaf microwaved dry as sunflower seeds.

The Vice-President nudged the plate away and ordered black coffee, to which he added four heaping teaspoons of sugar to keep his energy level up.

From the podium, someone was speaking. For a moment he could not remember who it was. It had been like this for over a year now. He had lurched from group breakfasts to luncheons to dinners in smoke-filled halls, listening to a procession of politicians and giving speeches that, even though they were written by the best speech writers available, all sounded exactly like the speech before that, which had sounded like the one before that, and on and on, stretching back into the Vice-President's dim past-which on the campaign trail meant that misty period prior to six weeks ago.

The Vice-President sipped his coffee and tried to shut out the drone of the speechmaker, whom he recognized vaguely as the governor of the state. Exactly which state would come to him eventually.

It was all so boring. Except for that speech the other day. Where had that been? Oh, yeah, in New York State. It had been an improvisation in his schedule, that stop. He had ordered it over the objections of his campaign staff, who thought he could at least talk about national health care if he was going to speak in front of an insane asylum, or whatever it was that Folcroft Sanitarium was.

He did not tell them what Folcroft was. He did not tell them about the letter he had received, postmarked Seoul, South Korea, which explained in detail about a secret American agency known as CURE, operating from the cover of Folcroft Sanitarium.

He saw in the letter, true or not, an opportunity to make an important speech on covert activities. It was a perfect way of distancing himself from the problems of the current administration.

The Vice-President did not know whether or not to believe this Tulip who had signed the letter. But on the chance it was true, he had asked his people to see to it that Harold W. Smith himself introduced him to the audience.

Smith's refusal and his flustered behavior at the speech were as good as proof that CURE did exist. Why, the guy had actually tossed his cookies during the presentation. What was someone that nervous doing running a covert operation?

The Vice-President had briefly considered going to the President and getting the true poop, but decided against it. Revealing the truth about CURE in a major speech was also out of the question. He had no proof, and it would look too much like grandstanding just before the election. Better to wait until after the election. If he won, he would blow the whistle on the CURE program. It would be a great start-off for his administration and would once and for all put to bed the public perception that he was just a spear carrier for the current President.

One thing puzzled him, however. Just this morning the Democratic nominee had made a speech very similar to his own. He had made it before an American Medical Association conference, and although the Vice-President had not watched the speech, a transcript of it was shown to him and he noted that Michael Princippi had very specifically used the word "cure" several times during his speech.

His advisers had assured him that the Democratic nominee was merely copycatting his own speech, but the Vice-President was not so sure. He wondered if the Prince had also received a letter from Tulip.

And not for the first time he wondered who this Tulip person was. With a name like that, he sounded like a pansy. But these days you could never tell.

Someone nudged him and the Vice-President snapped out of his reverie.

"You're on, Mr. Vice-President. He's introducing you."

"Oh, right, of course," said the Vice-President, rising from his seat. He unbuttoned his coat on the way to the podium and carefully rebuttoned it as he said a quick thankyou into the microphone. His personal-style manager had told him that he dangled his arms like a scarecrow when he walked and that gave an image of a man with time on his hands, so ever since then he made it a point to button or unbutton his coat whenever he left or arrived someplace-even if it was merely walking from a table to a podium.

The audience applauded enthusiastically. He could hear them but he could not see them. They were an ocean of dim faces overwhelmed by the baleful eyes of the TV spotlights. He would not have known if his own wife was in the audience.

"I haven't had a welcome like this since the Iowa caucuses," said the Vice-President, who believed in working a well-received line to death.

The audience laughed and clapped boisterously. The Vice-President smiled into the exploding flashbulbs. He did not see the commotion at the door.

He heard the string of pop-pop-pops but they were not much louder than the flashbulbs.

The next thing he knew, the Secret Service men were all over him. Two agents pushed him to the floor, smothering him with their bodies. Others, placed in the audience with campaign supporters, reached for the handles of their briefcases with lightning motions. The cases fell apart, exposing stubby automatic weapons.

The firing was brief and sporadic.

Before the screaming subsided, the Vice-President was lifted to his feet and pushed out the back door like a drunk being thrown out of a motorcycle bar. They hustled him to his waiting limousine and the car left the area, its oil pan scraping sparks off the irregular pavement.

When he found his composure again, the Vice-President wanted to know just one thing.

"What the hell happened back there?"

"Assassin," clipped one of the agents. "But we got him, sir. Don't worry."

"If you got him, why'd you have to push me out of the Rotary Club like that?"

"It was a Lion's Club, sir."

"That's not the point. This is going to look terrible on the seven-o'clock news."

"Your dead body would have looked worse. Sir."

The Vice-President sat back in the leather cushions, feeling the starch go out of his legs.

He grabbed the receiver of the car phone and asked the mobile operator to connect him with the White House. "When you think we're safe, park this thing and stand outside. What I have to say to the President is for his ears only," the Vice-President said in a husky voice. Nobody shot at presidential candidates. Not without a reason. And the Vice-President thought he knew what that reason was.

Chapter 9

Dr. Harold W. Smith knew why the President was calling. He knew it before the dialless red telephone began ringing. Before the first ring, his computer terminal had beeped twice, indicating that urgent CURE-related data were being processed.

The computer had flashed on the screen a digest summary of decoded Secret Service message traffic, the gist of which was that the Vice-President had just escaped a near-assassination.

"Yes, Mr. President?" Smith said into the phone.

"Smith, I have to ask this question of you."

"Sir?"

"The Vice-President was nearly killed not fifteen minutes ago. They failed, whoever they were."

"Yes, I know. The first report just reached me. My understanding is that the situation is secure."

"Is it?" asked the President grimly.

"Sir?"

"Relative to our conversation the other day, you didn't order the Vice-President terminated, did you?"

Harold Smith came out of his chair in surprise, his lemony features gathering in horror. The red telephone fell off the desk and Smith had to catch it in his hands before the cord tore from the receiver and disconnected the line.

"Mr. President, I can assure you that terminating the Vice-President is not something this office would undertake except under the most extreme circumstance. If then."

"You have terminated people who had stumbled across your operation before."

"For the good of America. If CURE were to become known, it would be the same as admitting that the Constitution doesn't work. That America doesn't work. Yes, I have issued some distasteful orders in the past, but always within my operating parameters."

"The Vice-President's discovery of your operation isn't a threat? He has as much as given you notice that you will be shut down when he's elected."

"That's his privilege-if he is elected," Smith said stiffly. He was still on his feet.

"But if he's not, he becomes a target?"

"We've never faced that problem before," said Harold Smith slowly. "But I think, under the circumstances, we would trust him as we do the former presidents with whom we've worked before."

"Why don't you tell me about that, while we're on the subject? I'm about to become one of those former presidents, so I might as well know now what to expect. "

"Well, Mr. President, it's very simple. As long as a former chief executive keeps his own counsel, we do not interfere with him."

"Hasn't it occurred to you, Smith, that this leak might have come from a previous administration?"

"Yes, sir. But I think that possibility is a slim one."

"But you don't discount it?"

"Actually, I do."

"You sound rather sure of yourself," said the President suspiciously. "What do you do, spy on them for the rest of their lives?"

"No, Mr. President. But beyond that I cannot say. Security reasons."

"Very well, let's stay with the Vice-President for the moment. Is there any chance that your special person had anything to do with this?"

Smith started to say, "No sir," but stopped in midsyllable. He remembered his recent conversation with the Master of Sinanju.

"Just a moment, Mr. President," said Smith, and he capped his hand over the receiver because the red telephone did not have a hold button. Into his intercom he said, "Mrs. Mikulka, would you have someone check on the Alzheimer's patient in room fifty-five, Mr. Chiun. See if he is in his room or elsewhere on the premises."

When the answer came back, Smith breathed a sigh of relief. Mr. Chiun was in his room. He returned to the President.

"Sorry, Mr. President. Another important call. To answer your question, our special person does not operate unsanctioned. And he does not use weapons. My information is that the would-be assassin in Philadelphia used an automatic weapon."

"I see your point. But this still leaves us in a bad way. The Vice-President just phoned. He wanted to know if I had ordered him terminated because of that speech he gave the other day. The fellow is so scared he thinks his commander in chief wants him out of the picture."

"I'm sure that's just a nervous reaction. People who narrowly escape death often act irrationally for a brief time afterward. "

"I had to tell him I didn't know what he was talking about, which, of course, only made him more suspicious. Smith, I can't have the Vice-President thinking he's a target of his own government."

"Why don't I put my special person on it?" Smith offered. "If there's another attempt on the Vice-President's life, we'll be there to stop it."

"Maybe that will prove to him we're on the side of the angels. Okay, Smith. Go to it. Keep a low profile. If we can pull this off, we might be able to get the Vice-President to see the light."

"Yes, Mr. President. Thank you, sir," said Smith, hanging up.

Smith had no sooner settled into his chair then his secretary informed him that the head gardener wanted to see him.

"Who? Oh, send him in," said Smith, suddenly realizing whom she meant.

Remo Williams walked in, clutching a newspaper. "Smitty, I think you have a problem," Remo said worriedly.

"Whatever it is, it can wait. I have an assignment for Chiun."

"I was reading the paper," continued Remo. "Where is it now?" He rummaged through the newspaper, dropping sections all over the floor. "Here it is," said Remo, folding one page and laying it on Smith's desk.

"I thought you never read the papers," said Smith.

"I was catching up on the funnies," explained Remo. "I came across this little item."

Smith followed Remo's pointing finger.

"I'm surprised your computers didn't alert you to this one, Smitty," Remo said.

Smith read the headline: "PRINCIPPI PROMISES END TO COVERT OPERATIONS."

"The governor gave that speech the other day," Smith said flatly. But he read the lead paragraph anyway.

"Oh, my God," Smith said slowly.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Smitty?"

"Princippi knows too," Smith breathed.

"That's what I thought," said Remo. "The way he ended his speech with the line about curing the country. It just seemed odd to me. What do you mean, 'too'?" Remo said suddenly.

"The Vice-President knows," said Smith, glassy-eyed. He stared at the ceiling.

"Well, that isn't so terrible, is it? I mean, if anyone had to find out, those guys aren't exactly the worst possibilities."

"It's not who they are," Smith said. "It's where they learned about CURE-assuming that is the case."

"The President?"

"He assures me that he did not. And we know that none of the former presidents could have revealed the truth."

"Yeah," said Remo. "Chiun and I have seen to that. A quiet visit while they're sleeping and a simple pressure on a nerve in their temples. A few whispered words, and instant selective amnesia. They don't remember that CURE exists."

"No, the leak is not from our government, past or present. I feel confident about that much."

"What are you going to do about it? I know it won't matter to me and Chiun. We'll be out of here in another few days, but if CURE is terminated, you go down the tubes with it. Call me sentimental, but I'd hate to see that happen. "

"Thank you, Remo. It's very kind of you to say that."

"You know, Smitty," Remo said casually, "I used to hate you."

"I know."

"What you did to me-the frame for a killing I didn't do, the faked electric chair, the grave with my name on it-it was all pretty nasty."

"It was necessary. We needed a man who no longer existed because the organization would not officially exist."

"But it worked out. Look at me. I'm Sinanju now. Over in Korea I have a beautiful girl waiting for me and a house I built with my own hands. Everything is going to be all right. I feel pretty good about it. Oh, there were some rough times, but it's going to work out for me. I want it to work out for you too."

"Thank you, Remo," said Smith sincerely. He was uncomfortable with displays of emotion, but he and Remo had been through many trials together. It felt good to know that Remo no longer held a grudge. "Perhaps, Remo, you can do me a favor."

"What's that?"

"The Vice-President has just escaped an assassination attempt. I'm detailing Chiun to watch over him in case there is another incident. Could you pitch in?"

Remo considered. "Sounds like an easy gig. Okay, Smitty. One last assignment. A freebie."

"Thank you," said Smith. "I can't tell you how much this means to me."

"Just keep the submarine gassed up," said Remo, smiling. And he left the room whistling cheerfully.

Chapter 10

Security around Blair House was the tightest it had been since 1950, when Puerto Rican nationalists had tried to assassinate President Truman, who had been living there while the White House was undergoing renovation.

After the attempt on his life in Philadelphia, the Vice-President had been flown back to Washington to decompress. His private home was considered impossible to defend, so he had taken up residence at Blair House-where visiting heads of state usually stayed-across the street from the White House. Movable concrete barriers were placed in front of the ornate gray building to discourage car bombs, which were a favorite tactic of Middle Eastern terrorists. Snipers were deployed on the roof, and Secret Service agents patrolled the neighborhood, walkie-talkies in hand.

There had been no concrete identification made of the would-be assassin in Philadelphia. He had died at the scene. But he was believed to be a Middle Easterner, nationality unknown. It was assumed that the man had not acted alone because a taxi was seen leaving the scene. It was later found abandoned, its driver murdered in the back seat. A witness had come forward and described three Middle Eastern nationals who had been seen running from the car, and although a manhunt for persons of that type was immediately initiated, no trace of any accomplice was found. But the tentative identification of the dead attacker as Middle Eastern had galvanized the Secret Service. They were prepared for any terrorist attack on the Vice-President's life short of a tactical nuclear weapon.

They were not prepared for the two men who sauntered down Pennsylvania Avenue as if they owned it and all the land around it as far as the eye could see.

Secret Service Agent Orrin Snell received a routine notification when the two passed a Secret Service checkpoint near the George Washington University Hospital.

"Two subjects coming your way," the checkpoint told him via walkie-talkie.

"Descriptions?" Snell asked.

"Male Caucasian, about five-eleven, weight 155, brown on brown, and wearing a black T-shirt and gray chinos. Accompanied by a short male Oriental, balding, age approximately eighty."

"Describe Oriental's attire."

"Words fail me," said the checkpoint. "You'll know him when you see him. He's dressed like Pinky Lee."

"Like who?"

"Like Pee-Wee Herman."

"Oh," said Snell, understanding perfectly. The pair were just coming into view now. He sized up the Caucasian with a glance. No trouble from that quarter. The guy was obviously unarmed. The Oriental was very short and very old. He wore a red business suit that would have been well-tailored except that the sleeves flared like those of a mandarin's robes. He walked with his hands tucked into the sleeves so that they were unseen. There was plenty of room in those sleeves to conceal a pistol or a grenade.

Agent Snell drew his automatic from its shoulder holster reflexively. He was not taking any chances.

"Do not point that offensive thing at me," said the small Oriental in a squeaky voice.

"Hold on, Little Father. Let me handle this," the Caucasian said.

"Please stand perfectly still," Snell ordered. "I need backup here," he called into the walkie-talkie. Almost before the words were out of his mouth, two other agents came around the corner, pistols at the ready.

"What's the problem, pal?" the Caucasian asked.

"No problem, if you cooperate. I'd like your friend to take his hands out of his sleeves. Slowly."

"Is he crazed?" asked the Oriental of the taller man.

"Just do it. He looks nervous."

The Oriental shrugged and separated his sleeves, revealing what agent Snell at first mistook for a handful of needles. Then he realized he was looking at the longest fingernails he had ever seen in his life.

"Okay;" Snell said slowly. "I guess there's no problem." The other agents lowered their weapons.

"Excellent," said the Oriental brightly. "Now perhaps you can render us some assistance. We are seeking the residence of the President of Vice."

The pistols came back up.

"What do you want to know for?" asked Snell.

"We're tourists," said the Caucasian hastily.

"Tourists are not allowed into Blair House," said Snell.

"Our mistake," replied the Caucasian. "We'll be on our way now."

"I'll have to ask for identification before you go," Snell said.

The Caucasian turned his pockets inside out, showing empty linings.

"Must have left mine back in Peoria," he said.

"I am Chiun, Master of Sinanju. I carry no identification because all worthy persons know of me," the Oriental proclaimed.

"You don't have any identification either?" asked Snell.

"If you wish someone to vouch for me, ask your President. He knows me personally."

"He does?" said Snell, for a heart-stopping moment wondering if he had stopped a visiting dignitary.

"Yes," said the Oriental, returning his hands to his sleeves. "I saved his life once."

Behind the two men, one of the other agents mouthed a silent word: crackpots. Snell nodded.

"Why don't you just go on your way?" he said.

"That's what we were doing," said the Caucasian. Agent Orrin Snell watched them walk away.

"Talk about the odd couple," Snell joked, shaking his head. "Did you hear what he called the little guy-father. Okay, everybody back to your stations."

After his men had returned to their positions, Snell couldn't resist looking down the street after the strange pair. They were gone. Pennsylvania Avenue was deserted and there was no obvious place the pair could have gone. They were not across the street. He radioed to the next checkpoint.

"I've lost sight of a male Caucasian and an Oriental coming your way. Any contact?"

"Negative," was the reply.

Snell rushed up the Blair House steps and knocked on the ornate door in code.

Another agent poked out his head. "No problems?" Snell demanded.

"None. What do you have?"

"Nothing. Must be a false alarm. I'll be glad when this scare is over," he said, returning to the street. He took his usual position and wondered where the pair had gone. As long as they hadn't gone into Blair House, then it wasn't his problem, he decided.

Remo paused with his head just under the roof cornice of Blair House.

"Getting old, Little Father?" Remo called down. "You used to be the first one to the top."

The Master of Sinanju climbed around a window until he had reached Remo's level.

"I am not getting old," Chiun snapped. "It is these American clothes. They are not made for scaling."

"Maybe you should go back to kimonos," Remo suggested, grinning.

"Nonsense. I am in service to America. I will dress like an American. Did you see how I got us past that foolish guard without arousing his suspicions?"

"That's not how I remember it, Chiun. And if you don't lower your voice we're not going to get past the guards on the roof."

"There are guards on the roof?"

"Listen. You can hear them breathing."

The Master of Sinanju cocked a delicate ear. He nodded. "They will be easy to handle. One of them breathes like a bellows. A tobacco addict, I am sure."

"Why bother?" said Remo. "Let's go in a window."

"Do you have any special window in mind?" whispered Chiun. "I do not want to find myself in a lady's bedroom by mistake."

Remo grinned. "I'll see what I can do." And like a spider in its web, Remo slipped down the building's side until he found an unlit window. Clinging to the casement, he ran one fingernail around the edge of the pane. The glass squeaked like a nail being pulled from a tree.

Chiun joined him, hanging gingerly so that his fingernails were not chipped by the brick.

"If you would grow your nails to the proper length," he said, "you would not get that mouse-squeak sound."

"I can live with a little noise," said Remo, pressing his palm against the glass to test its resistance.

"No," admonished Chiun. "You could die from a little noise. "

"Right," said Remo. "Watch this." And he popped the glass in with a smack of his palm. The hand followed the glass in with eye-blurring speed. When Remo withdrew the hand, he held the glass pane between two fingers, intact.

"After you," said Remo, executing as much of a bow as he could, considering that he clung to the side of a building with one hand and both feet.

The Master of Sinanju slipped into the open frame like colored smoke drawn into an exhaust vent. Remo went in after him.

The room was dark. Remo set the pane on a long table and made for the illuminated outline of a door.

In the hall, the light was mellow. It came from brass wall lamps. The wallpaper was expensive and tasteful-but it was almost as thick as the rug. There was a still air about the hall usually found in museums.

Remo went first. He had no idea where the Vice-President would be quartered and said so.

"Pah!" said Chiun. "It is simple. Look for the largest concentration of guards. Then look for the nearest locked door. Behind it we will find the one we seek."

"What happens if they see us first?"

"A good assassin is never seen first," Chiun said, leading the way.

The entire floor was deserted. "Up or down?" asked Remo. "Most rulers equate height with safety," said Chiun.

"Then it's up," said Remo, starting for the stairs.

"But when one's life is in danger, the closer one is to the ground, the quicker one can escape an attack. "

Remo stopped in his tracks. "Down?"

"Do not be in a rush. I am trying to think like an American," said Chiun, tugging at his wispy beard. "Now, if I were an American, what would I do in a situation like this?"

"Send out for pizza?"

"Do not jest, Remo. This is serious. I am trying to acclimate myself to this country."

"What's the point? This is our last assignment. After this, we're free and clear."

"That, no doubt, is the reason for your high spirits tonight."

"I feel like the world is my oyster," Remo said.

"Oyster, beware the crab," intoned Chiun, listening.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means we go up. I hear the buzz of voices above. We will find the American President of Vice there."

"Vice-President," Remo corrected.

"Possibly him too."

The Vice-President had fallen asleep in an overstuffed chair beside a four-poster bed, the latest poll results in his lap.

He awoke to a gentle tapping on his shoulder. "Huh? What?" he said mushily.

"Sorry to wake you up," a cool voice said.

Standing before him were two men-a white man and a little Oriental guy in a red suit and green tie that made him resemble one of Santa's helpers at a prom.

"Who? What?"

"He is not very articulate for a leader," said the Oriental. "Possibly we have the wrong person."

"Smith sent us," the white guy said. "You know who we mean when we say Smith?"

"You're here to kill me," said the Vice-President in horror.

"He knows, all right," the Caucasian muttered.

"No, O possible future ruler," said the Oriental. "We are here to see that no harm comes to you."

"Where are my bodyguards?"

"Sleeping," said the white man. "I didn't want them interrupting. By the way, I'm Remo and this is Chiun. We work for Smith, although that won't be the case if or when you're elected."

"That is still subject to discussion," Chiun interjected hastily.

"No, it's not," Remo said.

"Do not listen to him. He is lovesick for a woman he barely knows."

"I've known Mah-Li for a year now," Remo said. And the two of them leapt into an argument in some singsong language.

The Vice-President started to ease himself out of the chair. The white man, Remo, seeing him move, reached out a hand and touched him on the side of the neck. Open-mouthed, the Vice-President froze in position, half in and half out of the chair, while the two argued on, oblivious of his discomfort.

"And that's final," said Remo in English when the argument finally ran its course.

"You wish," retorted Chiun.

Remo turned back to the Vice-President.

"Now, where were we? Oh, yeah. It's like this. Chiun and I don't have any stake in your election or in CURE because we're going back to Korea soon. Smith asked us to protect you before we go. That's why we're here. But I thought I'd put in a good word for Smith while we're here. He's really a nice guy when you get to know him. And he's pretty good with the taxpayers' money. Tight-fisted, you know."

"But generous where it counts," added Chiun.

"We want you to know he's not behind the attack on your life, and to prove it and to prove how effective the operation is, we're going to stay with you until we're sure there won't be another attack on your life. That clear?"

The Vice-President tried to nod. He could not move. His feet tingled and he was sure they were falling asleep. "Oh, sorry," said Remo, reaching out to massage the throat nerve that sent the Vice-President collapsing into his seat. "How's that?"

"Sinanju?" the Vice-President asked huskily.

"You know about that too?" asked Chiun curiously.

"Yes. It was all in the letter."

"What letter told you about Sinanju?" demanded Chiun.

"The one signed Tulip."

Remo turned to Chiun. "Do you know any Tulip?"

"No. I would not have for a friend one who would call himself that. We will ask Smith. Possibly he knows this Tulip."

"Why don't you both go do that little thing?" the Vice-President suggested. "I would like to get some sleep, if you don't mind."

"Sure," said Remo. "We just wanted you to know we were on the job."

"Fine. Consider it written down in my diary."

"We'll be outside if you need us," said Remo, heading for the door. The Master of Sinanju followed him.

Remo paused in the doorway. "You won't forget what I said about Smith and the operation, will you?"

"Never," promised the Vice-President.

"Great," said Remo, giving the Vice-President an A-okay sign with his fingers.

When the door shut, the Vice-President looked for a telephone. He'd get help down here so fast those two would never know what happened. But he saw no telephone in the bedroom. Frantically he looked everywhere. In the side tables, by the window, even under the bed. Finally he realized there wasn't one.

Doffing his bathrobe, the Vice-President crawled into the bed and tried to sleep. Come morning, the Secret Service shift would be changed. Then those two would see what they were in for. And Smith would too. National security be damned. Dr. Harold W. Smith had overstepped himself this time and the Vice-President was going to see that man clapped in a federal cell if it was his last official act as Vice-President.

Chapter 11

Secret Service agent Orrin Snell knew how to read the street. He was trained to zero in on the subtle details that never registered on the ordinary person. The little things that were out of place or not quite right. A man walking with his hand hovering instead of hanging limp meant that that person carried a sidearm and was prepared to use it. A furtive walk meant a man who feared notice or pursuit. A car moving too slowly could mean anything, but one moving too fast could only mean trouble.

Agent Snell could hear trouble coming four blocks away. He knew it even before his walkie-talkie crackled the message.

"Late-model Ford coming at you at a high rate of speed. Two males in the front, no further description."

"Backup!" Snell barked, dropping into a crouch behind the concrete barriers on the curb. He set his walkie-talkie down at his feet and pulled his revolver, holding it double-handed.

The car squealed to a stop, fishtailing. Its doors banged open and two men in dungaree jackets and colorful kaffiyehs masking their faces exploded out of either side. They carried Uzis.

Agent Snell called for them to drop their weapons. That was his mistake.

A hand grenade arched up from one of the attackers' hands and landed behind him, bouncing twice before it detonated.

Snell felt nothing at first. Then there was a crushing noise and his top of his head seemed to squeeze in on itself. When he opened his eyes, he was on his back, his head somehow resting against a concrete barrier so that he was looking down at himself.

His legs resembled twin meatball sandwiches in the torn wrappers of his trousers. The right one was doubled under his thigh. he could not move either leg. He groped for his revolver, but it was nowhere to be found.

At that moment his backups arrived from around the corner. They stopped, took in the sight of agent Snell bleeding on the sidewalk, and their faces registered the shock of what they saw.

Snell tried to shout at them. Don't look at me, you idiots. Get the ones who did this. What's the matter with you? No words came.

Then two figures jumped from behind the barriers and cut both agents down.

The two attackers went for Blair House's massive double doors. They applied a plastic charge to the lock, jumped back, and waited for the explosion.

A mushy whoom came and the doors fell in.

The two terrorists followed the doors inside, their kaffiyehs protecting them against the smoke and swirling plaster dust.

On the ground, Orrin Snell tried to find his gun. His hand brushed something. Through pain-racked eyes he saw that it was his walkie-talkie. He fumbled it onto his chest.

"Two men . . . Uzis . . . inside front door. Stop them," he muttered painfully.

Static answered him. And there was no sound of returning fire from inside Blair House.

What was the matter with them? Snell thought dazedly. Why weren't the inner guards responding? Were they all asleep?

"Still asleep," said Remo, peeking into the room.

He rejoined Chiun in the hall. The Master of Sinanju sat on an antique chair. A long scroll lay in his lap.

"What's that you're working on?" Remo asked.

"Nothing," said Chiun absently, shifting in his chair so that Remo could not see what he was writing.

"Looks like one of your histories, but I know you left them all back in Sinanju."

"Correct," said Chiun.

"Then what?"

"It is none of your business."

"If it's not a history scroll, then it's gotta be a contract scroll."

"What makes you say that?"

"The ribbon you untied from it. It's blue. Aren't Sinanju contracts tied with blue ribbons?"

"So are the birth announcements of the offspring of Sinanju Masters."

"Then it's a contract," Remo said.

"Do not be so quick to assume," said the Master of Sinanju.

"You'd deny it if it weren't. Look, Chiun, I hope you're not cooking up some new scheme to keep us in America. I'm telling you right now that it won't work,"

"Why not? It worked last time."

"Aha! So you admit last time was a trick?"

"You are just catching on now, Remo my son? You are duller of mind than I thought. Perhaps you need more stimulating work to sharpen your skills. Weeding has made you soft-witted. "

"I only did that once. So what are you doing-looking over the last contract for loopholes?"

"I am trying, but the traffic noise is very bad."

"Yeah, I heard the tires screeching too. Teenagers, probably."

From the end of the corridor there came the dull whump of a muffled explosion.

"What was that?" asked Remo, stiffening.

The Master of Sinanju was on his feet, rolling the scroll and tying its ribbon with a complicated two-handed motion. He tossed it onto the chair.

"Intruders," he snapped. "Let us welcome them."

It had worked perfectly so far, thought Rafik. He and Ismat had penetrated Blair House with almost no resistance. As he bounded up the stairs, he could not believe how lax the security was. He and Ismat worked through the ground floor, room to room, reckless and ready to shoot. They found no guards on the ground floor and climbed the stairs to the second floor.

They found someone here.

There were two of them. A casually dressed white man and an older, almost tiny Oriental. Neither seemed to be armed.

"Look, Little Father," the taller one said conversationally. "Visitors."

"Shall I make tea?" asked the Oriental, just as casually.

"Let's see how many lumps of sugar they want, first."

"I will let you ask them, for I am an old man, frail in health, and I do not wish to tax myself walking down this long corridor to converse with them. Besides, you need the exercise and not I. "

Rafik decided to take them alive. They would tell where the American leader could be found and save him valuable search time.

"Stand where you are," Rafik ordered, pointing his weapon. In spite of the warning, the American walked toward him, while the Oriental disappeared through a side door.

"I said stop," Rafik repeated.

"Do we shoot him?" asked Ismat.

"No," hissed Rafik. "He is unarmed. We will take him easily. "

"How do you folks like your tea?" asked the American. His smile was cruel, almost arrogant in his wide-cheekboned face.

Rafik decided to shoot him once in the leg. That would cool his bravado. And get him talking. He snapped off a low shot.

A long rip appeared in the hall runner between the man's shoes.

"You missed," Ismat hissed. "I will not miss again."

And he did not, because even though the white American had been at the other end of the hall, suddenly he was in Rafik's face. It was as if Rafik had been looking at him through a camera and accidentally tripped the zoom lens.

Rafik knew he could not miss at this range. He pulled the trigger. And felt himself being turned in place. When he felt the recoil of the Uzi, he was no longer looking at the dead eyes of the white American but into Ismat's shocked face.

"You . . . shot . . . me," Ismat moaned. He fell to the floor, twitching.

"You made me shoot my comrade," Rafik spat at the white.

"There are worse things," the American said casually. In his hand he had Rakik's own Uzi and was methodically field-stripping it. The trouble was, he obviously did not know how to take apart a fine weapon like the Uzi because he removed whole sections without disengaging them properly. The Uzi made strange cracking sounds and then fell in pieces onto the rug.

Rafik knew that he was no match for hands that could dismember a pistol like that. He plucked a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin with his strong teeth, and yelled the words that usually quashed all resistance during airliner hijackings: "If I die, we will all die!"

Rafik had no intention of dying. He had not let go of the safety spoon. The grenade would not explode until he did. He expected the mere threat of the grenade to trick the man into letting him back out of the building to the car.

But before he could edge away, the man's hands clutched his upraised wrist. The other hand twisted his thumb in its socket. The safety spoon fell to the floor.

Rafik tried to let go of the grenade. He could not. His hand was frozen around it. Then the man slapped him down onto the floor. Rafik fell still clutching the grenade under him.

He tried to push himself up, but the man was standing on his back, holding him on the ground. The grenade dug into his stomach.

Then the grenade went off.

Under Remo's feet, the terrorist jumped. When he settled back on the rug, Remo stepped off the body. The man lay limp, but there was a pool of blood seeping from under him. His body had absorbed the force of the explosion.

The Master of Sinanju stepped out into the hall. "How many lumps?" he asked.

"None. They're not thirsty," said Remo. "That one is ruining the rug."

"Not my fault. He pulled a grenade. If I'd handled it any other way, the shrapnel would have ruined the hall, not just the rug."

Chiun approached. "Did he say who hired him?"

"No. He didn't have time."

"Then you bungled. Never dispatch a source of information until the source gives up what he knows."

"Yeah, well, if you're so smart, why didn't you handle it? I'm just along for the scenery this time out."

''I was making tea," Chiun said haughtily.

Jalid Kumquatti waited until Rafik and Ismat went in the front door before he came out of hiding in the car's back seat.

The street was empty of life. He vaulted the antiterrorist barriers and went around the back. There were no guards there. He had not expected to find any. They had all been drawn to the street, where his Hezbollahi brothers had eliminated them.

Jalid had waited long enough. When Rafik and Ismat did not return to the car, he knew that either they had run into trouble or the search for the Vice-President had taken longer than expected. He decided the situation needed his fine hand. He wondered if Rafik and Ismat were dead. If they were, it would mean more money for him.

Jalid went in through a window. He wrapped the tail of his kaffiyeh around his eyes to protect them from splintering glass and took a running jump. He went in headfirst. He rolled as he hit the floor and landed on his feet. He sprang for the door.

There was a tiny elevator immediately outside the hall. He leapt for it, and luckily the rickety doors opened when he touched the button. He rode the cage to the top and got out. It would be easier to work his way down, searching for his target, than to fight his way to the upper floors and then back down again.

The third door opened on a room full of sleeping men. Jalid knew they were American Secret Service agents because they wore sunglasses and gray suits even in slumber. He lifted his Kalashnikov assault rifle to spray the room, but on second thought realized that that would be a waste of bullets.

The agents were dead. They had to be. Six of them were stacked on a big canopied bed, their hands and feet dangling off the edges. Others lay about on the floor. There was no mark on any of them, which was odd because neither Rafik nor Ismat had carried any kind of gas. Perhaps, he thought as he closed the door, they had garroted the agents one at a time. Perhaps that was what had been keeping them so long.

Then it was only a matter of time before he would find Rafik and Ismat and their target, the Vice-President.

Jalid burst into the next room. Empty. He went on to the one across the hall. It too was empty. Outside the next room there was an antique chair on which rested a roll of parchment tied by a blue ribbon.

Jalid kicked the door in. The lock gave on the first kick. The room was dark. He swiped his big hands along the inside wall until he encountered a light switch.

The burst of illumination showed a very sleepy man suddenly sitting straight up in bed. Jalid recognized the famous boyishly mature face.

"Who? What?" the Vice-President said sleepily.

Jalid smiled. He would get the credit for this kill after all.

Remo heard the crash of glass. Chiun looked at him. "There are others," Chiun said. "Quickly, we must protect our charge, who is possibly our next employer."

"Let's go."

Remo dashed for the elevator. He pressed the button. Too late. The cage rattled past their floor without stopping. "Someone's on the elevator," Remo said.

The Master of Sinanju bounded for the stairs, Remo hot on his heels.

"If we fail, this will be your fault," Chiun said.

"Can it, Chiun. We won't fail."

On the top floor they saw that the Vice-President's bedroom door was open and spilling light into the hall.

From within there came the brief burst of automatic-weapon fire.

"Aaeeie!" Chiun wailed. "We are too late!"

A dungaree-clad man bounced backward out of the room. He slammed against the far wall, momentarily stunned. Recovering, he leaned into the wall and lifted his Kalashnikov to fire into the bedroom.

He never got off a shot.

A man leapt gracefully out of the bedroom, landed before him, and, spinning on one foot, sent the other shooting out at shoulder level. The terrorist's head snapped one way, then back the other when the kick reversed itself. The Kalashnikov clattered to the floor.

The terrorist stared stupidly for the space of a heartbeat, then an openhanded thrust snapped his neck. He slid down the wall into an inert heap.

The man who had vanquished the terrorist turned to face Remo and Chiun.

They saw that he was tall, with the broad, tanned face of a California surfer. His green eyes laughed. He wore a white gi, such as karate fighters wore, with the traditional black belt around his thick middle.

"Who are you supposed to be?" Remo asked.

"Call me Adonis. It is my official code designation. I am here to protect the Vice-President's life."

"And a great job you did of it, too," said the Vice-President, stumbling out of the bedroom in peppermint pajamas. He looked at Remo and Chiun. "Where were you two when all this was going on?"

"Taking care of the two terrorists who came in the front," Remo said defensively.

"Is that a fact? Well, if this fellow here hadn't crashed in through the window, I'd be dead meat now. The killer had me dead to rights." The Vice-President turned to his rescuer.

"I'd like to shake your hand," he said warmly.

The man called Adonis bowed deeply. When he came up, he shook hands heartily. The Vice-President noticed his broad shoulders and bronzed healthy face. He compared them against Remo's skinny physique and Chiun's diminutive stature.

"Now, this is my idea of a real bodyguard," he said.

"Don't forget we helped too," Remo pointed out. "We got the two downstairs."

"Yeah, right," said the Vice-President, turning his back on them. "That was some fancy footwork you did there, son. What was it-karate?"

"No, kung fu."

The Master of Sinanju spat on the floor. "Stolen from us," he said.

"Maybe so," said the Vice-President. "But it looks like he improved upon the original."

"A fluke," hissed Chiun. "Why, with my finger, I could render this pretty boy a writhing bag of suet. Look at him. He is fat."

"Looks like muscle to me," said the Vice-President. "Who sent you, my friend?"

"I will tell you later, when there is no one to overhear us," Adonis said, nodding in Remo and Chiun's direction. Remo and Chiun exchanged glances.

"Say the word, Little Father, and I'll settle this guy's hash," Remo growled.

The Vice-President said, "You'll do nothing of the kind. This man has been sent here to guard me. He's proven he can do it. You two get lost. I don't need you anymore."

"We are charged with protecting your person," said the Master of Sinanju, drawing himself up proudly.

"You're through, washed up. You're both has-beens. Tell Smith I said that. And tell him there'll be an investigation of this business. I don't think it's a coincidence that you two immobilized my Secret Service protection just before I was attacked. This whole thing smells like a setup to me. Take out my bodyguards with one hand while you let in the assassins with the other."

The Master of Sinanju puffed out his cheeks in anger. "He has insulted Sinanju!" he cried. "For that I will-"

Remo got in his way. "No, Little Father. Do you want to make things worse?"

"There, see! The little guy wants to kill me!" the Vice-President said triumphantly. "That's proof."

Adonis stepped in front of the Master of Sinanju. "Do not fear. He will not harm a hair on your head as long as I'm here."

"The final insult," said Chiun, practically jumping up and down. "A kung-fu dancer threatens the Master of Sinanju!"

Remo took Chiun by his frail shoulders.

"Calm down, will you?" he pleaded. "Look, let's just go. We're not wanted here."

"You are not needed here, either," Adonis taunted.

"We'll see about you later," said Remo, guiding Chiun to the elevator.

"Be sure to tuck him in. He looks very old," Adonis called mockingly.

Remo had to use all his strength to get the Master of Sinanju into the elevator. He wondered how he was going to explain this to Smith.

Chapter 12

"We are disgraced," said the Master of Sinanju.

"Cut it out, Chiun. I don't want to hear it."

They were walking along Pennsylvania Avenue. Remo found a phone booth near the Treasury Building.

"Hold on," Remo said, slipping into the booth.

The Master of Sinanju looked at him critically. "What are you doing?"

"Reporting to Smith."

Chiun snatched the phone out of Remo's hands and severed the cord with a vicious fingernail slice.

"Chiun!" Remo said.

"Are you mad? Report to Smith!"

"What else do you want me to do? We report to Smith. He tells us what we should do next."

"Tell him! Tell him what?"

"Why, what happened, of course."

"The truth! You are mad. In the history of Sinanju, no Master has ever told the complete truth to an emperor. It is unheard of."

"You want me to lie?"

"No, but in situations such as this, one must be diplomatic. "

"You want me to lie, " said Remo, looking for another phone. There was one adjoining the first booth.

"I do not want you to lie," said Chiun. "But I think we should not jump into the truth too swiftly, like a foolish man who wades out into a treacherous surf, unaware of currents and drop-offs. "

Remo lifted the receiver. Then he remembered that he didn't have a quarter on him. In fact, he had no money at all. He turned to the Master of Sinanju and instantly dismissed the idea of asking him directly for the quarter.

"Tell you what, Little Father," Remo said solicitously. "You make the call."

"I will. But let us get our story straight before we plunge in. "

"Tell him whatever you want," said Remo, handing Chiun the receiver.

"I do not know the stupid codes," said Chiun.

"Make you a deal. You put the quarter in the slot and I'll work the security code."

"Done," said the Master of Sinanju, removing a red wallet from an inside pocket and extracting a quarter from it. He dropped the coin in the slot, holding the receiver tight to one ear while Remo punched the buttons.

Remo always hated the codes. He could never remember them, and since he was no longer an official CURE employee, he no longer tried. The last time he had used the code, it had been a continuous one. Remo pressed the one button and held it down. He asked Chiun, "Have you got him yet? He should be coming on about now."

"No," said the Master of Sinanju. "I am instead listening to some woman claiming to tell me the correct time. She is off by two seconds." Chiun hung up.

"What'd you hang up for? That was Smith."

"Has Smith become a woman?"

"No, the telephone signal goes through the phone system's correct-time service. Smith comes on after the weather."

"He should have come on before the woman."

"Let's try again, shall we?"

"Your quarter this time," said Chiun.

"I'll have to owe it to you," sighed Remo.

"And I will have to charge you interest," countered Chiun, dropping another quarter into the slot. Remo leaned on the one button. After a moment Chiun began to chatter anxiously.

"It is not my fault, Emperor Smith. I tried. Even Remo tried. We could not help what happened. I hope you will keep our past record of success in mind at the next contract signing, for when deciding such important matters it is always wise to keep the total service of a Master of Sinanju in mind."

"What are you telling him?" asked Remo, grabbing the phone. "What happened to breaking the news gently?"

"I am beside myself with worry. Never has such a thing happened."

"Right," said Remo. Into the phone he said, "Hello, Smitty? "

Harold Smith's voice was dead and flat like that of a man speaking from the grave.

"Remo, please don't tell me that the Vice-President is dead."

"No, he's not dead," Remo said. "How badly is he wounded?"

"He's not."

"Then what was Chiun babbling about?" Smith wanted to know, his voice rising.

"I'll make it short," Remo said. "There was another attack. Middle Easterners again. Chiun and I got two of them, but one got past us."

"Around us," Chiun said loudly enough to be heard three blocks away. "He did not get past us."

"He got to the Vice-President before we could. Then someone else got to him. Some muscle-bound kung-fu clown. "

"As fierce a warrior as I have ever before seen," yelled Chiun. "Swift he was, and deadly of hand and eye. Also, he cheated. He climbed in through a window instead of using the front door like a civilized bodyguard."

Remo just looked at Chin blankly. Chiun subsided into silence.

"As I was saying," Remo went on, still looking at Chiun's worried face, "this guy beat us to the punch. He took out the last killer. Claimed he's the Vice-President's new bodyguard, but wouldn't say who sent him until we were out of the room."

"I see," said Smith. "I assume you're calling from Blair House to request an identity check on this new element?"

"Not exactly," said Remo. "We're out on the street. The Vice-President kicked us out."

"Kicked-"

"Yeah, he thought this kung-fu surfer was great shakes. He also thinks we took out his Secret Service protection just so the terrorists could get a clear shot at him. I think he blamed you, Smitty."

"Me?" Smith's voice was sick.

"He was yelling about an investigation, charges. Says we're all washed up."

"Think of plausibility," yelled Chiun. "It is not too late. I will be as your Colonel South. I have many neat ideas."

"What are you babbling about?" asked Remo.

"It is not of your concern, unemployed person," Chiun sniffed.

"What was he talking about, Smitty?" asked Remo. "Who's this Colonel South? The blond guy, Adonis?"

"No. Never mind," Smith sighed.

"What do we do now, Smitty? We were kicked out, but we take our orders from you. Do we go back in and mop up this guy, or what?"

"I think under the circumstances if the attackers have been eliminated, we might leave the Vice-President in the hands of this new person. You say he's competent?"

"He was fast, I'll give him that much."

"But he was fat," said Chiun. "He is not like us, Emperor, mean and lean. We are the sizzling bacon of the Constitution. "

Remo glared at Chiun again. "I wish you'd make up your mind," he said.

"I am negotiating the treacherous surf," Chiun whispered. "Try it sometime. You will get less brine in your mouth."

"Right, brine," said Remo.

"Anything else?" asked Smith.

"No," said Remo in a distant voice. Then, suddenly. "Yes. Actually, there is. We found out where the Vice-President learned about CURE. He says he got a letter from someone who knew all about the operation. And about Sinanju too."

"Any identification on this letter writer?"

"The Vice-President had no idea. Said the letter was signed 'Tulip.' "

"A letter," Smith said slowly. Through the receiver came the tapping of computer-terminal keys.

"While you're fiddling with your files," Remo said, "how about we come back? We're as useless as sponge boys in a cathouse down here."

"Speak for yourself, sponge boy," Chiun said haughtily.

"No," said Smith. "Wait, I'm calling up the current whereabouts of Michael Princippi."

"He's calling up the current whereabouts of Michael Princippi," Remo told Chiun, who was tugging on Remo's belt, demanding to know what was happening.

"Good," said Chiun firmly. In a softer voice he asked, "Who is that?"

"Chiun wants to know who Michael Princippi is," Remo said into the phone.

"I did not!" snapped Chiun. "Of course I know the famous black American singer."

"I think you're thinking of the wrong Michael. Or the wrong Prince. I'm not sure which," said Remo. "But the name sounds familiar somehow."

"Michael Princippi is the Democratic nominee for President," Smith said. "Surely you remember, Remo. You showed me an article concerning him only this afternoon."

"Oh, yeah," said Remo. "I forgot. Why should we care where that guy is?"

"If the Vice-President's source for his information on CURE is this Tulip, it follows that Princippi may have also received a letter from this man. Princippi has returned to his office in his home state. Fly there immediately. Identify yourself as CURE personnel and politely but firmly ask about any letters he might have received from Tulip. Find out all you can, Remo. If there is a letter, confiscate it. Maybe it will tell us something."

"Gotcha," Remo said. "Anything else, Smitty?"

"Good luck. As of now, CURE is hanging by a thread." Remo hung up.

"What did he say?" Chiun asked plaintively.

"He said CURE is hanging by a thread."

"Then let us be as flashing needles, moving swiftly to strengthen that thread, " Chiun said, fluttering his fingernails dangerously.

"I thought we were negotiating a treacherous surf."

"That was earlier," said Chiun. "You should stay current. "

"I'd settle for staying sane," said Remo, rolling his eyes to the heavens.

Chapter 13

Michael Princippi liked to consider himself a common man. During his two terms as governor, he had disdained the trappings of high office. Every day, he faithfully took the trolley to work. When he did have to drive, he used his wife's 1979 station wagon. His office in the State House was furnished with government issue. His campaign literature emphasized his frugal and levelheaded approach to government and characterized him as the son of simple immigrants who just happened to rise to the highest office in his state, and who felt that the highest office in the land was not above his reach.

Those who knew him well knew that Michael Princippi's "frugality" was a nice way of saying the guy was cheap. He was so levelheaded he put fund-raising audiences to sleep, and while he was indeed the son of simple immigrants, he always forgot to mention that his simple parents arrived in America very, very wealthy.

His advisers tried to convince Governor Princippi that his everyman approach was fine for state politics, but ineffective for someone with his eyes on the Oval Office. It wasn't presidential to drive a junkbox, eat lunch out of a brown bag, or to continue to live on a shabbily genteel street where parking spaces were secured by leaving an empty trashcan out by the curb. But Michael Princippi was stubborn. He did not believe in perks or privileges. He would not budge.

Not even when the federal government had insisted on assigning a Secret Service detail to watch over him after he had captured the Democratic nomination for President. "No way," he had said.

"It's for your protection, sir."

"I appreciate that. But I have state troopers who guard my office. I stopped taking the trolley. You know it costs me almost double? Gas isn't cheap. But I don't need extra protection. I'm the Prince of Politics. The people love me." The Secret Service had been adamant. But so was Governor Michael Princippi. He won.

As a consequence, when he walked into his office at 6:27 A.M., he was alone. Not even his secretary was at her reception desk.

Governor Princippi dropped behind his desk and picked through his latest position papers. With the polls showing the two presidential aspirants virtually neck-and-neck, it was all going to come down to the big election-eve debate in a few days, and Michael Princippi was not going to lose the election because he was not up on the issues.

Governor Princippi had no time to react to the knock at his heavy office door. The door opened before he could say "come in."

He felt a very brief stab of regret about turning down Secret Service protection, but it went away when he saw that the persons entering were obviously no threat to him.

Standing in the doorway was a tall man and a shorter, older Oriental. The man was obviously unarmed and the Oriental was ancient.

"How did you two get in?" Michael Princippi asked pointedly.

"We walked in," the tall man informed him.

"I mean into the State House, not this office. There are guards."

"Pah!" said the Oriental. "You call those guards? They are not guards. They did not notice us entering. We are guards. Also assassins."

"What!" Governor Princippi's busy eyebrows jumped in surprise.

"He didn't mean it like that. Sit down, Mr. Governor. I'm Remo. This is Chiun. Smith sent us."

"Smith? Oh, that Smith."

"Yeah, we're with CURE. You do know about CURE, don't you?"

"Perhaps," said Michael Princippi guardedly. "If you are who you say you are, you'll have identification on you." Remo and Chiun exchanged glances.

"Actually, no," Remo admitted.

"No identification? What kind of an organization does not provide its agents with identification?"

Chiun raised a wise finger. "A secret organization," he said.

"The organization isn't supposed to exist, remember?" Remo said. "Or didn't Tulip mention that part?"

"He might have," Governor Princippi said, rolling a pencil between his fingers. "But how do I know that you are who you say you are?"

"Look," said Remo. "Before this mess, we never walked in and identified ourselves like this. We just sort of slid in and out. I used to carry all sorts of fake ID, but technically I'm retired from CURE."

"I would show you my American Express Gold Card," said Chiun, "but, alas, it was taken from me."

"I see," said Governor Princippi slowly.

"You could call Smith," Remo suggested. "He'll vouch for us."

"And how would I know I was talking to this Smith? I've never met him. I don't know his voice."

"He has a point, Little Father," Remo told the Master of Sinanju.

"There are other ways of identifying oneself," Chiun snapped. "Is that an orange sitting on your desk?" he asked Governor Princippi.

"Yes. My breakfast."

"You have heard of Sinanju. The letter told you that much?"

"Possibly. "

"Then be so good as to toss the orange to me." Michael Princippi shrugged. What did he have to lose? He flipped the orange with an underhand toss.

It landed, spinning, on the tip of the Oriental's raised index finger. The Oriental dipped his hand and the orange shifted on its axis. In a twinkling, the orange blurred.

Something flashed across the room and plopped onto the governor's government-issue desk. Michael Princippi looked. It was an orange peel as long as his arm. He picked it up. It hung in one piece, a corkscrew of orange peel.

When he looked up, the orange was still spinning on the Oriental's fingertip. It was without its skin.

"Here," said the one called Chiun.

Michael Princippi caught the tossed orange. He examined it. The translucent inner skin was unbroken.

"Satisfied?" Remo asked.

"A nice trick," Governor Princippi admitted. "But hardly proof of anything."

"Have you any enemies?" asked Chiun politely.

"Every politician has enemies."

"Merely choose one and we will dispatch him as my ancestors once slew the infidels of ancient Persia."

"Slay?"

"Consider it an offering toward future employment, should you assume the throne of this fine nation."

"He doesn't mean that, either," Remo said hastily. "This isn't how you negotiate with rulers in this country, Little Father. "

"Hush, Remo. I know how to deal with rulers."

"If there is something specific I can do for you, be good enough to state it plainly," said Governor Princippi. "I am very busy."

"We'd like to see the letter Tulip sent you."

"Out of the question."

"Why?"

"I do not share my personal correspondence with others. Especially people who don't carry identification."

"Then you still have it?" suggested Chiun.

Michael Princippi hesitated. His eyes darted to his open briefcase. "Possibly," he said.

"That is all we need to know," said Chiun. "Come, Remo. "

"Wait a minute, Little Father, We're not done here."

"I think you are," said Michael Princippi.

"Listen to the man, your possible future employer," Chiun told Remo as he tugged him toward the door. He paused to speak parting words to the governor. "We are going now. May you have much success in your quest for power, and always remember, a good assassin is the true power behind the throne. And among good assassins the name of Sinanju rises above all the others."

"It's not like it sounds," said Remo, closing the door. "We're really nice people. Smith too. Please keep that in mind, just in case."

"Come, Remo," said Chiun.

Remo closed the door after him.

Out in the corridor, Remo stopped the Master of Sinanju. "Why'd you yank me out of there like that? Smith wants that letter. You could have at least let me keep talking."

"A waste of time," said the Master of Sinanju. "I know where the letter is."

"You do?"

"I am constantly surprised by your astonishment over my amazing powers," said Chiun.

"Huh?"

"Never mind," said Chiun. "You have just solved that riddle for me. I will explain. Did you notice that man's eyes when I asked him if he still had the letter?"

"Not particularly."

"They sought his briefcase. The letter is in that."

"That doesn't put it in our hands."

"No, but it makes our task easier. We will steal the letter."

"Is that a good idea?" Remo asked.

"Success is always a good idea. We will wait until nightfall. Then we will return and rescue the letter for Smith."

"If you say so, Little Father," said Remo as they walked out the front of the State House. State troopers regarded them curiously. "But what do we do in the meantime?"

"We will find a quiet place to sit," said Chiun, extracting the blue-ribboned parchment scroll from inside his coat. "I have an important matter to attend to."

"Want help?" asked Remo, looking at the scroll with a puzzled expression.

"Yes," said Chiun, spotting an empty bench in front of the building. "You can shoo the pigeons away so that I may concentrate. "

"That wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

"How can you tell?" cackled Chiun as he settled onto the bench. "Its emptiness is so vast. Heh, heh. Its emptiness is so vast. Heh heh."

Chapter 14

Antonio Serrano thought he was big-time.

He ruled Trenton Street. He had ruled it since his fifteenth birthday, last December 17. He hoped to rule it when he turned sixteen. Beyond that, who knew? On Trenton Street, even the rulers did not make it much past sixteen, not without moving from the neighborhood.

Antonio Serrano could have moved. He made over one thousand dollars a week. He drove a green Cadillac convertible that cornered liked a parade float. He had plenty of girls. Good-looking girls with plenty of blue eye shadow and tight skirts they bought at the Eastie Mall. He could have lived anywhere. But Antonio had grown up on this street. He would be lost without this street. This was Eastie Goombah territory and Antonio Serrano was the head of the Eastie Goombahs.

Antonio Serrano started off boosting stereos from cars. He had moved up to the big time, dealing crack. That was where the money was. He sold it himself, on street corners and in the school playgrounds, and if there was trouble he had the Goombahs to back him up. The Goombahs got their cut. They also were the ones who got cut when the crap started flying.

Antonio had gotten cut in the old days when he was new to the Eastie Goombahs. That was a long time ago, back in 1986. Antonio had gotten tired of being a grunt and stepped into the leadership position of the Goombahs when the old leader, Alphonse Tedesco, had his stomach ripped open by a gang of blacks from the South End. Alphonse was history. Hell, he had been an old man, practically. He was nearly nineteen when he died.

There was a time when being an Eastie gang member meant hanging around street corners, hustling protection money from people walking through the neighborhood, and carrying a switch blade or, at best, a zip gun. Antonio Serrano had seen an old movie on TV once, which showed how it had been. It made him laugh. Why, compared to those dinks, he was the modern man and they were Neanderthals. He carried a chrome-plated Colt Python revolver. When he needed more muscle, he dug a semiautomatic Uzi machine pistol out from under the seat cushions of his Caddy.

Still, he wasn't as evolved as he'd like to think. Standing on street corners extorting protection money was one Eastie tradition that Antonio would not allow to die.

Antonio lounged at the corner of Trenton and Marion streets, picking at his orange mesh shirt, a silver crucifix hanging from one ear. He was unhappy. Only old ladies passed him on the street, carrying groceries from Tony's Spa. Old ladies never carried much money and they were too much trouble to rob. Besides, most of them knew him by sight.

He gave some thought to sticking up Tony's Spa, just for kicks, but Tony had been robbed so many times that he was talking about moving to the North Shore, away from innercity crime. Antonio decided it wasn't worth whatever was in the till to risk losing the only convenience store in the neighborhood and went back to picking at his shirt. For some reason, he felt itchy tonight.

A little black foreign car slid around the corner in Antonio's direction, moving slowly.

Antonio watched it curiously, wondering if he was about to be hit. People were always looking to take his action, small as it was in the billion-dollar drug trade. But the car was too wimpy. No self-respecting wise guy would drive a little foreign jobbie like that. Besides, it had Maine license plates. As far as Antonio knew, there was no such thing as the Mafia up in Maine. Wherever that was. He had heard it was someplace north. Or was he thinking of Canada?

The car rolled to a stop down the street and Antonio reached down the front of his jeans, where he kept his Colt. He thought it was macho to wear it there. Also the barrel bulged up his crotch something fierce. The chicks really dug that.

The man stepping out of the car had the weirdest eyes Antonio had ever seen. They were blue. Like neon. They fixed on Antonio like he was some kind of bug. The man wore casual clothes.

Antonio pulled out his weapon. The blond man did not flinch or run, or do any of the usual things people did when they stared down the barrel of Antonio's gun. In fact, the man acted as if Antonio was holding a water pistol on him.

"I'll bet that gun is hot," the man said in a quiet, reasonable voice.

"Hey, I paid good money for this piece," Antonio said. "I don't have to steal. I make a grand a week."

"I didn't mean stolen," the man said, moving toward him. "I meant hot. As in red-hot."

Antonio wrinkled his forehead. "Get real, man," he said. But then the grip felt warm, the way a coffee cup is warm when you first take it in your hands. It grew warmer, the way a coffee cup feels when it's full of piping-hot coffee and you forget to grab it by the handle.

"Ouch!" howled Antonio Serrano. His prize pistol fell into the gutter.

The blue-eyed man got to the gun before he did. He picked it up, broke open the cylinder, and emptied the chambers into his hands. Tucking the Colt under one armpit, he calmly twisted the tips off the bullets and shook out the gray gunpowder like a man using a salt shaker.

"What the fuck is going on?" Antonio Serrano asked when the man offered the useless weapon back.

"Don't be afraid to touch it," the man said. "It won't bite you."

Antonio reached out tentatively. He touched the barrel. It felt cool, like metal is supposed to feel. He yanked the gun back, but without bullets it was useless. Still, it felt good in his hand.

"What's your problem, pal?" Antonio demanded, pointing the Colt out of habit.

"I knew if I cruised this neighborhood long enough I would find someone like you."

"Congratulations. I don't give fucking autographs."

"You run with a gang?"

"I lead the gang," Antonio boasted. "The Eastie Goombahs. You musta heard of us. Even the cops are scared of us."

"Even the cops," repeated the blue-eyed man. "Did I mention my name?"

"Screw your name."

"Tulip. Call me Tulip. I like the way you carry yourself."

"Hey, keep that faggy stuff to yourself."

"Don't be crude. I'd like to hire you."

"I'm self-employed, jack."

"So I gathered. A thousand dollars a week, isn't that what you said?"

"Yeah. "

"That would make fifty-two thousand dollars a year, assuming you don't take vacations."

"I wouldn't know a fucking vacation if it sat on my face."

"No doubt," said Tulip. "How would you like to make, say, twice your yearly income-one hundred thousand dollars-for a few days' work?"

"Twice fifty-two thousand dollars is one hundred and four thousand dollars. You trying to cheat me? Or maybe you think because I never got past sixth grade, I'm stupid or something. "

"No, I don't think you're stupid or something," said the man who called himself Tulip.

"Because you don't pull down the bucks I do unless you can count. Counting's important. Once I had my multiplication fucking tables down, I was set for life. That was my education. I got the rest on the streets."

"I want you to kill two men for me."

Antonio looked interested. "Yeah, who?"

"The Vice-President of the United States is one of them."

"Pass. I heard the Iranians or somebody like that are already working on it. "

"They failed. I have a suitcase full of money that they would have claimed had they succeeded."

In spite of himself, Antonio Serrano was impressed. This guy was talking about dusting the Vice-President of the fucking United States. Antonio Serrano had never even left the state.

"You serious, man?"

"What do you think?" asked Tulip.

"You mentioned another guy."

"Governor Michael Princippi."

"Isn't he running for President too?"

"Yes, are you interested?"

"I don't know, man. Drugs are my line. Breaking heads, too. I killed guys before, sure. But only over turf or bucks."

"Work for me. You will make money. What is the difference between killing for territory or killing directly for money?"

"I don't know. Killing for money doesn't have much of a purpose. I gotta have more. Yeah, I gotta have purpose." Tulip looked around.

"This is your turf?"

"Me and the Goombahs own it."

"I doubt that," said Tulip.

"Well, we don't own it exactly. We control it, though. Nobody comes here unless we let him."

"I'm here," said Tulip, smiling thinly.

"All I gotta do is whistle and the Goombahs'll be all over you like bugs on a barbecue."

"I'll take your word for it. Why do you fight for this street?"

Antonio Serrano thought. He shrugged. "For power, prestige, and . . . "

"Money?"

"That's what it all comes down to, sure. I'll give you that. "

"Work for me and the money will be bigger and quicker."

"Nah, that's like Mafia stuff, man. If I wanted to join the Mafia, I'd have done that a long time ago. Not me. No way. You think I'm going to work my ass off and turn over half my score to some old Italian guy? That's stupid. I'm not stupid. "

"Try it. I will give you one hundred and four thousand dollars for the governor. If it works out, I'm prepared to offer double that amount for the Vice-President."

"I don't know," Antonio Serrano said slowly.

"You don't have to kill anyone yourself. You have men. Send them. Pay them whatever you wish out of the money I offer and keep the rest. "

Antonio considered. Whenever he thought, his bushy eyebrows grew together into one long eyebrow. He scratched it absently.

"I don't know. I don't think my guys can handle this kind of action by themselves. I might have to go with them. You know, to keep them on target. They're not smart like me."

"It will be easy. The governor does not like guards. He has no Secret Service protection. What have you got to lose, my friend?"

"How do I know you'll give me the money afterward?"

"I have the money in my car. I will show it to you. Then we will go to a bus terminal and put it in a locker. We will mail the locker key to your home address immediately after."

"Hey, then all I gotta do is wait for the mail. What do I need to kill anybody for?"

"You will not do that."

"Why not?" Antonio asked.

"Because after you give me your address, I will know where you live," said Tulip.

"I could move."

"Not you. No one making your kind of money would live here because he liked it. This street is all you know. You were born here and you will die here. Besides, wherever you hid, I would find you." And to drive the point home, Tulip jammed his finger into the muzzle of Antonio's pointing pistol. The barrel split along its entire length.

"You got something there," admitted Antonio Serrano, examining his ruined Colt.

"It is a deal, then?"

"The governor, sure I can do the governor. He probably doesn't even pack a piece."

"Fine. Let me show you the money and we will go to the bus station. After that, you will have forty-eight hours to complete this job."

"One other thing," said Antonio Serrano as they walked to Tulip's car.

"Yes?"

"The governor. After I kill him, is it okay with you if I lift his wallet too?"

Chapter 15

The Eastie Goombahs listened to their leader's unusual proposition. When he had finished explaining his plan to assassinate the governor of the state, they considered their role for all of five seconds, nearly twice their normal attention span.

"No way!" said Carmine Musto, who saw himself as the next head Goombah, and decided that today was as good a day as any to take over. After all, he was nearly fifteen himself.

"You other guys?" asked Antonio Serrano, surveying the semicircle of his followers. He stood in the middle of his living room. The Eastie Goombahs, all of thirteen strong, lounged on his genuine zebraskin furniture, passing a roach from hand to hand.

"What's in it for us?" asked another.

"Prestige," said Antonio Serrano.

"What's that?"

"It's the same as recognition, only different," someone told him.

"Whacking the governor will make us big," said Antonio.

"Will it make us rich?" asked Carmine, who breathed through his mouth because his nostrils were hypersensitized from snorting coke all day. His eyes had that too-bright sheen that makes an addict look alert.

"Believe it."

"How?"

"Trust me. I got a plan. But we gotta pull this off first," promised Antonio cagily. He didn't want the others to know about the money that Tulip pussy had offered him.

"Who's paying you for this?" asked Carmine.

"Whatcha mean?" asked Antonio with an injured look.

He avoided Carmine's beady eyes. The dickhead, he thought. He's getting too smart.

"I mean," said Carmine coolly, "you ain't come up with this brainstorm yourself. Someone's paying you, right? How much?"

"Yeah, how much?" the others chorused.

"Fifty thousand," lied Antonio. "I was planning on splitting with you jerks."

"Fifty!" snorted Carmine. "Shit, man, you been took good. Wise guys get six figures."

"Okay, I got six figures," Antonio admitted, because being caught in a lie was normal, but looking stupid was dangerous. "One hundred thousand he's paying me."

"Oh, wow," Carmine mocked. "One hundred thousand. Split thirteen ways that's maybe two month's pay for most of us-chump change. You want us to hit the frigging governor for chump change?"

"Anybody who doesn't want a piece of this can walk. Right now," said Antonio hotly. "Go on, get outta my crib. "

Carmine Musto got to his feet resolutely. "I'm booking. Who's with me?"

A few feet shuffled aimlessly.

"Come on," said Carmine. "Let's get with it."

"The more guys walk," said Antonio, "the more money that's left for the rest of us."

"Chump change." Carmine sneered.

"What's the split?" asked a younger member.

Antonio frowned. He was in a corner. If he came in too low, he'd end up doing a solo. But if he came in too high, he'd be taking big risks for chump change, just like Carmine said.

What decided him was the wary looks on the faces of the Eastie Goombahs.

"One hundred grand split equally," he said reluctantly.

Carmine Musto spit on the tigerskin rug on his way out. "Catch you later, dickhead," he said.

Most of the others followed him. Four were left, including himself. "Twenty-five grand apiece," said Antonio broadly, trying to make the best of a bad situation. It was a good thing he had kept his mouth shut about that extra four thousand-not to mention the governor's wallet.

The plan, as Antonio had explained it to his followers, was simple. They'd drive over to the governor's house, which was on the other, side of the city, and bust in shooting. It would be easy. It was true the money was short, as far as this kind of work went, but it would be quick work and there would be more of it. The Eastie Goombahs were going to be famous.

The first hitch in the plan revealed itself to Antonio Serrano when he led his men out onto the street. His green Caddy wasn't there.

"Carmine," said Antonio. "That ratass stole my wheels. "

"We can steal another car," one of the others ventured. "From where? This is our neighborhood. We don't shit where we eat, haven't I told you guys that a million times?"

"What, then?"

"We take the subway. It goes out to the governor's neighborhood."

Their Uzis and pistols in gym bags, Antonio Serrano led the Eastie Goombahs to the subway, and they rode into town. They changed to the surface trolley and settled down for the ride.

The trolley took the Eastie Goombahs through a world they barely knew existed. Only a few miles from their dirty environment there was a place of clean streets and elmdrapped parks. The people on the trolleys dressed neat and looked confident. There were none of the graffiti that marred their own neighborhood subway stops.

"This is weird," said Johnny Fortunato, the youngest Goombah. "Look how clean everything is."

"Shut up," said Antonio. But the kid was right. It was nice out here in the governor's neighborhood. Even the air smelled nice, like they had giant Air Wicks hidden out of sight. Antonio decided that when he made it big, really big, he'd move out here to a nice house. Maybe the place next to the governor's house. Then he remembered. After tonight, the governor would be dead.

Hell, maybe he'd buy the governor's house. Or better yet, figure out a way to steal it. Was it possible to steal a house? Antonio didn't know. But he would look into it.

* * *

"Here he comes, Little Father," Remo said.

"Good," said the Master of Sinanju, rolling up the scroll he had been working on. They were seated in the back of a Lincoln Continental parked in the garage under the State House.

"He's got the briefcase with him," Remo said. "What's your plan?"

"We take it from him."

"Yeah, right. I got that much figured out. I'm asking how."

As they watched, the governor sauntered over to a car that, hours before, when they had searched the garage looking for the governor's vehicle, Remo had instantly dismissed as a candidate.

"He's getting into that beat-up station wagon," Remo said, peering up from the back seat of the Lincoln.

"I thought you said that it would be this car."

"I figured it was. It's the biggest, most expensive one in the whole freaking lot. It's got state plates and everything."

The Master of Sinanju folded his arms angrily. "My great plan is ruined, thanks to your ignorance."

"Tell me about it on the way," said Remo, jumping into the front seat. He slid behind the wheel, broke the ignition off the steering post, and quickly hot-wired the car. The engine roared into life.

"You have done your part," said Chiun, climbing over the headrest. "Now I will drive."

"Nothing doing," said Remo, sending the car wheeling after the governor's station wagon. "I don't have a death wish."

"You are just jealous of my driving skill," said the Master of Sinanju, settling into the passenger side.

"I admit it. You're a brilliant driver. You can make a car do stunts it was never engineered for. Except for minor stuff like staying on the road and stopping for lights and pedestrians. Now, will you settle down? I have to concentrate if I'm going to stay with this guy."

"It is too late. My plan is ruined."

"Maybe if you'd tell me about it, I can salvage something," Remo suggested.

"Very well. But only because recovering that letter is important to Emperor Smith. My plan was simple, but do not confuse its simplicity with ease of execution. It was brilliant but complicated."

"Just get to it, huh?"

"Unappreciative philistine! I had us hide in the back of this conveyance-which you swore belonged to the governor of this province-so that when he got into the front seat he would, as so many of his type do, throw the briefcase into the back seat."

"Yeah?"

"Directly into our hands," said Chiun triumphantly.

"Okay," Remo said slowly.

"Yes!" said Chiun.

"I got that part. What's the rest?"

"What rest? That was it. Once we had the briefcase, we would be in possession of the letter."

"Yeah," said Remo, stopping for a red light. "But we would have been stuck in the back seat while the governor drove home-or whatever he was doing,"

"So? Once he arrived, we would only have had to wait until he left his vehicle, leaving us with the briefcase."

"But, Little Father, don't you think that when he reached into the back seat he would have noticed us huddling on the floorboards?"

"Of course not. We are Sinanju. We are trained not to be seen. We are the fog that steals through the woods, the shadow that is cast by no body. Of course he would not have seen us."

"He would have seen us, Little Father. He would have to be blind not to."

"He probably is. Only a blind man would own a decrepit vehicle such as that man drives."

"Maybe."

"And you are only arguing with me to cover up your ruining of my brilliantly complicated plan."

"I am not arguing," said Remo. The light changed. Remo pulled behind the governor's station wagon as they left the city and found themselves wending through tree-lined residential streets. "And how was I to know he drove a junkbox?"

"You should have known. You were born American. I am still new to these shores."

"Two decades in America is not new," Remo pointed out.

"Another decade and I will not be new. Why are we stopping here?"

"I think the governor is home," said Remo.

The Master of Sinanju looked up and down the street. Clapboard triple-decker houses crowded tiny lawns covered by riotous autumn leaves.

"Where is his castle?" demanded Chiun.

Remo watched the governor step from his car and up a flagstone walk. He disappeared into a gabled Victorian home.

"That must be it."

"The governor of a whole province," squeaked Chiun. "And he lives there? No, Remo, that cannot be. This man wields the power of life and death over his subjects. He would not live among them like a commoner. No, this must be the dwelling of one of his many concubines. Yes, it is a concubine's house. I am certain of this."

"Well, whatever it is, Little Father," Remo said slowly, "he's inside with the briefcase and we're out here. What are we going to do?"

"We must have that letter," Chiun decided. "We will wait. When the lights go out, we will steal within, cat-footed as ghosts, and-"

"Don't you mean cat-footed as cats?"

"No, ghosts. Cats make noises. We will make none. We are Sinanju."

"Yeah, right," said Remo, who didn't like the idea of waiting for another couple of hours or whatever for the governor to drop off. "We are the wind in the trees."

"The unseen wind," corrected Chiun.

"Yeah, unseen. Wake me up when the lights go out." Remo dozed off instantly. Chiun's tapping finger seemed to touch his shoulder only seconds later. Remo came awake, every sense alert.

"How long was I out?" he asked, looking around.

"I am not certain. Six, possibly seven minutes."

"Minutes!"

"The governor is obviously a tired man," said Chiun, pointing. Remo saw that the house had gone dark. "Okay, let's go."

They got out of the car, closed the doors quietly, and approached the house. Remo found a back door that looked like an old servants' entrance and probably led into the kitchen.

Remo set himself against the door and placed one palm over the outside of the lock. He pressed, and kept on pressing. Remo could have shattered the lock with a sharp blow, but he needed to avoid the sound of snapping metal or splintering wood. So he simply exerted a quiet, relentless pressure.

The lock surrendered like a rotted tooth pulled from its socket.

Remo stepped in, his eyes adjusting to the webby darkness of a kitchen that had last been tiled when Eisenhower was in office.

"Let's hope the governor doesn't sleep with his briefcase under his pillow," Remo whispered.

Chiun followed Remo into a frumpy parlor decorated in Danish Modern. Yellowing dollies decorated every flat surface.

"Nothing," said Chiun, looking around. "Fie upon it." Remo searched the other rooms without success.

"It's gotta be upstairs," he decided. "I don't like this."

"We will be the wind," said Chiun encouragingly.

"We will be in trouble if the governor catches us. He'll howl all the way up to the White House."

"So?" said Chiun. "The President will receive his complaint with thanks and protestations of innocence and then he will order Smith to terminate this troublemaking governor. "

"No way," said Remo. "There'll be a scandal. Heads will roll. The President's, Smith's, and probably ours."

"Be extra cautious, Remo," Chiun said. "We do not wish to awaken this important personage."

"Right," said Remo, starting to climb a curving staircase.

The governor's bedroom door was closed. Inside, Remo heard the quiet breathing of two persons deep in sleep, the governor and his wife. Remo and Chiun exchanged knowing glances in the darkness. They split up and checked the other rooms.

When they rendezvoused outside the governor's bedroom, Remo shook his head and Chiun showed empty hands. Remo shrugged, and signaled Chiun to wait outside. Chiun mouthed two words silently: the wind.

Remo rolled his eyes after he turned his back on the Master of Sinanju and eased the bedroom door ajar. He slipped in. The briefcase was a blob in the darkness. It stood on a nightstand beside the governor's sleeping head.

Remo took it in his hand. He paused in mid-step, wondering if he should take it downstairs and open it there, or take a chance and open it here. He decided that opening it downstairs was just as risky as opening it here. It was important that Governor Princippi not suspect that his briefcase had been rifled, although when he later found the letter was missing, he was certain to suspect the truth because Remo had shown interest in it earlier in the day.

Remo set the briefcase down on the floor. It was one of the combination-lock types, requiring that three sets of numbers line up.

Remo was about to start on the combination when he realized that the governor probably didn't bother to lock his briefcase in the privacy of his own home. Which could mean that the combination was already set to the correct number sequence.

Remo tried the unlocking latch. It flipped up.

Grinning in the darkness, Remo went through the briefcase. He found an envelope. Inside was a letter. He saw the signature "Tulip" at the bottom and silently congratulated himself.

Shutting the briefcase, Remo restored it to the nightstand exactly as it had been. He had no sooner let go of the handle than, down on the first floor, there came the heart-stopping sound of automatic-weapons fire.

The governor shot bolt upright in bed and, with Remo frozen not five inches away from his face, went for the bedside lamp.

Chapter 16

Antonio Serrano and his Eastie Goombahs had gotten off at the trolley stop nearest the governor's house and walked the streets until they found it. Even though neither Antonio nor any of his Goombahs had ever been in this suburb, the governor's house was easy to locate. It had been shown on television often during the campaign as proof that the governor had not lost his common touch, because he was still living in the modest brick home he purchased when he was first married.

"Hey, look," Antonio said. "This is a break."

"What is it?" asked Johnny Fortunato.

They were in the side yard, where they extracted their weapons from nylon gym bags.

"The fool left the kitchen door open. We can just walk right in."

"Then let's go." They went in.