Line of Succession

"Well, if you don't want to . . ."

"I did not say that," Chiun said abruptly, putting down his quill. "I asked. It was a rhetorical question."

Remo's face brightened. "Then you're coming?"

"Only to see if Smith is in truth dead. It is a minor fact, but necessary if I am to finish the scrolls pertaining to my service in America."

"Whatever," Remo said nonchalantly. He pretended to examine a Persian wall hanging so that Chiun could not see his relieved expression.

"But I have another, more important, reason."

"Yeah? What's that?" Remo asked.

"You are an orphan."

"What kind of cockamammie reason is that?"

"The best kind. Who else is there to bury your miserable carcass after you have squandered your life?"

"Oh," said Remo: After a pause he said, "I'd like to leave as soon as possible."

"What is stopping you?"

"Don't you have to pack?"

"I have been packed for the last year, in anticipation of your decision. You will find my steamer trunks in the storage room. Be so good as to carry them to the edge of the village. A helicopter from Pyongyang is already on its way to transport us to the airport. I have purchased the airline tickets with my own money. First class for me and coach for you."

"Bull!" said Remo. "Even you couldn't be that sure of yourself." Then he heard the whut-whut-whut of a helicopter in flight. Remo subsided.

"You had best hurry," suggested Chiun, blotting the writing on his scroll. "I have chartered the helicopter by the hour. "

The village came out to watch the Master of Sinanju depart. The lazy whirl of the helicopter blades fanned their stricken faces.

"Do not fear, my people," Chiun called from the helicopter's side. "For I will return sooner than you think. Until then, faithful Pullyang will head the village."

Remo loaded the last steamer trunk into a hatch on the helicopter's skin. Then he looked around for Jilda. She stood a little off from the villagers, holding Freya's tiny hand. The helicopter blades picked up speed.

"Come, Remo," Chiun said, climbing aboard.

"Hold your horses," said Remo, walking toward Jilda. "I have to go," Remo told her. "But I'll be back. Will you wait for me?"

"Where do you go, Remo?"

"America. I'm going to end the Dutchman's threat once and for all."

"Remo, hurry," Chiun called querulously. "The meter is running."

Remo ignored him. "I have to go. Please wait for me."

"I do not think so, Remo. I do not think you will return. "

"Look, I promise to come back."

"I do not belong here. Neither do you, I think."

"Remo!" Chiun's voice was strident.

"I'm coming," Remo snapped. The backwash of the helicopter blew Jilda's green cloak open. "Look, if you won't wait for me here, come with me. Now."

"That I will not do."

"Then meet me in America. We can talk there."

"Are you going, Daddy?" asked Freya.

Remo picked her up. "I have to, little girl."

Freya started to cry. "I wanted you to meet my pony," she cried. "I don't want you to go. Mommy, don't let Daddy go. He may never come back. "

"It can't hurt to meet me in America," Remo pleaded. "You don't have to decide anything just yet."

"I will consider it," said Jilda.

"That's something," said Remo. "Here, stop crying, Freya."

"I can't. I'm scared."

Remo set Freya down and knelt in front of her. He brushed a tear aside with his finger. "Let Daddy show you how never to be scared."

"How?" Freya asked petulantly.

"By breathing. Take a deep breath. That's right, hold it in. Now, pretend this finger is a candle. Quick, exhale!" Freya blew on Remo's upraised finger.

"Okay," said Remo, touching her heart. "That was breathing from the chest. But you want to breathe from down here," he said, tapping her round stomach. "Try it again."

Freya inhaled. This time, at Remo's instruction, she let it out slowly.

"Didn't that feel better?" Remo asked tenderly.

"Oh, yes! I feel all tingly. Not scared at all."

"That's Sinanju. A little hunk of it anyway. Keep practicing that way," Remo said, getting to his feet, "and you'll grow up to be big and strong. Like your mother."

Jilda smiled. She kissed Remo slowly, awkwardly, her bandaged arms held away from her body.

"In America," Remo said, and he whispered the where and when in her ear.

"Perhaps," said Jilda.

"Good-bye, Daddy. Can I have the hug you can't give Mommy? I'll give it to her later for you."

"You sure can," Remo said, squeezing her tight.

Then, walking backward because he wanted to hold their image in his mind as long as possible, Remo returned to the helicopter. It lifted off before his feet left the ground.

Remo settled in beside Chiun. He waved out the open door. Jilda and Freya waved back until long after they had become dots that disappeared under the helicopter's wheels.

"What were you doing with that child?" Chiun asked, pulling his unfinished scroll from his kimono.

"I was just showing Freya how not to be afraid."

"You were showing her early Sinanju breathing. You were wasting your time."

"How do you know that?"

"Because women do not know how to breathe. And never will," said Chiun, untying the scroll's blue ribbon.

"What's that?"

"You tell me, trainer of females."

"Looks like a scroll. Blue ribbon. A birth announcement?"

"You have the mind of a grasshopper," said Chiun, starting to write.

"Quick, and leaps high?"

"All over the forest," said Chiun. "And seldom landing in the correct place."

Chapter 32

He maintained his control until he came to a little fishing village. He did not know the name of the village, only that it lay below the thirty-eighth parallel and therefore was in South Korea.

The village reminded him of Sinanju, and because he had kept it penned in too long, the beast burst free.

The village caught fire, every hut at once. The people screamed as they fled their homes. Then they too caught fire. The flames were blue. Pretty flames. The flesh that burned under the flames was pretty. Then it shriveled and blackened and slid off the bone as the helpless screaming peasants rolled in the dirt in a futile attempt to put out their roasting bodies.

The beast satiated again, the Dutchman continued his slow march to Seoul.

In the South Korean capital he bought a pair of wraparound sunglasses and a Sony Walkman headset. He also purchased a brush and jar of flat black enamel paint. And a cassette of the loudest rock music he could find.

He paid for the airplane ticket with a credit card that was an illusion and went through customs with a passport that was a product of his imagination. Everyone saw him as a portly American businessman in a cable-knit gray suit.

In the airport men's room he painted the inside of the sunglasses with the black paint.

The Dutchman put on the glasses immediately after takeoff. And although it was against airline rules, he donned the Walkman. He hoped the sounds of the overproduced music and the fact that he could not see past the painted-over sunglasses would keep the beast in check. Just long enough. Just until he was safe in America.

Where he could kill again.

Because there was nothing left for him.

Chapter 33

The President of the United States had never felt more helpless.

The ornate walls of the Oval Office seemed to press in on him. As commander-in-chief of America's armed forces and vast intelligence apparatus, he should have been able to find the answers he so desperately needed.

The CIA had assured him that they had no special operative detailed to guard the Vice-President. So did the DIA, and the FBI, and even though it hurt him to have to ask, he inquired of his National Security Council. And the Secret Service.

He was assured that only normal Secret Service agents guard the Vice-President. Not fancy martial-arts practitioners.

Not even the Secret Service could say that they were guarding Governor Michael Princippi. He still refused protection. In fact, for a man who had escaped one assault on his life, he seemed serene.

In desperation the President had put in a call to Dr. Harold W. Smith. And for the first time in his memory, Smith did not pick up the red phone. The President tried calling at all hours.

It was obvious something had happened to Smith. It was impossible for the President to learn what. An average citizen could have made a normal phone call to Smith's Folcroft office. But the President could never get away with it. The phone company would make a record of any ordinary long-distance call. Nor could the President ask his staff to investigate the disappearance of a certain Dr. Harold W. Smith. Someone might ask why. And the President could never answer that question.

So he sat alone in the loneliest office in human history, trying to put the pieces together himself.

He did have one new fact, courtesy of the Secret Service. It had taken them two days to uncover it. Two critical days in which the news media and editorial writers of the nation had whipped themselves into a frenzy attempting to link all the loose ends into some sinister skein.

The Secret Service had interrogated surviving members of the Eastie Goombahs. They learned that the gang leader had boasted of having been paid to assassinate Governor Princippi. Okay, thought the President, so maybe it's a conspiracy. Who runs it? Who could know about CURE and use it to topple the American electoral system or even the entire government?

Over and over the President chased the possibility around in his mind. The name that he kept coming back to was that of Dr. Harold W. Smith.

Perhaps that was why Smith had disappeared. He was the mastermind. Having failed, he had gone into hiding. Now, if only there was some way to prove it. . . .

Dr. Harold W. Smith breathed.

That was all. He took his food through a tube that ran into his discolored right forearm. His gray eyes were closed and for the fourth day there was no rapid eye movement to indicate a dream state or even minimal brain activity.

Dr. Martin Kimble checked the progress chart that was clipped to the foot of the hospital bed on which Smith lay. It was a flat horizontal line. There was no rise or fall. They had brought Smith in in this state. It was not a coma, because there were no obvious signs of brain activity. But Smith was not dead. His heart continued to beat-if the slow-motion gulp his vascular organ gave every twenty minutes could be called a beat. Perhaps the lungs worked too. It was impossible to tell. Dr. Kimble had ordered life-support systems hooked up to the man who had been found at his desk, inert, without any sign of trauma or violence or poison.

As Dr. Kimble had explained to Smith's frightened wife, "I don't have a firm prognosis. This could be a long vigil. You'd be better off at home. "

What he didn't say was that for all his vital signs, Dr. Harold W. Smith might have been a block of cheese carved to resemble a human being. He even had the same waxy, yellowish color to his skin.

A rush of ammonia-scented air came from the direction of the doorway, causing Dr. Kimble to turn. An elderly Oriental man in a teal-blue embroidered gown stepped in and, ignoring Dr. Kimble, floated over to Smith's bedside.

"Excuse me, but visiting hours are over," said Dr. Kimble stuffily.

"I am not visiting," said the old Oriental in a squeaky, querulous voice. "I am Smith's personal physician."

"Oh? Mrs. Smith never mentioned you, Dr.... "

"Dr. Chiun. I have just returned to this country from my native Korea, where I attended a serious burn patient."

"I assume you have some identification," prompted Dr. Kimble, who knew that there were a lot of foreign medical schools turning out third-rate doctors these days.

"I can vouch for him," said a cool voice from the door. Dr. Kimble saw a lean man in a white T-shirt and black slacks. "And who are you supposed to be?" he asked. "I'm Dr. Chiun's personal assistant. Call me Remo."

"I'm going to have to ask you both to come with me. We have procedures at this hospital regarding visiting doctors."

"No time," said Remo, taking Dr. Kimble by the arm. The man merely touched his funny bone, but the pins-and-needles feeling started immediately. It ran up his arm, over his chest, and up his neck. Dr. Kimble knew that it was impossible to feel pins and needles in the brain, but he felt them nonetheless. His vision started to cloud over.

When the man called Remo let go, Dr. Kimble found himself on his knees. He could see again.

"Tell us about Smith," said Remo.

Dr. Kimble started to speak but the little Oriental, who was fussing over the patient, cut him off.

"Forget that quack," said Dr. Chiun. "Look at what he has done to Smith. Jabbed him with needles and hooked him up to machines. Where are the leeches? I am surprised that he has not attached leeches to Smith's arm to suck out the rest of the vitality."

"Leeching hasn't been used in centuries, Little Father."

"Actually, it's coming back," said Dr. Kimble, groping to his feet. He felt woozy and began looking around for an oxygen tank. When he found one, he pushed the clear oxygen mask to his face and breathed deeply. As he inhaled, he watched and listened.

Dr. Chiun strode around the bed, examining Smith critically.

"He's been like that for four days," Dr. Kimble told him. Dr. Chiun nodded silently.

"There's no sign of injury," Dr. Kimble said.

"Wrong," said Chiun, pointing with an impossibly long fingernail at Smith's forehead. "What is this?"

Still clutching the oxygen mask, Dr. Kimble learned over. In the middle of Smith's forehead was a tiny purplish spot. "That's a liver spot," said Dr. Kimble. "Probably a birthmark. "

"You call yourself a physician and you do not recognize an inflamed third eye when you see it," snapped Chiun. He began probing Smith's temples.

"Third eye? That's New Age mumbo jumbo."

Chiun ignored him. He shifted his massaging fingers to Smith's waxy forehead. He closed his eyes in concentrations.

"What is he doing?" Dr. Kimble asked Remo.

"Search me."

"I thought you were his assistant."

"Mostly I watch and keep people like you from getting in his way."

"I am testing the kotdi," said Chiun, opening his eyes. He withdrew his hands from Smith's head.

"What's that?"

"The kotdi is like your television on-and-off switch. When it is correctly pressed, a person is shut off. Like Smith."

"Shut off! That's preposterous," sputtered Dr. Kimble.

"Remo will demonstrate for you."

Remo reached up and tapped Dr. Kimble's forehead in its exact geometrical center. Dr. Kimble's eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed like a sack of kitty litter. Remo caught him under the arms and asked Chiun, "What do I do with him?"

"Turn him back on, if you wish."

Remo felt for his forehead and tapped once. The doctor struggled to his feet and smoothed his doctor's smock. "Was I out?"

"Actually, you were off," Chiun told him absently.

Dr. Kimble said, "I don't believe it."

Remo shrugged. "Then don't." He joined Chiun. "How is he?"

"This is terrible. His inner harmony is totally gone. I fear permanent damage. "

"We can't let Smith die. You've got to do something."

"I am not talking about Smith," said Chiun, pulling an intravenous tube out of Smith's arm and unplugging electrodes from his head. "Smith will be fine. I was referring to the Dutchman. Look at the force he used to press the kotdi. "

"Too hard?"

"Not hard enough. He intended a death blow, merciful but final. I saw signs of this in Sinanju. Now I am certain. The blow with which he stole Mah-Li's life was also flawed. Remember the red tear? The Dutchman is losing control and this clumsy blow is the surest sign of it."

"Oh," said Remo. "What about Smith?"

Chiun set one finger so that it covered the purple bruise on Smith's brow and pressed lightly. As if triggered by rubber bands, Smith's eyes snapped open.

"Master of Sinanju?" he said clearly. He tried to sit up. Chiun pushed him back. "You are well, Emperor. Thanks to your faithful servant."

"The Dutchman!"

"We know, Smitty," Remo put in. "He was behind everything."

"Quiet!" Smith barked, indicating Dr. Kimble with his eyes.

In a corner, Dr. Kimble was feeling his forehead with both hands, pressing different spots experimentally.

"I think I understand," he said. "By disrupting a nerve center hitherto unknown to medical science, you shut off all electrical activity in the brain. The result is suspended animation with no tissue deterioration. But I can't seem to find the nerve."

"I'll help you," said Remo, taking the doctor's hand and making a fist. He straightened the index finger and placed it over the doctor's eyes, which rolled up in a ridiculous effort to watch his own forehead.

"You press there," Remo suggested, stepping back.

The doctor did. And fell onto the floor. "Works every time." Remo whistled airily.

"So the Dutchman was the mastermind behind the assassination attempts," said Smith, sitting up in bed. Color flooded back to his face like pale wine filling a glass. "Adonis and the ninja master were impostors."

"Had you listened carefully to my story of the thieving ninja," Chiun scolded, "this would not surprise you. Only Sinanju is true."

"He followed us to Sinanju," Remo said grimly. "But he got away. I've got a score to settle with him."

"Where is he now?"

"We don't know."

"What about the presidential candidates? Are they safe?"

"Yes," said Remo.

"No," said Chiun.

"No?" asked Remo.

"No," repeated Chiun in a firm voice. "His reason is fleeing. His purpose in attacking those politicians was to embarrass Remo and me and force us to return to my village in disgrace, where he intended to complete his vengeance. Now that he has failed, he has returned to America to finish the killings he did not complete. "

"Why would he do that?" asked Remo. "He doesn't give a hang about the election."

"He is a wounded scorpion who is lashing out in his pain. He has always been driven to kill. He fears you, desires to be my pupil, and thinks that he has killed Smith. He will strike at those we were once hired to protect. It is the only way he can cause us pain without risking another confrontation he knows he cannot win."

"I don't buy it," disagreed Remo.

"But I do," said Smith. "Or at least I can't take the chance that Chiun is wrong. I need your help, both of you. "

"I have a personal thing to settle with the Dutchman," Remo assured him. "You can count on us."

"But I do not," said Chiun, surreptitiously kicking Remo in the shin.

"Oww," muttered Remo.

"I may be persuaded to reenter your service, however, Emperor Smith."

"I'm happy to hear that," said Smith. "Of course I'm prepared to sign a contract on the terms we discussed earlier. "

"I am afraid that cannot be," said Chiun.

"Why not?"

"Because you tore up that contract."

"Can't you prepare another."

"I could, but it would take several days, for I am old and my memory is slipping. It may be that I would have to reopen negotiations simply to refresh my feeble mind."

"Then what do we do? We can't wait that long. The Dutchman could strike at any time."

"It just so happens that, anticipating your desires, I took the liberty of preparing a new contract during my journey to America," said Chiun, brandishing a fresh scroll. He untied the blue ribbon and presented it to Smith.

Smith took the scroll. He blinked at it. "I can't see. Of course, my glasses. Where are they?"

Remembering that he had them, Remo pulled the glasses from his pocket and placed them over Smith's bleary eyes. "The Dutchman brought them to Sinanju as proof he'd killed you," Remo explained.

"This is worse," said Smith. "I can't see a thing."

"Oh," cried Chiun. "I do not know what to do. We could wait for you to obtain new spectacles, but I fear for the lives of your nominees."

"What are the terms?"

"Excellent. I am certain you would find them agreeable. Why don't you simply sign now and read later?"

Smith hesitated. "This is exceedingly irregular."

"These are irregular times," said Chiun.

"Very well," said Smith unhappily. "There's still a chance that CURE will be terminated after the election. It can't hurt to keep operations going another few months."

"Excellent," said Chiun, plucking a goose-quill pen from one sleeve and offering it to Smith. An ink stone came out of the other sleeve. Chiun lifted the tiny lid and Smith dipped into the well. He signed the bottom of the scroll.

"You will never regret this," promised Chiun, recovering the quill and the scroll.

"I trust not," said Smith, moving his glasses in front of his eyes at different focal lengths. He still could not see. "Your first task is to protect the presidential candidates."

"Immediately," declared Chiun.

"Count me out," said Remo. "I'm after the Dutchman, remember?"

"Who perhaps even now is on his way to murder one of them."

"Count me in," said Remo.

"One last thing before you go," said Smith. "I need to contact the President as soon as possible. Could you go to my office and bring my briefcase?"

"It's already here," Remo told him, reaching out into the corridor. He placed Smith's worn leather briefcase on his lap.

"Folcroft was the first place we went," said Remo. "Your secretary told us you were in the hospital. I figured it wouldn't hurt to bring the briefcase, just in case."

"Good thinking."

"Actually it was my idea, Emperor Smith," Chiun pointed out. "Remo merely carried your property."

"Yes," said Smith vaguely, unlocking the briefcase. Inside, a compact computer link gleamed under the weak fluorescent lights. Smith plucked out the handset of a cellular phone. "I must speak with the President. Alone. Could you remove that doctor on your way out?"

"At once," said Chiun, bowing. "Remo," he said, snapping his fingers.

Reluctantly Remo toted the doctor out to the corridor, where Chiun stood before an elevator. Remo shoved Dr. Kimble into a broom closet and joined Chiun.

"I'm worried about Smitty," he told Chiun.

"He will be fine."

"I mean his vision. He acted half-blind."

"I am sure he will recover. Sometimes when the kotdi is improperly manipulated, the vision is slow to return."

"The doctor didn't have that problem when I brought him around. "

"You are not old and feeble like me."

"I also wasn't carrying a contract I wanted signed, sight unseen," said Remo, stepping into the elevator.

"That too." Chiun beamed as the elevator doors closed on them.

***

When the red telephone rang, the President heard it all the way down the hall in the Oval Office.

He raced out of the office past Secret Service guards, who tried to follow him.

"Stay there. I'll be right back. Diarrhea," he yelled. The Secret Service guards stayed put.

In his bedroom, the President snatched up the red telephone.

"Yes?" he said.

"Smith here."

"I've been trying to reach you for two days. Where the heck have you been?"

"I've been indisposed. I'm sorry," apologized Smith. "Without going into details, Mr. President, I can now clear up the matter that is before us."

"I'd like to hear the details," said the President.

"They would take too long, and I doubt that you would believe them."

"Let's hear the broad outlines, then."

"I have identified the force behind the assassination attempts. The man calling himself Tulip is actually an opponent force my operation has dealt with in the past. His motive was revenge against my enforcement arm. He failed, and I have reason to believe that he is back in this country. He may try to complete the assassinations."

"I'll double the security around the nominees."

"No, pull them back. My special person is on the job. I've signed him on for another year."

"And those personal records of his?"

"You mean his scrolls?" Smith's voice lost its sharp edge.

"Yes, I asked that their destruction be part of the new contract."

"Of course. You're right. I had forgotten. I've been quite ill, but strangely, my mind feels quite sharp now. I don't know how I could have forgotten that detail. "

"So what are the details of the new contract?"

Smith paused. "As you know, I have full autonomy in undertaking contractual obligations," he said.

"I'm not asking for veto power," the President snapped. "I just want to know what guarantees we have that this won't happen again."

"I'll have to get back to you on that, Mr. President. But rest assured, this situation will not be repeated."

The President grunted unhappily. "Very well. Anything else-or can't you tell me?"

"The two bodyguards, the one called Adonis and the ninja. I have identified them. They are both this Tulip person. And he hired the killers involved in all of the assassination attempts."

"My information is that one was a muscle-bound American and the other a short Japanese man. How could they be the same man?"

"I told you you would not believe it."

The President sighed. "The only thing I can say, Smith, is that you've found out more than all of the other intelligence services combined. On that score I have to go with you."

"Thank you, Mr. President," said Harold W. Smith, and hung up.

"I hate it when he does that," muttered the President as he replaced the receiver. "Sometimes that fellow acts like I work for him instead of the other way around."

Chapter 34

Remo Williams didn't like it.

He had been following the Vice-President for several hours. The Vice-President was on a final campaign swing through the South. He traveled by limousine motorcade, and because a trailing vehicle would have been an instant tipoff, Remo could not follow in a car.

He had sneaked into the Vice-President's trunk when no one was looking.

Each time they got to a campaign stop, Remo sneaked out and tried to be inconspicuous as he kept an eye on the Vice-President. But no one had attempted to harm the man. Remo didn't think that anyone was going to. Back in Rye, Chiun had insisted that they split up, because, as he had put it, "There is no predicting where the Dutchman will strike first. "

"Fine," said Remo. "I'll cover the Vice-President."

"No, I will cover the President of Vice," declared Chiun.

"If there's no predicting where he'll turn up, why do you want the Vice-President?"

"Because you do," said Chiun.

"He's mine," Remo had said firmly.

"Very well. I will not argue. You can have him." Looking back, Remo decided that Chiun had agreed too readily. But it was still a coin toss where the Dutchman would strike, assuming Chiun was right. But what if he wasn't? What if Chiun was bluffing? Remo wondered if he shouldn't skip the Vice-President and find Governor Princippi.

Then it came time for the motorcade to start again and Remo was too preoccupied trying to get back into the Vice-President's trunk without being seen to give the problem further thought.

***

The Master of Sinanju knew it was just a matter of time. He had figured out that Governor Princippi would be the Dutchman's next target. It was not an equal coin toss as Remo had thought. It was more of a two-in-three chance that the governor would be next. The Master of Sinanju recalled that the Dutchman had ordered two hits on the Vice-President. But only one on Governor Princippi. To the Sinanju-trained mind, symmetry was instinctual. The Dutchman was Sinanju. Mad or not, he would, without thinking, seek equilibrium.

Therefore the governor had to be next. And Chiun would deal with the Dutchman without risking Remo's life. Governor Princippi was in Los Angeles promising to institute free national earthquake insurance before a group of prominent businessmen. Chiun clung to a window of the high-rise office building where the meeting was taking place. The music told him that the Dutchman was coming. It was louder than before, more disoriented, as if a musician played from sheet music whose notes were frightened ants. Chiun hugged the window because he knew the Dutchman would come up the building's side and he did not wish to be seen first. The element of surprise was crucial for what Chiun intended to do.

Jeremiah Purcell paused at the twelfth floor to look in at the lighted windows. It was night and most of the building was dark. The newspaper had mentioned the late-evening meeting between the governor and the Los Angeles business community. One of the lighted windows would be the correct one. But not this one. And so he reached up for the next ledge and the next floor.

At the thirteenth floor he paused. None of the windows were lighted on this side. He made a complete circuit of the floor, walking confidently along on a ledge so narrow a pigeon would have scorned it.

He had just turned the last corner of the ledge when the flutter of settling cloth caused him to swivel suddenly. Too late. The blow caught him in the right shoulder. With a subcutaneous pop, the bone separated.

He grabbed his shoulder, setting his teeth against the sudden white-hot pain.

"You!" he cried. "Where is your pupil?"

"Look behind you," said the Master of Sinanju coolly. The Dutchman whirled again. But the kick came, not from the front, but from behind him. It struck behind his left knee, causing the leg to buckle. Too late, he realized the Master of Sinanju had tricked him. They were alone on the ledge.

The Dutchman clung to the ledge. He looked up at the cold face of the Master of Sinanju.

"The four blows?" asked Jeremiah Purcell through teeth that ground against each other.

"You know the tradition?" Chiun asked him.

"A Master of Sinanju shows his contempt for a foe by striking four blows and then walking away, to leave the vanquished one in death or mutilated humiliation. But I do not deserve such treatment. I could be a good pupil to you. Better than Remo. I could be the next Master of Sinanju. I could be the Shiva of the legends."

"The next Master of Sinanju would not harm one such as Mah-Li," spat Chiun. "You deserve my contempt." And he kicked the Dutchman on the right kneecap just hard enough to open a hairline fracture, but not to fragment the bone.

"I could be the Shiva of the legends, the dead night tiger who is white. How do you know it is Remo and not me?"

"Remo is Shiva," said Chiun, zeroing in to strike the fourth and final blow.

"No!" screamed Jeremiah Purcell. "I will not allow you to defeat me! I will throw myself off this ledge first!" His limbs like jelly, he allowed himself to slip off the ledge like an octopus sliding bonelessly over the side of a fishing boat.

The Master of Sinanju snapped him back by his long hair. Just in time. He deposited him on the ledge.

"I do not wish your death, only to see you helpless forever," Chiun said.

"I am never helpless," said the Dutchman. "You forget my mind."

Suddenly the Master of Sinanju stood, not on a ledge, but in the hand of a monster of steel and chrome. The building shook under his feet. The windows on either side of him turned into square eyes and focused cross-eyed upon him.

A hand made of concrete and reinforced steel and larger than an automobile reached up for him.

The Master of Sinanju knew it was an illusion. Buildings do not become monsters of metal. But he could not make his eyes see behind the illusion. He clutched the Dutchman's hair frantically. If Purcell fell, he would die. And so would Remo.

Then the burning began. Blue flame-real flame-erupted at the tips of Chiun's long-nailed fingers on one hand. Chiun windmilled his burning hand, putting out the fire. He jumped to avoid the huge concrete paw swiping at him, and clung to the building. He could feel that, at least. It was his rock of safety. He could still feel the Dutchman's hair in his other hand. It jerked suddenly. Chiun's fist clenched tighter.

When the illusions stopped, the discordant music died too. Chiun blinked. His hand still clutched the Dutchman's blond hair. But only the hair. It had been shorn off by sharp fingernails.

Chiun was alone on the ledge. He scurried to the next floor, where the governor was holding his meeting. Peering in through the window, Chiun saw that the meeting went on undisturbed.

Climbing down, he searched the street with frightened eyes. But there was no crumpled figure in purple lying in the street. The Dutchman had slunk off, alone, vanquished, to lick his wounds once again. Good. Perhaps this would truly be the end of it, Chiun hoped.

In Atlanta the Vice-President's motorcade pulled up at a Holiday Inn for the night.

Remo got out of the trunk as soon as the car was left alone. He called Smith from a pay phone.

"Remo, I'm glad you called in," Smith said. "Chiun reports that he thwarted an attempt by the Dutchman to kill Governor Princippi. But Purcell got away. Chiun believes he's going to try for the Vice-President next."

"I'm ready for him."

"Sit tight. Chiun is on the way to join you."

"Tell him to knock three times on the trunk of the Vice-President's limo. "

***

The Dutchman limped for several blocks, searching. He was in a run-down business district in East Los Angeles. Somewhere there would be a hardware store. When he found one, he broke in through the back. Every hardware store had a vise. There was a big one in the back room, bolted to a workbench. He flopped his right forearm into the vise and closed it painfully with his other elbow. Setting himself, he yanked. The right shoulder strained, bringing sweat to his brow. The ball joint popped back into the socket. The pain was incredible. But he could use the arm now. That made resetting everything else that much easier....

Herm Accord waited in the bar for nearly an hour. He was about to leave when the man walked in, briefcase in hand.

He was a youthful guy with a dissipated face. His hair was like cornsilk, and cut in a punk style that made it look like the blond locks had been sheared by the ruthless swipe of a sickle.

"You Dutch?" he asked.

"Yes," said the blond man, limping to the table. He waved the waitress off.

"What's the job?"

"Tomorrow night the two presidential candidates are going to debate on national television."

"Yeah, so what?"

"I want it to go down in history as the unfinished debate. "

"Like the unfinished symphony, huh? It's doable. But it's a little late to do anything with explosives. That's my specialty. "

"Your specialty is death. You are ex-CIA. A renegade. And you have a reputation for doing the impossible. I don't care how you do it. Here," Dutch said, lifting the briefcase to the table with tired hands. "There's one million and fifty thousand dollars."

"I said a million over the phone. What's the extra fifty grand for?"

"You own a private plane. I need you to fly me someplace. "

"Where?"

"Home," said the Dutchman.

***

Remo paced the roof of the Holiday Inn. Two floors below, the Vice-President worked on last-minute preparations for the great debate. There had been no sign of the Dutchman all night, and now morning was brightening the sky. The Master of Sinanju came up through a fire door. "Anything?" Remo asked anxiously.

"No," said Chiun. "There are no suspicious persons in the lobby. Here, I brought you a newspaper. Perhaps if you focus your limited attention upon it, you will cease your incessant pacing."

"At a time like this?" asked Remo, taking the paper without thinking.

"We may be in for a long wait."

"What makes you say that?"

"The Dutchman has a long journey to this city. It will not help him that he now limps."

"The four blows."

"Three, actually," corrected Chiun, looking over the edge of the roof to the front entrance below. Remo noticed that Chiun seemed less alert than he should have.

"I guess you figured if the Dutchman was crippled, I'll have a better shot at taking him alive," Remo suggested.

"That possibility might have crossed my mind," Chiun admitted in a distant voice. "But my duty was to protect the governor. I could not kill Purcell, so I did the next best thing. "

"I still want him."

"I will let you know the moment he sets foot in this building," said Chiun.

And because he was bored, Remo flipped through the newspaper. On page four, a boxed item caught his eye. Remo tore it out and called to Chiun.

"Forget the entrance," said Remo. "The Dutchman isn't anywhere near here."

Chiun asked, "How did you know that?" Then he caught himself. "I mean, how can you say that, Remo?"

Grimly Remo gave the article to Chiun.

The Master of Sinanju looked at the headline: "PTERODACTYLS SIGHTED OVER SAINT MARTIN."

"They've been circling a certain ruined castle since last night," Remo said. "When people try to photograph them, the developed pictures show only empty air. I don't suppose you'd have any idea what castle that might be?"

"You tell me," said Chiun unhappily. "You are the deductive genius."

"The castle on Devil's Mountain where we first encountered Purcell," Remo said. "His home. And the place where he's gone to hide and heal. The place where you figured he'd go all along. Am I right?"

"A lucky guess," said Chiun, turning the clipping into confetti with fussy motions of his fingernails.

"I'm going to Saint Martin."

"That does not worry me. What worries me is: will you return from Saint Martin?"

Chapter 35

When the plane banked over Saint Martin, Remo could see Devil's Mountain, a black horn of evil thrusting up from one end of the beautiful French-Dutch island in the Caribbean.

"There it is," Remo said, pointing to a tumble of white stones high on a ledge overlooking the bay.

"I see no purple terrorbirds," sniffed Chiun. He was thinking how much Devil's Mountain reminded him of Mount Paektusan.

But they saw the pterodactyls when the taxi driver brought them as far as he dared to go. The rumor on the island was that the former inhabitant of Devil's Mountain, the feared Dutchman, had returned from the dead to haunt his ruined castle.

Remo paid the driver and they started walking.

The pterodactyls arose from the ruins and made lazy circle over the ledge. They ignored Remo and Chiun, who had begun to scale the sheer side of the volcanic mountain.

"Remember," warned Remo. "You had a shot at him. Now it's my turn."

As they climbed, the music seeped into their consciousness, the subliminal sounds of the Dutchman's disordered mind. The sky turned purple, a deeper purple than the pterodactyls. As if envious of the richer hue, the pterodactyls lifted silent wings and flew into the heavens. They were absorbed by the lowering purple sky.

"I think he's playing," said Remo. "Good. That means he doesn't know we are here."

"He does not know anything," said Chiun worriedly. "Look! "

A gargantuan face broke over the lip of the ledge, like a whale surfacing. It leered, huge and cruel with slitted hazel cat's eyes and a pocked yellow complexion.

"Nuihc," Remo whispered.

"Listen," Chiun said.

"Father! Father!" The voice was thin and sad, but the vocal violence of the cry carried alarmingly.

"It's Purcell. What's he doing?" Remo wanted to know.

Chiun grasped Remo's wrist with clawlike hands. "Listen to me, my son. I think we should go from this place. "

"No way. The Dutchman is up there. I haven't come this far just so you could talk me out of this."

"He has gone over the edge."

"He did that a long time ago," Remo said, shrugging off Chiun's grasp. Chiun's hands reasserted themselves. "Over the edge into madness. Observe. Listen to the music. "

The face of Nuihc, smiling with silent cruelty, lifted like a hot-air balloon. Hanging beneath it from cables, like a wicker basket, was a tiny human-size body. The Nuihc balloon floated into the purple sky. It popped and was gone.

"Looks to me like he's just playing mind games," Remo said.

"Mark the sky. It is purple, the color of the mad mind."

"Fine. It'll make him easier to handle."

"He has nothing to lose now," Chiun warned.

"You can stay down here if you want to, Chiun. Either way, you stay out of it."

Chiun let go of Remo's arms. "Very well. This is your decision. But I will not wait below. I have already stood at the base of Mount Paektusan. This time I will accompany my son to the summit."

"Fair enough," said Remo, starting up again.

The higher they climbed, the steeper the mountain became. The air was warm, not cooled at all by the freshening sea breeze. Beyond them, the water stretched blue-green toward infinity. But above, the sky hung suffocatingly close, like a velvet hanging.

Remo was the first to reach the ledge. The castle ruins covered it. Once sparkling battlements had lifted to the sky. Now only one turret stood. The rest had fallen into great broken blocks like a city lost for thousands of years.

Down in the ruins, the Dutchman walked, his purple clothes loose against his body, his short blond hair sticking up like a cartoon of a man who has jammed a wet finger into an electrical socket.

Remo climbed onto a block of granite and called down to his enemy.

"Purcell! "

The Dutchman did not react. Something in the sky held his attention.

Remo looked up. High in the early-morning sky, like a diamond in a jeweler's case, the planet Venus shone like a star.

Chiun came up behind Remo. "What is he doing?" he asked.

''Search me. He's just staring at the sky."

"No, at that star."

Down below. the Dutchman pointed an accusing finger at the bright planet. His harsh voice ripped up from the center of the ruins. "Explode! Why don't you explode?"

"You're right," said Remo. "He has gone around the bend."

"We must stop him," declared Chiun.

"That's my idea," Remo said resolutely.

Chiun hurried after him. "No, not for revenge. Remember the Dutchman's other powers. The ones that are not illusions. "

"Yeah, he can make things catch fire or explode. All he has to do is think it."

"He is trying to make Venus explode. With his mind."

"Can he do that?" Remo asked, stopping suddenly. The concept shook him out of this grim certainty.

"We do not wish to find out. Because if he can, he will not stop with Venus. He will put out the very stars in the sky, one by one, until only our world lies spinning in the Void. And then he will obliterate this world too. I know madness. He is full of power, Remo. Our lives no longer mean anything against this threat. Come."

And the Master of Sinanju surged ahead. But Remo overtook him.

"Purcell!" Remo yelled. His voice bounced off the ruins like an echo in a deep cave. "Purcell. Forget that crap. I've come for you."

The Dutchman turned his electric-blue eyes toward them. They seemed to take a long time to focus.

"I will be with you in a moment, my old enemy. It seems that putting out a star requires more concentration than I realized. "

"You don't have that kind of time," said Remo, jumping into the ruins.

"Inside line," said Chiun. And Remo nodded, taking the inside-line approach. He went at the Dutchman in a straight line while Chiun circled around in back. Distracted, the Dutchman reacted to Chiun's circling attack. But Remo was faster. He gathered the Dutchman up in his arms, taking him under one shoulder and around a thigh. Remo spun him like a baton.

The Dutchman stopped his midair cartwheel with a reaching hand. He took Remo by the throat, bringing Remo into the momentum of his spin and throwing Remo against a shattered turret.

"I am more powerful than you," said the Dutchman, picking himself up. He wobbled on his legs dizzily. "I am the Dutchman. I can extinguish the universe with a thought!"

The Master of Sinanju saw that his pupil lay unmoving. There was no time to see if he lived. Chiun moved in on one of the Dutchman's knees. The fourth blow would no longer be denied.

The Dutchman turned, dropping into a fighting crouch. But Chiun did not put up a matching defense. Let the Dutchman have a free strike. Just as long as the Master of Sinanju had his fourth blow.

Chiun felt his toe connect with the Dutchman's knee at the same time the flat-handed blow struck his temple. Chiun rolled with the impact. Both combatants fell.

"You have thrown in your lot with Shiva," the Dutchman said bitterly, trying to rise to his feet. "You should have known better. You could have been father to a god." And the Dutchman, disdaining Chiun's prone form, turned his attention back to the beckoning gleam of Venus, the morning star.

As Chiun watched, the Dutchman lifted his arms to the purple sky, first imploringly, then with a face shaken by rage and wrath. The sky seemed to vibrate.

But all around them another voice suddenly reverberated, deep and full in strength. A voice the Master of Sinanju had heard before. The only voice he had ever learned to fear.

"I am created Shiva, the Destroyer; Death, the shatterer of worlds. The dead night tiger made whole by the Master of Sinanju. "

And the Master of Sinanju smiled grimly. For standing on a ruined turret, a block of granite the size of a small car held over his head, stood Remo Williams.

"Who is this dog meat who challenges me?" Remo said in the voice of Shiva.

The granite block accelerated through the air like a bullet. The Dutchman executed a backflip, landing on top of the block a mere second after it crashed onto the spot where he had been standing.

"Not good enough," crowed the Dutchman. And then it was Remo who was flying through the air.

The two men collided, irresistible force meeting immovable object. They grappled, hand to wrist and toe to toe. They strained against one another like wrestlers, their faces warping and contorting. The sudden wave of sweat-smell coming from the spot where they struggled told the Master of Sinanju of the terrific force being expended. Then, under their quivering feet, the ground cracked and buckled.

The Master of Sinanju crawled to avoid a widening tear in the earth. He found his feet with difficulty and moved to one side of the ruined castle.

This was a battle of gods on earth. There was no place in it for a mere Master of Sinanju. With pained eyes Chiun watched the display of naked power and prayed to the gods of Sinanju that he would not be asked to carry a body down the mountain this day.

Remo Williams struggled mightily. He had one hand around the Dutchman's wrist and the Dutchman had his opposite hand around Remo's other wrist. They pushed and strained against one another, their feet stepping and locking like horses trying to pull a too-heavy load.

The Dutchman suddenly brought one foot down on Remo's instep. Remo responded with a circle kick. The Dutchman jumped with both feet. He let go of Remo's wrist, but Remo did not let go of his. With a swift floating motion Remo caught the Dutchman's other wrist. He had them both now.

When the Dutchman's feet touched ground, Remo pushed him. The Dutchman's weakened knees started to buckle. "This is for Mah-Li," Remo said angrily.

"You kill me and you die!" snarled the Dutchman, his face working with fury. His eyes grew wilder still. His legs quivered as they were forced further and further down. One knee touched the earth, sending shooting pains up the Dutchman's injured leg.

"No!" he screamed. Beneath their feet, the earth cracked again. A serpent jumped out of the earth, long as a train and bigger around than a redwood. Its orange-brown translucent body writhed like an earthworm. And out of its massive jaws, yellow flames seared.

"You'll need more than your tricks to beat me now, Purcell," Remo said. "You're finished."

"No!" shouted Jeremiah Purcell. And the voice was the voice of the beast within him, but the cry was tinged with fear. He felt his other knee sink inexorably, humiliatingly to the ground. "I am stronger than you! Greater than you! More Sinanju than you!"

Colors swirled around him and the discordant music swelled. The Master of Sinanju put his hands over his eyes to block out the awful glare. The ground bubbled, as if it had turned to lava. Blocks of granite stood up on caterpillar legs and marched toward the center of the ruins, where the combatants were locked in a death grip.

The Master of Sinanju watched in horror, not knowing what was real and what was not.

It had seemed as if Remo were winning, but now, with the music rising to a manic crescendo, the Dutchman suddenly had Remo in a chokehold. Remo's arms flailed, his mouth gulping air like a beached fish. Chiun watched as, brutally, like a python squeezing its prey, the Dutchman continued his cruel hold until Remo's face darkened with congesting blood.

"Remo! Do not let him defeat you!" Chiun cried. He started for them, but with a callous glance the Dutchman made a line of granite blocks between them explode into a thousand pieces. The Master of Sinanju retreated into the shelter of a fallen castle wall. He remained there while the fragments of stone peppered the ruins around him.

When he emerged, the Dutchman stood triumphantly, holding Remo by the scruff of the neck, shouting at the top of his voice.

"I am invincible. I am the Dutchman. There is no greater Master of Sinanju than Jeremiah Purcell. Do you hear me, Chiun? Can you see me, Nuihc, my father? I am supreme! Supreme! "

In his hands, Remo hung limp and unconscious. And the heart went out of the Master of Sinanju.

"You will not live to drink the nectar of your victory," declared Chiun, drawing himself up.

"Supreme!" cried the Dutchman as he dropped Remo scornfully. He flung his arms out as if to offer his glory to the universe. His uplifted face, almost beatific in its exultation, saw the taunting gleam of the morning star hanging in the purple sky.

"Supreme," he whispered, focusing all his energy on one point of tight millions of miles away.

Chiun bounded over fallen blocks, his feet leaping, his blazing hazel eyes focused on the Dutchman's imperious form. But he was too late. The music grew. And high in the sky Venus became a tiny flare of silver that swelled and swelled until it filled the mountaintop with unholy light.

The Dutchman lifted triumphant fists. "Supreme!"

And as the dissonant music grew unbearable, the ground opened up beneath the Dutchman's feet.

"No!" cried Chiun. But it was too late. The Dutchman fell into a widening crater, arms flailing as he screamed his final words. They echoed deep from the earth.

"Supreme! Supreme! Supreme!"

And with his agitated purple figure tumbled the limp body of Remo Williams.

When they were lost from sight, the ground closed up with a finality that silenced everything. Including the mind music of the Dutchman.

Chiun landed on the crack. He threw himself upon it, digging and clawing frantically.

"Remo! My son." His fingers excavated the edge of the crack. But he only succeeded in scratching it. The crack had closed fully.

Head bowed, the Master of Sinanju was silent for long moments. Finally he scratched a symbol in the dirt with a long fingernail. It was a bisected trapezoid, the sign of Sinanju. It would forever mark the resting place of the two white Masters, the last of the line.

Resignedly the Master of Sinanju got to his feet. He wiped the red earth from his kimono, muttering a prayer for the dead under his breath. He turned to walk away from Devil's Mountain, empty-handed, realizing that there was a worse thing than carrying a dead son down a mountain. And that was leaving him there.

A voice stopped him outside the ruins. "Leaving without me, Little Father?"

Chiun wheeled at the sound. His face widened in such surprise, his wrinkles smoothed out.

"Remo!" he breathed. Then, louder, "Remo, my son. You live?"

"More or less," Remo said nonchalantly. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat. Under one arm he carried a lifeless figure in purple whose wrists were bound by a yellow sash. Jeremiah Purcell.

"I saw you both swallowed by the earth."

"Not us," said Remo. He tried to crack a smile, but Chiun could see that it was an effort. The Master of Sinanju walked to Remo's side and touched first his arm, then his face. "You are real. Not a cruel illusion designed to prolong my grief."

"I'm real," said Remo.

"But I saw this carrion defeat you."

Remo shook his head. "You saw what the Dutchman imagined. What he wanted to believe. You were right, Chiun. He had gone around the bend. Remember when the colors got really bright?"

"Yes. "

"I had him then. And he knew it. I think his mind really snapped then. He knew he couldn't win. He couldn't bear to lose, so he created the illusion that he was winning. I saw it too. I had him on his knees. Suddenly he collapsed. Then there was another Dutchman and another one of me and they were fighting. When I realized what was happening, I stepped back and watched just as you did."

"But the pit?"

"An illusion. Maybe you could say the pit was real in a way. It was the pit of madness and the Dutchman finally fell in. All I know is that here I am and here he is."

"Not dead?" wondered Chiun.

"He might as well be," Remo said, laying the Dutchman across a block of broken stone. Jeremiah Purcell lay, breathing shallowly, only the faintest of lights in his eyes. His lips moved.

"He is trying to say something," Chiun said.

Remo placed his ear to the Dutchman's writhing lips. "I win. Even in defeat."

"Don't count on it," Remo told him. But just before the last light of intelligence fled from his eyes, the Dutchman reared up as if electrified. "You will never save the presidential candidates now!" Then he collapsed.

Chiun examined him carefully.

"He lives. But his eyes tell me that his mind has gone."

"He won't menace us again. I guess I did it, Chiun. I stopped the Dutchman without killing him or myself."

"Do not be so boastful. The Dutchman's last words indicate that he may have the final victory yet."

"If we hurry," Remo said, hefting the Dutchman into his arms, "we might be able to get back in time."

"No." Chiun stopped him. "I will carry him down. I have waited many years for this day of atonement. "

And together they descended Devil's Mountain, the clear light of the morning star hanging in an untroubled blue sky above them.

Chapter 36

Every major network and cable service carried Decision America, the election-eve presidential debate broadcast live from a Manhattan television studio. The candidates had been introduced and the Vice-President had given his opening statement, ending with a reaffirmation of his promise to put an end to all covert operations by American intelligence agencies.

Governor Michael Princippi led off his remarks with a solemn vow to expunge all black-budget projects from the federal books.

In the middle of his statement, television screens all over America went black.

The Secret Service had every entrance to the television studio covered. Heavy, bulletproof limousines were parked bumper to bumper all around the block instead of the usual clumsy concrete barriers. They were prepared for anything.

Except for a skinny white man and a frail Oriental who jumped out of a screeching taxi, bounded over the limousines, and passed the Secret Service without even stopping to say: May I?

The agents yelled, "Halt!" and fired warning shots.

"No time," said the white man as he and the Oriental ducked around a corner a flick ahead of a storm of bullets. At the door leading into the debate studio, two Secret Service agents reacted to the intrusion with lightning speed. They drew down on the pair and for their pains were put to sleep with chopping hands.

Remo Williams slammed into the studio, where three cameras were dollying back and forth before the presidential candidates. There was a small studio audience of selected media representatives.

"The cameras first," Remo yelled. "We don't want this on nationwide TV."

"Of course," said the Master of Sinanju.

Separating, they yanked out the heavy cables that fed the three television cameras. Consternation broke out in the control booth when the monitor screens all went black.

"You again!" screeched the Vice-President, jumping out of his chair.

"Later," said Remo, pulling him from his chair so fast that his lapel mike came loose.

"What do we look for?" asked Chiun, plucking Governor Princippi from his seat.

"I don't know. A bomb. Anything," snapped Remo, ripping the chair from its mooring. "Nothing under this one." he said throwing the chair away.

"Bomb?" said the director. The panic was immediate. People flooded out of the studio. They made a human wave that blocked the Secret Service from coming in.

"Anything?" Remo shouted.

"No!" said Chiun, tearing up the planks of the stage. They flew like toothpicks in a storm.

Desperately, Remo looked around. The heavy spotlights inhibited his vision. He could hear the frightened voices of the studio audience as they tried to get through one door, and the angry orders of the frustrated Secret Service for them to clear a path. The three cameras pointed at him dumbly. Then one of them dollied forward.

Remo had a split-second thought that the stupid cameraman must not realize transmission had been cut off, when the camera clicked and a perforated metal tube jutted out under the big lens.

"Machine gun!" Remo yelled.

The Master of Sinanju threw himself across the huddled presidential candidates and held them down.

Remo twisted in midair, avoiding a rattling stream of .30-caliber bullets, and landed on his feet. The camera shifted toward the three crouching figures on the stage and aimed downward.

Remo leapt. There was no time for anything fancy.

Behind him the curtained studio backdrop shivered into rags as the bullet stream sank lower and lower.

Herm Accord jockeyed the camera, certain he had gotten the skinny guy in the white T-shirt. Now, where were the others? It wasn't easy to sight down a TV camera. The lens was larger than the gun muzzle he had installed into the camera the night before. It gave him too big a field of vision, like trying to center on a mosquito through a drainpipe.

Frustrated, he held fire and stuck his head around the camera.

The face of the skinny guy was an inch from his own. Herm Accord started to say, "What the-" when the soft consonant of the next word raising from his throat encountered his teeth as they careened down his gullet.

He jumped back, grabbing his throat, coughing spasmodically. He didn't know that a bicuspid, traveling faster than a bullet, had already fragmented in his throat. He didn't know and he didn't care. He saw the hand reaching for his face. It became a looming mass of pink, and for Herm Accord, like America, the lights had gone out.

Remo didn't bother to check the assassin's body after it fell. He jumped to Chiun's side. The Master of Sinanju was helping the Vice-President to his feet.

"Thank you," said the Vice-President in a shaken voice.

"For both of us," added Governor Princippi.

"Looks like we're just in time," commented Remo.

"Sinanju is always on time," said Chiun.

"We gotta get out of here," said Remo, glancing toward the door where the Secret Service agents were screaming that they were going to shoot everyone blocking the door if the way wasn't cleared immediately. "But we want you to know that this is the end of it. There'll be no more assassinations. We took care of the guy behind it all."

"I think I can speak for the governor when I say we appreciate your help," the Vice-President said sincerely, buttoning his jacket.

"Thank Smith," said Remo. "It's his operation. And just so you know, we're back in the fight."

"Glad to have you," said the Vice-President warmly.

"And you can forget about Adonis. He was part of the plot too."

"I can't understand it," muttered Governor Princippi, looking around the studio. "Where's my ninja? He said he'd always be by my side even if I couldn't see him. All I had to do was whistle."

"Did you whistle?" asked Chiun blandly.

"Actually, no. I was too busy ducking."

"It would not have mattered," Chiun said. "Everyone knows that ninjas are tone deaf. "

Governor Princippi placed his pinky fingers at the edges of his mouth and whistled sharply.

"Nothing," he said disappointedly.

"See?" said Chiun. "Remember, with Sinanju you do not even have to whistle. A phone call will do."

And Remo and Chiun slipped into the knot of struggling people at the door. Even though the door resembled a New York subway car during rush hour, they filtered through the people as if by osmosis, right past the frantic Secret Service agents.

When the Secret Service finally got into the studio, they found the two presidential candidates calmly replacing their lapel mikes.

"You're too late," said the Vice-President cockily. "But why don't you people do something useful like getting rid of this body? We've got a debate to finish."

All over America, blackened TV screens came to life again. News anchormen apologized in uncertain terms for what they called "technical difficulties." And when the debate resumed they had no explanation for why the presidential candidates were standing instead of sitting, or for the bullet holes and tears in the ruined studio backdrop.

Governor Princippi picked up his unfinished remarks in a serious, unruffled voice.

"Before we were interrupted, I was saying that we need to curb our intelligence services. But I want to make it plain that there will be a place in my administration for certain necessary intelligence operations. Specifically, counterintelligence. After all, these agencies exist so that our armed forces will not have to be used. And I want to publicly thank the anonymous Americans-the Toms, the Dicks, and the Harolds-who toil in these agencies. They keep America strong. Don't you agree, Mr. Vice-President?"

"Heartily," said the Vice-President. "We got 'em, and God knows we need 'em. And the Browns and Joneses and Smiths who keep 'em running."

It was the fastest position switch America had ever witnessed. But few Americans were surprised. The presidential candidates were, after all, politicians.

Dr. Harold W. Smith watched the debate from his hospital bed. Only he could guess what had transpired during the network blackout. Remo and Chiun. They had done it again. CURE would go on. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Remo Williams stopped the car at the rusting wrought-iron entrance to Wildwood Cemetery two days later and slipped through the squeaking gates.

The Master of Sinanju walked at his side. Remo's pace was eager.

"Smith would be upset if he knew you were here," Chiun warned.

"It was the only place I could think of to meet."

"Smith is already upset."

"How could he be? We saved his bacon. And America's bacon. There's a new President coming into office who thinks CURE should go on forever. And the Dutchman is going to spend the rest of his life in a Folcroft rubber room picking lint out of his navel. He's never going to bother any of us again. Our problems are over. I can't wait to tell Jilda."

"Smith is upset because when his vision returned, he was able to read the contract."

"What'd you stick him with? Double the last contract?"

"Double would not be enough to pay for the indignity of bargaining the Master of Sinanju down to a lower fee and tearing up that last contract. I charged triple. "

"I can see why he's upset. That's a big jump."

"It was necessary. He was paying for the Master of Sinanju, for certain disreputable acts visited upon the Master of Sinanju ... and for you."

Remo stopped dead in his tracks. Chiun looked up at him with a placid expression.

"Me? You signed me on for another year?"

"Two years. Consider it a form of job security."

"Don't I have a say in this?"

"No. I am still Master. You are the pupil. Technically, you are an apprentice. And as such, I negotiate for you. As always. "

Remo shook his head. He continued walking. "We'll see what Jilda says," Remo said.

"Yes," said Chiun in a hollow voice. "We will see what Jilda says."

At the grave bearing the name of Remo Williams, there were flowers. Remo stopped.

"Funny. Who would put flowers on my grave?" he said. He bent over and picked them up. Inside, there was an envelope. It was slightly soggy from the recent rain. Remo dropped the flowers and opened the paper. He saw that it was addressed to him and signed "Jilda."

Remo read.

"What does she say?" Chiun asked quietly when Remo was done.

"She's not coming," Remo said thickly. "Ever."

"It is not meant to be. "

"Not as long as I'm in the business I'm in, she says. And she knows that it's the only business for me. She says that this time, it was me who left her. That's what made up her mind. The way I took off for America with you. She says I belong here."

"You know it too," said Chiun.

"She says that Freya misses me already," Remo went on, looking at the letter with caved-in eyes. "And that when the time comes and I wish it, and Freya wishes it, Jilda will consider allowing her to be trained in Sinanju."

"She is dreaming," Chiun said haughtily. "No woman has ever been a Master of Sinanju. No woman can ever become a Master of Sinanju. It is impossible."

"There's a P.S.," Remo said. "It says that Freya has been working on her breathing when she isn't riding her pony. She sends a present to show you that she's trying to grow up to be big and strong like her daddy, as well as her mommy."

Remo reached into the flower basket and came up with a small horseshoe that had been bent into the shape of a pretzel.

"Look, Chiun."

"A twisted horseshoe," Chiun sniffed. "So?"

"Don't you get it?" Remo said. "Freya did that. With her own little hands."

"Impossible!" sputtered Chiun. "She is too young, she is white, and she is a female. I could not do that until I was twelve! "

"So?" Remo said. "You're not white or female."

Chiun stamped his foot angrily. "I do not believe it."

"But I do," Remo said. "And I'm going to keep this forever. "

Chiun frowned. "Are you not even going to attempt to pry Jilda's whereabouts from my inviolate lips?" he asked. Remo thought for a long time before he answered. When he spoke, he stared at the twisted horseshoe wistfully.

"Nope," he said at last. "Jilda knows what she's doing. I guess she's right. Besides, she's not living in Wales anymore. The letter said so."

"What!" cried Chiun. "You mean she left no forwarding address! How will I send my granddaughter presents on her birthdays? How will I monitor her progress through the early years of her life?"

"We'll see them again," Remo said. "I just don't know when. "

"Then you will remain in America-with me?"

Remo sighed. "Yeah, I don't have anywhere else to go, I guess. Back in Sinanju, the villagers think I'm a jerk. There are too many bad memories back there anyway."

"It is not the ideal situation," Chiun agreed. "Not when living in the pearl of Asia is preferred, but we will make the best of it. For two years at least."

"Wait a sec," Remo said. "I thought you wanted to live in America. And what about that whole wardrobe of Western clothes you bought so you could be more American?"

"I have burned them. Sadly, I discovered they are inadequate for climbing purposes. It is a major flaw for those in our honored profession."

"Okay, but didn't you finally admit that Sinanju was a dung heap?"

Chiun puffed out his cheeks. "Remo!" he said, shocked.

"I said no such thing. And I will deny any slander to the contrary. "

"But you do admit you're happy with the way things have worked out, and there'll be no carping from now on?"

"I am not! I am an old man, with an irresponsible white for a pupil and no worthy heir for either of us. It is my sad fate, but I will bear up. I will not complain about these things. I will not mention to you that because of your inability to sire a male, I am forced to work into my final days instead of entering into the traditional period of retirement. It may be that I will have to work forever. No Master of Sinanju has ever been burdened. But I will not complain. Not I. "

"Pterodactyl dung," replied Remo. And in spite of the pain he felt, he smiled.