Political Pressure

4

"You're awfully quiet, Little Father," Remo said. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy a little peace now and then, but it always worried him when he didn't know what Chiun was pondering so seriously.

Remo and Chiun had been companions for a long time, since the very earliest days of Remo's training with CURE. As a young beat cop in New Jersey, Remo was framed for a murder he didn't commit, railroaded through the judicial system with unprecedented speed and fried in the electric chair, only to wake up in a hospital bed in Folcroft Sanitarium.

Remo's only visitor in the hospital room was a one-armed man who was Smith's second in command at the time. The man gave Remo the choice of employment with CURE or death. Real death, this time. Permanent, in-the-grave, sorry-buddy-no-hard-feelings-blam! death.

Remo took the job.

Days later he began training with Chiun, along with training in firearms, interrogation, lock-picking, you

name it. After a while he shucked all the other instruction and trained only with Chiun. There was nothing he needed to know that Chiun, the Master of Sinanju, couldn't teach.

They had been a team ever since, Master and student. Eventually Remo learned the skills of Sinanju to such a degree that he attained the rank of Master. Only recently Remo had become Reigning Master, making him the traditional Master of the North Korean village of Sinanju, birthplace of the ancient art, and owner of all the treasure that came with the position. However, Remo had honestly not expected the promotion to change his relationship with Chiun, and he was right.

"I have much on my mind," Chiun said vaguely. He was staring at the wing of the 777 that was carrying them into O'Hare International Airport. Chiun was looking for uncharacteristic wobbling or stress fractures that foretold of the wing spontaneously separating from the jet.

"Such as?" Remo asked.

"I do not understand this mission," Chiun said to the window. "I do not know why the addle-brained Dr. Smith would want this activity to cease, when this is exactly the type of busywork he has committed us to time and again."

Remo nodded. "Well, I like to think we go after bigger fish than the Streets And San slacker, but I see what you mean. I guess I don't get it, either. If they're all crooks, why not let them get offed?"

"Exactly," Chiun agreed. "It is possible that the doctor is losing his mental faculties."

Remo considered that. "He didn't act any different to me. Plus he had Junior agreeing with him every step of the way. They probably have some reason we don't understand. Wouldn't be the first time he sent us off on some fool's errand."

"You are a fool perhaps, but not I," Chiun snapped, turning to him. "I, at least, have come to understand Smith's rationale, even the most bizarre and incorrectly motivated. It is a cause for celebration when you understand enough to fetch the correct stick."

"Fine, you tell me what the hell we're doing this for?"

Chiun's eyes became vague, and briefly he stroked the white threads on his chin. "This time even my wisdom is dwarfed by Smith's inscrutability."

"I thought so," Remo replied, and opened the airline magazine. He hated airline magazines, especially the pap they printed up since the big budget crunch. "Smitty's probably just worried that whoever is doing all the killing is gonna give him some competition."

"Yes!" Chiun hissed. "That is the reason!"

"Naw. I was just pulling your leg."

"Do not touch my leg. You have bumbled into the correct answer, Remo Williams. The Emperor Smith is concerned that these upstarts will step into the spotlight and accept the glory for this work. And yet it is we who deserve the glory. Now Smith is regretting that he did not take my advice to proclaim the greatness of our achievements."

"I don't think so."

"Consider it. Time and again the glorious achievements of Chiun have gone unheralded, and thus the greatness of the Emperor Smith is unheralded."

"Oh, really? The glorious achievements of Chiun? Solo?"

"Chiun and his faithful houseboy, then," Chiun said, annoyed at the interruption. "Now this gang of upstarts will come in and do the work we do, but on a larger scale. Instead of assassinating a few ne'er-do-wells, they have come into assassinate hundreds of corrupt government workers."

"Yeah, like the guys who patch the potholes," Remo reminded him.

"This does not matter. It is not true value but the promotion of the value that matters to the dull-witted white," lectured Chiun. "If we say we assassinated twenty men and they claim they assassinated a hundred men, which number will the dull-witted, sofa-sitting American be most impressed by?"

"Are we talking about television commercials? I don't think Smitty'll go for that."

"And if we then try to explain that we have taken the high road and assassinated only the most dangerous and damaging criminals, what then shall happen?"

Remo waited.

"I asked you, what then shall happen?"

"I thought it was a hypothetical—"

"It was not! What then shall happen?"

"I don't know."

"Exactly. That same blank look. And then, of course,

click! They change the channel. Whites have such microscopic levels of intelligence that the simplest of explanations befuddles them completely and bores them utterly."

"You said it!" The tall, dark-skinned, clean-cut man in the next row was craning his neck over the seat, nodding. He looked like a vice President of accounting from a big, bland financial corporation. "The white folks I know can't think themselves oat of a brown paper sack."

"Quiet!" Chiun barked. "You are as white as my buffoon of a son!"

"Sir," said Remo to Chiun, "I don't even know you."

"You calling me a white man? You are way whiter than me!"

"I am Korean," Chiun said stiffly.

"You are white!" the man proclaimed indignantly.

Remo tried to look uninvolved. "Oh boy."

"And where are you from?" Chiun demanded, his body rigid.

"Africa, originally. But I was born in Baltimore."

"Which makes you as white as snow."

"Oh yeah, yellow ass?"

Chiun's bony hand slithered over the seat, found the man's neck and slithered back. The vice president of accounting slept the rest of the way to Chicago.

"The point is this," Chiun continued doggedly, "these upstarts are intent on making publicity that should rightfully belong to me."

"Or us," Remo added. "But the other point is this—

Smitty doesn't want publicity. Publicity would shut us down. Publicity is going to shut these people down if they ever get any. Assassination is against the law."

"Laws are made by the rulers of the land," Chiun said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means nothing." Chiun looked out the window.

"It means something."

But Chiun was done with the discussion. He had a wobbling wing to watch.

Against all odds, the aircraft remained in one piece and landed them safely at Chicago O'Hare, where a limousine awaited them. The driver was a tall blond woman who waved a white cardboard sign proclaiming "R. Middlesex".

"You Middle-sex?" She said it like two words and gave Remo a slow, salacious appraisal.

Remo checked his ID. "That's us."

"It is you. I shall ride along, however," Chiun sniffed.

"And we're late," Remo added. Somehow he just knew the driver wanted to engage in a little bit of hanky- panky talk, and he was not in the mood.

"Fine," she said, yanking the door open. "Clothes are on the hook."

Remo had forgotten about the clothes. It was a tuxedo, of all things. "Smitty doesn't really think I'm going to wear that, does he?"

"You going to the governor's big deal at the U of I, ain't you?" the driver asked. "It's formal."

"I'll wear the jacket," Remo said. "At least until I'm through the door." He dismantled the various components of apparel on the hanger and found the jacket, which he shrugged into.

"I like you, Middle-sex," the driver said.

"I dislike you both," Chiun snapped and jabbed at the button that raised the window between them and the driver. "I am glad Smith is too miserly to offer us this class of transportation on a regular basis. Limousine drivers are notoriously ill-tempered."

At that moment, for no obvious reason, the limo braked suddenly. Any other occupants would have been tossed to the floor. Chiun and Remo rode out the deceleration without discomfort.

"Do not say anything insulting, Remo," Chiun warned, "for I fear the harlot is invading our privacy."

There was a squeal of tires. As they started moving again, the driver got on the intercom. "Sorry. There were some skunks in the road."

"That explains the smell," Chiun replied.

They screeched to another hard stop. The driver was disconcerted that her passengers hadn't even been tossed out of their seats. Usually she could do some serious head knocking when she wanted to, maybe cause some concussions.

They disembarked at the entrance of the University of Illinois, Chicago auditorium, where the traffic cops waved them to the front entrance. The driver sneered her lip at Chiun, but he ignored her completely as he left.

Remo needed all his Sinanju-enhanced dexterity to dodge the sharp little pinch she targeted at the seat of his pants.

"Oh, great, more jokers."

Trooper Krucoff, commanding the governor's Antiterrorist Security Patrol, was also sick of the jokers, and sick of the jokes and sick of the just plain meanness that got leveled at him and his men. As if they chose the governor. As if doing their sworn duty somehow made them a part of the governor's agenda or alleged improprieties.

And marching right at him was another pair of ingrates, sure to give him shit. One was as old as Methuselah, if Methuselah was Japanese or Filipino or whatever this guy was, and he was wearing a shiny dress with dragons or something chasing themselves around the legs. The other guy was of indeterminate age. Maybe twenty-five, maybe forty-five, but sure as shit a goof- ball. He was wearing a black T-shirt and a tuxedo jacket.

Trooper Krucoff blocked the VIP entrance with his fists on his hips.

"Afternoon, Mr. Reeves." The younger man nodded. "Loved you in Superman Versus the Mole People"

Krucoff did hear him, momentarily taken aback by the man's cruel dead eyes. If it weren't for the goofy getup the trooper would have been extremely wary of a man with eyes like that. He shook it off. "I can't let you in here."

"Sure, you can." The younger man reached inside of his jacket, which sent Krucoff and Trooper Azul into a quick draw for their own weapons, but they never even got the snaps off. The man with the dead eyes was unbelievably fast on the draw; it was a good thing he only pulled out an ID wallet. "Special Agent Remo Middlesex, FBI."

"Sure, you are," Trooper Krucoff said, taking the badge. He ran the badge through the electronic scanner and was surprised when the green light came on.

"Who's your sidekick?"

"Special Agent M.O.S.E. Chiun."

The Asian man was standing quietly with his hands in his sleeves, which had Trooper Azul a little on edge, and when the little man extracted something from his sleeves they both were startled into action again.

"Made you jump," the little special agent squeaked as he held out his badge, his face hard but his child-like eyes full of amusement.

Again the badge got a green light from the scanner, but Krucoff handed the badges to Azul.

"Call them in."

If they were insulted by the added precaution, Agents Middlesex and Chiun didn't show it. The little Asian man was at ease, hands once again in his sleeves, his eyes focusing on some wise thing that only elderly Asians could see. The goof in the tuxedo jacket and T-shirt was checking out the other VIPs, who got in without quite so much trouble.

"They're okay," Azul announced a moment later, handing the IDs to Krucoff, who unwillingly returned them to Agent Middlesex.

"Need a tie," Krucoff said.

"No, thanks."

"I'm not asking you, Agent, I'm telling you. This is a formal affair. I'm not allowed to let guests into the governor's skybox without a tie."

Something brushed against his neck and Krucoff realized the little Asian had vanished. He turned around quickly to find Chiun standing there, arms in his sleeves and apparently completely at his leisure, although he had not been there three seconds ago.

When Krucoff spun back at Agent Middlesex, the man was wearing a navy blue tie with his black tuxedo jacket, black T-shirt and brown shoes.

"Thanks," the agent said, and brisked inside the auditorium before Krucoff got a word out. Azul's face screwed up strangely. "Krucoff, where's your tie?"

The trooper's tie joined the tuxedo jacket in the trash can as soon as they were in the VIP lounge. The glassed- in room stood above and to the side of the main floor, with a clear view of the quickly filling auditorium.

"All this for a politician who is about to leave office?" Chiun wondered.

"You have to give him credit for creating a truckload of favorable publicity. This guy should be the state's Richard Nixon. Instead he's actually going out on a high note."

"Yes," said Chiun thoughtfully.

The governor himself was prominently pictured in a silk-screened banner behind the stage, his face ten feet in height, serious yet smiling slightly. The likeness was flattering, even downplaying the man's famously bulbous nose and jowls.

"He still looks like Mr. Magoo," Remo noted.

"I know not this Magoo. Was he more competent a politician than Governor Bryant?"

"Definitely," Remo said. "Here come the convicts."

From the wall-to-wall picture window they had an unobstructed view. On the stage, a line of unsavory-looking characters in badly fitted suits was emerging from the wings and taking seats in the rows of chairs behind the podium. Some looked jubilant, some looked weary, and a few tried to adopt a street-tough swagger, but they were all extremely uncomfortable being where they were.

As the men filed into their seats, a row of students on the balcony across the auditorium rose to their feet and raised a banner that read No Amnesty For Murder. A loud chant began. "Killers, murderers, crook! Killers, murderers, crook!"

The processional of convicts on the stage reacted with laughter, a number of middle fingers and one outburst of temper. The protesters were ushered out of the auditorium by state troopers with great efficiency.

"Makes you sick," said the thin young woman with the fat highball glass full of something amber. "To think those kids want to incarcerate innocent men."

"Those men are innocent?" Chiun asked.

"They have not been proved guilty," said the woman, whose dress had not been tailored to match her recent weight loss. Remo guessed she was on one of those all- liquid diets that were all the rage. In fact, she was taking a big swallow of lunch.

Chiun looked at the stage and then at the woman. "How did these men become incarcerated if there was no trial?"

"Oh, there was a trial," the woman said. "A hollow sham of a trial, for every single one of them. They all ended up with life sentences, simply because each was labeled a recidivist. You really don't know about this?"

"We're from out east," Remo explained.

"Oh." She considered this as she sipped another two ounces of liquor. "Well, all these men were accused of doing horrible crimes. Rape and murder and, well, mostly rape and murder. They were brought to court and convicted on the evidence—without consideration of the fact that future technology might be able to clear them of their crimes."

Chiun stared at her blankly.

"It's like this," she said. "You know how there were all these guys who were convicted of murders and they got the death penalty, but then the along comes DNA testing that proves they did not commit the murder. So the governor said to himself, how do we know that some new technology might not come along next week, or next month, or maybe in ten years, that could prove one of these men was innocent of the crime that got him jailed."

"I suppose this is possible," Chiun agreed.

"So, obviously, you can't expect a man to rot in jail just because the science hasn't reached the point where it can disprove the guilty verdicts."

"I see," Chiun said, nodding, then turned to Remo and said in Korean, "She is a drunkard and a lunatic."

"Probably, Little Father," Remo agreed, "but no more so than their governor."

"Do you mean to say her story is true? The governor of this province is taking this ridiculous stance? Why would he?"

"To draw attention away from the fact that he's facing federal corruption and conspiracy charges."

"Ah!" Chiun nodded sincerely and turned back to the woman, who had acquired a fresh drink from a passing waiter. She seemed befuddled but tolerant of the incomprehensible language, and beamed when Chiun addressed her in English. "The governor's constituency responds to his calls of clemency?"

"Oh, sure. Most do. There are some bad apples in the woodpile, you know, like those stupid kids."

"And this distracts the constituency from his looming indictments on federal corruption charges," Chiun added.

"My idea!" She toasted herself with the fresh drink, which was already down to dregs. "A PR challenge of the first magnitude! I'm his PR agent."

"I see!" Chiun said enthusiastically. "Ms.?"

"Johns. Sunny Johns." She reached out to shake his hand, but put it away as Chiun seemed not to notice it. "And you are?"

"Chiun." He shoved his fake FBI badge at her face.

"Moses Chiun," she said, squinting at it.

"Call me Chiun. May I have your card, Ms. Johns?"

Sunny Johns reached for her card with the hand holding the glass, sending the dregs trickling down her blazer lapels.

"So, really, any and all criminal convictions should be voided, pending the development of new technology that might clear the accused," Remo said.

"Yes, exactly." Sunny nodded as she thrust her card at Chiun, then stopped herself and put down the glass. She handed the card to Chiun with two hands, bowing over it.

"She thinks you're Japanese," Remo said in Korean.

"She is a drunkard and a lunatic, but talented," Chiun replied, taking the card in a whisk of motion that Sunny Johns did not follow. She looked on the floor for the card.

"But even ten years from now a convicted criminal would surely be able to claim that some other technology might be coming even further down the line," Remo insisted.

"I suppose so," Sunny said brightly.

"In other words, we should empty all the jails and never lock up another criminal because maybe, someday, he might be proved innocent."

Sunny beamed. "Exactly!"

"What a load of crap," Remo muttered.

Sunny loosed a peal of laughter. "Honey, don't I know it! But guess what, they're eating it up like hogs at the trough. Oh!" She clamped a hand over her mouth.

"I can't believe I said that. I never admitted that to anybody before."

"To have succeeded in this great deception indicates you are a woman of vast talent," Chiun said, giving her his best kindly-old-grandfather smile of approval.

Sunny removed the hand from her mouth and leaned in closer to Chiun, who halted his respiration to avoid her poisonous breath. "You haven't heard the best part."

"Yes?" Chiun asked.

"After the governor pulls this stunt he's gonna be worth millions. You know how many nutcase organizations will pay a hundred grand a pop to hear him give a speech?"

"Truly?" Chiun asked.

"And after today, the price doubles." Sunny's eyes were refusing to focus. "This is the peez-de-resistance! We got the networks. We got CNN. We got the BBC!"

She grasped the handrail in front of the picture window as her legs lost their stiffness. 'Truth is, Mr. Moses, I'm feeling a little bit awful about letting all those bad men out of the joint They hurt a lot of people, you know."

There was no answer. Squinting through the blur, Sunny found that she was getting nasty looks from the governor's staff, but the nice little man who was her confidant had gone away.

"Aw, hell," she blubbered.

"She is just what we need, Remo!"

"I wasn't impressed, tell you the truth," Remo said. "You said yourself she's a drunk."

"Many artists are."

"Artist?"

"She performed a great work of promotional creativity. Even I would not have deemed the whites of this nation gullible enough to swallow this ridiculous philosophy!" Chiun stopped and looked at Remo worriedly. "The people of this state, are they considered exceptionally stupid, even by American standards?"

"Depends who you ask," Remo said. "I think they're about as smart as the next state."

Chiun clapped his hands. "Wonderful, then Sunny Johns can work her magic for us on a national scale."

"And what exactly is she supposed to do for us, Little Father?"

"Publicize us!"

"Who's us?"

"Myself, of course. And Emperor Smith, and his heir apparent, the Prince Howard. Even you. We will let the nation know of our grand efforts to protect them from the evil that walks in their midst. With the right advertising and promotion, we will shine out like stars of justice and righteousness, while this band of upstarts will be just another band of playground bullies."

"You going to get the okay from Smitty before you book the commercial time?" Remo was only half listening as they emerged into the auditorium seating areas close to the stage. He was scanning the crowds, looking for signs of a possible attack.

"He would likely wish me to consult with him first," Chiun admitted.

"Probably."

"But he might attempt to interfere."

"He just might."

They helped themselves to empty seats in the front row of the side section as the house lights dimmed. Even Remo's sharp eyes had trouble negotiating the swarms of human beings among the erratic and polarizing stage lights. "You see anything, Little Father?"

"Yes, there she is," Chiun answered, standing on his seat and gesturing back to the great glass picture window of the private box. Sunny Johns waved back and wiped away tears as she leaned against the glass.

"Down in front!" shouted a man a few rows back. A soda can flew in Chiun's direction, and just as it was about to bounce off his pale, wrinkled skull it seemed to reverse course at a tremendous speed, colliding into its thrower with force enough to rob him of consciousness.

"Not her, Chiun. We're here to watch for the bad guys, remember? Gonna assassinate the corrupt governor and we're supposed to stop it? Ring a bell?"

"Why, again, are we doing this?" Chiun asked, taking his seat and scanning the crowds.

"I forget, exactly."

The music blasting out of the sound system was the same 1970s techno-pop used by the city's pro basketball team, whose five consecutive world championships had led to the firing of the entire coaching staff and the departure of all the talented players. The basketball franchise had now settled comfortably into the traditional role of a Chicago sports team, which meant losing with dogged consistency. The song, dating from the team's glory years, still got the crowd revved up for the arrival of the soon-to-be-ex-Governor Jerome Bryant. To deafening applause, Governor Bryant waddled out of the wings, waving a hand to the crowd.

"Cripes, I expected a leather boy on a Harley to come roaring out after that build-up," Remo said.

"Instead you get a trained walrus," Chiun observed, but his interest in the spectacle was obvious.

Governor Bryant waved and lifted the sides of his mouth in an attempt at a smile until the weight of his sagging jowls made the effort too great to sustain. The applause died down after a long minute; only then were the five groups of chanting protesters heard. The crowd resumed its wild applause to drown them out while the state troopers extracted the protesters.

Bryant began delivering his speech, as dry as stale bread. He decried the state's flawed judicial system. He counted as heroes the criminal investigation students of the university who had uncovered new DNA evidence that overturned the convictions of a convicted murderer who had been sitting on death row for years, all the while protesting his innocence.

Remo could appreciate that. After all, he once sat on death row for a crime he didn't commit. If he had been able to use DNA evidence at the time, maybe he would never have gone to the electric chair. He wondered idly where he would be today.

Right where he was, he realized. The frame-up had been engineered by none other than Dr. Harold W. Smith himself, and if there had been a chance DNA evidence would be used in the trial of Remo Williams, then damning DNA evidence would have been planted at the scene of the crime he was accused of.

Then the governor began talking about the further efforts of the university students—actually, it was the next group to come through the same criminal investigations program at the university. They apparently couldn't locate other cases of wrongful conviction that could be proved with a fresh look at the evidence, but they did find many convictions that might be proved false, if and when new technology was developed to cast doubt on the physical evidence used to gain the convictions.

"That trained walrus you talked about would have been more entertaining," Remo said. "Only this guy could make a wild story like this sound like an accounting lecture."

Remo had to admit this guy seemed like a likely target for anybody out to clean up government. He felt like popping the creep himself. Nevertheless he diligently searched the vast crowds and the stage seeking any sign of an imminent attack. The speech ended, and the governor began calling up the convicted murders and rapists by name. Some had nodded off and had to be nudged awake by the governor's aids. One of the sleepers came awake with fists flying and the aide went down for the count, but the ceremony was otherwise uneventful for the first half hour.

Then the pace picked up considerably.

Remo stood, eyes locked on another skybox across the main floor and almost at the rear of the auditorium. The glass of the picture window reflected the stage lights, and inside the skybox were only the tiniest visible glimmers of an exit light.

"Remo?" Chiun asked, standing up beside him.

"Maybe nothing, but check out that skybox."

Chiun's wispy white eyebrows came together as he concentrated on the glass front. Vision was just one of the highly enhanced senses of the trained Sinanju assassins, and the skybox was not far from where they stood, but the auditorium environment made the glass into a mirror that even Chiun couldn't penetrate easily.

Remo had been scanning the back corner of the vast theater when he thought he saw the silhouette of a man beyond the glass with a rifle. When one of the spotlights changed its angle, the reflection decreased for a moment and the two Masters of Sinanju saw into the shadows.

"Sniper," Remo blurted. "I'll go."

That was the moment that the usher came alongside the front row of their balcony. "You want to take your seats, please?" he complained.

Then one of the two men he had been complaining to was gone, and the usher saw him a second later sprinting across the auditorium. Running on heads.