The End of the Beginning

In his infinite generosity, Chiun allowed Remo to use the small closet in the room. At the moment it was the only place Remo could really call his own.

When he went to hang up his suit in the closet, Remo found a glassy-eyed corpse propped up in the corner.

"Jesum Crow," he said, swallowing his breath mint. He jumped back as the orderly's body dumped out onto the floor.

Remo's startled heart was jumping a mile a minute. Using the breathing techniques he'd been taught, he willed it slower.

He looked down at the body. The last peeking edge of the spoon's bowl was visible in the man's dented forehead.

"Dammit," Remo muttered.

Scowling, he stuffed the body back in the closet. He used the spoon as a hook to hang up his suit jacket. Trading his dress shoes for sneakers, he changed into a white T-shirt and tan slacks before heading upstairs.

The administrative wing was almost as abandoned as it had been that first night a week before. Despite passing a dozen offices, Remo saw only a grand total of five people.

Director Smith's secretary was sitting at her desk. She glanced up as Remo entered the room.

Miss Purvish's professional demeanor seemed to fade before his eyes. A flush came to her cheeks.

Remo was still getting used to this reaction. After a month or two of training, Chiun had told him that some women could sense a man with superior timing and body rhythms. Remo asked him why he was telling him that, since Chiun kept insisting that Remo was an untrainable klutz with a radish for a brain. Chiun said that, given the yardstick of other whites to go by, having a whole radish in his head could make Remo king of the western hemisphere. Women would sense his radish, so watch out. The old man had been right.

"Oh, hello," Miss Purvish said with a too wide smile. "You're Mr. Park's nurse, aren't you?"

She licked her lips. She wasn't unattractive, but she wore too much makeup. Remo thought they could make ten bucks on the weekends if they stuck a rubber ball on the end of her nose and rented her out for kids' parties.

"I prefer the term 'physical-needs specialist.'" Her leering smile told him the physical needs she'd like him to specialize in.

"Dr. Smith told me to send you right in."

As he passed her desk, she followed him with her eyes.

Before he was within ten feet of the door, Remo heard an ungodly shriek from within Smith's office. "Perfidy!" cried a muffled singsong voice.

The door flew open and the Master of Sinanju swirled out into the outer office like a cloud of purple doom. A hand of parchment-covered bone stabbed Remo's chest.

"You have been inhaling tobacco smoke," the aged Korean accused angrily.

"Howdy-do to you, too," Remo said, peeved.

Miss Purvish was frozen in her chair. Her hands were locked to the edge of her desk and her jaw hung open as she stared wide-eyed at the ancient Oriental in the purple-and-gold kimono who had just raged from her employer's office.

Smith sprang through the door a heartbeat after Chiun. Out of breath, his eyes darted to his shocked secretary.

"Er, you've met Mr. Park," Smith explained hastily to her. "The patient is a stickler for issues of health." He turned to Chiun. "I agree, Mr. Park, that your nurse should have more consideration for your concerns. Let's discuss the issue in the privacy of my office, shall we?"

Smith's bloodless lips formed a parody of a reasonable smile as he ushered the two men into his office.

"What's he doing here?" Remo asked after Smith had closed and locked the door on the young woman's baffled face.

"You dare?" Chiun snapped. "You dare question why I, a loyal servant, would be where I belong, at my emperor's side? You who would stick tubes of burning leaves between your blubbery lips? Oh, and after all the hard work I put in trying to get your lungs and body to begin doing some of what they are supposed to do. This is how you repay me?"

"If I recall, I was the one putting in the hard work all those months," Remo droned.

Chiun's voice grew low with menace. "If you think you had it difficult before, just you wait."

"Would you both please keep your voices down?" Smith said tightly.

"I'm sorry-" Remo was going to say more, but stopped. "What do I call you, by the way?"

"Either Doctor Smith or Director Smith will suffice."

Remo clearly wasn't pleased with the choices. "Don't have a first name, huh? Okay, Smitty." Smith let the nickname slide. The only other man who'd ever called him that was Conrad MacCleary. Rather than pick that particular scab, he opted to ignore it. Besides, if he called attention to it, this Remo might make it a habit.

"I'm sure you want to know why I called you back here," the CURE director said. "Other than your apparent inability to remember the simplest of phone codes."

"Does it have something to do with the corpse-in-the-box I found rigged up downstairs?" Remo asked. "That was hilarious, by the way."

"No," Smith said, shooting a glance at the Master of Sinanju. "That is an issue that will have to be dealt with separately. I need clarification of the details of your assignment. Norman Felton is dead, correct?"

"He's toast," Remo said. "I pushed the button myself. He got crushed into a bite-sized cube."

"Do my ears hear true? You used a machine to assassinate?" Chiun gasped. His voice flirted with heretofore undiscovered octaves of horror.

"That is irrelevant, Master Chiun," Smith admonished. "Remo, you removed Felton last night. This morning two United States senators were murdered."

This got Remo's attention. "Murdered? I heard about it on the radio. They didn't say anything about murders."

"The details have not yet been released to the public. It is my belief that they were targeted for assassination by the Viaselli crime syndicate."

He quickly filled Remo in on the details of the senatorial committee on organized crime that was making its way across the country. He finished up with the decapitation death of Senator Dale Bianco.

"I didn't hear about him," Remo said once he was through.

"It happened while you and Chiun were away," Smith said. "That was why I sent MacCleary into the field. There is a pattern to these deaths. It clearly points to someone out to throw the Senate committee, perhaps the nation, into chaos. The latest pair of executions took place after you eliminated Felton, who you claim was the true Viaselli Family enforcer."

"He was," Remo insisted.

"Then someone else is responsible for these new deaths. Perhaps even some of the others, with Felton using his device to destroy the evidence. I have consulted with Master Chiun. Unfortunately, he couldn't place the modus operandi to anyone who travels in the same, er, circles as he."

Neither Remo nor Smith noticed the flat expression that settled on the Master of Sinanju's wrinkled face. Smith continued. "Remo, I need you to find out who is responsible, and I need you to stop them."

"I thought I was supposed to get back to training," Remo said, glancing at the Master of Sinanju. "Not that I was looking forward to it or anything."

"You may come back to Folcroft to resume your training after this situation is resolved."

"I urge you to reconsider, Emperor Smith," the Master of Sinanju interjected. "It is sheer dumb luck that he survived this long. You are taking a grave risk if you send him back out to blunder around some more."

Remo scowled. "You know that bullshit's rude enough when you say it just to me, but it's about a billion times more insulting when you say it about me when I'm standing right next to you in the goddamned room."

"Silence," Chiun hissed. "This is for your own good."

There was something beneath the admonition. Something Remo hadn't ever detected in the old man's voice before. If he didn't know any better, he'd swear it was worry.

"Remo has handled the situation well thus far, Master Chiun," Smith said. "I'm not sure what your objections are."

"I object because he is nowhere near ready," Chiun replied. "As soon as he is out of my sight for five seconds, he forgets all that I have taught him. He reeks of alcohol, cigarettes and loose women. Smell him. Go ahead. Smell."

With a bony hand he propelled Remo forward. Remo had to grab the edge of Smith's desk to keep from falling.

"Knock it off, will you?" Remo groused. "I needed a drink 'cause I was in a crappy mood. And did you ever stop to think that maybe, just maybe, I needed the cigarettes because you've gotten me so wound up I needed to relax?"

"So it is my fault?" Chiun said, his eyes saucering wide. "Me? I am to blame? Blameless me is to blame for your failings? Me? Me?" He wheeled on Smith. "Do you see what you have given me? Do you see the impossible task you've asked me to perform?"

Smith took in a breath to respond, but the old Korean had already wheeled back to Remo.

"And I suppose I am to blame for the harlot? Don't deny it. The emperor and I were both nearly overpowered by that cloud of vile white musk that trailed you in here."

Smith's blank face indicated his utter lack of ability to smell anything but stale, recirculated office air. "Actually, Master Chiun-" the CURE director began.

Chiun interrupted with an upraised hand. "I know you are bothered by it, Emperor Smith. Who wouldn't be? I am afraid you will have to take shallow breaths until you get someone to clean the odor of carnality from the carpets." He crossed his arms and stared at Remo. "Well?"

"She was just pleasure in the line of business," Remo said, annoyed. "I told you about Felton's daughter when I checked in," he said to Smith. "I used her to get to him."

"Remo told me his intentions, Master Chiun," Smith said. "I understand what he had to do."

"Do you?" Chiun challenged. "Then it must be some cabalistic white thing, because I am at a loss." He waggled a stern finger in Remo's face. "You are not taking time off from your training to care for the baby."

"There's not gonna be a baby," Remo exhaled.

"There is always a baby with you people," Chiun said darkly. "My teacher always said every time a bell rings another white female has been impregnated."

Remo folded his arms. "So you come from a long line of racists, do you?" he asked.

"And there is another thing," Chiun said to Smith. "That tongue. It is a vicious thing incapable of showing proper gratitude or respect. If you send him out with that tongue, he will insult the wrong warlord or khan and the next thing you know you will have hordes of Visigoths swarming over your palace walls. I have seen it happen a hundred times."

Smith shook his head firmly. "Remo has proved competent enough, Master Chiun. If you are having a personality conflict, that is something that the two of you will have to work out on your own. For now we have a grave crisis to deal with. Remo, use the cover documents you were already issued. The phone codes are still in effect. I'll refresh your memory on proper procedure before you leave."

The Master of Sinanju crossed his arms. "I am going with him," he insisted.

"Huh?" Remo asked flatly.

"He has taken the glory that is Sinanju and squandered it all on dissolute living," Chiun argued to Smith, ignoring Remo. "I have wasted months on him, but it is like throwing pearls before swine. No matter how flawless the pearls, the swine will always prefer wallowing in mud. If you insist on sending him back out so soon, I insist on accompanying him, lest his incompetence bring disgrace to me as a teacher."

Leaning back in his chair, Smith considered the old man's words. "I would ordinarily resist such a suggestion. "

"Good," Remo said, the first strains of worry in his voice. "Resist away."

"These circumstances, however, are dire," Smith continued. "War has been declared against a branch of the United States government. At the moment there is only the three of us to stop the other side from winning."

Remo glanced at the Master of Sinanju. The old man raised a superior eyebrow.

"Oh, goody," Remo muttered, shoulders sagging.

"They were acting cautiously at the outset, but they have raised the stakes," Smith pressed. "We have no time to waste. Start with the Viaselli Family itself. Use any means necessary to stop them and end this madness. If you try to call me and get no answer, assume Folcroft has been compromised. The MacCleary matter is quiet for now, but that doesn't mean it will remain so. If I am gone, do not return here. Continue in your mission without me."

"Can do," Remo said.

"We live to bring glory to your throne, O Emperor," Chiun said, offering a deep bow.

Orders given, Smith focused his attention back on his computer. The two men turned and headed for the door, Remo with a deep scowl on his face.

Behind them, a thought suddenly occurred to Smith. He raised his eyes from his monitor.

"Oh," Smith called after them, "there is one matter you will need to attend to before you go."

Chapter 24

They had to wait until nightfall when most of the sanitarium employees had gone home for the day. Only when the administrative wing was completely empty of non-CURE personnel did the rear delivery door open. Harold Smith's gaunt face appeared for a moment. He glanced around, checking to see that the coast was clear.

Smith ducked back inside and Remo and Chiun appeared a moment later. Remo hauled a heavy bundle through the door. The door closed behind them.

"You and those damned soap operas," Remo complained as he dragged the orderly's corpse across the loading dock and down the side stairs. "I knew this was gonna happen one of these days. I just thought it'd be me."

"The night is young," Chiun replied thinly.

The Master of Sinanju was wearing a blue business suit instead of a kimono. Smith had managed to track down one in Chiun's size in less than an hour. The old man fussed at the sleeves, which at his request were a little too large, allowing for freedom of movement.

As Chiun fretted about his suit, Remo struggled with the dead orderly. The corpse was too big for him to carry. He had to drag it down the damp lawn to the boat dock.

"You know you're the one responsible for Mr. Spoonhead here," Remo griped. "You could grab a leg."

"It is bad enough I have to train garbage. I will not stoop to carting it around," Chiun sniffed.

"You're not much of a people person, are you?" Remo grumbled.

The dock jutted far into the sound. A single light on a post at the far end usually illuminated the warped wood. Smith had doused the light from inside the building.

Remo dumped the body in a pile of rotting leaves. There was a boat upended on some cinder blocks at the edge of the woods near the dock. Remo struggled to haul it up the dock. He dropped it into the water with a splash.

"That was heavier than it looked," he grunted. Though the night was cool, he was hot from his exertions. Thanks to his months of training, he hadn't broken a sweat.

"What do you expect?" Chiun said. "You are still straining muscles like a typical American."

"How the hell' d you expect me to get it in the water, balance it on my pinkie?"

The Master of Sinanju shook his aged head. A dispirited sigh escaped the old man's papery lips. Without a word Chiun bent at the waist. One bony hand reached for the boat. The next minute it was back out of the water and above the dock. The boat flipped up and around until it was standing directly upright.

Remo couldn't believe it. The prow was balanced on the tip of the old man's right pinkie. Although gusts of wind howled in across the sound, the boat remained rock still, as if the Korean and boat were one fused unit.

"I do not expect you to understand, smoker of tobacco," Chiun said blandly as he balanced the boat in the air. "I tried to teach you. I tried to show you men could be more than beasts of burden. If you still think strength comes from mere muscle alone, have Smith hire you another trainer. One who will tell you to hold heavy weights above your head to make your muscles big and fat. Perhaps when the day comes, your swollen American muscles will even slow down the bullet that will inevitably kill you."

Chiun let the boat back down into the water. Although it dropped fast, it landed without a splash. The old Korean was still trying to get through this skull of granite. A demonstration every now and again was necessary for the dimmer students. This simple trick would impress this numskulled white who smoked cigarettes even after all the time and effort the Master had invested.

Chiun stood on the dock, awaiting the accolades. Remo looked from the boat to Chiun.

"If you could do that, why didn't you help schlepp it out here in the first place?" he complained. When he saw the look on Chiun's face, Remo shrugged.

"Hard to be impressed when I've already seen you dodge bullets, rip up floorboards with your bare hands and scale mountains without breaking a sweat."

Leaving Chiun, Remo went to retrieve the orderly's body. He dumped it in the boat, then hauled over the cinder blocks the boat had been resting on. He laid them carefully up the middle of the boat before climbing down inside, all the time worried about capsizing the heavily laden craft.

He was concerned that the added weight of the Master of Sinanju might prove too much, but the boat didn't seem to recognize an additional burden when the old man climbed down from the dock. Chiun sat in the front.

Remo stuck out the oars that had been stored inside the boat and began rowing.

When they stopped three miles out, he was surprised that his arms weren't as limp as wet noodles. He credited it as much to the hours of rope climbing in the Arizona desert as to the special breathing techniques he'd been taught.

Remo weighed the body down with the cinder blocks. Before he could roll it over, Chiun used his long fingernails to slash open the orderly's belly and lungs.

"Yuck," Remo griped. "What'd you do that for?"

"Emperor Smith did not want this vulgar interrupter of beauty to return," the old man explained. "I have removed the gas and air that bloats all you whites. When you have grown your nails to their proper length, you will be able to do this menial work yourself, without dragging me along."

"You've got a hell of a nerve," Remo said. "I'm only out here hauling bodies around because of you, and you don't even lift a finger except to show off."

"I helped," Chiun said. "Who here didn't see me help?"

"Yeah, some help. Just don't expect me to do this for you ever again."

"Why would I expect anything more from you than sloth and ingratitude?" Chiun asked.

Remo ditched the body over the side. "And I'm not growing Fu Manchu fingernails," he concluded.

"Die as you wish," Chiun said. "But when you do, don't come crying to me."

It took forever to row back to shore. Remo dragged the boat up out of the water and left it upside down on the lawn.

They found Remo's car in the Folcroft parking lot. On the way to Jersey City, Chiun fell into a thoughtful silence. Off Route 440, they turned onto a gravel road. It was ten o'clock.

"The junkyard's up ahead," Remo explained as they bounced along the dark road. "Viaselli called when I was back at Felton's apartment. I told him Felton wanted to meet him here tonight. He should be here soon. We can find out everything we need to from him."

In the passenger's seat, face illuminated weirdly by the green dashboard lights, the old Korean eyed his pupil.

"You told someone who knows he is under attack by forces unknown to him to meet an employee who may now be an enemy in the dead of night in an unfamiliar location?"

"Yeah, but don't sweat it. Felton was holding this Viaselli's brother-in-law as a sort of insurance policy. I let him go with a pat on the head and a big wet kiss from Felton, so everything should be hunky-dory now."

"My apologies, Remo," Chiun droned. "Here all this time I thought you were dumb and you are actually very clever."

Remo smiled. "Thanks."

"No, thank you. It is an honor merely to be in the presence of a brilliant tactician such as you." Remo's smile melted.

"Okay," he sighed. "What's wrong with- Hey, what are you doing on the floor?"

The question was barely out before a blaze of gunfire erupted from the path before them.

The windshield shattered in a hail of bullets. Remo would have been cut to ribbons if a strong hand hadn't reached up and yanked him to safety below the dashboard.

"Remember this next time you try to think," the Master of Sinanju whispered through the gunfire. "Never should an assassin attempt to be anything other than an assassin."

The car was still rolling forward. At Chiun's urging the two men popped their respective doors. Chiun sprang out one side, Remo the other.

Remo hit the ground hard. His shoulder took the brunt of the fall as he rolled across the edge of the dirt road. He landed behind a pile of scrap metal. The metal cubes had been cars that were compressed into solid blocks by Norman Felton's car crusher. They were stacked ten cubes high.

Remo's car continued on without them, passing through the fence into the junkyard. The gunfire stopped abruptly.

Remo's shoulder ached. He'd felt something tear as he rolled from the car. Behind the stack of crushed autos he scrambled to his feet. Fingers pressing gingerly into the joint, he tested his injured shoulder.

It still worked well enough. He sank back into the shadows and waited. It didn't take long. Less than thirty seconds passed before a rifle barrel peeked around the stack of cubed cars. A huge shadow lumbered into view.

Remo couldn't believe the size of the man. He weighed four hundred pounds if he weighed an ounce. A ring of fat encircled his neck like a flesh-colored inner tube. He wheezed rotten breath as he waddled through the darkened alley formed by piled scrap iron.

Remo did as he'd been trained, allowing instinct to take over. When the gunman was close enough, Remo reached out with one hand and grabbed the gun barrel. He yanked.

A startled yelp.

The big man at the other end of the gun was knocked off balance. Before he could right himself, Remo was on him.

One hand grabbed the man's wrist, snapping it. The other hand shot forward, cracking the gunman's temple. Eyes rolling back in his head, the big man fell to the ground.

Remo crouched back against the scrap metal, waiting for the next attacker. None came. After two solid minutes of utter silence, he began to think something was wrong.

He peeked cautiously up over the metal barricade. There was no one in sight. Remo wondered briefly if the others had fled. But then he saw something move.

It was a single figure, small in silhouette. With a confident glide, it came through the gates of the junkyard.

"Criminy," breathed Remo Williams, even as the Master of Sinanju emerged full from the darkness. The old Oriental had a pair of dripping bundles clutched in each hand. The bundles had eyes.

As Remo scurried out of hiding, the tiny Korean tossed the four heads to the oily dirt at Remo's feet. "And what moonbeam were you chasing while I did all of your work for you?" the Master of Sinanju demanded.

"I got one," Remo said defensively.

The old Korean gave him a baleful look. As Remo clammed up, Chiun swept by. With one hand he hauled up the fat man that Remo had knocked unconscious, propping him against the crushed cars. With a few sharp slaps across his blubbery face, he woke the slumbering behemoth.

The Viaselli Family soldier blinked away the cobwebs. When he saw Chiun, a strange look crept across his face. His great sagging jowls drew up in a smile. "It's you," he breathed.

Remo frowned. "You know this guy?" he asked.

"Silence," Chiun admonished. He had seen something deep in the eyes of the hit man. He leaned in close. "Speak, fat one," he whispered sharply.

"Your time is past, old man," the man said. He spoke in a voice that seemed too precise, not at all like that of a Mafia killer. "He knows you're here. He knows you wouldn't work for anything less than the ruler of any country. Your arrogance wouldn't allow it. He's going to kill your charge and send you back home in disgrace, where you'll die alone and shamed in the eyes of your ancestors."

There was a glazed look on the man's face. Remo figured he'd cracked him too hard in the head. "What does he mean 'your charge'?" Remo asked. "Chiun, what's this guy talking about?"

"It is nothing," Chiun spat. "The one who pulls this fat one's strings has made an error in judgment. It would not be the first time. He thinks that the Master works for the puppet President of this land. He knows not of Harold the First, the true leader."

"Puppet President?" Remo said. The light dawned. "Is he saying they're going to kill the President?"

"Yes," Chiun replied, his tone flat.

Remo looked hard into the eyes of the weirdly smiling Mafia man. There was the passion of a zealot in those eyes. He was telling the truth.

"This is big," Remo said. "We better call Upstairs."

"I agree," Chiun said. "When the day comes to eliminate the pretender and install Emperor Smith to his rightful place on the throne of America, it will be my doing, no one else's."

He leaned his lips to the hit man's hairy ear. "You may await your wicked master in death," he whispered, so quietly that Remo failed to hear.

A sharpened talon pierced the heart. The Viaselli soldier clutched his chest and collapsed to the ground. "You ever meet someone you didn't kill?" Remo asked, skipping back to avoid the settling corpse.

"Do not tempt me," the Master of Sinanju menaced. He was staring down at the twitching body.

"Maybe we should have asked him more questions," Remo complained. "Like where, when and how, for instance. Did he seem doped up or something to you?"

Chiun's face was grave. "During the Second Idiocy of the Barbarian Nations, the Japanese trained men for suicide missions. Through certain techniques they were convinced they could bring glory to themselves and to their emperor."

"You're talking kamikazes, right?" Remo asked. "What do they have to do with this?"

"The Japanese method was crude. It was stolen from Sinanju by the first Emperor, Jimmu Tenno, 2600 years ago."

Remo frowned deeply. "Yeah? Well, I think Jimmy What's-his-name is off the hook. This guy's not Japanese. He's just some Mafia slug from Jersey."

Chiun said nothing. Remo could see that the old man was troubled.

"Look, I wouldn't sweat it," Remo said. "Two thousand years is a long time. Jimmy's long dead by now. Besides, I've seen you in action. Who in their right mind would want to mess with you?"

At this, Chiun turned a hazel eye to his pupil. "Someone who wishes to test the Master," he intoned quietly.

And though Remo pressed him to elaborate, the wizened Korean would say nothing more.

SMITH HAD QUIZZED Remo on the phone codes and gave him another ten-minute window to call in at eleven o'clock. Remo made the call from the junkyard's office trailer. Over the scrambled line he quickly explained the situation.

"Is Master Chiun certain?" Smith asked urgently. Remo glanced out the window. The old Korean stood out in the yard surrounded by a pile of heads. "You're kidding, right?" Remo asked. "Hell, I almost confessed. It sounds like the real deal to me."

"I will alert the Secret Service and the local authorities in Washington," Smith said.

"I don't think they'll cut it. Chiun's convinced that this is some sort of special attack that only he can stop. Don't ask me how he knows, but he says he's certain."

Up the coast in his darkened office in Folcroft sanitarium, the worry lines formed deep on Dr. Harold W. Smith's face. Smith had already lost one President on his watch. Granted, CURE was barely operational in those days, but it had eaten at him for the past decade. He could not bring himself to lose another so soon.

"This could be even more problematic," Smith said. "The remains of Senators Pierce and O'Day are to be flown to Washington for a public viewing at the Capitol tomorrow. It's going to be a big affair. Every major political figure in the nation is likely to attend."

"Get them to cancel it," Remo said.

"On what grounds?" Smith asked. "A possible assassination attempt? These days every public function attended by political figures comes at great risk for those attending. And we don't know for certain that's where the attack will come, if an attack even comes at all."

"Then let it go on. Just convince the President to skip it," Remo argued.

"The two deceased senators were members of the opposing political party," Smith explained. "I doubt he would risk not attending. However, I will convey my concerns."

"Viaselli's the one behind all this," Remo said, exhaling angry frustration. "It sounds like he's snapped his twig. Lemme go after him."

"He owns property around New York and around the nation," Smith explained. "He could be anywhere. By the time you find him, it might be too late to derail his plan."

"So we go with Chiun's option," Remo said. "Send us both down to protect the President." Smith's hand was tight on the blue contact phone. "It would be a terrible risk to send you to Washington," he said.

It was only a few months since Remo had been brought aboard. Even with the plastic surgery, this could be too great a gamble. And MacCleary had handled the recruitment. If Smith lost Remo now, he might be losing the only enforcement arm CURE would ever have. To make matters worse, this conversation had been far too specific. If the CURE line had been tapped, the agency could already be lost.

All of this and more did Smith consider in the briefest of moments. He made an abrupt decision. "Go," Smith ordered. "Get a flight to Washington National Airport. I'll have documents waiting for you when you arrive. Try to stop whatever this is. With luck you may be able to save him."

"And if we don't?" Remo asked.

"Have you seen the vice President?" Smith asked. "We've got to save the president," Remo said. "One thing, however," the CURE director said before his field operative could hang up. "If there is a hint that you might be compromised, let the assassins succeed." The words were difficult to get out. "Better to lose another chief executive than allow CURE to be exposed."

"Gotcha," Remo's voice said. He broke the connection.

The CURE director hung up the phone. With a world-weary sigh he swiveled in his chair.

Long Island Sound sparkled cold and black under the midnight moon. In the quiet of his heart as he watched the waves roll to shore, Harold Smith said a silent prayer for the nation he loved and for the souls of all the men who would lead it.

Chapter 25

Eight months ago Alphonso "Rail" Ravello wouldn't have believed it was possible. Eight months ago he was a Viaselli foot soldier, loyal only to his Family. Back then he wouldn't have dreamed of swearing allegiance to anyone but his beloved Don, let alone someone like Mr. Winch.

"Goddamned Chink," Alphonso growled when he first heard about the little Oriental who had wormed his way into the Viaselli organization. "He ain't tough. Gimme a crack at him. Kid in my neighborhood got shot down by some Vietcong. Gimme five minutes with that Winch and I'll show him what's what for shootin' down our boys."

Everyone was whispering about this Mr. Winch. They said he was unkillable. That he could disappear at will. They claimed he killed three men in the lobby of the Royal Plaza, fourteen floors down from where Don Carmine Viaselli ruled like a feudal lord over his personal fiefdom of Manhattan.

No matter what he thought of the rest, Rail Ravello absolutely did not believe that last one. Don Carmine would never let someone get away with whacking his own soldiers in his own building. If that part of the story was true, this Winch would have been put on ice so fast it would have made his head spin.

When he found out he was being loaned to the creepy little Oriental who had somehow gotten in good with his Don, Alphonso almost refused. But then he thought of what might happen to someone who refused a direct order of his beloved Don Carmine, the boss of all bosses. With reluctance Alphonso Ravello accepted the assignment.

He soon found that he wasn't the only one from the Viaselli organization who had drawn Mr. Winch duty. That first day a handful of others stood with him on the sticky concrete floor of that lost little warehouse in the swamps of New Jersey. Mosquitoes buzzed the humid air.

Alphonso wasn't nicknamed Rail because of some unique method of execution he'd developed for the Viaselli crime Family. No matter how much he ate he stayed skinny as a rail. One of his less creative companions had mentioned this when they were teenagers. The name had stuck.

Next to Rail stood Lou "Fatso" Fettuci, who was as fat as Alphonso was skinny. Down the line was five-foot-tall Anthony "Tiny Tony" Meloni. The rest of the men seemed pretty average compared to these three.

Mr. Winch personally greeted all of them. With him was that freaky little kid with the weird blue eyes. Winch blabbed on and on about loyalty and discipline. How he was going to teach them to be better soldiers for their Don. At first it all sounded like some sort of orientation for freshman killers.

At the beginning of his conditioning, Alphonso thought Mr. Winch was nuts. He decided to just go along to get along. Humor the Chinaman who was so stupid he actually thought he could teach a goodfella something about loyalty.

The sessions wound up being more intense than Alphonso had bargained on. They went on for hours. In small, dark rooms. Isolated from the rest. With little sleep or food.

In the end Mr. Winch managed to show something new to Alphanso about loyalty after all. Alphonso's lifelong loyalty to Don Carmine Viaselli had crumbled like the walls of Jericho. The same was true for the others. Their greatest desire was to serve the will of their new master.

Alphonso was crestfallen when Mr. Winch selected Fatso Fettuci and a few others to go off on the first mission. It had something to do with delivering a message at a junkyard in Jersey. Alphonso Ravello had wanted to be first. He wanted desperately to prove his worth to Mr. Winch.

Deep disappointment turned to hope the moment he was summoned to the McNulty Funeral Home in Enfield, Connecticut.

Rail parked down the street. As he approached, he saw that the entire building was bathed in darkness. He crept around back just as he had been instructed. Mr. Winch met him at the back door.

The Korean was alone. It seemed strange. It was the first time since Alphonso had first met the Oriental that the blond-haired kid wasn't with him.

Inside, the cool air held that strange funeral-parlor mix of flowers and embalming fluids. In hushed tones in the darkened back hallway of that small Connecticut funeral home, Mr. Winch gave Alphonso "Rail" Ravello his destiny.

Alphonso couldn't have been more proud when Mr. Winch selected him for the special assignment. Unlike Fatso, who was a mere messenger, Rail was going to go down in history.

"Booth, Oswald, Ray," Mr. Winch had said. "Why are their names different from your name? What makes people remember them, while you will die forgotten?"

"They're famous," Alphonso replied.

"They are not famous, they are infamous. Infamy is a coveted thing. Composers and playwrights work a lifetime at their craft to become famous enough to be remembered. Most never achieve that level of success. They die forgotten. But a single moment, one small act of infamy, properly directed, and an otherwise ordinary man becomes a legend that none will ever forget. Just ask Brutus."

This was the only thing Ravello didn't understand. What did the fat guy from Popeye have to do with whacking someone?

Mr. Winch brought Rail into the viewing room. An ornate mahogany coffin with gold handles was nearly engulfed by expensive bouquets of flowers. Both gleaming lids were up. Alphonso saw that the silklined box was empty.

Mr. Winch noted the confused look on Alphonso's face.

"I have taken care of the previous occupant," the Oriental had said. "Get in."

At first Alphonso didn't quite know what he meant. But when Mr. Winch explained just exactly what was expected of him, a sense of calm confidence descended on Rail Ravello.

"I can do this thing," Alphonso said as he climbed inside the box. His long legs made it a tight fit.

"Of course you can," Mr. Winch replied. He passed several items to the skinny man. Everything he would need.

"I can do anything," Alphonso insisted as he tucked the items alongside his thin frame.

"Anything I tell you," Mr. Winch cautioned as he closed the lid and sealed it tight.

Catches inside could be sprung when the time came.

Eight months ago Alphonso might have been afraid of being sealed inside a box like this. But somehow his mind was different now. Those talks with Mr. Winch had done it. When Mr. Winch talked, he made things like this make sense. Even the constant ticking in his ear didn't bother him.

And so Alphonso "Rail" Ravello stayed in the coffin. He didn't make a sound at midnight when the uniformed men came to collect it. He remained silent in the car to the airport, where he was loaded onto an Army transport. He didn't say a word when the plane landed and the coffin was taken off and brought to another waiting car.

It was daylight now.

Alphonso was hot in the box. He pulled the air down deep into the pit of his stomach, just as Mr. Winch had taught him. The breathing helped him retain his calm for the drive in the hearse from the airport.

There wasn't a problem that anyone was going to look inside. As long as he didn't make noise and kept from moving, Alphonso would be all set.

One of the items Mr. Winch had given him back in Connecticut was a pinhole periscope. It stuck out into one of the gold handles. The other handles had crystal tips. The one with the periscope was made of one-way glass.

Inside the box Alphonso had an eyepiece that he could wiggle around to see outside. It was through the periscope that he saw the familiar white dome appear in the side window of the hearse. The dome loomed close, then disappeared as the building beneath it swallowed the somber black car.

They stopped in some kind of underground garage. More jostling as the coffin was brought to an elevator. Upstairs it was met by a group of soldiers. With somber faces they carried the box into a round open chamber.

Through his periscope, Alphonso could see another closed coffin resting across from his.

The soldiers stood at attention, the doors were opened to the public and a line of sad-faced mourners began to pass respectfully by the matching coffins.

Unbeknownst to any of them, curled up inside the coffin of Senator Calvin Pierce was Alphonso "Rail" Ravello. At his bent knee was a semiautomatic handgun.

Sweating in his solitude, he watched for the face of the President of the United States to pass down the line. And awaited his chance to write himself into future history.

Chapter 26

Deputy Director Bernard Tell of the Central Intelligence Agency spotted the two men as they came toward him through the busy terminal of Washington National Airport.

Tell got up from his seat and walked toward them. As they were passing by, he stepped partly into the path of the younger of the two, bumping lightly into him. At the same time Deputy Director Tell let the manila envelope he'd had stashed under his suit jacket fall to the floor.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, sir," Tell said. "Here, you dropped your envelope." He retrieved the envelope from the floor and tried to hand it over.

"No, I didn't," Remo Williams said.

Remo and the Master of Sinanju started to walk off. Deputy Director Tell chased after them.

"I'm certain you did drop this, sir," he insisted tightly as he dogged them to the door.

Remo stopped. "Oh, I get it. Give it here." Deputy Director Tell didn't allow the world to see the relief he felt inside. He didn't even know why he'd been hauled out for so insignificant a drop. There were plenty of junior agents at the CIA who could have handled this.

Tell started to leave. He was horrified when the young man grabbed him by the arm.

"Wait a sec," Remo said.

He tore open the envelope and pulled out the papers. As soon as they were exposed to light the white edges began to turn pink, then red. The reaction to the light was to show whether they'd been read before. This was one of the many security details he'd had drilled into him by MacCleary and his band of spy school rejects.

Remo released Tell's arm. "I guess you get to live."

Deputy Director Bernard Tell beat a hasty retreat. As the CIA man went one way, Remo and Chiun headed out the door and into sunlight.

"Upstairs rented us a car," Remo said as he sorted through the documents. "That's a relief. That Smith doesn't exactly look like a big spender. I figured we'd be hoofing it to the Capitol."

Outside, Remo asked a passing stewardess where the car rental agency was. While telling him, the woman continuously licked her lips and batted her eyelashes provocatively. When she was through, Remo gave her a buck for Chap Stick and Visine. She, in turn, gave him her apartment keys and told him he could follow her in his rental. Remo waited for her to get in her car, then tossed her keys down a storm drain and hightailed it for the rental office.

"Did you get a load of that?" he asked as he and the Master of Sinanju hurried along. "And did you see the way the stewardesses were fawning all over me on the plane?"

"No," Chiun replied dully. "From my vantage I could not see past the udders thrust in your drooling face."

"That's what I'm talking about. And they're not the only ones. There was a receptionist at MacCleary's hospital who reacted to me the same way. It's bizarre. I mean, you told me that women might find me more attractive with all this training, but I figured you were full of it."

Chiun's eyes narrowed at the unfamiliar expression. "I am full of many things. Love and niceness and brilliance and beauty, to name just a few. To which of these are you referring?"

"None of the above. You know, full of it. Shit, crap. Like that. But you were spot-on with the women one. I can't wait till this assignment is over and I can take this sucker out for a real road test."

The Master of Sinanju made a disgusted face. "I don't know which is worse," the old man said. "That you are a pervert, that you insult me or that, even after all this time wasted in training, you fail completely to observe the most obvious things in your surroundings."

"Hmm?" Remo questioned absently. He was back to looking over the papers that Smith had supplied. So engrossed was he in the stack of papers he hadn't noticed the man who was about to attack them. The man was barely taller than the Master of Sinanju, just a little over five feet in height. He had spotted Remo and Chiun in the terminal and had trailed them outside. Hurrying to circle around, he waited between an airport bus and an empty guard booth, a pistol in his hand.

Chiun glanced at his pupil. Remo was oblivious. "By the looks of it, I'm some kind of special Secret Service agent and you're a security adviser," Remo said. Leafing through papers, he passed Chiun a badge with the seal of the United States Department of Treasury.

Ten yards.

The fool was going to get himself killed. He didn't see the little man at all.

Five yards.

That was it. Chiun would let him die. Remo couldn't be the Destroyer of legend. Chiun had come here with a fool's hope. Free of this burdensome white, the Master of Sinanju could return to his village. Twice in his life he'd had his chance to take a student and failed. His nephew could have the world. Chiun would return to Sinanju in disgrace.

Two yards. The little man was well hidden. The gun was raised. Finger tensed on the trigger. Remo, still preoccupied.

Idiot. Chiun would have to save the dullard's life. It had nothing to do with the pupil. Nothing at all. It had everything to do with honor. He had made a pledge to his emperor, who, while crazed, had retained the services of Sinanju. The pupil didn't matter. Oh, there were some nice things about him. But mostly not. Chiun would save the loutish pupil from his own stupidity this one time and put off his dumb death to another blockheaded day.

One yard.

The Master of Sinanju began to sweep forward, about to intervene, when something unexpected happened.

Remo came up beside the short man. Unaware of the attacker's presence, he was still going through his documents, in a world all his own.

Then all at once, without any telltale signs signaling a blow, Remo's hand flashed out.

One instant both hands were clutching papers, the next all of the papers were in one hand and Remo's free hand was buried up to the knuckles in the forehead of his tiny would-be attacker. They came back out so fast they didn't have time to be smeared with brain matter.

"Hey, boy, howdy," Remo said. He jumped back, shocked, as the attacker dropped to the pavement. The gun clattered away. Remo wheeled on Chiun. "Did you get a load of that? That little guy had a gun. Damn, I didn't even see him. He had a gun and he was gonna shoot me and I knew it. I just knew it without even thinking about it."

"Of course not," Chiun sniffed. "If you thought about it, you wouldn't have known it and you would be dead."

"Sweet Gazoo," Remo said, looking in awe at the body.

"Beginner's luck," Chiun said.

"Holy freaking crap," Remo said.

"Oh, shut your mouth and get rid of the body," Chiun grumbled, fussing with the cuff of his business suit. "People are starting to stare."

Fresh concern. Remo glanced sharply around. There was no one in the vicinity. No one had seen what he had done except for Chiun, who didn't seem impressed.

Remo came to his senses. He quickly dumped the body of Anthony "Tiny Tony" Meloni into the empty guard's shack.

"We better get out of here," he said, shutting the door.

Flushed with victory, Remo headed off to the car rental office.

Chiun looked once in the window of the guard shack.

The assassin had been short.

A short man. Not a thin man, as Chiun had expected. A betrayal of tradition, calculated to insult. Turning from the booth, he padded after his pupil, a hard look on his weathered face.

WHEN THE PHONE RANG, the President of the United States was in the middle of getting dressed for a very public wake.

At first the ringing startled him. It wasn't the usual sharp ring of his nightstand phone. That ring he was accustomed to. This was more a muted jangle.

Only on the second ring did he realize it was coming from his bottom bureau drawer. Although he had used it to call out once, he had never heard the phone ring before.

The President sat on the edge of the bed in his black suit trousers. His shirt was unbuttoned over a crisp white T-shirt. His coat was on a rack by the door. A somber striped tie was laid out at the foot of his bed near the quilt with the presidential seal.

He rolled open the drawer and brought the dialless red phone to his ear.

"What is it?" the President asked worriedly.

"We have a problem, sir," Harold Smith announced tartly. "I believe your life is in danger." The chief executive's shoulders relaxed.

"I'm the President of the United States, Dr. Smith," he said. "Have you looked at a paper the past couple of years? My life's in danger every day and twice on Sunday. You'll have to get a hell of a lot more specific than that."

As he spoke, he picked up his tie one-handed, pulling it around his neck. He had to thread it past the phone.

"I believe the threat comes as a direct result of this agency's involvement in New York," Smith said. "You were the one, sir, who pressed the cleanup of organized crime there prior to the arrival of the Senate committee."

The President stopped fussing with his necktie. "Yes," he said questioningly.

"There have apparently been consequences as a result of that action. It is likely that Senators Bianco, O'Day and Pierce were murdered because of our stepped-up campaign. A warning to us to back off. There are indications that this private war is not over. According to my sources, you have now been targeted for assassination by the Viaselli crime syndicate."

This Smith was a cold bastard. Not even news of a potential assassination seemed to ruffle his feathers. "Do you know when or where they might strike?" the President asked.

"No, sir, I don't. In matters like these, public events have the greatest chance for success. Were I the assassin, I would choose today's viewing at the Capitol. A public place, impossible to completely monitor with a large crowd of civilians. It would be easy for a professional to blend in with the rest of the mourners and await your arrival."

"But you don't know for sure?"

"As I indicated, no, sir, I do not," Smith said. The President sat up straight at the edge of the bed. "In that case, I'm going, Dr. Smith. You can't tell me when they'll attack, or if they will at all. The press would eat me alive if I didn't go, not to mention the opposition."

There was a little impatient sigh at the other end of the line. "I expected as much," Smith said. "In anticipation, I have sent that special person to protect you. He will arrive shortly, along with his trainer."

"Is that wise?" the President asked.

"Possibly not. But I had to weigh the risk to this agency against the harm that might befall the nation if an assassination against a sitting President were to succeed again. This agency was founded to prevent the nation from either becoming a police state or falling into chaos. Either scenario would be that much closer to reality were another President killed so soon after the last."

The President paused. It was easy to think of himself as just another man. But this Smith was right. The nation had mourned enough in the past decade. In a time rife with turbulence, another assassination might be the thing to finally plunge the nation over the edge.

"I suppose you're right," the President said reluctantly. "When can I expect them?"

"They will be there shortly. I have arranged for them to be part of your personal security detachment. There is no guarantee the attempt will be today-if there is one at all. They will remain with you until we have determined that the crisis has passed."

"Very well," said the President. "Is that all?"

"There is one more thing," Smith said.

"Yes?"

"Good luck, sir."

The dedicated phone went dead in the hand of the President of the United States.

THEIR FALSE Treasury Department IDs got Remo and Chiun through the gates and gained them entry to the White House.

Remo was more impressed with the building than with the President. When the chief executive hustled downstairs, CURE's enforcement arm was like a tourist, looking up at the high ceilings, at portraits and statues.

Remo and Chiun were standing with the rest of the Secret Service detachment. The President seemed to single out the two men with a glance before moving on.

They were outside and piling into cars a minute later. Remo and Chiun were in the back seat of the third sedan behind the presidential limousine. Two regular treasury agents sat in the front.

Once the President was settled into his car, the stream of vehicles and motorcycles began crawling down the drive and out the gate onto Pennsylvania Avenue. The limo followed. Behind it came the rest of the motorcade.

"It looked like he noticed us back there," Remo whispered as their car started off.

"Of course he did," Chiun sniffed. He was tugging at his cuff once more. "Even these ridiculous Western garments cannot conceal the brilliance that is Sinanju."

Chiun was watching official Washington through tempered glass. As seats of power went, he had seen worse. The place seemed well planned, with wide-open spaces between clean buildings and tidy monuments. From what he's seen of this America, he'd give it a hundred years before the place was in ruins, overrun by hordes of Canadian invaders.

"Maybe," Remo said. "Or maybe Smith let him know we were coming. I guess if we've got a presidential audience we should be on our toes, huh?"

Chiun's entire face puckered. "Do not presume to urge the Master to caution, ghost-skin. If there comes a point I am not on my toes, it will only be because clumsy you is standing on them."

Remo sank back in his seat, the very soul of confidence. "No need to worry about me. I realized back at the airport that I was right before. I'm a great student."

"You should aspire to be adequate," Chiun said as the Washington Monument slipped behind the car. "And even then prepare yourself for bitter disappointment."

"Tell that to that guy I zapped," Remo said. He thrust his hand at an imaginary air target. "Zing, bap, boom and he's gone. With moves like that, we've got nothing to worry about. I'm gonna save the day today."

"If there is credit to be had, it is mine," Chiun said, "for the real greatness lies in my instruction. It is not impressive when a man is taught to sing. I, on the other hand, have taught a pig to sing. Even a few sour notes amid the usual grunts and oinks are miraculous."

"I'm not a pig," said Remo.

"Tell that to someone who hasn't seen you eat."

"Anyway, teaching, learning. Wherever it comes from, this is great stuff. You should bottle it. I guess I'm prepared for anything that comes along, huh?"

Chiun's troubled thoughts were on the description Smith had given him of the superhuman deaths delivered to the three United States senators. Deaths with a Sinanju signature.

"First fat, then thin."

"What?" asked Remo.

Chiun looked up. Remo was sitting across from him, a questioning look on his youthful face. "Mind your own business," Chiun grumbled. The boy had learned so much in so little time. Even now his breathing was right, his heart and lungs strong. He was centered in himself as he had been taught.

It was wrong. He was not of the village. Worse, he was a white. Yet the spark of something was there. He was everything Chiun could have hoped for in a pupil and nothing he had ever expected.

And then there was the "right" student.

First fat, then thin. That was the order when one Master of Sinanju issued a challenge to another. The man at the junkyard had been fat. Thin should have been next. But the man at the airport had been short.

This was what Nuihc thought of his teacher. Chiun was small. A message of disrespect to an unworthy Master who had outlived his time.

The Capitol Building had risen up from the trees. The presidential motorcade sped up to it. A somber line of mourners snaked along sidewalks and clogged roads.

"What are you so quiet for all of a sudden?" Remo asked abruptly as they drove around to the entrance. Chiun turned his level gaze on his pupil.

"Be careful, Remo," he warned darkly. And in the quiet of his heart the old Korean was surprised by the depth of his concern.

Chapter 27

Dr. Harold W. Smith placed the small black-and-white television on the edge of his oak desk.

The TV had been a gift with the purchase of his station wagon. The times required that he have an office television. The enticement of a free TV was the reason Smith had chosen that particular automobile dealership.

A piece of aluminum foil from the Folcroft cafeteria was wrapped around the tops of both silver rabbit ears. Smith fiddled with the antenna to clear up the staticky image.

When the picture cleared, Smith saw the familiar interior of the Capitol rotunda. A pair of gilded coffins sat in the center of the floor. A slow-moving line of men and women trudged between them.

The image chilled Smith. It was too familiar. Too reminiscent of a time not long enough ago.

As the network anchorman droned on over the black-and-white image, Smith sat down in his leather chair.

Near the blue contact phone sat a silver spoon and a small bowl of prune-whip yogurt. Both were untouched. Smith had asked Miss Purvish to bring him the food from downstairs but found when it arrived that he had no appetite.

Under ordinary circumstances he would have let appropriate police and security agencies deal with the threat to the President. But these were not ordinary times for America. The bedrock on which she had been founded had turned to quicksand. It was far worse than it had been when Smith was selected to head up CURE nearly a decade before. The once-great nation seemed to be faltering. Even something as straightforward as television news was rife with subtext.

Smith generally avoided Walter Cronkite. The man was not a reporter in the old sense. His broadcast tended to editorialize on the news rather than recite the facts.

Smith switched the channel to ABC, where the voice of coanchor Harry Reasoner was commenting on the day's events.

The ABC anchor had just announced the arrival of the President at the Capitol when the picture abruptly cut out. A flash of hissing static was followed by a test pattern. This lasted only a few seconds before ABC's two anchormen appeared on-screen, assuring viewers that the technical difficulties from Washington would be fixed quickly.

Smith allowed himself a flicker of hope.

He had turned on the TV to watch for Remo or Master Chiun. Damage control for CURE would depend on what played out at the Capitol today. This was the first real stroke of good fortune in a dismal affair.

Leaning forward, Smith switched to CBS, then to NBC. As he had suspected, the networks were using a single camera feed from the Capitol Building. There was a total blackout from within the building itself.

On NBC they were playing tape of the arrival of the President's motorcade, already a few minutes old. The footage focused on the chief executive himself, not on his entourage. Smith didn't see Remo or Chiun anywhere.

Perhaps things weren't as bleak as they had seemed. America was overdue for a change in luck. With a flutter of cautious optimism, Harold W. Smith reached for his bowl of yogurt.

"WHERE DID YOU disappear to?" Remo asked as the Master of Sinanju padded up beside him.

They were inside the Capitol. Chiun had vanished as soon as the motorcade stopped at the steps outside. "My emperor has made clear his desire to remain anonymous until the time of his ascendance to the throne," the Oriental said. "I have seen to our anonymity."

Remo wasn't sure what the old man meant. He wondered if it had anything to do with the group of agitated newspeople who seemed to be arguing at the periphery of the crowd and pointing up at the lone camera in the gallery.

As men worked around the camera, Remo returned his attention to the floor of the rotunda.

The President had not invoked privilege, insisting that he join the line like the rest of the mourners. He moved along with a small group of congressmen. Two Secret Service agents pretending to be civilians remained near the chief executive. The rest had fanned out throughout the rotunda.

Remo's entire body was coiled with nervous energy. He and Chiun stood away from the line. The younger man's eyes were skipping carefully from mourner to mourner.

If a killer was there, Remo couldn't see him. Neither his police instincts nor his crash-course CURE training in how to spot a criminal seemed to be working very well. As far as he could tell, the only one who looked like he had something to hide was the President of the United States.

"You really think they'll strike here?" Remo whispered.

"Yes," Chiun replied.

"You seem pretty damned sure."

Chiun didn't turn. "I am the Master of Sinanju."

"Right. Any last-minute pointers?"

Chiun nodded, tufts of white hair bobbing above his ears. "Actually, there is something that might be useful to you," he said, face etched in stone, "since, after all, it is you who is going to stop the actual attack."

Remo blinked. "Me? I thought we were partners here."

Chiun gave him a withering look.

"Knock that off," Remo said. "You were supposed to help. That's why Upstairs sent you down here."

"Stop whining," Chiun said. "I intend to help by keeping you alive long enough to die another day." He took a deep breath, as if reaching some great internal decision. "You are not of Sinanju. I do not fault you for this, for you could no more alter the circumstances of your own birth than you could control the pasty paleness of your skin. As an outsider, you ordinarily would not be privy to the tales of my ancestors. For what I am about to tell you, know that I am breaking a long-standing tradition."

Despite the insults, Remo felt a sense of momentousness emanating from the tiny figure beside him. As if some great line had been crossed, some hidden chamber door opened. There was an importance to the moment that Remo couldn't seem to quite understand. Yet he felt it to his marrow.

"I'm honored," Remo said after a pause. He almost said the words "Little Father." He didn't know why. As an orphan, he had never had a true father.

Chiun glanced around, as if checking to make certain the ghosts of his disapproving ancestors weren't hovering nearby.

"Once upon a time-" the old Korean began. The mood broke.

"You've got to be kidding me," Remo interrupted.

"Listen, idiot," Chiun snapped. "It is important. Once upon a time there was a Master of Sinanju named Bang..."

THEY WERE IN the village of Sinanju. Gulls played in the misty updrafts above the rocky shore.

"Now Bang was a Master of the early order," the Master of Sinanju intoned, "before the New Age of the Sun Source."

As he began the tale of his ancestor, he kept a sad eye on one seagull as it floated and fell in the cold air.

It was plain that youth had begun to flee for the Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju. His once black hair was now the gray of old pewter. Streaks of white cascaded from the leading edge of his widening bald spot.

In the village they whispered that it was the death of his son, Song, that had aged this Master before his time. The strength and speed were still there, but the vitality had been sapped from him that day he carried his first pupil back from Mount Paektusan. The villagers hoped that this new pupil, the son of the Master's brother, would return life to the hollowed-out shell of the Master, for the people relied on the rapidly aging fool for their very sustenance.

The pupil who would one day cause his teacher great shame sat cross-legged at the Master's feet. The eyes of the little boy were similar to his uncle's, yet there was a quiet cunning deep within them. Even at the tender age of eight, there was a hint ever so slight-of the twisted path the student would one day take. On some level the Master saw it. Always knew it to be there. But grief and urgency and history suppressed his better judgment.

"Now in the time of Bang there was not one Master and one pupil, as is the case now. While Bang was head of the village and could alone claim the title Master of Sinanju, he had many students, called night tigers. So feared were these night tigers of Sinanju throughout the world that Bang rarely found it necessary to venture from the village. When men came from far-off shores to hire the skills of Sinanju, Bang simply dispatched an underling to handle the duties. Some of these night tigers were not fully trained and on occasion lost their lives to sword or stone, but that mattered not to Bang. If one died in the line of duty, he simply sent another. And so Bang spent nearly his entire Masterhood in Sinanju, content to grow old in pursuit of a leisurely life.

"Now Bang had a son called Shik whose wife had given him a son. Bang was greatly joyed with this child, and loved his grandson with all his heart. He doted on the boy, carrying him on his shoulders when he walked through the village and holding his tiny hand as they skipped stones across the waters of the West Korean Bay, All seemed perfect for Master Bang and he fully expected to remain rooted in the village of his birth, watching his beloved grandson grow to manhood and one day succeed him as Master of Sinanju. But the gods find ways to frustrate those who plan their future with certainty.

"In this time which, although not official, could be considered Bang's retirement, a Chinese warlord did choose to challenge Sinanju. This warlord had raised a mighty army, which was encamped around his mountain stronghold. When neighbors hired one of Bang's night tigers to send against the warlord, the warlord's army slew Bang's young student. Another night tiger was sent off, only to meet the same fate. And so it was that several were dispatched and all were killed, for they had been trained to fight men, not armies.

"Although the House was young, Sinanju was already feared and respected. Even in his dotage, Bang eventually realized that Sinanju's reputation was at stake. Only the Master himself could hope to defeat the Chinese warlord. The day he left Sinanju, his grandson came with him to the shore road at the edge of the village and waved to the old man until he vanished from sight. And Bang did go to China, and there he did meet with success, which is what the world always expects from the Master of Sinanju.

"While Bang was away plying his art, emissaries of a Babylonian prince who wished to hire the services of Sinanju arrived in the village. Since the Master was away, the men were given lodging and told to await his return. Unbeknownst to all, the visitors had brought with them a great fever. Before anyone knew what was happening, the strangers had died, one by one. The disease quickly spread to the people of Sinanju and many in the village succumbed. Sadly, the final victim was the grandson of the Master of Sinanju.

"When Bang returned from China, he found the village in ruins. Those homes where sickness had claimed many victims had been burned to the ground. Curls of black smoke brushed the sky like twisting serpents. The streets were thick with the stench of death. Some of the villagers were there to meet him upon his return. Bang anxiously searched the crowd for only one face. But the moment he saw his son, Shik, Bang knew the terrible truth. His precious grandson had been sent home to the sea. Here is his last resting place."

The Master of Sinanju paused in his tale. With a slender hand he gestured to the black water of the West Korean Bay. Frothy foam licked the shore.

His nephew seemed unmoved by the story, as was usual for the stone-faced boy. This cold child was never affected by even the most heartrending tales. He looked out blankly across the waves before returning his gaze to his uncle.

The old man continued.

"Bang grieved the loss of his young grandson. He blamed himself for the child's death. If he had only gone to China immediately after the death of the first night tiger, as he should have, he would have been back in time to recognize the sickness in the Babylonian emissaries. Had he not gone at all, the same would have been true. After the death of his grandson, Master Bang was racked with grief and guilt. So anguished was he that he made a grave misjudgment.

"In a mud hut at the edge of Sinanju lived a crazed old shaman. The man claimed to be an Immortal of the Gods, one of time and not of time. In his youth he had studied the arts of dark magic in China and Egypt. Now in his old age, his days were spent communicating with the dead and dispensing potions of love. It was to this shaman's door that Bang came, weeping at his great loss.

"Now the shaman was a wicked man. It was well known that his own son, who was a lesser night tiger, coveted the title of Master of Sinanju. For years in the firelight of their squalid home had both men-the shaman and his son-plotted the death of Bang. This was known to Bang, yet in his grief he did not care. He pleaded with the shaman to use all the powers of his black magic to restore his grandson to life. When the wicked shaman agreed, hope touched Bang's grieving breast. Bang returned to the House of Many Woods, which was home to the Reigning Master. And there he waited.

"For days Bang was given reports of the shaman's progress. The magician toured the village burning incense and sprinkling sacred herbs. He followed the path down to the shore where the boy's body had been thrown into the bay. He sat on the stones and chanted at the cold sea. When night fell, he remained. When the morning sun rose, it found him unmoving. After a week of chanting and meditation, the shaman returned to the village in triumph. With an entourage that grew larger as he passed through the village, he went to the House of Many Woods and knocked on the door.

"When Bang answered, there was great hope on his aged face. 'You have succeeded?' Master Bang asked. And the words of the shaman filled his heart with joy. 'I have, Master of Sinanju. The body of your son's son was asleep. With my arts have I awakened him.'

"And the shaman did clap his hands. A basket was brought forward, carried by the shaman's evil son. Tightly woven from the reeds of the bay, it was large enough to hold a child. With great reverence was it placed on the Master's knees. When the hands of the shaman's son retreated, Master Bang felt the basket on his lap move. Something within it did indeed live. Elated, Master Bang tore off the lid of the basket. But sadly the movement came not from a child.

"From deep in the basket snapped a coiling asp, which the shaman had discovered on his travels to Egypt. Before Bang could move, white fangs sank deep in the Master's hand. Another asp struck out and bit Bang on the throat.

"In a younger day, not distracted by grief, having not just returned from a long and arduous trip, Bang might have sensed the snakes. He might have had speed to avoid them. He might even have had strength to fight the poison. But, woe to Bang, it was all too much. For the anguished old Master, the end came quickly. Lying down in the dust before his home, Bang breathed his last.

"Once the Master was dead, the shaman did turn to the crowd and in a loud voice did he lay claim to the title of Master of Sinanju for his own son. But, lo, before either man could enter the Master's house, a figure of dark menace did explode from the shadowy door. Too late had Shik arrived on the scene to save his father. But with hands made blinding fast by fury he did slay the wicked shaman and the treacherous night tiger-which was not a shameful thing for him to do, for this was before the time when Masters swore an oath not to raise a hand against other villagers. And he did curse the family of the shaman and he banished them to the mud hut at the edge of the village, where to this day they continue to mix their potions and work their spells, some say in the hope of finally bringing to fruition the plot that failed the first shaman all those years ago."

By the time the Master of Sinanju finished the story of Bang, the sun was setting brilliant orange, burning fire across the bloodred bay.

"Do you know who it was that killed Bang, the true Master of Sinanju?" he asked his pupil.

"Yes, Master," Nuihc replied.

The Reigning Master of Sinanju nodded. "All was not lost on that long ago day. In fact it was a beginning. A year later Shik's wife bore him another son. The boy became a Master in his own right and it was he who fathered the Great Wang, founder of the modern line of Masters of Sinanju. Shik's banishment of the shaman's descendents was lifted by a succeeding Master." The old man's harsh countenance grew soft. "The past is what it is and cannot be changed. Remember, young Nuihc, the sins of his fathers do not transfer to the son. Every man has it in him to be more than what the world thinks he is supposed to be."

Even at such a young age, the words spoke to the soul of the youth who sat at the feet of his foolish Master.

"I understand, Uncle," replied Nuihc, speaking truthfully. And he smiled. For in his heart he understood all too well.

NUIHC PROWLED the steps of the U.S. Capitol Building like a ghostly shadow.

No one noticed the Oriental in the neat black suit who-despite the vast morning crowd-somehow always seemed to be in those spots where no one else was.

Nuihc felt the confidence of victory coursing through his veins. His uncle's slavish devotion to the legends of Sinanju would be his downfall.

The legend of Bang. His uncle only saw its significance as it related to Nuihc. He never realized that he himself--Chiun, the last Master of Sinanju of the New Age-had, in his dying years, become Bang.

Chiun was the foolish old Master from that tale. He would assume that Nuihc was copying Bang's death. The threat to the President therefore would come from the basket. So devoted was he to history that he would never expect it to be improved upon. The true threat was not from within. While his uncle wasted time on a diversion, the President would march into the lion's jaws. By the time Chiun realized what was happening, the President would be dead and Nuihc would be gone. With his failure the feeble old Master would return home forever. A pathetic, hollow disgrace.

Nuihc smiled at the thought. And in his head he counted down the seconds to the final humiliation of his hated uncle.

"WELL?" the Master of Sinanju said once he had finished relating the tale of Bang to his American pupil. "Do you see why I have told you the story of my ancestor?"

Remo thought deeply. "I'm not sure. Guy's name was Bang." A thought popped into his head. "You think they're gonna try to blow up the Capitol?"

Chiun's eyes were flat. "Make this easier for me, Remo," he said aridly. "Just how stupid aren't you?"

"That's not it? Too bad. By the looks of it, most of Congress is here today. Okay, I give up. The guy had a basket and pulled a switcheroo. Stuck a snake inside instead of what Bang expec-" His voice broke off. "Oh."

With a sinking feeling Remo turned his gaze to the twin coffins in the middle of the rotunda.

The President was nearly to the gleaming coffins, inching along with his fellow politicians. And as the line of men reached the base of Senator Pierce's coffin, Remo saw the lid begin to lift quietly open.

For an instant it was like an image from some Saturday-afternoon Vincent Price horror movie. All similarities to Hollywood fiction ended when the gun barrel poked into view.

The world seemed to trip into slow motion.

Remo was twenty yards away. Too far to save the President's life. He had to try. He started at a sprint. Confusion already gripped the line of mourners. A woman's scream. Men stumbling, falling to get out of the way.

The President was in the line of fire. Startled, locked in place with nowhere to go. No one to save him.

A flash of yellow. An explosion from the coffin. A blue blur to Remo's right. Simultaneous with the gunshot.

The President buckling, dead. A clean chest shot. No way he could survive. No way Remo could stop the gunman before he fired even more rounds into the chief executive.

But in the moment that should have been precursor to yet another period of national mourning, Remo Williams witnessed an actual, honest-to-God miracle.

The blue flash that had passed by him as he ran somehow caught up with the first yellow flash. It was as if a hiccup in time itself had formed around the United States Capitol.

Remo's eyes had an impossible time reconciling the image. The President wasn't buckling over from a bullet wound. He was being grabbed around the waist by the blue blur, which Remo now knew to be the Master of Sinanju.

Time caught up to Remo's slow-motion vision. Chiun flung America's chief executive from the path of the impotent ball of hurtling lead. The President landed in a crush of converging Secret Service agents.

"See to the boom-shooter!" Chiun commanded back over his shoulder.

The Secret Service shielded the President's body and began hurrying him to the planned exit. With sharp slaps and harsh words, Chiun redirected them deep into the bowels of the Capitol Building.

For the gunman in the coffin there was no longer any pretense of stealth.

Alphonso "Rail" Ravello had missed the President, missed his chance to be remembered with history's great assassins. Roaring with rage and shame, Ravello flung the upper coffin lid wide and began firing wildly into the scattering crowd.

People ran screaming in every direction.

A congressman was hit in the shoulder and spun like a top, sliding to a blood-streaked stop on the polished floor. A woman who had come from Maryland with her two small children was struck in the leg as she tried to flee. Men dragged her to safety.

Ravello killed another man who was running toward him. At least he thought he did.

He shot the man, but for some reason the man didn't fall. He kept running, a look of doom in his deep-set eyes.

Enraged, Ravello fired again. And missed once more.

As Alphonso Ravello fired again and again, the figure kept charging. Somehow he seemed to be everywhere and nowhere. Skittering left and right as he ran. By the time the specter arrived at the side of the coffin, Ravello had only one bullet left. But it didn't matter, because his gun was no longer in his hands. He sat there, dazed in his coffin, hands empty, looking up into those deep, dead eyes.

Alphonso Ravello shook his head in incomprehension.

"I missed the President," he lamented. "I can't miss. I was supposed to be remembered forever."

"And I was supposed to be Sky King," Remo Williams commiserated coldly. "That's the biz, sweetheart."

Planting the barrel of the gun far back in the gunman's mouth, Remo pulled the trigger. A stew of brain and blood splattered the inside satin lid of the coffin.

Remo tossed the gun into the coffin and slammed the lid.

He regretted using a weapon. Guns always used to make him feel safer. Now for some reason they just felt wrong.

Remo was turning, searching for the Master of Sinanju, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

Twelve feet away across the floor of the rotunda, the second coffin lid was squeaking slowly open. "Geez, Louise," Remo groused.

Marching over, he planted his fist through the opening lid. In training he had practiced this stroke with Chiun on birch trees on the grounds of Folcroft. The coffin wood surrendered even easier than a birch trunk.

The lid slammed down, and Remo's hand buried deep in something soft and squishy. There was a fatal sigh and a sickly gurgle from within. Remo pulled his hand free.

"And don't come out till I tell you," he snapped. That was that. He had stopped the attempted assassination. Now it was just a matter of going back to New York and taking out the man responsible for this madness.

Flushed with success, Remo was turning when he felt something beside him. A sudden displacement of air.

This was something he had worked on in training-to sense an opponent. But he was years away from mastering the technique, years away from proficiency in anything but the rudiments of the perfection that was Sinanju. He had seen but a hint of dawn, was blind still to the hidden sun.

And then his own limitations no longer mattered. The air moved and so did Remo. Up and over the coffin in a flash of brilliant white light that enveloped his brain before coalescing into a single dot of pure energy. It sparked once, then collapsed to black oblivion.

When Remo hit the cold floor, he did not move.

THE FIRST THING Nuihc saw was the coffins. Something was wrong. He knew it when the Secret Service had not hustled out the President by their preordained route.

He saw the hole in the right coffin. It curved in the half-moon shape of a human hand.

Screaming, tripping, crying, the crowd had streamed out the exits. The rotunda was empty. Nuihc was alone.

No. Not alone. He hadn't seen him. Only saw him now because he chose to be seen.

A grave miscalculation. He was old, but not weak. It had been years since he'd seen him. He assumed that his powers would have begun to ebb. An understandable mistake. A deadly one in their line of work.

Chiun stood between the coffins. His eyes were slivers of haunting accusation. The Reigning Master of Sinanju made not a move to his former pupil.

For what seemed an eternity they faced each other, Master and student. Old and young.

Chiun's gaze never wavered. Nuihc tried to offer only malice to his former teacher. But for the younger Sinanju Master, there was suddenly something else.

Another, alien emotion buried beneath the arrogant surface.

Without a word Nuihc turned to go.

Chiun's mouth thinned. The aged Korean's entire being was a compressed fist of fury. As his traitorous pupil offered his back, Chiun raised one sandaled foot, dropping it hard to the marble floor. And when the thunder came, the very dome of the Capitol Building trembled with fear.

"Hold, wicked one!" the Master of Sinanju commanded.

Nuihc froze. When he turned, the emotion he had hidden a moment before had bubbled to the surface. A look of fear flashed through his hazel eyes.

"You are not supposed to be here," Nuihc said. Blood pounded in his ears. "The world has passed you by, old man. Why are you here and not in your precious Sinanju?"

"You dare ask?" Chiun demanded. "You? You would ask me why I am about my business of feeding and clothing my village? The village you abandoned in your arrogance?"

"Then you are about your business and I am about mine," Nuihc said. "Leave me to mine."

"And what business is that, traitor?" Chiun's tufts of white hair swirled angrily around his bald scalp. "Here, child of evil. Here is your handiwork." He waved a bony hand at the coffins. "I should embowel you and hurl your worthless carcass into these boxes, a feast for the bugs and worms."

Another flash of fear.

"You would not kill me," Nuihc challenged. "You are forbidden to harm one of the village."

"The village of Sinanju ceased being yours the day you turned your back on your obligations. And do not think I do not know all you are doing, pitiful, transparent creature that you are. You knew I had come to these shores. Did you think I did not know your lackeys brought you pictures of me from the hospital? Since Sinanju gravitates to greatness, you assumed I worked for the leader of this nation. You thought killing my charge would shame me into retreating to Sinanju. Once more you prove yourself the fool. The man you failed to kill this day is but a public face. I work for the power behind the throne. True Sinanju seeks out strength, not celebrity. How typical of you, worthless one. Pitiful student that you were, you followed only the dictates of your true masters. The masters of avarice, envy and pride. You never understood that there are forces driving this world that go far beyond what the eye sees or the ear hears."

And at Chiun's words, Nuihc did something that surprised even the Master of Sinanju. He smiled. "Yes," Nuihc said, his voice suddenly low and cold. "There are forces that were unknown to me in Sinanju."

There was a sudden confidence in his nephew's voice. As if he hid some powerful, terrible secret. Whatever it was suddenly brought quiet assuredness to the younger Oriental.

Chiun's leathery face was impassive.

"The time of my seclusion has passed," he intoned. "I am back in the world, duck droppings. Know you fear."

Their meeting was done. Nuihc nodded.

"I await the day, old man," the younger man spat. And with that he was gone. Out the doors through which the crowd had swarmed minutes before.

There were still the sounds of confusion outside. Sirens were approaching. The Capitol police would be back inside soon, along with the D.C. police.

Once he was certain Nuihc had left, the Master of Sinanju hurried over to the spot where Remo had landed.

He found his pupil where he'd thrown him in order to protect him from Nuihc. Remo was unconscious behind Senator O'Day's coffin. For an instant, Chiun feared his pupil was dead, but the heartbeat was there.

Chiun didn't know why he should care. But in spite of himself, his relief was great.

It was Nuihc's fault. Nuihc, who had been given everything and cast it all away. Here was this foreigner who was more of a pupil than Nuihc ever was. A white-worse, an American-who accepted the wisdom of Chiun's ancestors as if the blood of Wang coursed through his pale veins.

Nuihc. Nuihc was to blame. If he hadn't been such a bad pupil, Chiun never would have felt such relief when he found this Remo person with the nasty tongue was still alive.

Remo's eyes fluttered open. "What happened?"

"You did what you vowed you would do," Chiun replied gently. "You saved the day."

"Really?"

Chiun's face soured. "Of course not, idiot. I did." He kicked Remo to get him to his feet. "Now, let's get out of here before someone sees us and thinks I am with you."

Chapter 28

Don Carmine Viaselli was watching television when he first heard about the attempt on the life of the President of the United States. When he heard that Alphonso Ravello was the gunman, he coughed seltzer and lemon onto his carpet.

"What the hell?" he spluttered at the TV.

The answer to his question came not from the network news anchor, but from his own living room.

"It is an unfortunate cost of doing business," came the thin voice from beside his sofa.

Viaselli whipped around.

Nuihc stood at silent attention. His hooded eyes watched the TV. He didn't even look at Don Viaselli. "What was Ravello doing there?" Viaselli demanded. His face was caved in. He was finding it hard to breathe. "You were supposed to do it quiet, not use one of my guys."

"It was necessary," Nuihc said.

With shaking hands Don Viaselli put down his drink.

"Ravello was a loaner to you. He was one of mine. Everybody and his brother knows it. Goddamn it, you throw him out into the middle of all this, and everybody knows I'm connected."

"That is true," Nuihc said, nodding. "The man who hired me will be pleased with this outcome."

"The man who hired you?" Viaselli asked. "I'm the man who hired you! I've paid you a fortune this past year."

"As has he," Nuihc replied. "A tidy sum for which I should thank you both. Unfortunately, you could not be told about my other employer, since the arrangement I made with him involved your being directly tied to the assassination attempt on your President."

"What!" Viaselli exclaimed.

A few rooms away there came a pounding at the apartment door. The sound of shattering wood was followed by the panicked shout of a maid. Don Viaselli wheeled on the sound.

"The cost of doing business," Nuihc was saying. As the voices closed in, he was already fading back into the shadows.

"You son of a bitch!" Viaselli screamed.

The Mafia Don jumped for an end-table drawer. When the FBI agents burst into the living room ten seconds later they found a wide-eyed Carmine Viaselli screaming in Italian and shooting at shadows. They didn't bother to ask the New York Don what he thought he was shooting at. Instead, they returned fire.

And in the ensuing, brief gun battle, merry little bits of Don Carmine Viaselli splattered against the tidy walls of the apartment like hurled tomatoes.

THE VISITOR WAS politely ushered back to the private office on the first floor of the Neighborhood Improvement Association building in Little Italy.

The building was old and solid enough to withstand a mortar blast from the street. The wallpaper was purple and fuzzy. The crazy floral pattern was interwoven with vines that looked like coiling serpents. An aroma of tomato sauce clung to the old wood paneling.

In the office a thin man who looked older than his sixty years sat behind a broad desk. At his elbow a brown paper bag stained with grease sat on a newspaper. The grease had melted into the front page, bleeding across the banner headline announcing the attempt on the President's life.

When the door was closed and his visitor stood before the desk, Pietro Scubisci smiled a row of yellow teeth.

"You done good work," Scubisci said. "Me and my Family been waiting for a chance. But that Carmine, he's stubborn, you know? I been in this game longer than him. He's just a kid, but I have to play second fiddle. That kind of thing eats at you after a while."

He pulled an ancient ledger out of his top drawer and began carefully writing out a check.

"You don't know what that's like, do you?" Scubisci asked as he wrote. "Always coming in second. Always having to smile and nod when in your heart you know you're better. Sometimes you gotta make your own changes. A push here and there to see things finally go your way."

He tore the check out and slid it across the desk. "A good year's work, I'd say," Pietro Scubisci said. "You thinned out Carmine's soldiers. Can't believe he let you do that. Musta felt safe with you around, you know? The Viaselli Family's dead. I try to take over from Carmine, we woulda had a war. This way it's bloodless." He smiled. "Well, my blood's where it's supposed to be, anyhow."

On the opposite side of the desk, Nuihc said nothing. He picked up the check without looking at it, slipping it into the pocket of his suit coat.

"I added a little to what we agreed on," Pietro Scubisci said, clicking his pen and setting it neatly into a drawer along with the ledger. "You earned it. I just got off the phone with a friend in the police. They said Carmine tried to shoot it out with the Feds. They'll be sponging brains off the ceiling for a month. Don't know how you worked that, but good job.

"Now we cool off for a while. That was Carmine's problem. No patience. I sat behind him long enough to develop plenty of patience. A Senate committee coming to town and he goes all to pieces. Let 'em come now. We'll be quiet while they're here. They find nothing, they go back to Washington. They go, we're back in business."

He looked up with rheumy eyes for a hint of agreement from his guest. Without a word Nuihc turned for the door.

"Hey," called Don Pietro Scubisci, the new head of the New York Mafia. "You innerested in a fulltime job?"

But the Oriental hit man was already gone.

Chapter 29

"So it would seem Alphonso Ravello was the second Viaselli Family enforcer," Smith explained.

The CURE director had come down to Chiun's quarters to meet with Remo. He wasn't comfortable with using his office. While Miss Purvish seemed to have accepted the cover story of Remo and Chiun as Folcroft nurse and patient, she remained too inquisitive. Smith was thinking it was time to replace her. He was leaning toward Miss Hazlitt or the Mikulka woman, both of whom seemed competent in the job.

"The FBI found three watches smuggled into the Capitol inside the coffin with Ravello," Smith continued. "He had apparently gathered them as souvenirs from the three senators he murdered. His record indicated that he was a low-level functionary in the Viaselli organization. But obviously he was operating under everyone's radar, for clearly the data gathered on him was incorrect. It took a particular sort of genius to come up with such a diabolical assassination plot. "

"You say genius, I say lunatic," Remo said. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor. It wasn't as easy as Chiun made it look, but his knees were starting to get the hang of it.

"In the white world the two are indistinguishable," the Master of Sinanju mumbled in Korean. The old Oriental was across the common room, busying himself at the small stove, seemingly uninterested in Smith's words.

Chiun wasn't about to tell Smith the truth about who had been the mastermind behind the presidential assassination plot. Internal Sinanju matters were not open to prying eyes.

"Excuse me, Master Chiun?" Smith asked.

"Nothing, Emperor Smith," Chiun replied. "Words of praise from an unworthy. Please continue."

"What about the other coffin?" Remo asked. "Just another minor Viaselli Family player. Our records indicate he was mostly a numbers runner."

"And we all know what a bang-up job your records did finding out about the maniac-in-a-box," Remo said.

"Yes," Smith said unhappily. "I will have to look into our method of gathering data. In any case, apparently Carmine Viaselli had been growing increasingly paranoid of late. Possibly a result of the agents I had placed in the field over the past few months. His maid even heard him make a threat against the President. She said that he was talking out loud a great deal lately. Having whole conversations with an empty room."

"So in a way you're the one who drove him to it," Remo observed. "Maybe if you'd left him alone instead of dogging him like you were doing, he wouldn't have snapped and sent that Ravioli guy after the President at all."

Smith fidgeted in his hard-backed chair. Leaning forward, he pitched his voice low enough that he assumed the Master of Sinanju could not hear. "Remo, it was suggested from on high for CURE to clean up the Viaselli organization before the Senate got here and, if possible, to remove its enforcer."

"Ever been to Nuremberg, Smith?" Remo asked dully.

"As a matter of fact, yes," the CURE director replied. He forged ahead. "As for the Viaselli matter, it worked out better than I could have hoped, considering the difficulty we encountered. Not only have we put an end to the enforcement branch of the criminal empire, which was our original mission, but Carmine Viaselli is dead and his organization is in ruins. And we've accomplished this without our being implicated. All in all, a job well done."

"And only one of us had to die to get us over the finish line. Rah-rah, team."

Smith's jaw tightened. "Remo, Conrad MacCleary died in the line of duty. I would rather it had been me, but that isn't the hand we were dealt. And the sacrifice he made was one that many patriots have made before him. America is worth a life. He believed that to his core. What's more, he was my friend and he will be sorely missed."

Remo thought he heard a crack in the older man's voice. He was surprised. From what he'd seen, the only friends Smith had were his spreadsheets and filing cabinets.

"The President sends his thanks," Smith continued. "And to you, Master Chiun."

The Master of Sinanju had just padded over from the kitchen area with a bone-china cup of steaming tea. He sank to the floor, balancing cup and saucer on one knee.

"Watch out for that one, Emperor Smith," he warned. "If you will accept the council of a lowly servant, I suggest you seize power now. That shifty-eyed puppet President is up to no good. Say the word and I will present you his perspiring head. For a nominal fee, of course. After all, we haven't yet signed a proper contract."

"No, thank you," Smith said, coughing uncomfortably. "That won't be necessary. However, we do need to discuss a more long-term contract for Remo's training, if you wish to stay on." He quickly changed the subject. "About your living conditions. You may stay at Folcroft for the time being, on one condition. Obviously, we cannot allow another situation like the one involving the orderly."

"Obviously," Chiun agreed, sipping tea.

"Good," Smith said. "Then we're in agreement."

"Why would we not be?" Chiun asked, baffled that they should even need to discuss the matter.

"No reason," Smith said, relieved. "No reason. Good."

Remo shook his head. "He's not agreeing that he won't kill anyone else who gets in the way of his TV, Smith," he said with a sigh. "He's agreeing that he can't allow it to happen. As in, TV gets interrupted, orderly assumes room temperature. Isn't that right, Chiun?"

"Of course," the Master of Sinanju said. He rolled his eyes at his dense pupil who insisted on stating the obvious.

"I see," Smith said slowly. "On second thought perhaps it would be wiser to relocate the two of you from the premises. I will compile a list of hotels. Excuse me." He headed for the door.

"Four stars or better!" Remo hollered as the CURE director left the room. Once they were alone, he turned to the Master of Sinanju. "Okay, care to tell me what or who knocked me out like a light down in D.C.?"

"No," Chiun said blandly. "Would you care to tell me why you embarrassed me in front of Smith's puppet ruler with that shoddy performance?"

"Nope," Remo said. He folded his arms and inhaled deeply. "Guess that makes us even."

At this Chiun cackled. "Even? Heh-heh-heh. You even with me? That makes us even. Heh-heh-heh. Even."

Remo felt his good mood dissipate. "Okay, jolly joker, how long till we are even?"

Chiun placed cup and saucer on the floor. He tipped his head in serious concentration.

"For an exceptional Master, trained from birth, thirty to forty years. For you, there are not numbers high enough to measure without inventing new ones." He shook his head, cackling once more as he rose to his feet. "That makes us even. You and I. Heh-heh-heh."

"If you think I'm putting up with abuse from you for thirty years, you're crazy," Remo mumbled as the Master of Sinanju disappeared, still chuckling, inside his room.

"You should be so lucky," a squeaky voice called back.

EPILOGUE

He brought the boy to the Caribbean, to the French-Dutch island of Saint Martin. There was a safe place there, a ruined castle on a craggy black rock called Devil's Mountain.

The castle had been built by a merchant from Holland two hundred years before.

The natives were superstitious. When they saw the young boy with the blond hair and the pale blue eyes, they assumed the ghost of the merchant had returned to haunt his castle.

They called the boy the Dutchman.

Nuihc didn't care what name they gave him. The boy didn't deserve a name. He was nothing more than a tool. An instrument that would be used to further his own ambitions.

The fallen Master of Sinanju stood on the stone balcony. Behind him, doors opened on the great hall. Yellow fire leaped high in the six-foot fireplace.

After events in America, Nuihc realized this would take longer than he had anticipated. His uncle was as strong as ever. Even stronger, perhaps, than he was before.

Training Nuihc hadn't restored the vitality that Chiun had lost after the death of his son. But for some reason, all these years later, on a distant shore, a spark had been ignited in the old man's eyes. Nuihc didn't know what had put it there, but he saw it clearly in Washington.

It was plain to him now that his uncle, like the traditions of Sinanju, would not be easy to kill.

As Nuihc looked up at the warm night sky, he heard a soft sobbing behind him.

Time.

It took time to bleed a man's soul. But revenge had been brewing in his family for thousands of years. Nuihc had the time.

More sobbing.

He glanced over his shoulder.

The Dutchman sat crying on the floor of the great hall. His face was slick with sweat, reflecting yellow firelight. Above him was a beautiful native girl of about fifteen. She had caught the boy's eye during a trip into town. The secret smile they had exchanged wasn't lost on Nuihc.

The girl was chained to the hearth. A rag was stuffed deep in her throat. Firelight glinted in her terrified eyes.

The boy wept at her feet.

He was obviously having trouble with the evening's exercises. The boy required instruction. "Soon," Nuihc vowed to the stars.

Turning his back on the warm night, he disappeared inside the castle.