The Master of Sinanju hesitated. "We will have the formal signing of contracts this evening?" he asked at last.
"As you wish," said Smith, repressing a smile. He had been forced to send the submarine two days ago because it was the only launch window he had for the next two months. If the gold was not in the village of Sinanju on time, Chiun-and for all he knew, Remo-would refuse all assignments until delivery was made.
It was a gamble the parsimonious Smith had been loath to make, and he breathed an inward sign of relief that all had turned out. Perhaps, Smith thought, he was getting the hang of negotiating with the Master of Sinanju.
At his elbow a telephone rang. It was the blue contact telephone. Smith brought the receiver to his ear before the second ring could start.
"Yes, Remo?"
"I've had it."
"What?" squeaked Chiun, rushing to the desk.
"Is that Chiun?" Remo demanded.
"Yes," said Smith. "He is here with me. We have just concluded negotiations for another year of service."
"Well, I hope you and he will be very happy together, because I've had it with these piss-ant hits. Count me out."
Smith clapped his hand on the receiver mouthpiece and said, "Remo seems to be trying to resign. What do you know about this?"
"I know he is obligated to me for his every breath," snapped Chiun, snatching the receiver from Smith's hand. "Remo, stop behaving like a child. Speak! What is wrong with you?"
"From now on I only take assignments I agree with," Remo said tightly.
"This is blasphemy. You accept whatever assignments your emperor deems worthy of you."
"Change in plan. You can have my rejects."
"Remo, what has gotten into you? Think of the poor babies of Sinanju who look to you for sustenance."
"I'm thinking of the little girl I orphaned tonight. No more. From now on I see background checks on my hits. You tell that to Smith." And the line went dead.
Chapter 4
Harold W Smith had already initiated the callback trace program before Remo could hang up. The new system offered up the number and location of the phone from which Remo Williams had called as if Smith had simply wished for it.
Smith hit a function key, and the number was automatically dialed through his blue contact telephone. "Yeah?" Remo said when he picked up. His voice was unhappy.
"This is Smith."
"Don't tell me you bugged my B.V.D.'s," Remo said sourly.
"Hardly. My new computer system traced your call. You are at the Wilmington, North Carolina, Holiday Inn, I see."
"I'd be on the first flight out of here except Hurricane Elvis has the airport shut down," Remo growled. "Next time you send me to terminate a guy, make sure his wife and kid aren't hanging around."
"Are you referring to the Roger Sherman Coe matter?" asked Smith.
"No," said Remo. "I just did David Cassidy, and the entire Partridge Family is up in arms."
Smith cleared his throat to cover his confusion. "I don't quite follow-"
"Follow this. I found Coe right where you said, and I took him out just like you wanted. Only as I was walking away, his wife and daughter popped out in time to see him breathe his last-"
Smith sipped a sharp intake of breath. "You were not seen, were you?"
"Forget security. Listen to me, I did a guy in front of his wife and daughter. I made that little girl an orphan. You know what that means? No, you wouldn't, you cold-blooded fossil. Well, I know what it means. I grew up in an orphanage. I wouldn't wish that kind of childhood on anyone. You know what my Christmases were like?"
Harold Smith cradled the receiver against a gray shoulder and attacked his keyboard. The plastic clicking of the keys sounded like hollow dice rattling.
"Are you listening to me, Smith?" Remo said angrily.
"Yes, I am pulling up Coe's file."
"He's dead. Why bother?"
"Because I do not recall him having a wife or daughter."
"Well, he does. I can vouch for that because I just spent the past three hours standing on the frigging beach protecting them and their house from Hurricane Elvis."
Harold Smith didn't respond. He was moving digital packets of data at high speed, his face tight with concentration. The Master of Sinanju hovered nearby, his features anxious.
At length Smith gave out a dry groan. "What?" said Remo.
"What is it?" said Chiun.
"Remo," Smith said in a low, horrified voice, "are you certain you had the correct house?"
"I went to the number you gave me."
"What number?"
"Forty-seven, I think."
"Think! You were supposed to write it down."
"I did. I threw away the paper after I was done. It was 47 Ocean Street. Yeah, I'm sure of it now."
"That is the correct address of Roger Sherman Coe. Did you ask him his name?"
"I'm a Master of Sinanju. I know enough to identify a target before I do him."
"Hear! Hear!" said Chiun.
"And he identified himself as Roger Sherman Coe?" Smith pressed.