"I thought we were negotiating a treacherous surf."
"That was earlier," said Chiun. "You should stay current. "
"I'd settle for staying sane," said Remo, rolling his eyes to the heavens.
Chapter 13
Michael Princippi liked to consider himself a common man. During his two terms as governor, he had disdained the trappings of high office. Every day, he faithfully took the trolley to work. When he did have to drive, he used his wife's 1979 station wagon. His office in the State House was furnished with government issue. His campaign literature emphasized his frugal and levelheaded approach to government and characterized him as the son of simple immigrants who just happened to rise to the highest office in his state, and who felt that the highest office in the land was not above his reach.
Those who knew him well knew that Michael Princippi's "frugality" was a nice way of saying the guy was cheap. He was so levelheaded he put fund-raising audiences to sleep, and while he was indeed the son of simple immigrants, he always forgot to mention that his simple parents arrived in America very, very wealthy.
His advisers tried to convince Governor Princippi that his everyman approach was fine for state politics, but ineffective for someone with his eyes on the Oval Office. It wasn't presidential to drive a junkbox, eat lunch out of a brown bag, or to continue to live on a shabbily genteel street where parking spaces were secured by leaving an empty trashcan out by the curb. But Michael Princippi was stubborn. He did not believe in perks or privileges. He would not budge.
Not even when the federal government had insisted on assigning a Secret Service detail to watch over him after he had captured the Democratic nomination for President. "No way," he had said.
"It's for your protection, sir."
"I appreciate that. But I have state troopers who guard my office. I stopped taking the trolley. You know it costs me almost double? Gas isn't cheap. But I don't need extra protection. I'm the Prince of Politics. The people love me." The Secret Service had been adamant. But so was Governor Michael Princippi. He won.
As a consequence, when he walked into his office at 6:27 A.M., he was alone. Not even his secretary was at her reception desk.
Governor Princippi dropped behind his desk and picked through his latest position papers. With the polls showing the two presidential aspirants virtually neck-and-neck, it was all going to come down to the big election-eve debate in a few days, and Michael Princippi was not going to lose the election because he was not up on the issues.
Governor Princippi had no time to react to the knock at his heavy office door. The door opened before he could say "come in."
He felt a very brief stab of regret about turning down Secret Service protection, but it went away when he saw that the persons entering were obviously no threat to him.
Standing in the doorway was a tall man and a shorter, older Oriental. The man was obviously unarmed and the Oriental was ancient.
"How did you two get in?" Michael Princippi asked pointedly.
"We walked in," the tall man informed him.
"I mean into the State House, not this office. There are guards."
"Pah!" said the Oriental. "You call those guards? They are not guards. They did not notice us entering. We are guards. Also assassins."
"What!" Governor Princippi's busy eyebrows jumped in surprise.
"He didn't mean it like that. Sit down, Mr. Governor. I'm Remo. This is Chiun. Smith sent us."
"Smith? Oh, that Smith."
"Yeah, we're with CURE. You do know about CURE, don't you?"
"Perhaps," said Michael Princippi guardedly. "If you are who you say you are, you'll have identification on you." Remo and Chiun exchanged glances.
"Actually, no," Remo admitted.
"No identification? What kind of an organization does not provide its agents with identification?"
Chiun raised a wise finger. "A secret organization," he said.
"The organization isn't supposed to exist, remember?" Remo said. "Or didn't Tulip mention that part?"
"He might have," Governor Princippi said, rolling a pencil between his fingers. "But how do I know that you are who you say you are?"
"Look," said Remo. "Before this mess, we never walked in and identified ourselves like this. We just sort of slid in and out. I used to carry all sorts of fake ID, but technically I'm retired from CURE."
"I would show you my American Express Gold Card," said Chiun, "but, alas, it was taken from me."
"I see," said Governor Princippi slowly.
"You could call Smith," Remo suggested. "He'll vouch for us."
"And how would I know I was talking to this Smith? I've never met him. I don't know his voice."
"He has a point, Little Father," Remo told the Master of Sinanju.
"There are other ways of identifying oneself," Chiun snapped. "Is that an orange sitting on your desk?" he asked Governor Princippi.
"Yes. My breakfast."
"You have heard of Sinanju. The letter told you that much?"
"Possibly. "
"Then be so good as to toss the orange to me." Michael Princippi shrugged. What did he have to lose? He flipped the orange with an underhand toss.
It landed, spinning, on the tip of the Oriental's raised index finger. The Oriental dipped his hand and the orange shifted on its axis. In a twinkling, the orange blurred.
Something flashed across the room and plopped onto the governor's government-issue desk. Michael Princippi looked. It was an orange peel as long as his arm. He picked it up. It hung in one piece, a corkscrew of orange peel.
When he looked up, the orange was still spinning on the Oriental's fingertip. It was without its skin.
"Here," said the one called Chiun.
Michael Princippi caught the tossed orange. He examined it. The translucent inner skin was unbroken.
"Satisfied?" Remo asked.
"A nice trick," Governor Princippi admitted. "But hardly proof of anything."
"Have you any enemies?" asked Chiun politely.
"Every politician has enemies."