"Wonderful," said Remo.
"Do you still love your country?"
"That's just why I did what I did."
"Remo, we've got to talk about this. We've got to talk in person. I think you've got to understand how much your country needs you now."
And then Smith heard what he had thought he would never hear from Remo, the person he sometimes thought of as the last true patriot:
"I need me, Smitty," said Remo and hung up, leaving America without the killer arm of its last hope for survival, as one president once called CURE. Another chief executive had called it the nation's ace in the hole. Now it was no more deadly than the microchips in the computers at headquarters in Folcroft.
Remo did not feel very good about hanging up on Smith. He respected the man. He trusted the man. But too much had gone down and nothing ever seemed to improve in America, while an awful lot seemed to get worse. He just wanted to do what was right. Just once. Not what was secret. Not what was secure. Not what was in some grand plan for the United States of America, but something for an American family.
And he felt good again.
Harold W. Smith knew from the phone call that Remo was somewhere in Ohio. He put the investigation of Palmer, Rizzuto on hold while he drove up to Connecticut, where he knew Remo eventually had to return. But if he had known what the law firm was planning, he would have stayed at his computers.
Chiun, Master of Sinanju, glory of the House of Sinanju, teacher of Remo, the first Sinanju assassin to set foot on the shores of the new country called the United States and therefore written in the history of the House of Sinanju as the discoverer of the United States, prepared to receive Harold W. Smith, head of CURE.
As discoverer of this country, Chiun had the obligation to future Masters of Sinanju to describe the nature of the people, and how to deal with them.
It was thus somewhat amusing to Chiun to hear Smith describe Remo as suffering some mental imbalance, "emotional chaos without reason."
These were the exact words, in Korean of course, that Chiun had used to describe the American character, Smith in particular.
It was the only explanation of why Smith would assure gold tribute delivered to Sinanju, and then not have Chiun or Remo eliminate the current emperor, called President, to install himself or a relative on the throne. Instead, he had Remo and Chiun running around the world performing the strangest feats, and then even when they were wildly successful, insisting they remain secret. Acts that would have resounded to anyone's glory. Feats Chiun was proud to list in the history of Sinanju, which in the course of things would survive this crazy young nation.
The United States was a mere two hundred years old. Rome was a thousand years old when it fell. But Sinanju, sun source of all the martial arts, outlived them all, every dynasty it had ever served. Every empire and every kingdom. It was forty-five hundred years old, and even though it was not written in the histories of Sinanju, Chiun was sure other Masters of Sinanju listened to other emperors just as insane. There was of course a formula for dealing with similar situations, and Chiun did not even have to think to use it.
"Your words are like the sun itself, casting illumination upon the darkness of souls," said Chiun in his night velvet kimono, with characters from the main ung poem embroidered in gold thread upon it. His long fingernails were resting delicately in his lap. Wisps of hair flowed down his cheeks and brushed his parchment-dry skin.
"I don't know what to do with Remo."
"It is a wise master," said Chiun, "who comes to a devoted servant."
Why Smith never ordered Chiun to appear at his place of residence, Chiun did not know. But if Smith chose always to visit Chiun and Remo in some out-of-the-way place, that was just more evidence of his peculiarity, another piece in a mosaic of madness that was so much a part of this country and unfortunately sometimes still affected Remo.
Smith sat rigid on a chair, his briefcase resting on his lap. He wore his usual gray three-piece suit and Dartmouth tie and his expression was dour, not because of the problem at hand but because that was always his expression. Chiun attributed it to his bad breathing technique, but Remo said it was the man's soul showing through his face. Despite comments like that from Remo, Chiun knew Remo respected Smith, and they shared some sort of white bond that Chiun did not quite understand, an irrational loyalty to what they called their country.
"I don't know what's gotten into Remo; but yesterday be took it upon himself to go down to a village in a friendly country and terrorize it. And why? There was no strategic or tactical reason for any of it. It had nothing to do with what we have been commissioned to do."
Chiun nodded gravely.
"Yes, Remo has done some strange things from time to time, but I have always understood them," continued Smith. "He's a good man with a good heart."
"He speaks nothing but praises of his Emperor Smith. His lips lie fallow but that they sing your glory. "
"But the other day, all I heard was that he was going to correct something. There was this family in Ohio who had lost a son."
"Ah," said Chiun. He remembered it. He had watched with Remo on the television in the Westport home that CURE had bought for them after Remo had complained about living in so many hotels.
Chiun remembered a large sum being mentioned. It was a traditional ransom, quite common throughout history, but in the hands of the lunatic Americans, something that turned into a fiasco. Not only had the abductors been paid the money, but they had failed to return the child, something any self-respecting kidnapper during the worst days of the Chinese warlords would never do.
If one took ransom and did not return the victim, how could one demand ransom again? Yet in this country, according to American tradition, the police had stepped in and predictably, the parents lost their money and their child.
It was perhaps too great a hope for Chiun's aged breast, but he wondered if Remo at last was seeking gold. In this land supposedly filled with peole who did nothing but lust for wealth, Chiun had found more people who refused to do things for money than in any other country on earth in all history. Those who prided themselves on their religious motivation were the worst offenders.
For professional assassins this weakness could be ruinous, and while Remo had learned what no other white in all history and only a few from Sinanju had ever learned, he could not quite unlearn his early habit of not caring about the rightful assassin's tribute. When Chiun had demanded Remo's tribute be included with the gold shipped to Sinanju, Remo had insanely answered:
"Okay. If you want it. You never spend the damned stuff anyhow. The house of Sinanju has mint-fresh coins frorm Cyrus the Great of Persia."
"That does not matter," Chiun had said. "It is a question of what is right and what is wrong."
"Okay. Take the gold," Remo had said.
And was it any wonder, therefore, that when the treasures of Sinanju were stolen, Remo was off somewhere supposedly saving the world? What the world had ever done for Remo, Chiun did not know. It had done even less than this country he said he loved.
Now Chiun listened with some faint hope that at last Remo had learned some respect for the proper tribute. His heart quickened as he heard Remo had gone to the place where the boy was taken and found someone who had apparently colluded in the abduction.
Then he went down to those who had taken ransom and not returned the child and visited wrath upon them. So far so good, thought Chiun. And then, perfectly concluding the mission, he returned the child to the parents, this despite Smith's babbling about some form of national security and friendly-neighbor policy. Even better.
"Pray tell, O gracious Emperor, how much did Remo take in tribute from these people who had been violated in your kingdom?"
"Money?" asked Smith.
"Yes, that is what is used in America. How much in money was their tribute, a tribute I might add which would reflect to your glory also since I am led to believe your area does cover this entire country."
"Oh, he didn't take money," said Smith.
"He didn't? What did he take?"
"He said it made him feel good."
Chiun, whose breathing was tuned to the center of the entire universe, now felt the very tips of his lungs quiver in horror at what he feared had transpired.
"What," asked Chiun, "made him feel good?"
"Doing what he did. Returning the boy. Now, I can see getting emotionally-"
Chiun did not listen to the rest of the sentence. He could see Remo now, having performed in complete accord with the traditions of Sinanju, using all the techniques of the sun source of all the martial arts, breaking the will of an entire city, returning the kidnapped one home in triumph, and then doing absolutely nothing but feeling good about it.
"Why did he do it? Why did he do such an insane thing?" asked Chiun, his voice rising in anguished frustration.
"I don't know," said Smith. "I hoped you knew."
"How would I know? I'm not white. What could have made him do such a thing? What on earth could have made him do such a foolish thing?"