Remo decided if this was who he thought it was, dumping him in the bushes wouldn't cut it. So he dragged the man to the subway station and dumped him in the back of a waiting cab.
The cabbie was firm. "Hey, I don't haul drunks."
"Here's six hundred dollars. Cash," Remo told the driver. "Take him home."
"Where's home?"
"Bismark, North Dakota. Six hundred bucks get him there?"
"Can I stop for food and lodging?" the cabbie asked.
"You bet."
The cabbie folded the wad of cash, kissed it and stuffed it into a pocket. "In that case, tell his folks to expect him home sometime next week. I know a short cut to Bismark via Atlantic City."
"You're the professional."
As the cab took off, Remo ran back home, hoping what he feared wasn't true.
The second he opened the front door, the metallic smell of fresh blood hit him like an unpleasant wave.
There was only one body on the stairs leading up. That was good. One body was easily disposed of. Maybe if Remo broke it into small pieces, it would slip down the garbage disposal.
A second body occupied a toilet on the second floor. Remo knew he was dead without listening for a heartbeat because heads immersed in toilet water for long periods of time usually belonged to the deceased.
Outside the tower room, there was a stack of bodies, very neatly arranged. It was hard to tell exactly how many bodies there were, the stacking was so professional. In some cases more than one arm was jammed into a coat sleeve, and other limbs were interlocked so that rigor mortis setting in would make it easier for Remo to pick up the bodies as a unit.
That was Chiun. In the old days, when the Master of Sinanju was addicted to American soap operas, anyone who interrupted them was subject to his instant death penalty. Many times Remo returned home to find a similar pile of corpses needing disposal.
The sight of these made Remo feel almost nostalgic.
Letting the dead decompose in peace, Remo entered the meditation room. "Chiun?"
"I have been awaiting your return," Chiun said.
"Well, I'm back."
"In time to take out the garbage."
"Who were they?"
"Russians."
"Yeah?"
"Lying Russians. I would have accepted truthful Russians, although it was a grave breach of decorum to send emissaries when first contact should be through a letter or simple message. I do not treat with pretenders or their bodyguards."
"So you killed them?"
"I suffered the loud one to live," Chiun answered.
"I think I know who that was___"
"He claimed to be the new czar, but I know this to be untrue. He is merely a braggart and a drunkard. But since being a braggart and drunkard is sometimes a prerequisite to rule Russia, I allowed him to depart with his internal organs still functioning. Should he ever become czar in truth, he will no doubt be grateful."
Remo cocked a thumb over his shoulder. "These dead guys his bodyguards?"
"No longer," said Chiun. "Dispose of them."
Sighing, Remo got to work. He reached into the pile of interlocking dead, and just as in the old days they came off the floor as a unit, like chicken bones left a long time at the bottom of a garbage can.
Carrying them down to the basement, Remo was confronted with an immediate problem. How to get them in the trash cans, which were man-size at best. He considered the problem while he took the lids off each can.
When all five cans were exposed, Remo decided that since he had seven dead and only five cans, there was no point to separating the dead so each corpse had its own receptacle.
Once that was settled, it was easy. He broke off limbs and other projections. They snapped off clean as dead branches, and he distributed them equally among the five cans.
The body on the steps also contributed to the tossed salad of dead parties. As did the body dunking for oxygen in the toilet bowl. Remo had to pry his dead fingers from the seat, but after that he was no more trouble than the others had been.
Returning to the meditation room, Remo cleared his throat. This was not going to be easy.
Chiun beat him to it. "You have failed."
"How'd you know?"
"I have excellent nunchi for your kibun," Chiun said aridly. "You have lost the greatest client in Sinanju history through your incompetence."
"Not so fast. That's not how it went."
"No? Have you come to terms with Harold the Mad?"
"No," Remo admitted.
"Then you have failed, and the details are unimportant. All that matters is the disaster you have wrought."
"I didn't blow it. Smith did."
Chiun jumped to his feet. "Smith refused our service?"
"No. He was all set to renew. I got double the gold."
"Double?"
"Yeah, double."
"Not triple?"
"Triple—are you crazy?"
"You did not seek triple. Not even to posture?"
Remo made his face still.
"You asked for triple and he argued you out of it."
"Not exactly. Look, can I finish?" Remo said impatiently.
"You have already finished. Because of you, we are finished. To think I threw the next czar of Russia out onto the street like a common inebriate because I put my faith in a redskin mutt."
"Cut that out. Look, Smith was all set to go for double. But the well was dry."
"Well? What well?"
"The golden well. The U.S. Treasury."
"This lunatic land is bankrupt?"
"No. The agency Smith gets the gold from is frozen," Remo explained.
"Because of a frozen well, we are denied more gold than the House has ever known?"
"Look, Smith talked to the President. They're going to try to work something out. In the meantime you gotta call off the open bidding. Okay?"
"Never," Chiun swore.
"C'mon. We got Mexico on the border. Next it'll be the Canadians in Maine. Before we know it, the Russians will want Alaska back."
"Good. This will prod Harold the Mad and his puppet, the glutton, into putting forth their most strenuous efforts."
"You don't understand."
"No. It is you who do not understand. We have the upper hand. We must not relinquish it. Perhaps if we play our cards correctly, triple gold will yet be ours. Show me how you narrowed your round eyes at Smith."
Remo rolled his eyes, and Chiun grabbed at the puffs of hair over each ear. "No, no. That is not how I taught you."
A phone on a corner stand rang, and Remo started for it.
"Let it ring," said Chiun.
"What if it's important?"
And before Chiun could reply, the answering machine began speaking in his voice:
"Greetings, O seeker of perfection. The glorious House of Sinanju hovers eager to hear your every syllable. State your throne, rank of rulership and needs, and the glory that is Sinanju will reward you by considering you for future employment. Begin speaking at the sound of the gong."
A brass gong rang discordant and brash.
And in a language Remo didn't recognize, someone began chattering excitedly. Chiun hovered close, listening.
When the message ended, Remo asked, "What was that?"
"Nothing."
"It didn't sound like nothing to me. Nothing is silence."
"It was less than nothing. A mere sultan. We are above sultans. Nothing less than an emperor will do."
"Isn't that your 800-number line?"
"Of course. I have given it out for the entire world to cherish."
"Oh, great," groaned Remo.
Remo sat down and faced Chiun, his face and voice earnest. "I said I'd do anything you say and I will."
"You should," Chiun sniffed. "For you have much to atone for."
"But I think we should do everything we can to continue working for America."
"If their gold flows anew, I will consider it, but my feet yearn to feel the sweet dust of the Silk Road, where wonders upon wonders may be found. Not to mention treachery and sudden death."