Only when he was very close did Remo detect the fragility of age again. The kindly eyes skated past him momentarily and it was like a kick in his stomach.
The Master of Sinanju ceased his forward glide, pausing expectantly. The pope halted. Only three feet separated them. Their ancient eyes locked. Held. And an arduous minute passed.
"What's going on?" Remo asked Chiun in low Korean.
"Kiss his ring," Chiun hissed. "Quickly."
"Not a chance. What's the freaking holdup?"
"This upstart is waiting for me to bow to him."
"So, bow. It won't kill you."
"I kissed his ring last time. It is your turn," Chiun declared.
"Fine—just say something."
"I cannot. I am waiting for him to bow."
"The pope isn't going to bow to you."
"That is why you must kiss his ring. To dispel the awkwardness of this difficult moment," Chiun explained.
"I am not kissing his freaking ring!"
Standing to one side, the cardinal secretary of state whispered low words in Latin. Chiun replied in the same tongue.
The cardinal then whispered into the Pope's tilted ear.
The careworn face of the supreme pontiff brightened, and he turned to Remo to say in English, "My son, my son. It is good to make your acquaintance."
And when the pope's heavy gold ring came up, Remo couldn't help himself. He half knelt and kissed it.
After that the ice was broken.
The pope and the Master of Sinanju drew off to one side to confer in low whispers. From time to time the pope beamed in Remo's direction. For his part the Master of Sinanju was animated. His arms flapped frequently, his deadly nails orbiting the Pope's still form so tightly Remo began to fear Chiun would slay him with a careless gesture.
Feeling left out, Remo struck up a conversation with the portly cardinal secretary of state. "What did Chiun say to you?"
"The Master conveyed the happy news that the next Master of the House of Sinanju was a Christian."
"He told the pope that!"
"His Holiness was quite pleased. For it has been too long since the House stood beside the Holy See."
"We worked against Rome, too," Remo argued.
The cardinal secretary of state paled slightly and excused himself, hurrying away like a frightened red robin.
That left Remo alone with the Swiss Guards, who stood sentinel with their pikes at rest.
"Lot of good those frog-stickers will do you against nutomatic weapons," Remo told them.
The Swiss Guards stood staring into infinity and said nothing. In their striped pantaloons and felt hats, l hey reminded Remo of the Buckingham Palace Guard, except the latter had better uniforms. These guys looked like ballerinas with a pantload.
After a few more boring minutes, the pope and the Master of Sinanju bowed to each other respectfully, and with a final wave in Remo's direction, the pope signaled to his Swiss Guard to follow.
"Now what?"
"We must depart," said Chiun, his face pleased.
"You cut a deal?"
"No."
"You going to cut a deal?"
Chiun switched to Korean. "I merely reiterated the long-standing treaty the House has with Rome never to accept work which will harm Roman interests. Thus, whatever gossip he hears regarding future service will not be misconstrued."
"So we're not working for the Vatican?"
"Not unless absolutely necessary."
"You tell the pope that?"
"There was no need to injure his sensitive feelings."
They entered the white chocolate limousine. It took them away and back into the din and congestion of Rome traffic.
"So what's the point?"
"The point is to encourage better offers," Chiun explained.
"How?"
"By being seen here, it signals to the pope's enemies that Sinanju looks with favor upon the Vatican. The enemies of the Vatican will in turn recount their coffers and consider increasing any contemplated offers."
"What enemies does the pope have?"
"His Holiness is currently vexed by rival pontiffs. Mullahs and ayatollahs would like to extinguish the candle that is Christian Rome."
"I could stand guarding the pope," Remo allowed.
Chiun waved the comment away. "The pope expressed great confidence in his Swiss Guards. No. He asked the House if it would consider extinguishing rival candles."
"The pope asked you to off his enemies!" Remo exploded.
"Must you be so crude? Not in so many words, of course. Certain delicate words were spoken like rose petals strewn on cobbles. A gesture here. A regret there. The meaning was conveyed even if the words were oblique."
Remo folded his arms defiantly. "I don't believe it."
"You are so naive."
"So that's it. You use the pope to stampede other rulers and he gets the big kiss-off?"
"There was one other matter."
And from the mouth of one kimono sleeve, the Master of Sinanju extracted a heavy crucifix of ornate gold.
"Look, Remo. Solid gold."
"He gave you that?"
"Not knowingly," Chiun admitted.
"You filched the pope's cross!"
"No, I collected an amount past due. For in the days of the Borgia pontiffs, a popish payment was missing a weight of gold. This is equal to that weight. If one calculates three hundred years' interest."
"What will he think when he finds his crucifix missing?"
"That his vaunted Swiss Guard are insufficient for his needs," purred the Master of Sinanju as he restored the trophy of the modern pontiff of Rome to his kimono sleeve and fell to enjoying the sights of the Rome of his ancestors as he was conveyed to Leonardo da Vinci Airport.
It was good to treat with true rulers again, as his ancestors had.
Chapter Twenty-five
When Lieutenant General Sir Timothy Plum was assigned to command UNIKOM, everyone said it was the end of his career.
He wasn't the first UN commander to fail magnificently in Bosnia. There had been a Belgian general before him. Much lauded by the poor beggars of Bosnia, he had been all but adopted by them. But he had gotten out before the Serbs had solidified their battlefield gains.
While Lieutenant General Sir Timothy Plum had commanded UNPROFOR, the UN Protection Force in the former Yugoslavia, United Nations personnel were routinely sniped at, deprived of their weapons, and held hostage while the power and international authority that backed him was routinely flouted.
Not that there was any help from the Security Council, NATO or, God forbid, Generalissimo War-War himself. The sodding bastards had made speeches while the Serbs cut the so-called blue routes to beleaguered Sarajevo, commanded UN relief trucks and APCs and made a mockery of civilized norms.
Seeing the nature of the game, Sir Timothy had decided two could play both ends against the middle. So when Serbian fire inflicted atrocities against helpless civilians standing in bread-and-water lines, Sir Timothy publicly blamed the victims for taking foolhardy risks for small reward. When the Bosnians defended themselves, he branded them as warmongers determined to prolong the conflict the rest of the world had tired of merely to prolong their lives.
These pronouncements garnered him no friends, except in Belgrade. But they did serve the very important PR purpose of lowering UN expectations.
So it came as a relief of sorts when, his tour completed, Sir Timothy—as his loyal troops affectionately called him—received orders to take command of UNIKOM on the disputed Iraq-Kuwait border.
It had been a peaceful border these past few months. The weather, while hot, was pleasant—if one discounted the odd dust devil stirring up the sand and dried goat dung. And best of all, there were no bloody Serbs with doubtful names like Ratko and Slobodan along with disagreeble manners to get up his nose. Or shoot at him, for God's sake.
Yes, the Kuwaiti desert was actually pleasant even if sand did fill one's boots and the outside world had all but written him off as an utter and complete nincompoop.