"We will see. Now what nationality is Remo?"
"Who?"
"Remo. Your man. I know that Chiun, the aged one, is Korean, But what is Remo?"
"Remo who? Chiun who?"
The pain was sudden, like flesh being peeled by white-hot irons. Smith screamed.
"I'll tell you. Stop. Please, stop."
"Do you remember Remo and Chiun?"
"Yes, I know Remo and Chiun."
"Good. What nationality is Remo?"
"I don't know. I swear. He just sells us insurance at Folcroft Sanitarium."
The pain came again, gagging Smith with his own screams.
"All right, all right: We're CIA, Remo and I and Chiun. CIA. An intelligence center. We gather information on shipping and grain and…"
Someone seemed to be digging in Smith's chest with sandpaper tools. He passed out. Then the lights came again.
"All right." The flat voice. "Let us try again. Now I know you are protecting something, and I understand why. But it is not you or your organization I am after. I am after a more even chance with Remo and Chiun. All I want to do is survive. I cannot survive with your man in the world. I can offer you a replacement for him if you wish, one who is almost as good, perhaps better. Myself. But you must cooperate."
"All right, but not in the chest again, please."
"You will find me very reasonable," the nurse said.
"We don't know for sure what nationality Remo is. He was an orphan."
"An orphan?"
"Yes."
"What is an orphan?"
"That's a person without parents."
"But a child cannot bear itself or rear itself. It cannot even walk until after one year of age."
"He was raised by nuns in an orphanage."
"Where did he learn to do what he can do?"
"In the orphanage," Smith lied.
"Who in the orphanage taught him?"
"The nuns."
The pain was protracted this time.
"Chiun taught him," yelled Smith. "The Korean."
"And what of Chiun?"
"He is the Master of Sinanju," said Smith.
"They are teachers?"
"No."
"Good answer. What are they?"
"They are assassins," Smith said. "Sinanju is a small village in Korea near China. It is the sun source of all the martial arts. The masters, for centuries, have rented out their services to support the people of the village."
"What services?"
"They are assassins. They sell their services. Kings, pharaohs, czars, dictators, presidents, chairmen, all hire them at times."
"Could I buy Chiun's services?"
"I don't know."
"Is Chiun creative?"
"I don't think so."
"What art does Chiun like?"
"We have in this country soap operas. Stories in the daytime on television. I take it you're not American, even if you don't speak with an accent," said Smith.
"Soap operas, you say?"
"Yes."
"And are they creative?"
"Not that I know of," said Smith honestly.
"But that is the strength of your species. Creativity. To be able to build from nothing, with new ideas."
"You must have had some good art in your country," said Smith. "Every country has some art that is good."
"You are trying to get a fix on me, are you not?"
"Yes," said Smith in fear that the pain would start again if he lied. "I am."
"Then I will trade. Almost everything between people is trading. I will tell you I created that statue in the town square that everyone disliked so much."
"I didn't dislike it," said Smith.
"You are not lying."
"How do you know that?" asked Smith.
"The voice changes during a lie. You may not notice it, but I do."
"Were you trained in an art like Sinanju?"
"No. I knew things that helped me teach myself other things. If I could be creative, I would fear nothing."
"Perhaps I can help," said Smith, and for the first time he began to suspect who… or what… the nurse was.
"Now you lie. What did you like about the sculpture?"
"It had a balance and a form that appealed to me."
"Others called it a lifeless imitation of Moore."
"I didn't think so," said Smith. "It had enough life for me."
"I was not sure you would stop to look at it. It was a low probability but worth trying: What was that printout in your pocket?"
"A payroll," said Smith.
"You are not lying, but your voice is changing somewhat."
"It is a payroll," said Smith.
"No matter that you lie. Could you tell Remo to kill himself and Chiun?"
"No," said Smith.
"It does not matter. You have helped me do the job, Wasp." The lights went off, and Smith looked out into blackness, filled in its center with a blue remnant that would disappear as his pupils adjusted. He breathed as deeply as he could and listened to the waves. He woke up again in a truck, and then, when the cool night air came over him again, he smelled hospital ether and felt the elevator going up, and when he woke up again, the sun was shining and there was the hall nurse.
"How are we feeling this morning, Dr. Smith?" she asked. "Your wife is here to see you. You gave us a fright last night. Where were you?"
"Don't you know?"
"Not at all," said the nurse.
"Well, I'll be," said Smith. He knew well the delusions of the wounded. Last night, he had been ready to swear that this nurse was an inhuman creature, a machine whose only purpose in life was to kill Remo and Chiun, and now here he was in his room, and here she was, and the room smelled clean and fresh-painted. Smith smiled and said again, "Well, I'll be…"
"You most certainly will, Wasp," said the nurse, and the voice was flat and mechanical.
"Oh, my god," said Smith, and he lapsed back into unconsciousness from shock.
Meanwhile, Remo wrestled with a fear of his own. If Smith were captive somewhere, who was running the store? He asked that question of Chiun as they approached the gates of Folcroft Sanitarium. It was without any unusual number of guards, just a police pensioner at the gate, who said Remo needed a pass.
"Lather your armpits," said Remo.
"If you're going to be hostile, buddy, forget I spoke to you," said Folcroft's main gate protection, who went back to his small black and white television set. Chiun was missing his shows today, and he let Remo know.
"So who's watching the store?" asked Remo, as they strolled into the spaciously lawned interior of the old estate. Once before Remo had come back during an attempt to usurp control of the secret organization, and this time he noticed the protection was even less.
"I know I am not watching my beautiful daytime dramas," said Chiun. "What other people are watching is not my concern."
"Funny how this place seems to change. The walls look so much less formidable."
"Doorknobs are always up in the air to children," said Chiun.
"You know," Remo said looking at the aged brick buildings, many heavy with years of ivy, "I'm not really sure what I'm looking for."
"But you think you will know it when you see it," Chiun said.
"Yeah. Right."
"You will never know it. Nothing is found that is not known before," Chiun said.
They strolled into a large old building that Remo remembered, his first gymnasium, where he had met Chiun and begun learning the ways of Sinanju. There were basketball hoops on the sides now, and mats and tumbling bars.
"I used to think guns and large numbers of men were powerful then," Remo said.
"You ate meat then, too," said Chiun.
"That was the hardest thing giving up. I used to dream of steaks. I remember how impressed I was when you cracked that two-by-four with your hand. I mean, just cracking a piece of wood and I thought it was wonderful. You know, I never understood half the things you told me then."
"Then?" said Chiun, cackling. "Then?"
"Sure, then."
"Which explains why we wander around here uselessly, not even knowing what we look for. I tell you, Remo, you have caused me great disturbance in my peace."