And then, with a shriek, Chiun was without the giant sword. He stood motionless, his arms at his sides, and Remo heard the sword whirring above him, toward the ceiling. Remo looked up. The sword seemed hung in history just a breath from the ceiling, and then it descended, the giant blade turning slowly, until in one last graceful turn, it come down into Liu's looking up face.
With a whunk, it split the face and drove straight down through the body, stopping only a foot from the hilt. The clean tip of the blade nicked marble, and then began to gather blood from above. It looked as if General Liu had swallowed too completely the seven foot sword of Sin-anju.
In awesome silence, he tottered, then backward fell, skewered on a sword, creating small flowing lakes of blood around him on the gray marble floors. The hilt seemed to grow from Ms face.
"Fifteen dollars American," said the Master of Sinanju to the Premier of the latest China. "And no checks."
The Premier nodded. So he was not part of the plot. He was one of the peacemakers. In blood was peace sometimes baptized.
"Sometimes, according to Mao," said the Premier, "it is necessary to pick up the gun to put down the gun."
"I'll believe it when I see it," said Remo.
"About us?" asked the Premier.
"About anyone," Remo said.
They escorted the Premier to a car outside and Chiun anxiously whispered to Remo:
"Was my wrist straight?"
Remo, who had barely seen Chiun, let alone his wrist, answered, "Sloppy as hell, little father. You embarrassed me no end, especially in front of the Premier of China."
And Remo felt good.
