“Because I wasn’t allowed to do my job.”
“You were angered in Jamaica, where you were allowed to do your job.”
“Because I should have been doing my job in New Jersey.”
“You were angered because Smith advised that you not return to the Castle on the Loch, although you were alternatively sent to deal with the threat of Sa Mangsang, which would have had graver consequences if ignored.”
“I can’t tell which of us sounds more like a broken record,” Remo said. “What’s your point?”
“Thank you for recognizing that I do have one. The point is, you have a choice. Your decision is your own. The direction you go from here is also your own.”
“I see.”
“You don’t.”
“You’re right.”
Chiun pursed his lips as he watched the wing. He held up three fingers. “One, continue on this course. Do the deeds you know are good and feel bad about it, regardless of the specific reason—there will always be a reason for guilt if you search it out.”
“That doesn’t sound like a good choice.”
“Two, continue doing the good deeds and give yourself credit for making the best decisions you can make, allowing yourself to not be burdened with guilt.”
“Huh.”
“Three, stop doing good deeds. Concentrate on your role as Master of Sinanju. Do what is asked of you, fulfill your responsibilities to the village and waste no concern on the troubles of the world.”
The stewardess came out with cups of water. Remo glared at her so fiercely she ducked back into the kitchenette, but he was looking through her, not at her. “The third choice is not a choice.”
“Because of your compulsion to fight for truth, justice and the way of the American?”
“Not really. I’m not seeking out good deeds to do. It’s that I’m in the right place at the right time to do some good and stop some bad—because I am Sinanju and working for Smitty. When I’m in those places, I have to go the extra mile if it will mean a big difference. See?”
“Yes.”
“So as long as I’m doing the Sinanju thing, I’ll feel compelled to do what I can to help people out. That’s not too schmaltzy, is it? So I have just two choices. Keep doing those things and feel bad about it, or keep doing those things and not feel bad about it. The second choice is the obvious way to go, all things being equal. I see it. I really do. Thanks, Little Father.”
“You are welcome.”
“So how do I do that?”
“It is easy. It is very difficult. You must simply choose to be at peace with what you can and cannot do.”
“Oh. Well, that’s great. That’s really helpful. I’ll get right on it. Thanks a lot.”
“You are welcome.”
Chapter 29
Hong Kong was afraid. You could smell the fear in the streets.
“Always knew the Commies would screw up Hong Kong,” the cabbie complained. “I’m Chinese and British put together, and I know which one of them can run a country and it is not the Chinese. I’m just surprised it took them so long to bring it all crashing down.”
“Hush, blatherer!” Chiun snapped.
“See, what they were doing was sowing the seeds of their future failure,” the cabbie explained bitterly. “I guess they wanted Hong Kong to collapse completely, no if, ands or buts, so they put everything in place to make it happen.”
Chiun refrained from slicing the cabbie’s throat with a single, deadly fingernail and peered sharply at Remo. “Does the cretin believe the Chinese truly wished for this to happen?”
“He’s being sarcastic. You know, Sheldon Jahn might turn out to be a better leader than the PRC. Ever thought of that?”
The cabbie snorted. “Right, bub, a sixty-year-old flaming fagula. He can’t even write good tunes anymore. When’s the last time he had a hit?”
Remo didn’t know the answer to that. “Seems to me his credentials are as good as any other world leader I can think of. Drop us here.”
The cabbie stopped, just now realizing where his fare was headed. They were a half mile away from the infamous Ministry of Financial Logistics. A ring of Chinese military encircled the facility, but they made a show of being nonaggressive. The last thing they wanted to do was alarm the nutcase inside.
“Why are you coming to this place?” the cabbie demanded.
“He’s a huge Sheldon Jahn fan.” Remo jerked a thumb at Chiun.
Chiun regarded him curiously. “What kinds of music is practiced by this Sheldon?”
“Pop music. If you ever listened to the radio during the seventies you probably heard his stuff.”
“I listened little,” Chiun said with a look of distaste.
Cordoning off the entire city block around the Ministry of Financial Logistics were vehicles belonging to the Hong Kong police and the Chinese military, fronting rolls of barbed wire.
“Halt,” barked a Chinese guard with suspicious eyes, issuing a stream of orders in Chinese.
“Speak Svedish?” Remo asked in a heavy, poorly executed Swedish accent. “Or English?”
“Who are you? Why do you come here?” the guard demanded, without missing a beat.
“United Nations inspectors.” He presented his credentials. “Dr. Remo Octavius. My associate is Mr. Kar Sano. We’re expected inside.”
“Can you not see that the entrance is not here? Besides this, no one will be allowed inside.”
“We will be allowed inside. The UN says we will.”
“You must speak to my superior officer.”
“Are you trying to keep us out?” Remo demanded.
“There is no entrance here,” the guard insisted, waving helplessly at the rolls of barbed wire that created a barrier around one of the most expensive blocks of real estate in Hong Kong.
“There’s going to be hell to pay. Sanctions. Resolutions. Next thing you know you’ll be unilaterally invaded and it will be all your fault.”
“I am only pointing out the fact that the entrance is not at this place!” the guard exclaimed, unsure if he should be extremely worried or simply amused. “Speak to my superior officer, please.” He summoned them to the nearby financial office building, now requisitioned as a field headquarters. They guard spoke hurriedly to the building guards, who phoned ahead.
“We will take them,” growled the headquarters guard, who led Remo and Chiun to the stairs.
“Elevator not working,” the guard explained. “Chief of this operation just twelve floors up.”
“They lie about the elevator,” Chiun whispered in Korean too soft for their escorts to even hear. Their escorts were talking Chinese and chuckling. “They seek to play a cruel joke on an old man,” Chiun translated.
“They’re really going to have mud on their faces when we reach the twelfth floor and you’re not even breathing hard.”
“Someone will be breathing hard,” Chiun said, and he was gone.
One of them happened to glance back as they plodded up the concrete fire stairs. “Where did the old man go?” he queried.
“He couldn’t stand waiting for you slowpokes. He went on ahead.”
“That is a lie!”
“Now, why would I lie?”
“How much longer shall I be forced to stand waiting for lazy Chinese soldiers?” called a distant squeaky voice. The Chinese soldiers peered incredulously up through the stairwell, where they caught a flash of Chiun’s red-accented robe.
“It is a trick!”
“Naw, it’s just that you guys are so slow. It’s another side effect of communism.”
“Untrue! Chinese soldiers are very fit. This is a trick.”
“Oh, yeah—want to race?” Remo glided up the stairs before the guards could answer. In seconds he was standing alongside Chiun listening to the stamping of combat boots.