Coming to a spray of light at the edge of the police line, Smith found a pair of taxis waiting for fares.
He opened the rear door of one and levered himself onto the cushions. All strength seemed to drain from him then.
"I would like to go to Rye, New York," he said.
"That's gonna cost, pal," the cabby said.
"Quote me a rate."
The cabbie pretended to think and said, "Seventy-five bucks. Tax and tip extra."
"What tax?"
"Actually there ain't one. That was just my way of saying, 'Don't forget him what brung ya.' "
And Harold Smith was so drained of strength that instead of bargaining, he nodded yes just before dropping off to sleep.
WHEN THE CABBIE said, "Rye coming up," Smith struggled back to consciousness.
"This next exit," he said, squinting at his surroundings. His head pounded, and his tongue tasted like dead fish.
The cabbie leaned into the offramp.
"Folcroft Sanitarium," Smith murmured. "Follow the third left all the way to the end."
He managed to stay awake until the cab slithered between the stone lion heads that guarded the Folcroft gate.
"That'll be seventy-five bucks," the cabbie told him. "Tip not included."
Only then did Smith realize that someone had picked his pocket back at the wreck. His wallet was gone. And so was his red plastic change holder.
But he stopped caring almost at once, because he fainted, slumping to the floorboards like a gray bundle of wet kindling.
Chapter 7
Remo was climbing behind the wheel of the APC when he remembered something important.
He snapped his fingers. "Smith's briefcase!"
Chiun made a face. "He is dead. His possessions do not matter."
"It's got his portable computer inside."
"It matters not."
"It's rigged to blow if someone opens it."
"Unimportant," said Chiun, settling into his seat.
"No, you don't understand. If a rescue worker tries to open it, he'll be killed."
Chiun was unmoved. "That is his fault for trifling with the emperor's possessions."
"We gotta find that briefcase before someone else does."
"Washington, then the briefcase."
"The briefcase, then Washington."
Chiun's voice grew still and chilly. "I am Reigning Master. My authority is supreme."
"Fine," said Remo, getting out and slamming the driver's-side door. "You drive to Washington. I'll catch up."
Chiun slid behind the wheel and keyed the ignition. He pressed his sandaled foot to the gas pedal.
The big engine roared. He pressed it again, harder this time. It raced, making ominous sounds of warning.
But still Remo continued to walk away.
The Master of Sinanju hesitated. To go or to give in? If he left, it would be that much more difficult to converse with the puppet President. The man barely spoke acceptable English. Remo would have to function as interpreter. If he remained, it would mean caving in to his pupil's childish whims. Then again, sometimes children had to be humored. Even adult children.
In the end Chiun compromised. He waited until Remo had vanished from sight before leaving the APC. When he exited the big vehicle, he shut the door with the smoothness of two velvet ropes knocking together. No click sounded.
That way, Remo would not know Chiun followed.
The Master of Sinanju decided to follow at a discreet distance. Let Remo wonder. Fretting would be good for him. And it was his turn to fret. Chiun was tired of fretting over Remo. Let Remo fret over Chiun. It was only proper and just that the child come to know the frustrations of the parent.
As he padded along, making no sound and leaving no footprint because he knew exactly how to place his sandals in the correct spots so as not to leave spoor, the Master of Sinanju reflected that it was different now that Remo understood they were of the same blood.
Different yet not as good. It was easier in the past. When Remo misbehaved, it was possible to bring him into line by casting aspersions on his unknown white parentage. When Remo became too full of himself, calling him a pale piece of pig's ear was all that was necessary to rankle him.
Now it was very different. Remo knew he had Korean blood in him, a gift from his father who, while of American Indian descent, had in his veins the noble blood of Korea. And Remo had accepted this. Chiun knew that Remo was descended from the bloodline of Sinanju. Descended indirectly, with much pollution and dilution of the good blood, but there was no denying Remo's essential Koreanness.
As he walked along, face tight in thought, a sea breeze toying with his thin, wispy beard, Chiun sighed faintly.
In some ways the old days were better. In some ways Remo was easier to control. He seemed more content now. Knowing who his parents were and what he was.
This was not good. A contented assassin was a complacent assassin. Chiun had never been content. Chiun the Elder had never been content. Yui, his grandfather, had never known a contented day and he had lived nearly forty thousand days.
Why should Remo, who was, after all, only partly Korean-although admittedly fully Sinanju-experience wanton contentment?
Chiun would have to find a way to reintroduce discontent into Remo's life.
It was the only way to preserve it.
A few hundred yards ahead, beyond a clump of evergreens, the Master of Sinanju heard the gurgle of a body disturbing water.
His mouth thinned.
Remo, no doubt. It was utter carelessness. To enter the water so as to make it complain!
Hurrying ahead, Chiun slipped down to the water to remonstrate with his inattentive pupil. The death of an emperor was no excuse for carelessness. Emperors died in their time. But Masters of Sinanju were not allowed that luxury. Remo could not expose himself to danger as long as the House depended upon his living. When Remo had trained his own pupil, he would be allowed to die at his convenience.
There was no sign of Remo Williams when the Master of Sinanju reached the shoreline.
The water lay still, regathering at one spot. Chiun drifted down and noticed footprints.
Momentarily he frowned. This was inexcusable. Leaving tracks. Even in loose sand, it was not permitted.
Then Chiun noticed the footprints were pointed in the wrong direction.
Whoever had made them had come out of the water.
Eyes narrowing, he examined them briefly.
The prints lacked heels but were sharply outlined. Shod feet. Not Remo's footprints. He insisted upon Western shoes with heels.
The prints were wet. But just barely.
A person had emerged from the sea. He should have dripped pools of water. There was no sign of such drippings. Only the footprints, which were hollows clotted with shadow.
Turning in place, the Master of Sinanju studied the line of prints. His face frowned, wrinkles bunching.
"Sandal prints," he hissed.
Curiously he followed them with his eyes.
They led into the evergreens. Chiun followed them. Remo could fend for himself. For now.
The trail of shod tracks led into a wild forest, where old trees stood naked and dead, their bark long gone, their knobby boles hard and dry to the touch. They might have been the skeletons of trees, but trees did not have skeletons. Only dead old wood that insects riddled for shelter.
The footprints led into the carpet of fir needles, and Chiun followed them.
They passed a fir tree that was scarred by a fresh notch. Sap was seeping from it. Chiun studied the notch. His face frowned more deeply.
Emboldened, he followed the prints, hands tight to his waist, sandaled feet padding softly. As he walked, he stepped into the very imprints he followed. His sandals fit, nearly perfect. His natural gait followed smoothly. This told him that he pursued a man of roughly his own height and leg length. This made his eyes narrow in quiet anticipation.