"Coming upon the ronin in question, he challenged me and I him. We battled. His blade cleaved the air in mighty thrusts, but to no avail, for I am the Master of Sinanju."
"Of course," said Smith.
"Alas, he got away."
Frowning, Smith steepled his bony fingers. "How?"
Chiun made a dismissive gesture. "He was exceedingly crafty. No craftier foe have I encountered. Ever."
Smith's puzzled expression indicated that he wasn't satisfied with the answer.
"Tell him about the fingernail," said Remo.
"What fingernail?" asked Smith.
Chiun winced. "Another matter entirely," he said flatly.
"Oh, come on, Chiun. You can tell Smith."
"Yes. You can tell me, Master Chiun."
Chiun's features tightened. His fisted right hand dropped so the down-sliding sleeve almost covered it. "I lost a nail to the masterless cur."
Smith's puzzled expression gave way to a startled one. "You?"
"A fluke. I am still the Master of Sinanju. No mere ronin could best me. But his blade clipped my avenging nail, and it was lost."
Smith looked incredulous.
"No doubt that in my concern for your loss, I allowed myself to be distracted."
Smith nodded. Chiun relaxed. Remo rolled his eyes.
Chiun then continued. "I would have pursued the wretch to the very ends of the earth had not Remo come along bearing your all-important briefcase."
Smith's eyes went to a chair where the briefcase now lay, noticeably warped from its recent immersion.
"Knowing that this was more important than any other matter," Chiun continued, "I allowed the ronin to escape with his worthless life. I would not have done this had I suspected the truth I now reveal to you.
Smith's eyes dropped to the katana. Chiun allowed himself a faint smile. He had cleared the first hurdle. Now for the second.
"Had I suspected that this wave man was responsible for the train wreck of the previous night, I would have slain him twice over. For the very footprints I discovered in eerie Mystic were present in the sandy soil of the Big Sandy, also correctly named."
"This cannot be the same katana he wielded in Mystic," Smith declared. "Not if you found it in the engine block in Texarkana."
"Obviously the resourceful ronin availed himself of another. And thus we have a path to this fiend."
"Yes?"
"Contact all sword makers in your land and see who has recently forged a fine blade such as this. For I judge this particular example to be excellent. Possibly the work of a descendant of Odo of Obi."
"Odo of Obi?" said Remo. "Sounds like Star Trek Meets Star Wars. "
"Ignore this benighted one's prattle, O Emperor. I am sure that Odo of Obi is known to you."
Smith adjusted his Dartmouth tie uneasily. "Er, I doubt this blade was manufactured outside of Japan."
Chiun gestured toward Smith's desktop. "Your oracles may tell you otherwise."
"That will take time."
"There is another way, O Smith. This ronin has taken up a new katana. It is required that he bloody it. Usually this is done by beheading a luckless commoner. It is a custom known as the crossroad cutting."
"I hardly think that-"
"Your oracles will tell you of any beheading in the provinces near shunned Mystic."
Smith's hands went to his keyboard. "It is worth looking into, I suppose," he said without conviction.
Almost at once he was lost in thought. His gnarled fingers tapped the illuminated keyboard. He stared into his desktop like a man at a Ouija board.
"My God!" he croaked.
"Ah-hah!" Chiun cried in triumph.
"There was a rash of beheadings in Connecticut and Pennsylvania. The first was of a state trooper who pulled over-" Smith swallowed hard "-your APC, Remo."
Remo threw up his hands. "Great. Now I'm wanted for beheading a Connecticut State trooper."
"I can fix that," said Smith, performing some manipulation on the computer.
Remo came around to Smith's side of the desk. "What are you doing?"
"I am changing the APB on the LEAPS system."
"LEAPS?"
"Law Enforcement Agency Processing System." Smith finished inputting commands. "Now the cover name in which the APC was registered no longer traces back to you."
"Who gets the blame instead?"
"A low-level Mafia soldier who has thus far eluded justice."
"Good luck to him," grunted Remo.
Smith returned to the matter at hand. "The trail ends in Reading, Pennsylvania," he announced, reading off the screen.
"Then it is cold," said Chiun. "For three beheadings are more than enough to test his blade. He will waste no more strokes."
Frowning, Smith logged off.
He picked up the captured katana again. He was examining the hilt when his thumb, encountering one of the many ornate studs, suddenly depressed one. The blade went click.
Like a fury Chiun reached in and snatched the blade from Smith's hands. It happened so fast, Smith had only time to blink. His eyes read the sudden absence of the blade, and he blurted out the thing his brain told him had happened.
"It self-destructed!"
Chiun's voice lifted. "No. I hold it in my hands. Remo, quickly, check your emperor's fingers for barbs or punctures."
Remo moved in, turning Smith's hands up and down. "Looks clean," he said.
"Sometimes the crafty Japanese ensure that their own weapon is not turned against them by certain artifices," said Chiun. "Poisoned barbs are very common. But I see none here. This is only a stud, but it does nothing."
"We need to return to the matter at hand," said Smith, taking his hands from Remo's grasp. Remo stepped away.
"Why would a man dressed like a samurai derail two trains in different parts of the country?" Smith wondered aloud.
"A ronin, not a samurai, and who can fathom the mind of a cruel Japanese?" said Chiun, returning the katana to the desktop.
"We don't know this man is Japanese."
"He is a ronin. Of course he is Japanese."
"Did you see his face?"
"No, it was . . . masked."
"He could be anyone."
"Smith's right, Chiun. How many times have the police nabbed some dip dressed like a ninja breaking into a house? They aren't really ninja."
"Even ninja are not really ninja," spit Chiun. He paced the floor. "Smith, accept the word of your loyal assassin. The man is a ronin. Seek no one else."
"If he is Japanese, there is a way we might prove this."
"How?"
"To reach Texarkana from Connecticut in less than a day requires air travel. I will search the computerized airline-reservation files for Japanese travelers."
Chiun beamed. "Excellent thinking." His gaze grew sharp as it fell upon his pupil. Remo pretended to be interested in the katana.
Harold Smith went to work. He logged on and off several times, but when he was done, his face was glum.
"No Japanese nationals left any of the major Texas airports for Connecticut on the day in question."
"Any land in Connecticut?" asked Remo.
"A few. But from other locations. None trace back to Texas."
"We're back to square one," said Remo. "What do we do now?"
Smith was thinking. They could tell because his pinched nostrils were distending methodically. Otherwise, he looked as if he had fallen into a trance.
"The central question at the moment is not whom, but for how long?"
Remo and Chiun looked at him. Smith took up his rimless glasses and began polishing them.
"By that, I mean is this samurai-"
"Ronin," Chiun corrected testily.
"-responsible for the most-recent derailments, or could the last three years of incidents be laid at his doorstep?"
"No doubt he is newly arrived on these shores. Otherwise, we would have heard of his depredations before this," suggested Chiun.
Smith shook his gray head. "No, we can assume nothing."
Chiun turned on his pupil. "Remo, you witnessed a train derail only a year ago. Tell Emperor Smith that you saw nothing out of the ordinary."