"That makes absolutely no sense," Smith said. "Those uniforms are two centuries out of date."
"Don't ask me to explain it, but there it is," Remo added. "I saw them with my own eyes."
"The police theorize that they were crazed investors bankrupted by the market meltdown," Smith said.
"Makes perfect sense to me," Remo said. "One kept shouting at us, calling us 'traders.' "
"No, 'traitors,' " Chiun snapped. "I heard them clearly. They accused my minions of being traitors."
Smith's frown furrowed like cloth. "Traitors? To what?"
"They didn't say," Chiun admitted.
"Maybe they were on some kind of patriotic kick."
"I have a report that the police found discarded clothing in the Nostrum lobby," Smith said slowly. "The jackets all had U.S.-flag pins on the lapels."
"They were British," Chiun insisted.
"They had American accents," Remo said. "Will you get off this kick of yours?"
"This is not a kick. My workers have been killed, my business is in ruins, and those responsible will have to account to me."
"Please, please, both of you," Smith said, lifting placating hands. "Let us stay on the subject."
"Fine," Remo said, throwing a flapping length of computer printout onto Smith's desk, "Check this out. I got it off Looncraft's computer."
Smith took up the sheets. He carefully pulled away the perforated carrier strips and dropped them in a wastebasket before looking at them, causing Remo to roll his eyes in impatience.
Smith lifted the continuous form to his eyes. It was filled with a double-column list of names and numbers. One column was headed "LOYALISTS." The other said "CONSCRIPTS."
Smith scanned the list. The names meant nothing to him. The numbers might have been social-security numbers. Then he realized that could not be. They were one digit too long. They might be long-distance phone numbers, he realized.
Smith looked up and adjusted his glasses. "These names mean nothing to me," he admitted.
"Keep looking. Your name is on the list."
Startled, Smith returned to the list. He found his name on the third sheet, under "CONSCRIPTS": Harold W. Smith.
"Not me," Smith said. "The world is full of Harold Smiths."
"But not Harold W. Smiths."
"It does not say Dr. Harold W. Smith," Smith said reasonably. "And there is no reason I would be on a Looncraft, Dymstar d client list. I do not invest in the stock market."
"Well, there's more," Remo said. "The computer I got that off had a chess move displayed on the screen."
"Yes?" Smith said doubtfully.
"That Reuters guy." Remo snapped his fingers impatiently. "What's his name?"
"Plum, O brilliant one," Chiun sniffed.
"Right, him. When I cornered Plum in his office, he was on the phone. He said 'Knight to Queen's Bishop Three' before he hung up. Said he played phone chess-if there is such a thing."
"And Looncraft plays computer chess?" Smith asked.
"That's right. Get it? There's a connection."
Smith shook his head. "Coincidence. Many people play chess by long distance. Playing through the mail, for example, is quite common."
Remo's face fell. "I'm telling you, there's more to this. And it connects Looncraft with the Reuters guys."
"Do not listen to him," Chiun said firmly. "When was the last time Remo was correct in anything?"
Remo opened his mouth to retort. He blinked. Nothing came to mind, so he shut it unhappily. He fell onto the couch and folded his arms under his glowering face.
Smith addressed the Master of Sinanju.
"Master Chiun," he said. "The stock-market situation is stabilizing. With the killings at Nostrum, I suggest you begin selling off your stock holdings carefully over the next several weeks. If there is no more volatility, then we will close down Nostrum."
"I will not close down Nostrum until my employees have been avenged," Chiun said harshly.
"If the police reports are correct-"
"And they are not!" Chiun snapped.
"-then the massacre was an unfortunate aftermath of the market meltdown," Smith finished stubbornly.
"If you will not listen to reason," Chiun said huffily, "then I will prove it to you." Chiun turned. "Come, Remo."
Remo paused by the door on his way out.
"If you take another look at that list," he said evenly, "you'll see that the President of the United States is on the list, too."
Smith looked. He found the President's name under
"CONSCRIPTS. "
"What of it?" he asked Remo blankly.
"And the Vice-President's name."
Smith looked again. He found the Vice-President listed under "LOYALISTS."
"Looncraft, Dymstar d is very prestigious," Smith said calmly. "It does not surprise me to find their names on a list of the firm's clients. I see other prominent names here. Businessmen. Educators. Here is a senator from Illinois. And a Maine congressman."
"Well, it means something," Remo said.
"Yes," Smith returned coolly. "It means they are LD "
"Fine," Remo said. "Be that way. Just remember what I told you."
"I will," Harold W. Smith promised.
Remo slammed the door after him. It sounded like an anvil falling.
Chapter 19
"It's Looncraft. It was Looncraft all along."
"And I say it is the British."
"That's crapola. Whoever's causing this, they almost dragged down the British economy along with our own."
Remo folded his arms angrily and looked out the circular porthole at the clouds sliding below the Nostrum corporate jet's silvery wing.
The Master of Sinanju sat on a mat in the middle of the cabin, disdaining the leather chairs. One yellow hand rested on a plastic-wrapped package beside him.
"You yourself once said that Looncraft was British," he pointed out.
Remo frowned. "No, I said he sounded British."
"Ah-hah!" Chiun cried triumphantly.
"That didn't come out right," Remo admitted. "He talked British. He used British expressions. But so does Smith from time to time. I don't know. It's probably New England talk."
"I have sojourned in America nearly two decades," Chiun said quietly. "Yet I am still Korean, not American. No one would dispute that."
"Least of all me," Remo said, looking toward Chiun. "What's in the plastic bag, anyway?"
"That is not your concern," Chiun sniffed, pushing the package behind him.
"I wondered what you were doing in that record store, back in Rye. I never figured you for a music fan. Are you back in love with Barbra Streisand?"
"Cheeta Ching is my one true love."
"Well, you acted pretty mysterious, having me wait outside while you shopped."
"I did not shop," Chiun spat. "Americans shop. I purchase. Do not try to make of me an American. I am not. I am Korean."
"No argument. You are definitely Korean."
"The British were bad enough in their day, but Americans are the lowest."
"Where do you get that crap?" Remo wanted to know.
"When the British had an empire, they tried to force their will on the rest of the world. Spreading their poison."
"I think the opium trade is a thing of the past, Little Father," Remo pointed out. "Lyndon LaRouche to the contrary notwithstanding."
"That was the least of their poisons. I am referring to their ruinous philosophy."
"Give me a clue. Grade school was a long time ago."
"Liberty." Chiun spat the word as if it seared his tongue.
"And what is so bad about liberty?"
"It weakens the social structure and leads to the anarchy of choice."
"Some people like choice."
"The worst thing about British liberty was that it was limited to the British," Chiun said bitterly. "They ruined India-not that the Indians had not already begun the task. They enslaved China with their opium-not that the Chinese weren't addled to begin with. They looted Egypt of their most magnificent treasures-what little the Egyptians had bothered to preserve. They called this wholesale theft their white man's burden. The only thing burdensome about it was the carrying away of their pelf-which they usually forced natives to do for them."