"It is not of your concern, unemployed person," Chiun sniffed.
"What was he talking about, Smitty?" asked Remo. "Who's this Colonel South? The blond guy, Adonis?"
"No. Never mind," Smith sighed.
"What do we do now, Smitty? We were kicked out, but we take our orders from you. Do we go back in and mop up this guy, or what?"
"I think under the circumstances if the attackers have been eliminated, we might leave the Vice-President in the hands of this new person. You say he's competent?"
"He was fast, I'll give him that much."
"But he was fat," said Chiun. "He is not like us, Emperor, mean and lean. We are the sizzling bacon of the Constitution. "
Remo glared at Chiun again. "I wish you'd make up your mind," he said.
"I am negotiating the treacherous surf," Chiun whispered. "Try it sometime. You will get less brine in your mouth."
"Right, brine," said Remo.
"Anything else?" asked Smith.
"No," said Remo in a distant voice. Then, suddenly. "Yes. Actually, there is. We found out where the Vice-President learned about CURE. He says he got a letter from someone who knew all about the operation. And about Sinanju too."
"Any identification on this letter writer?"
"The Vice-President had no idea. Said the letter was signed 'Tulip.' "
"A letter," Smith said slowly. Through the receiver came the tapping of computer-terminal keys.
"While you're fiddling with your files," Remo said, "how about we come back? We're as useless as sponge boys in a cathouse down here."
"Speak for yourself, sponge boy," Chiun said haughtily.
"No," said Smith. "Wait, I'm calling up the current whereabouts of Michael Princippi."
"He's calling up the current whereabouts of Michael Princippi," Remo told Chiun, who was tugging on Remo's belt, demanding to know what was happening.
"Good," said Chiun firmly. In a softer voice he asked, "Who is that?"
"Chiun wants to know who Michael Princippi is," Remo said into the phone.
"I did not!" snapped Chiun. "Of course I know the famous black American singer."
"I think you're thinking of the wrong Michael. Or the wrong Prince. I'm not sure which," said Remo. "But the name sounds familiar somehow."
"Michael Princippi is the Democratic nominee for President," Smith said. "Surely you remember, Remo. You showed me an article concerning him only this afternoon."
"Oh, yeah," said Remo. "I forgot. Why should we care where that guy is?"
"If the Vice-President's source for his information on CURE is this Tulip, it follows that Princippi may have also received a letter from this man. Princippi has returned to his office in his home state. Fly there immediately. Identify yourself as CURE personnel and politely but firmly ask about any letters he might have received from Tulip. Find out all you can, Remo. If there is a letter, confiscate it. Maybe it will tell us something."
"Gotcha," Remo said. "Anything else, Smitty?"
"Good luck. As of now, CURE is hanging by a thread." Remo hung up.
"What did he say?" Chiun asked plaintively.
"He said CURE is hanging by a thread."
"Then let us be as flashing needles, moving swiftly to strengthen that thread, " Chiun said, fluttering his fingernails dangerously.
"I thought we were negotiating a treacherous surf."
"That was earlier," said Chiun. "You should stay current. "
"I'd settle for staying sane," said Remo, rolling his eyes to the heavens.
Chapter 13
Michael Princippi liked to consider himself a common man. During his two terms as governor, he had disdained the trappings of high office. Every day, he faithfully took the trolley to work. When he did have to drive, he used his wife's 1979 station wagon. His office in the State House was furnished with government issue. His campaign literature emphasized his frugal and levelheaded approach to government and characterized him as the son of simple immigrants who just happened to rise to the highest office in his state, and who felt that the highest office in the land was not above his reach.
Those who knew him well knew that Michael Princippi's "frugality" was a nice way of saying the guy was cheap. He was so levelheaded he put fund-raising audiences to sleep, and while he was indeed the son of simple immigrants, he always forgot to mention that his simple parents arrived in America very, very wealthy.
His advisers tried to convince Governor Princippi that his everyman approach was fine for state politics, but ineffective for someone with his eyes on the Oval Office. It wasn't presidential to drive a junkbox, eat lunch out of a brown bag, or to continue to live on a shabbily genteel street where parking spaces were secured by leaving an empty trashcan out by the curb. But Michael Princippi was stubborn. He did not believe in perks or privileges. He would not budge.
Not even when the federal government had insisted on assigning a Secret Service detail to watch over him after he had captured the Democratic nomination for President. "No way," he had said.
"It's for your protection, sir."
"I appreciate that. But I have state troopers who guard my office. I stopped taking the trolley. You know it costs me almost double? Gas isn't cheap. But I don't need extra protection. I'm the Prince of Politics. The people love me." The Secret Service had been adamant. But so was Governor Michael Princippi. He won.
As a consequence, when he walked into his office at 6:27 A.M., he was alone. Not even his secretary was at her reception desk.
Governor Princippi dropped behind his desk and picked through his latest position papers. With the polls showing the two presidential aspirants virtually neck-and-neck, it was all going to come down to the big election-eve debate in a few days, and Michael Princippi was not going to lose the election because he was not up on the issues.
Governor Princippi had no time to react to the knock at his heavy office door. The door opened before he could say "come in."
He felt a very brief stab of regret about turning down Secret Service protection, but it went away when he saw that the persons entering were obviously no threat to him.
Standing in the doorway was a tall man and a shorter, older Oriental. The man was obviously unarmed and the Oriental was ancient.
"How did you two get in?" Michael Princippi asked pointedly.
"We walked in," the tall man informed him.
"I mean into the State House, not this office. There are guards."
"Pah!" said the Oriental. "You call those guards? They are not guards. They did not notice us entering. We are guards. Also assassins."
"What!" Governor Princippi's busy eyebrows jumped in surprise.
"He didn't mean it like that. Sit down, Mr. Governor. I'm Remo. This is Chiun. Smith sent us."
"Smith? Oh, that Smith."
"Yeah, we're with CURE. You do know about CURE, don't you?"
"Perhaps," said Michael Princippi guardedly. "If you are who you say you are, you'll have identification on you." Remo and Chiun exchanged glances.
"Actually, no," Remo admitted.
"No identification? What kind of an organization does not provide its agents with identification?"
Chiun raised a wise finger. "A secret organization," he said.
"The organization isn't supposed to exist, remember?" Remo said. "Or didn't Tulip mention that part?"
"He might have," Governor Princippi said, rolling a pencil between his fingers. "But how do I know that you are who you say you are?"
"Look," said Remo. "Before this mess, we never walked in and identified ourselves like this. We just sort of slid in and out. I used to carry all sorts of fake ID, but technically I'm retired from CURE."
"I would show you my American Express Gold Card," said Chiun, "but, alas, it was taken from me."
"I see," said Governor Princippi slowly.
"You could call Smith," Remo suggested. "He'll vouch for us."