"One man? One man? What kind of an operation are you running? The world's facing disaster, and you've got one man and a trainer on it?"
"He is a very special man," the acid voice answered coolly.
"Will he be enough?" asked the president wearily.
"If he isn't, then nothing will be."
"I hope so," said the president.
After he replaced the telephone in his office inside Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, Dr. Harold Smith looked at the phone and said softly, "I hope so too. I hope so too."
95
Chapter Six
Chiun watched porters carrying the fourteen lacquered steamer trunks out of the door of the suit in the Copley Plaza Hotel. Remo knew he referred to the porters as "cheap white help" even though half of them were black.
Remo was glad Chiun had the porters. If he didn't have them, he would have tried to get Remo to move the trunks around. Or some passerby. Remo had seen Chiun directing women and children whom he had conned into carrying the great steamer trunks of the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun saw Remo watching and used the occasion to' lecture him. "The problem with America is the amateur assassin. Nay, the problem with the world. And we are living in an age of great debauchery, where these services are given away. Randomly given away. Willy nilly given away. On street corners."
"We have a noon plane to Anguilla," said Remo. "We're going to sail to St. Maarten's. Smith just made contact with me on that. They're making that germ stuff on St. Maarten's."
"Decent competent assassins are now being affected by this wanton attitude of giveaway," said Chiun.
"We'd better hurry," said Remo. "Boston traffic is a mess."
"Years of training, poof. Gone like the wind that never was, and all that is left for a tired old man is the
96
ingratitude of he who has benefited from years of the old man's wisdom."
"Smitty asked if you'd like a lighter, more portable tape machine," said Remo.
"But who cares?" said Chiun. "Who cares that the training will begin to suffer because of bad attitudes? Who cares that the Masters of Sinanju are, have been for ages, responsible for the food and the roofs of the whole village? Oh, no. We do not care anymore. What is tradition? What is responsibility? Poooffff."
"I told Smitty no," said Remo. "I told him it took you a month to learn how to work the tape machine you've got. I told him you didn't like new things."
And then in somber fury, the Master of Sinanju turned to his pupil and said in majestic and awesome tones, "You should have taken it, idiot. Suppose the one I have now breaks?"
In the hotel lobby, a man in a three-piece suit and a monocle, with a British accent you could paddle a canoe on, inquired if Remo were perchance a professor at MUT? And did he, perchance, work with an Oriental? And was he, perchance, an authority on bacteria, the fast-breeding bacteria that consumed oil?
"That was yesterday," said Remo. "We know where your headquarters is now, so we don't need you anymore to find your boss. Go home and get lost."
"I beg your pardon."
"I am catching a plane. I am too busy to kill you. You are going to try to kill me, right?"
"How impertinent," said the Briton.
Fourteen steamer trunks came out the fire exit in a caravan, led by Chiun, an Oriental wisp in a golden day robe.
"Ah, your colleague."
"Hey, Chiun, this guy wants to kill us, but we've got a plane to catch."
"Another amateur," said Chiun haughtily.
And then, as in no other time in his life, Merton Lord Wissex felt the sting of insult.
97
"I beg your pardon. My family goes back to Henry the Eighth."
Remo smiled tolerantly. "That's very nice."
"What did he say?" asked Chiun, turning back from his trunks for a moment.
"He said his was a new house," said Remo.
"New?" said Chiun.
"Less than a thousand years, right, buddy?" said Remo. He saw the tight British face turn pale. "Yeah, Chiun. Less than a thousand years. He wants to kill us, I think."
"Is he getting paid?" said Chiun. "Tell me, good man, are you being paid?"
"Of course," harrumphed Merton Lord Wissex.
"See, Remo. Even this gets paid," said Chiun. "Even this." And his bony hands and long fingernails pointed to the tweed vest of Merton Lord Wissex.
Traffic to the airport was held up by a religious procession. Remo could make out the signs of the parade: "Stop Racist Murder."
"What's that?" he asked the driver.
"A civil rights leader got killed yesterday. Here. It's in the paper."
The Blade landed on the back seat. Chiun looked back to make sure the three extra taxis for his trunks were following closely.
Remo read the story and shook his head. Apparently, a civil rights leader had been horribly murdered for the "crime of wanting to be free."
There were statements from the religious leaders of the community. The archbishop said racism must be rooted out of the mind of Boston. A rabbi compared the hatred that killed the civil rights worker to the hatred that created the Holocaust. A protestant minister called for armed protection of all civil rights workers.
It seemed the civil rights worker and his friend were found on Memorial Drive, mangled. The civil rights worker's name was Bubba. Remo wondered if he had seen the killer because he was at Memorial Drive the
98
day before, just before the bodies had been found. He was dropping off his own bodies at the time.
This man, however, was not a killer, like the two who had barged into Remo and Chain's office, but a person who had struggled for prison reform, a proud black revolutionary voice challenging the white conscience. His name was Bubba and Remo felt sorry that he had never met him. He probably would have liked him.
"Why don't we fly to St. Maarten's directly?" Chiun asked.
"Because the whole island had been quarantined. We have to sail in."
"Why don't we sail all the way?"
"We don't have time. Western civilization may go under unless we get this cleaned up right away."
"Why don't we sail all the way?" Chiun repeated. "On a slow boat."
Merton Lord Wissex heard the horrible news.
"But, sir," he said into the public telephone, "I know I can put them away. You don't want them."
"You have described two people whom I wish to employ. What is the problem?" Friend asked.
"If they are dead, they are no problem, sir."
"And if they are employed by me, they are an asset."
"Do you know you can trust them?" asked Lord Wissex.
"We will find out, won't we?" said Friend.
So with great bitterness in his craw, Lord Wissex rushed to the airport, where he followed the parade of fourteen lacquered steamer trunks until he found Remo and Chiun.
He approached the old Oriental. The Oriental seemed a bit more polite.
"Sir, may I speak to you about employment?" said Lord Wissex.
"Absolutely. You're hired," said the Oriental. "Talk to Remo about salary."
99
"No, sir. You misunderstand. My employer wishes to hire you, sir," said Lord Wissex.
"And he is?" asked Chiun.
"I call him Friend."
"We don't work for friends," said Chiun. "We are professional. Are you sure you wouldn't care to work for us, carrying things, taking care of our clothes? The thing I like most about you Britons is that you know your place."
Raging hatred filled the marrow of Lord Wissex. Words did not move up through the throat. Even the blood felt still and hot in his body.
"Yes, I would love to buttle for you, sir," said Lord Wissex. Those were the words that finally came out of his mouth. He smiled. Once, as a boy, his foot had gotten caught in a trap on his father's estate. The teeth of the trap had bitten to the bone. But that trap hurt far less than the smile he pushed out onto his face at this moment as he said he would love to serve the Oriental.