Wessex had never seen anyone move that quickly. It was instantaneous. The American had been seated in
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front of Lord Wissex, and now he was standing behind him. Now he knew how the giant black had been strangled so easily and why Bradford Wakefield III could so easily lose his two best killers.
Friend had been right. Anyone who could destroy Wakefield's killers had to be hired. Of course, as the sailboat moved noiselessly toward St. Maarten's, and the incredibly blue waters churned up beneath them, Lord Wissex knew that he had realized all of that too late.
"And you poisoned me too," said Remo. Wissex felt just the lightest of touches on his neck, but he could not move his arms and barely kept his balance. It was as if the man had discovered the exact nerves in his body that controlled his motion.
Wissex knew that a time like this had to come eventually. It was part of the business and something he could accept. And he had made plans for this. His lower right molar was a hollow cap. All he had to do was push it out with his tongue and then bite down very hard.
He pushed the tooth out, but he could not get his jaw open to crush it.
"Why did you poison me?"
"Blast you," said Lord Wissex. Well, his voice worked. That was something. The American had allowed his voice to work.
"Why did you poison me?"
"Why didn't you die?"
"From poison? My body won't accept it."
"I didn't see you spit it out."
"I didn't. I held it in my stomach. Now Til spit. See? See the spit? See how the nice man spits? Tell the nice man everything," said Remo, and let the gooey green slime up through his throat to his mouth, which launched it into the clear blue Caribbean. Fish popped up to the surface in the green wake of Remo's spit, white bellies skyward. A little pitiful waggle of flippers, and the fish were dead.
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"Who are you?" said Wissex through jaws that would not open.
"I am joy and life and the spirit of goodness," said Remo. "Now you do some talking or I'll feed your belly to the fish and use your sternum for a hook."
"That is vicious," Chiun said. "And we've never had a butler before. That's no way to treat a butler."
"He tried to kill me."
"Butlers are always murdering people," said Chiun. *'It is expected. But bad language, hostile language from an assassin is not. When you're done with him, save him. We've never had a butler before."
"We'll see," Remo said.
Lord Wissex tried to turn his head to see the two, but he couldn't. All he could see was the incredibly blue waters, and he heard the two argue about butler service, with the younger one accurately saying the butler would always be trying to kill them and the older one answering that one always had to expect some small problems with domestic help.
And then the incredible pain began. It came first in little notes, as he was asked his name, asked how his body felt, asked the color of his hair, and then built in a symphony of hurt that Merton found he could control. With the giving of truth, absolute and total truth. He told things he didn't even realize he had known.
He told of being penniless and being called one day at Castle Wissex by a man who understood how awful it was that Wissex lived in a country that no longer appreciated and rewarded courage.
"What do you want?" Wissex had said.
"I want the same services your ancestor provided for Henry the Eighth."
"He killed people for His Majesty."
"That is what I want," the voice said.
"No," he said, and slammed down the receiver of the phone.
The next day, he received a note. It read, "I only want you to do what is proper."
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And on the phone later that day, he asked the man, "How can this be proper?"
"Most proper. I am an international corporation not subject to national laws. Not above the law, mind you. But beyond it. And I have a tradition of hiring people to kill."
"Proper, you say? Tradition, you say?" said Wissex.
"Yes. And I want you with me as senior vice-president."
"In charge of what?"
"Tradition and propriety," the caller said.
Wissex thought for a moment. "You must give me your word of honor, sir, that everything will ultimately be for the good of Great Britain, and therefore mankind."
"You have it," said the voice.
And then Lord Wissex learned the man's name. His name was Friend. He had never seen him.
"Oh," came a voice from far away. "So you're the one. Your family. Henry the Eighth. What do you know?" It was the American talking, and he called to his companion.
"Hey, Little Father. This is the Wissex. Descendant of that Wissex."
"The one who serviced Henry the Eighth?" asked the Oriental.
"You know of him?" asked Wissex.
"Sure," Remo said. "Part of my training was learning all the traditions of the Masters of Sinanju. I remember one of them worked for Henry the Eighth."
"Yes," said the Oriental. "He was called in because the gracious Henry had no one."
"He had my ancestor," said Lord Wissex.
"Correct," said the Oriental. "Remo, please recite."
"And it came to pass," said the American, "that the lesser Wang came unto the shores of England, which had at that time conquered Wales and held Scotland in a form of alliance.
"And the king was deeply troubled. Enemies abounded, the kingdom verged on civil war, and all he
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had to defend himself was his Lord Wissex, a man skilled only at removing complicating children from women's bellies. Namely the king's complicating children from women's bellies. Would the Master of Sinanju properly service His Britannic Majesty for proper tribute? And train Wissex to kill grown men?
"And the sum there was was four hundred of cattle, ten weights of gold, fifty of silver, five ships of corn grain, a thousand fat fowl, three hundred iron blades yet to be fashioned, ten thousand weight bronze, thirty-two fine chairs, fruit seed, twenty bolts of linen, un-worked...."
"Lie," gasped Lord Wissex. "He was not an abortionist. My ancestor was an assassin."
"You interrupted the list," said Chiun. "We haven't gotten to the pear trees, partridges, gold rings, calling birds, milking maids, and frenen hens. There were frenen hens."
"Lie. He was not an abortionist."
"Don't be ashamed of your ancestors, Merton," said the Oriental. "He was, after all, only English."
"There were no pear trees," said the American.
Merton Lord Wissex felt the American's hands re-leasB just a bit from the neck on that statement.
"There were pear trees," said Chiun.
"No, no," said Remo. "Louis the Fifteenth sent trees. I think they were plum trees. Henry sent turtledoves."
"No, we never got turtledoves from Henry," Chiun said. "The British had fine pear trees. We never had plum trees."
"I saw them in your village," Remo said.
"You never saw plum trees in Sinanju," Chiun said.
"I did."
"Didn't," said Chiun. "Pear trees."
Wissex pushed the tooth up out of its slot and up to the molars on the left side of his mouth. With his remaining power, he bit down on the empty shell of a tooth. It cracked, releasing a bittersweet syrup.
He swallowed. His throat became numb, and then 108
the tips of his fingers felt faraway, and he glided off into that sleep of sleeps.
Remo felt the life go out of what was in his hand. He let the body drop.
"They were plums," Remo said. "I ate one in Sinanju. 1 remember it. It was a lousy plum."
"Because it was a pear," said Chiun. "You killed our butler."
"No. He took his own Ufe. It was a plum."
"Pear," said Chiun.
The sailboat's skipper was amazed at how quiet St. Maarten's looked without its oil. An American gunboat stopped the sailboat.