In that flash of time Remo saw the blurry hand of
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the Master of Sinanju—kimono sleeve flapping—as it settled back to Chiun's side.
"Know you this, agent of evil," Chiun intoned. "Sinanju will never be sport for your master's underlings. We acknowledge his presence in the world at this time and will lie in wait for the day when he once again walks among the gods. Until that hour, Sinanju yields."
With that, Chiun whirled the protesting Remo around like a mannequin and propelled him hastily from Ranch Ragnarok.
Once they were gone, Esther pulled herself painfully to her feet. She ripped a handful of tissues from an end-table dispenser and tried to soak up the ceaseless How of blood that ran from her rapidly swelling nose.
When she heard the footsteps coming down the hallway, she didn't even bother to look up. She knew that sleady, confident tread.
"Aren't you worried they'll come back?" Esther honked.
"They are gone for now," Kaspar said. He eyed her appraisingly. "You performed well."
"Thanks," Esther said snidely. "That's the last lime I take a crash course in your gobbledygook. I think that old fart broke my nose."
"The Master of Sinanju is a formidable opponent," Kaspar agreed. He sat in one of Esther's garish Louis Oiiainrxc chairs.
"What is a Master of Sinanju?" Esther asked.
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"And what was all that assassin crap you made me parrot for them?"
"It does not matter now," Kaspar said thinly.
"Bull—"
Kaspar shot her a controlling glance.
Esther let the matter drop. She tested her bloody nose with a clean tissue. The crimson flow had slowed.
Kaspar paused briefly, watching as Esther heaved the scattered cushions back on the sofa.
"The latest oracles appear to have drained the current mortal vessel."
Esther glared up at him through tearing, blurry eyes. "Don't even think it," she snarled.
"The appearance of the Sinanju masters was disturbing to Apollo's emissary. He vented his agitation through the Pythia."
"I am not doing a kidnapping a day for you, Kaspar!" Esther railed. "No matter how good the money is." Esther gathered up her bloody tissues in a damp wad and fell back onto the couch. ' 'Tell him to count to ten before he vents next time." She massaged her temples gently with pale, tapering fingertips.
"It might not be immediately necessary," Kaspar said, knowing full well that the latest vessel would not last the week. He brushed the crease of his dress pants casually. "The Pythia has indicated that there might be a new investment opportunity for you," he added slyly.
Esther considered his words. She dropped the gory wad on the end table. At last she spoke. "I make no promises," she said dully.
Kaspar smiled. For her the money was everything.
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She would gather more vessels for his master. The Pythia had foreseen it.
To Esther, he said, "You have done well so far. Our master is pleased."
"He ought to be." She pinched her nose gingerly and winced at the pain. "I've got to get some ice on this," she said morosely. Then she got up and headed for the kitchen.
"I have to go away on business in a few days," Kaspar called after her. "Will you be able to handle things in my absence?"
Esther came out holding a dish towel clinking with ice cubes to the injured bridge of her nose. "I was handling church affairs long before you showed up, Kaspar," she snapped.
"Of course," he demurred. "It was not my intention to insult. It is just that, in dealing with our master, there are matters with which you might not be wholly familiar."
"Wholly familiar, please," she mocked. "I've seen you do it a hundred times," she said. "Kill a goat, hatch a prophecy. How hard can it be?"
"How hard, indeed?" Kaspar smiled an infuriating, tight-lipped smile. He stood to go. ' 'If we have guests, you will escort them to me?" he said unnecessarily.
"With bells on," Esther muttered. She screwed her eyes shut, trying to blot out the image of the annoying little Greek.
"In that case, good night." He headed for the door.
"Good night," Esther murmured.
After he had gone, she fumbled the makeshift ice bag back onto her nose, wincing at a flash of new pain.
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As the soothing ice numbed the stinging, she wondered briefly who this Master of Sinanju was and why Kaspar had refused to meet with him himself. For Esther's part, she hoped she'd see him again. She'd see to it that the old man wouldn't land another cheap shot on her holy person.
In the meantime, she would have to secure Kaspar's continued investment advice by supplying virgin number two.
Chapter Nine
The last rays of the dying sun had burned away in streaks of orange brilliance across the gently undulating surface of Long Island Sound, and Harold W. Smith had completely failed to notice.
To some the setting sun was a grand testament to nature's awesome design, but to Smith it was nothing more than the inevitable rotation of the planet on its axis.
Harold Smith felt that it was foolish to be awed by something that happened 365 times a year—366 times during leap year, because whoever had come up with the twenty-four-hour day had produced a flawed model.
And so the sun had set, the shadows in Smith's office elongating slowly to envelop the sparsely furnished room, while Harold Smith continued to sit hunched over his desk oblivious to, what was for most, the completion of yet another life-affirming day.
Smith typed with swift, precise pecks at the touch-sensitive computer keyboard at the edge of his desk. The computer screen, buried beneath the glossy black surface of the desktop, as was the keyboard, shed a weird amber glow upon his pallid features.
He was repeating a procedure Smith thought he had
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used for the final time only a few short days before. And while he monitored his progress on the angled computer screen, one nagging question continually tugged at the back of his mind.
What was Moss Monroe's business with the Truth Church?
As part of his preliminary research into suspected illegal activities on the part of Esther Clear-Seer, Smith had executed a background check on the Church of the Absolute and Incontrovertible Truth weeks ago. It was during this search that he learned of the purchasing and stockpiling of armaments on the grounds of the sprawling ranch complex, and of the lavish lifestyle the self-proclaimed Divine Prophetess enjoyed on the backs of her shorn flock.
Even with that evidence in hand, Smith remained leery of committing CURE'S resources to the destruction of the Truth Church. The public memory of the Branch Davidian fiasco was too fresh, and at the time of that siege Smith was concerned the federal government was involving itself in a quagmire of sticky constitutional issues it had no business testing. To this day Smith felt America had sat in their living rooms and calmly watched the violation of the First and Second Amendments and, quite probably, the Fourth and Fifth, as the fires in Waco raged.
Smith believed to the very core of his rock-ribbed, patrician soul that the Davidian leader was delusional, and that those who followed him were doomed dupes. But there was no law against religious cupidity or blind, unswerving acceptance of a madman's ravings. In the end the Davidians had simply fallen victim to a different kind of zealotry.
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It was this frame of mind that had Smith willing to shelve the potential problem near Thermopolis earlier in the year. Only recently, after learning of FBI interest in the ranch and of the disappearance of one of their operatives, had Smith reexamined the situation.
As Smith's knobby fingers tapped remorselessly along the desk's edge, the mute computer keyboard lit up like a patchy pale fireworks finale.
What was Moss Monroe's interest? he wondered.