"A which?"
"A shuriken," Remo repeated. "It's a sharpened throwing star. Ninjas use them for killing."
"Ferris D'Orr was kidnapped by ninjas?"
"I don't think so," Remo said. "This wasn't the usual throwing star. It was shaped like a swastika, with the edges sharpened."
"Nazi ninjas kidnapped Ferris D'Orr? Is that what you're saying?" He reached for a bottle of extra-strength aspirin.
"No, I'm telling you what I saw and what I found. It's up to you to figure it out."
"Is there anything more?"
"We followed them. They ran us off the road and got away."
"Remo wouldn't let me drive," the voice of the Master of Sinanju came faintly through the receiver.
Dr. Harold W. Smith sat down in his leather chair wondering how he would explain this to the President. "I don't suppose you managed to get the van's license plate in all the excitement?" Smith asked acidly.
"No, I didn't get the van's license plate," Remo repeated. "I don't work for you, remember?"
"But I do and did," another voice said.
Smith bolted up in his chair. "What was that? What did Chiun say?"
"Here, you talk to him," Remo said.
"Master of Sinanju?" Smith said, hope rising in his heart.
"Never fear, Emperor, I have the numbers at my command. Truly, I have learned how important numbers are in American society. You have numbers for everything, for telephones, for houses, and for American Express. I saw the numbers of the offending vehicle."
"Read them to me, please," Dr. Smith said, booting up his CURE computers. In a walled-off section of Folcroft's basement, the powerful bank of computers kicked into silent life.
"DOC-183," said Chiun.
"What state?" said Smith, in putting the numbers into the search file.
"Moving fast," said Chiun.
"I mean what state was listed at the bottom of the license plate. There is always a state name."
"I did not notice," said Chiun unhappily. "Are states also important? I thought only numbers were. Should I remember the state the next time, or the numbers?"
"Both," said Smith wearily.
"Both. It will be extra work, but I will do this in your honor, O generous dispenser of American Express."
"This is important, Master of Sinanju. Do you, maybe, remember the first letter of the state name?"
"I think it began with A."
"Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, or Arkansas?" asked Smith, his fingers poised to key in the answer.
"Yes, one of those," Chiun said confidently.
Smith's fingers went limp. "Do you remember the color?"
"White, with red letters."
"Alabama," said Smith, inputting the name.
The computer searched its memory banks and generated an on-screen readout.
"The van is licensed to the White Aryan League of America and Alabama," Smith said. Then he thought about what he had said. "Put Remo on, please," Smith told Chiun.
"Smitty?" Rema said.
"That swastika means something. The van is registered to a neo-Nazi group."
"What would neo-Nazis want with Ferris D'Orr?"
"I can't imagine, but it's going to be up to you and Chiun to find out and get D'Orr back before anything happens to him."
"Talk to Chiun. I'm just along for the ride until this is over. Then I'm going back to Korea."
"Would you tell him, Remo?" Smith pleaded. "I always get a headache explaining even simple things to him."
Remo stopped the rented car in front of the big gates with the hand-carved pinewood sign, "FORTRESS PURITY," over them. He stuck his head out the window and called to the guard, who wore a brown uniform and a Sam Brawne belt.
"Excuse me," Remo called, "Would you mind opening up?"
The guard sauntered over to the car. Out of the corner of his mouth, Remo whispered to Chiun, "Remember, keep your sunglasses on."
The Master of Sinanju adjusted his wraparound sunglasses over his almond eyes and pulled his white bowler down over his forehead. It matched his suit. His tie and breast-pocket handkerchief were a matching gold.
"Don't worry, I am cool," he said, using a word he had picked up from television. Americans used it a lot. Therefore so would he.
"What do you want?" the guard asked suspiciously. "We want to sign up. Where's your recruiting offices?"
"We only let in the racially pure," the guard said, looking at Remo's brown eyes and dark complexion. "What's your name?"
"Remo."
"Doesn't sound very Aryan to me," the guard said slowly.
"Remo White. And this is my father."
"Chiun, Chiun Whiter," said the Master of Sinanju.
"Whiter? Whiter than what?" Remo whispered in Korean.
"Whiter than thou," answered Chiun, adjusting his tie.
"What lingo was that you're speaking?" demanded the guard in a suspicious voice.
"Aryan," said Remo. "We're the official Aryan tutors. By this time next month, you'll all be speaking it."
The guard looked at them a long time and finally made up his mind.
"Okay, you can go in. It's the big building with the flag. "
"They all have flags," said Chiun as they passed through the grounds. Around them, men in brown uniforms marched in formation, "Nice ones. It is good to see the Zingh again."
"The what?"
"The Zingh," said Chiun, pointing. "It is a lucky symbol. "
"Little Father," said Remo as they got out of the car and walked up the long ramp in front of the main building, "that's the swastika. It's the Nazi symbol. It's evil."
Chiun spat. "Do the Japanese own the sun because they put it on their flags'?" he asked. "Or the Americans the stars? The Zingh is older than Germany. In ancient days it was a proud sign. Remind me to tell you about it someday."
"Later. Right now, I want you to let me do all the talking. These people are Nazis. They may be dangerous."
"Nazis are not dangerous," said Chiun. "They are idiots."
"Dangerous idiots, then. Just let me do the talking. We've got to pass ourselves off as good clean Aryans.
"That will be impossible. Aryans never bathed and were blood-drinking barbarians."
The man at the registration desk did not ask them if they were Aryans. He did not even ask their names. He asked only how much they made per year.
Remo said, "I'm unemployed."
Chiun said, "More than you can imagine."
"Will you pay your friend's dues?" the man asked Chiun.
"Surely," said Chiun.
"That'll be twenty-five thousand dollars for the year. Prorated. "
"Do you take American Express?" Chiun asked casually.
"Everyone takes American Express," said the man, running Chiun's card through a credit-card machine. "I'll get you your uniforms," said the man. A moment later he was back with two cardboard boxes. He handed them to Remo.
"These should fit you both. You bunk in the Siegfried Barracks. "
On the way out the door, Chiun opened his box. When he saw the contents, he made a disgusted face and threw the box into a trash barrel.
"We'll need that to blend in-" Remo said.
"When you wear a uniform," Chiun pointed out, "you surrender your very soul to the rules of others. Surrender nothing to these people, Remo, or they will own you.'
"How else are we going to blend in with these people?" asked Remo.
"Sinanju does not blend in with others," said Chiun. "others blend in with Sinanju."
"Uh-oh, trouble," Ilsa Gans said, looking out the window of Konrad Blutsturz' office.
"What is it, Ilsa?" Konrad Blutsturz said absently. He pored over the blueprints that lay in profusion on his desk. With one eye, he watched Ilsa's rear end as she bent over to look more closely at whatever interested her. It was a nice rear end, very round.
"Remember those two men? The ones who chased us in Baltimore?"
"Government agents. Bunglers, no doubt."