For all his control of his body, down even to how the parts of his blood moved within his blood, Remo clung dangerously to the edge over the precipice of tears. He felt them in his teeth. And he did not cry. He surrendered.
"Yes, good," Remo said. "You know, Chiun, I'm good. Damned good."
"But ungrateful," said Chiun. "Incredibly ungrateful, and abusive to gentle sweet souls." The gentle sweet soul was, of course, Chiun. The abusiveness came somehow by Remo not doing all the shopping and cooking, breathing loudly during reruns of old soap operas, and by his general lack of appreciation of Chiun's poetry, specifically his forty-three-thousand-page eighth-century B.C. Ung "Ode to a Flower Petal Opening Up to the Morning Sun."
"You're right," Remo had said. "I am ungrateful. I don't want to hear your poem anymore. Sounds like a glass pitcher breaking in a tin drum, no matter how much you call it poetry. Right again, Little Father. Ungrateful."
And since Remo had said this with his old joyous viciousness and lack of sensitivity, and since there had been a true smile on Remo's face, Chiun only made the routine disparagements which, of course, now had no effect upon his white pupil.
It was then that Chiun had said the most important lesson he would ever give Remo was about to come. It was bargaining, and Remo must learn now that he was free of working for Dr. Smith.
"I never liked that man," said Chiun. "He is a lunatic. So now you must watch me closely, for the future of Sinanju depends upon this most crucial exercise. For what future does the artist have if he has nothing to eat?"
Chiun had decided that since the House of Sinanju had not worked for the Persians for twelve hundred years, and since Persia was now wealthy through oil and had what Chiun considered the most enlightened and reasonable form of government—an absolute, monarchy headed by the emperor, Shah of Shahs, claimant of the Peacock throne, Shah Reza Pahlavi of Persia, now known as Iran—it was Persia who would get first chance to bid on the services of Remo and Chiun.
"Little Father, the Iranian ambassador is not going to fly down to Virginia Beach just for us. I know who you are, you know who you are, Smitty knows who you are and maybe half a dozen people around the world know what you really are, but you can't get an ambassador to Washington to drop everything just to negotiate a contract for a few hits at a moment's notice."
"First," Chiun had said, "it is not on a moment's notice. Second, I do not beg ambassadors. He is only a vehicle for His Highness. And third, when you see how a real government is run, you will appreciate so much more how bad all other kinds are."
"He's not coming," Remo had said.
"Tomorrow. I think the noon heat would be good," Chiun had said.
"Never," Remo had said.
Twenty hours later, he was ushering one of the more famous ambassadors to Washington aboard the small boat moored at Virginia Beach. The ambassador's bodyguards belonged to a small elite force who had dedicated their lives to protecting the throne of the Shah and who had honed their deadly skills by juggling heavy weights. Each weighed 225 pounds and each was three inches bigger than Remo.
The ambassador wore a dark pinstriped suit that fit like sculpture and probably cost as much as a museum piece. The bodyguards followed him. He perspired freely in the early summer sun and wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief.
He looked at Remo's thin frame with the contempt of a man offered stale fruit at a restaurant, a man who was full already.
"Let me say this. Before money, blood," he said to Remo.
"What?" asked Remo.
"You are supposed to be Sinanju, no?"
"You mean the Master of Sinanju," Remo said.
"Correct. I am Mahoud Zarudi, ambassador of His Most Serene Majesty, emperor, Shah of Shahs, ruler of the Peacock throne, Shah Reza Pahlavi. At his instructions, I am here. I do not intend to be here long. There is tonight in New York City a party I must attend to celebrate the launching of the Ship of States, the new home of the United Nations. I will give you your choice now to save your life and not waste my time."
Remo, lounging in white shorts and a striped tee shirt, looked at the dandy in the pinstriped suit and the two hulks behind him with shaved heads that left their skulls with dark stubbles. One had a round scar in the top of his head, as if he had once stood still for someone to bang him over the head with a bat.
"I'm not the Master of Sinanju," Remo said. "He's inside." Remo did not even bother to glance into the small cabin.
"And who are you?" asked the ambassador.
"You don't want to find out, sonny," said Remo, and reluctantly ushered Ambassador Zarudi down into the small cabin where Zarudi announced to Chiun, Master of Sinanju, that before there would be money, there must be blood. Zarudi did not wish to waste time or the emperor's money.
"When one has a national treasure, one is always assaulted by charlatans seeking to rob the people of their natural wealth. His Majesty is under the impression he has been corresponding with the true Master of Sinanju. His Majesty has an open and gracious heart."
Chiun, sitting in the center of the cabin in his dark bejeweled robe, nodded serenely.
"The graciousness of the Shah's heart is well known."
"And likewise is the legend of Sinanju in the East. Very well known among those who sit upon thrones," said Ambassador Zarudi. "And to those who would use this legend to rob the people of their wealth."
Remo shut the door to the cabin behind him.
"If you're talking about the oil under the ground, drilled by Americans with American machinery and made valuable by Americans' need for it, then it's only a treasure because we're willing to pay for it. You people have as much use for it as dust without us. Your treasure? American sweat makes oil valuable. You people just happen to breed over it."
Remo expected to be scolded by Chiun but there was no scolding. He knew he was supposed to keep his mouth shut and listen. He felt bad that he hadn't.
Zarudi ignored Memo as if the remark was beneath answering. The two bodyguards stared darkly at the slim American. Zarudi continued speaking.
"As I was saying, one must protect one's national treasure. The House of Sinanju is merely a legend. For to believe that there is a House of Sinanju, one must believe that there are men who can climb up and down sheer cliffs as fast as other men can run on level ground. One must believe that there are men who can snap steel with their hands and with reflexes fast enough to catch arrows in flight. That is what one must believe to believe in Sinanju. I do not."
"So whaddya' doin' here?" asked Remo.
"I am here at the direction of my ruler. He wishes to employ a Master of Sinanju and I wish to show that Sinanju is just a fairy tale, like monsters who eat babies, Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, and all the other tales that are used to entertain one's children."
Chiun held up a delicate hand. It was a signal to Remo to be quiet although it appeared to the ambassador as if Chiun had understood and agreed with his statement.
"I agree," said Chiun. "That which we have not seen does not exist. You have merely seen people who are not us and, therefore, since we are so different, you cannot believe in us. It is a most wise conclusion."
"We can settle this impasse, Ancient One, if you could give us a small demonstration that you are who you say you are. Are you not a bit old?"
"Yes," said Chiun. "For teething." And Remo laughed hard to show his contempt. One of the bodyguards pressed his hands together to show that he could crush Remo's head like a grape.