MacCleary shook his head. He seemed insulted at the mere suggestion. "Like hell. You ever know me to miss?"
Smith hesitated to answer.
"That's 'cause I don't miss," MacCleary concluded. And to punctuate the point, he raised his gun and fired again.
This time Smith kept his full attention on Chiun. He thought he saw something. The same flash of movement he had caught from the corner of his eye the first time. But it moved faster than his brain and eyes could reconcile. And faster, it would seem, than a bullet in flight.
When the bullet struck the wall, sending up a faint puff of concrete dust, Chiun was standing five feet away from the spot where he had been. His face held no expression as he smoothed invisible wrinkles in his kimono skirts.
"How is this possible?" Smith asked, amazed.
MacCleary shrugged. "It's Sinanju," he said.
Across the vast gymnasium, a reed-thin voice chimed in.
"General MacCleary is correct, Emperor," Chiun called.
"General?" Smith said, raising an annoyed eyebrow. He turned a gimlet eye on MacCleary. Conn's broad face was pure innocence. "Hey, don't blame me if the guy recognizes officer material when he sees it."
He squeezed off another casual round.
At first Smith once more thought he saw movement. Only when this latest bullet missed did he realize what he was seeing was a mirage. The ghostly afterimage of a body twisting impossibly from the path of a speeding bullet.
"Incredible," Smith said.
"A gun is merely a device that goes boom, Emperor Smith," Chiun called. "And Sinanju has long learned not to fear loud noises."
"But the bullet," Smith said. "How is it possible for you to avoid being struck?"
"You call it a bullet. Master Thuk called it a spear. Before that was rocks. There is no difference." Smith thought there was a huge difference between a hurtling bullet and a thrown rock.
MacCleary didn't seem to care about the specifics of what Chiun was doing. He was in awe of the mysterious little Oriental who had been a living puzzle tickling the periphery of his daydreams for the past twenty-five years.
Raising his handgun, MacCleary fired again and again. To Conn it was like some joyous game. Sometimes Chiun was close-sometimes he was far away. Even Smith took a few turns. They had to have shot at the old Korean a hundred times from a hundred different angles. And each time the wizened figure would pop up unharmed a few feet from where he'd last stood.
When the ammunition was spent, MacCleary finally rolled out some of the practice mats. Chiun padded up to join him.
Conn MacCleary was a powerful man. Not only had he never backed away from a good brawl, Smith knew from experience that he was generally the one to instigate them.
MacCleary stripped down to his T-shirt before turning to face Chiun in the center of the largest mat. It was ridiculous, comical. Here was Conrad MacCleary-all six foot two and two-hundred-plus pounds of him-towering over a five-foot, ninety-pound Korean. There was a hint of animal anticipation on MacCleary's rugged face. For his part the Master of Sinanju was an imperturbable pool. When MacCleary lunged, Chiun seemed to be studying the treetops visible through the gym's high second-story windows.
MacCleary knew any hopes he might have had of catching the old Oriental off guard were dashed the instant he saw the dull blue exercise mat racing up to meet him. He struck the hard padding with a lung-depressing thump. Stale air burst from his mouth.
He hadn't even seen Chiun move. Nor, apparently, had Harold Smith. Unlike with the bullets, this time the CURE director hadn't seen even a hint of movement.
"Amazing," Smith said, eyes wide behind the spotless lenses of his rimless glasses.
"Such is it for those employers who wisely stock their armories with the silent sword that is Sinanju," Chiun said. "A bargain at twice the price."
On the floor MacCleary had gotten his breath back. "Cram the sales pitch," he snarled.
He tried to take down Chiun with a sweeping foot. For the next half hour, MacCleary was bounced and tossed like a sweating beanbag all around the skidding blue mats.
"You little yellow bastard," MacCleary growled, panting to catch his breath. Though bruised from the exercises, there remained a mirthful glint in his bloodshot eyes. His blotchy face glistened with sweat.
Chiun tipped his birdlike head to Smith. "Begging the Emperor's pardon," he said, "but do you have many generals?"
By this point Smith was lost in thought. As the afternoon had progressed, he slowly came to the realization that this crazy scheme might work after all.
"What?" the CURE director asked, snapping from his reverie. "Oh, er, no," he said. "He is my only one."
"A pity. Traditionally one ends a demonstration such as this by offering the head of his worthy opponent to the prospective employer."
"I'd like to see you try." Conn grinned. He raised his hook near his shoulder, his other hand directed forward.
"That is not necessary, Master Chiun," Smith quickly interjected. "MacCleary, back off."
With great reluctance Conn did as he was told.
"I told you we had a winner here," MacCleary panted.
Smith couldn't disagree. "Very good," he said. "Master of Sinanju, we would like to formally retain your services."
Chiun offered a bow that Smith assumed signified some kind of acceptance. "Sinanju desires only to serve America's true ruler." He tucked his hands inside the voluminous sleeves of his kimono, latching on to opposing wrists. "Now, this dead man you would have your unworthy servant instruct," Chiun asked. "Is he here in your palace?"
The old Korean seemed a little too nonchalant. For the first time Smith saw a hint of eagerness in the Master of Sinanju's hazel eyes.
Smith shot a wordless glance to MacCleary.
"I told him a little bit about his trainee back in Korea," Conn explained. He wiped the sweat from his face with his T-shirt.
"I suppose it doesn't matter," Smith said reluctantly. "You would have found out when you met him."
"When will that be?" Chiun asked. Again the eagerness.
A notch formed on Smith's brow. "Soon," he promised. "There are just a few loose ends to tie up first."
"Very well," Chiun said. "I will be in my quarters awaiting his arrival. Emperor." With a nod of his head that barely disturbed his tufts of white hair, he spun from the two men. On shuffling feet he left the gym.
"He is a man of mystery," Smith commented.
With an introspective hum he went to retrieve his newspaper.
"Yeah," MacCleary said. As he trailed behind Smith, he put on his shirt and tucked it in. Every muscle ached. "If by 'mystery' you mean an A-number-one, rice-eating ass-kicker."
Smith didn't respond. He took his paper from the shelf. As he did, his eye was drawn to a below-the-fold headline.
There was a short article about an execution that was scheduled to take place at Trenton State Prison in New Jersey the following week. While it had made some news, it wasn't as big a story as it might have been even ten years earlier. The world had been turned so completely upside down these days that people were beginning to lose their capacity for either shock or outrage.
MacCleary caught Smith stealing a look at the article. Buttoning his last few shirt buttons, he read the headline over the CURE director's shoulder.
"Poor bastard," MacCleary muttered after a quiet moment.
"It is necessary," Smith insisted without emotion. But though he tried to mask it, there was a hint of remorse in his gray eyes. Paper in hand, Smith left the gym.
"It still stinks," MacCleary said to himself once he was alone. His voice was so soft it didn't even echo off the distant gymnasium walls.
With a sweep of his hand, he clicked off the lights. As he left the room, one thought played through his troubled mind: No one even knows why he's going to die.