Of course, the white thing ruined it.
Remo opened his eyes. "Hey, that was pretty spiffy," he commented. "Say, you got a smoke?" Chiun didn't answer. His disgusted expression said all. With a sharp gesture he instructed Remo to resume his breathing exercises.
Remo no longer complained. Despite his skepticism, he was reluctantly drawn into the exercise. His eyelids fluttered shut and he resumed the breathing. This time, without the benefit of the metronome. He fell into the proper breathing naturally, as if it had been with him all his life.
Chiun was certain this was a fluke. An aberration, a lapse into perfection that would soon correct itself. When it did not and the white persisted in his perfect breathing, Chiun fell into a watchful silence.
For the rest of the day Chiun sat mute as his new pupil breathed. And in his unspoken heart, the last Master of Sinanju reflected on what all this might mean. For him, as well as for the future of the House of Sinanju.
MACCLEARY CAME to Chiun's quarters later that evening.
When he opened the door he was relieved to find Remo still alive. It had been so quiet in the hall he was afraid Chiun had killed America's newest superweapon.
The Master of Sinanju said nothing to either MacCleary or Remo. As the two men left, the old Korean was padding silently from the common room to his bedroom.
"What did you do wrong to piss him off?" MacCleary asked once he and Remo were walking down the basement hallway.
"Actually, this time I think I did something right," Remo replied.
There was a calm to the former Newark beat cop that MacCleary hadn't seen since Remo had awakened from his coma. MacCleary decided not to press it.
Conn had set up weapons drills for Remo in an abandoned meatpacking plant in Jersey City. Remo's instructor was an ex-CIA operative who claimed to have assassinated Fidel Castro back in 1962. He swore repeatedly that the Castro the world had been watching for the past decade wasn't the real Castro but was actually a Castro impersonator with a CIA bugging device hidden in his false beard.
"The guy's nuttier than Aunt Fanny's fruitcake," MacCleary whispered to Remo. "But anything you need to know about killing with guns, he can teach you. Oh, and if you know what's good for you, don't ask him his name."
"Great," Remo muttered as he dragged a lazy toe across the dirty floor. He was still practicing Chiun's breathing techniques. "More dippy spy bullshit."
"Not really," MacCleary said. "He's got this thing about his name. He kills anyone who asks it. Have fun."
Remo was stuck with the nameless gun expert for the next six days. He learned everything about every kind of gun. From taking them apart and putting them together, to ranges and accuracy and how to jam certain weapons.
The whole time he was put through the drills, he continued to practice his breathing. It actually got easier as time went on. By the sixth day when MacCleary came to bring him back to Folcroft, Remo no longer had to concentrate to maintain the proper pattern. It was such a natural thing it seemed that he'd been breathing that way all his life.
When he pushed open the door to the quarters he was sharing with the Master of Sinanju, he found Chiun sitting alone in the center of the common room. The old Korean was watching television.
"Wipe your feet," Chiun said without looking up.
"I missed you, too," said Remo.
Before he'd even crossed the threshold, the Master of Sinanju's face was puckering unhappily.
"You have been smoking," the old man accused.
Remo flashed a guilty smile. "Just a couple," he admitted. "And that was two days ago. You have one hell of a nose."
"That is because I do not clog my senses and pollute my lungs with poisonous tobacco smoke."
As he spoke, the Master of Sinanju detected something else wafting to him on the gentle eddies of basement air. He let out a shocked gasp of air.
"You have been firing guns!" Chiun hissed. He rose from the floor and whirled on his pupil like a wrathful typhoon.
Remo rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it," he griped. "Only a couple thousand times. You should have seen the psycho MacCleary hired to- Hey, where are you going?"
But Chiun didn't answer. With a determined frown on his parchment face, the wizened Korean breezed past the confused young man. Leaving Remo in their basement quarters, Chiun marched up to Folcroft's second-floor executive wing.
Miss Purvish had been temporarily rotated out into the hospital wing of the sanitarium. A new woman filled her chair. The nameplate on her desk read Miss Stephanie Hazlitt. Smith's latest secretary was working diligently at her typewriter when Chiun marched in.
"Oh, hello," Miss Hazlitt said when the old man stormed through the hallway door. "Can I help you with something?"
Chiun ignored her. As the young woman protested, the old Korean slapped open Smith's door.
"What exactly is it you want me to do with him?" Chiun demanded as he breezed into the inner office. By now the shock of Chiun barging unannounced into his office had worn off. The CURE director calmly depressed the stud that lowered his computer terminal inside his desk. When Miss Hazlitt stuck her head around his office door, Smith waved her away. Glancing at Chiun, she pulled the door shut, leaving the two men alone in Smith's office.
Only when the door was closed did Smith speak. "We have a contract," he announced by rote.
"No, we do not," Chiun said. "What we have is an agreement. A Sinanju contract is a different matter, which we will discuss at another time. I am not here for that now."
Smith's face was suspicious as he looked up over the tops of his glasses. "What, then?"
"This Remo. Is he my pupil or isn't he?"
The CURE director frowned, sensing a trap. "He is, obviously," Smith said cautiously.
"Then why have you given over precious time when he should be training to the shooting of guns?"
"Ah, I see." Smith leaned back in his chair. "Master Chiun, while I value your services highly, Remo needs to be fully trained in other areas. Areas beyond your expertise."
"Nothing that exists beyond the knowledge of Sinanju is worth knowing," Chiun sniffed, waving his hand.
"I respectfully disagree," Smith replied. "Sinanju is an ancient philosophy that is unfamiliar with the demands of the modern world. There are many aspects of fieldwork with which you are doubtless unaware."
"Pah, fieldwork," Chiun snapped contemptuously. "You have used this nonsense phrase before. Do you wish to train an assassin or a harvester of wheat?"
"Please try to understand, Master Chiun, there are things that Remo will encounter in his service to us that will be beyond your ken. This isn't meant as an insult it is merely a statement of fact. The demands of the modern age require a modern approach."
Chiun made a disgusted face. "Yes, by all means. Use your modern approach. Fill his hands with shooting guns and line his pockets with nuclear booms. And when the radio-controlled boom parts break and the forged steel snaps, he will be left defenseless, for you will have harmed him irreparably in the most important part of his training."
"I assure you that Remo's training in all areas will be extensive."
"There is only one area that needs extensive training," Chiun replied. He tapped a long fingernail against the thin skin of his forehead. "That is here. When you tell him that guns will protect him, you allow him false comfort. By filling his brain with pretty songs that it wants to hear, you are only putting him at risk, for his brain is weak and will trust the siren songs your gunsmiths sing to it."
Behind his desk the CURE director absorbed the old man's words in thoughtful silence. Pursing his bloodless lips, he leaned back in his leather chair.
"Do you have a personal stake in this, Master Chiun?" Smith asked abruptly.