Chiun bristled. "You have hired me for a task," he sniffed. "I merely wish to fulfill it in a manner that does not harm the reputation of the House of Sinanju."
"That is likely, given Sinanju's historical reputation," Smith conceded. "However, MacCleary said you were not interested in taking this job when he first offered it."
Chiun became a five-foot post of haughty indignation.
"Can you blame me?" the old Korean asked hotly. "Here I was, an old man meditating peaceably in the solitude of my retirement years, when through my door stumbled your MacCleary, reeking of fermented grain and blabbering something about a Constitution that needed saving. When he stubbornly refused to leave, I was forced to accompany him, for if he had stayed any longer he might have corrupted the children of Sinanju to his wicked ways of vice." He pitched his voice low. "Really, Emperor Smith, you would be wise to choose another general as your aide-de-camp when you assume your place as President of this nation. Inebriates, while sometimes amusing, provide too great a distraction at court."
Smith shook his head. He was not about to let the wily Korean distract him from the issue at hand. "Let us set aside for the moment your mistaken assumption that I have designs on the presidency," Smith said, steering back to the original topic. "The fact is you became interested in taking this job only when you learned how we planned to recruit Remo. That he would have to die to be brought into the organization."
"A false death," Chiun interjected levelly.
That had been a problem very early on. When Chiun had learned that his pupil would not be truly dead, he threatened to return to Sinanju. It was only when Smith accused him of trying to break a solemn Sinanju contract that he relented.
"But you didn't know at the time that it would be a false death," Smith insisted. "It is MacCleary's contention that somehow in our method of recruitment, we stumbled into a Sinanju legend of some sort. By reputation I know that your House has beliefs as old as the art of Sinanju itself. If this is the case, I believe I have a right to know. After all, I am not paying you for divided loyalties."
Chiun didn't immediately respond. His gaze was directed at a spot in the carpet where traffic had begun to wear the material thin. The thread of beard at his chin at first trembled, then stilled as an otherworldly calm descended on the old man's tiny frame. For a long moment he considered his employer's words. His hands were clutched in knots of white bone at his sides. At long last, he lifted his head.
Chiun's hazel eyes locked on those of Harold Smith.
"It is not a legend, but a prophecy," the Master of Sinanju admitted. "Passed down from the Great Wang, he of the New Age, of the Sun Source. The first true Master of Sinanju of the pure bloodline." He began reciting from memory. "'One day a Master of Sinanju will find among the barbarian lands of the West one who was once dead. This Master will teach the secrets of Sinanju to this pale one of the dead eyes. He will make of him a night tiger, but the most awesome of night tigers. And he will be created Death, the Destroyer, the Shatterer of Worlds.'"
By the time he was done, his words were so soft and ominous that Smith had to strain to hear.
Smith was a practical man who as a rule left matters of the ethereal to priests and poets. But though he trucked exclusively in the physical realm, the old Korean's words and the seriousness with which he delivered them sent a shiver up the CURE director's rigid, normally sensible spine.
"You cannot believe Remo to be this man," Smith said.
"That is a Sinanju matter and is not for me to share, even with my emperor," Chiun replied tightly. "However, you need not be troubled by my loyalty, for I have given my word to serve and so I shall. Furthermore, if he is the one, then I am destined to be wherever he is. If that place is in your service, so be it."
Smith knew that Sinanju had not survived for so long by breaking contracts. And he was wise enough not to question the word of the Master of Sinanju.
"Thank you, Master Chiun," Smith said. He stood. Somehow it suddenly seemed inappropriate that he should be sitting. "I cannot say that I understand what you have told me, but I appreciate your candor. As for Remo's training, I have already given word to MacCleary to increase the time for your sessions. For now Remo will continue training with other instructors, but I will keep an open mind. If you can demonstrate to me that your training alone is sufficient, I will consider remanding him entirely to your supervision."
"As you wish, O Emperor," Chiun said.
The Master of Sinanju offered a semiformal bow, which the CURE director returned. Afterward Chiun padded from the office on silent sandals.
Alone, Smith retook his seat. With one hand, he adjusted his rimless glasses. The other hand he drummed on his smooth desk surface.
"Hmm," Smith mused.
Reaching beneath his desk, a touch raised his computer monitor and keyboard. He brought up CURE's personnel files, accessing the file of the new man Williams.
In code, Smith entered the word "Destroyer" at the top of Remo's personnel file.
The Master of Sinanju had just solved a niggling little problem that had bothered Smith since the start. CURE's new field agent needed a code name. Obviously Smith couldn't use Williams's real name.
The blob of a green cursor blinked over the last letter in Destroyer. The name somehow felt right. With a look of mild satisfaction, Smith returned to his regular day's work.
Chapter 10
Thanksgiving passed without any of the traditional trappings. At the start of his training Chiun put Remo on a restrictive diet of fish, rice and water. On Thanksgiving day Remo tried to sneak a few slices of turkey roll and some whipped potatoes from the Folcroft cafeteria. As punishment, the Master of Sinanju made him go without food for two days.
At Christmas someone taped a cardboard Santa to the front of Folcroft's main reception desk. Remo was grateful for the reminder, for by then he had lost all track of time.
New Year's Day of 1972 came and went with no fanfare. It was early in February when Conrad MacCleary came to visit Remo and Chiun in their basement quarters.
Remo was lying flat on his back on the concrete floor. The Master of Sinanju stood above him, arms crossed imperiously over his bony chest.
"Taking a break?" MacCleary commented.
"Get stuffed," Remo grunted.
He sounded as if he were exerting himself. In fact, there were signs of strain on his face. His neck muscles bulged.
When MacCleary looked closer he saw to his amazement that his initial assumption was wrong.
Remo wasn't lying on the floor at all. The young man's arms were extended down by his sides, hands resting near his hips. At least at first glance it looked as though they were resting.
Only the flats of Remo's palms were touching the floor. The rest of his body was raised a half inch in the air. Even the heels of his bare feet weren't touching. His hands were supporting the entire weight of his body.
"That's amazing, Chiun," MacCleary said. His eyes narrowed as he studied Remo's straining wrists. They seemed much thicker than when he'd first arrived at Folcroft.
The old Korean did not look MacCleary's way. He continued to watch his pupil, a vaguely dissatisfied expression on his parchment face.
"To the white world, perhaps," Chiun replied tersely. "The lowliest in my village of Sinanju are able to perform the same simple exercise for twice the duration and with no strain. But one makes do with what one has to work with."
MacCleary wasn't too sure about the veracity of that statement. After all, he'd been to Sinanju. He was willing to bet that the only people there to work up a sweat since before the Bronze Age were the Masters of Sinanju themselves.
"Everything's ready for your trip," MacCleary announced.
Remo relaxed his grip on the floor. He slumped to his back, a hopeful expression forming on his exhausted face.