Maybe he could save that kid. Hell, maybe he could save both of them.
But he was busy right now. For the moment the Germans had him. Kraut bastards had captured him somehow. They'd been torturing Conn for hours, trying to make him talk. It wouldn't do them any good. He'd escape this torture chamber and find Smith. Smith had always been the key. The brains to balance Conn's brawn. Once Conn was safe, he and Smitty could come up with a new strategy, just as they always had.
But then his mind found brief focus, and he realized he wasn't being tortured. World War II was over. It was early 1972 and he was in a hospital because he had jumped off a twelfth-story balcony.
Yes, that was right. A hospital room. That's where he was. And he wasn't alone. There was a face looking down at him. Hovering like the angel of death above his bed.
Conn knew him. Recognized him from the eyes. Hooded, hazel. Oriental eyes. He'd seen those same eyes in the penthouse of Lamonica Towers.
A flat, familiar Oriental face was looking down at him.
Another dream in a sea of dreams.
In his dream the Oriental moved. With one hand he reached for something near the bedside. The other hand reached for MacCleary's throat.
For a brief moment Conn wondered if his dream was going to strangle him. And then his unspoken question was answered. The hand latched on to his neck.
He felt the fingers press against his flesh. And in a small, rational part of his swimming brain, Conrad MacCleary realized that this wasn't part of his tortured dreams.
A gentle manipulation and the intubation tube slipped up out of his throat.
"Now I have seen everything," a singsong voice clucked disapprovingly. "Machines that breathe for you. The bottom drops out yet again on the depths of white laziness."
The Master of Sinanju's weathered face puckered in displeasure even as he slid one hand under Conn's back. Long fingers manipulated the base of MacCleary's spine.
The drugged haze began to burn away like morning mist. For a moment there was pain like nothing Conn had ever before experienced, but then the hand-the magical, wonderful hand-pressed a cluster of nerves and the pain disappeared.
MacCleary was himself again. Exhausted, more parts missing than usual. But alert.
"What are you doing here?" he asked. His tired voice was a pained rasp.
The Master of Sinanju folded his arms across his chest. "A simple thank-you would suffice," the old Korean sniffed.
"You shouldn't be here," MacCleary insisted. A thought suddenly occurred to him. "Oh, I see. Did Smitty send you?"
"The emperor told me that an accident had befallen his worthless general," Chiun admitted.
"Thank God," MacCleary said. "Please do it fast, Master Chiun. The nurse was just here. She could come back."
Chiun's face grew puzzled. "Do what fast?"
"Kill me, of course."
The old Oriental's eyes grew dull. "Forgive me, but in your delirium have you forgotten to whom you are speaking?"
MacCleary's face sagged. "What? I don't understand. You're the Master of Sinanju. You're an assassin. The best in the world. Killing is what you do."
"Killing?" Chiun asked, indignant. "Killing? Does the spring kill the winter? Does the rising tide kill the shore? When the seed dies so that the flower may grow, has the flower killed the seed? Killing. Pah! You have claimed to be an expert on Sinanju, but how limited still is your knowledge of that which we are."
MacCleary still didn't understand. "But that's what you do," he insisted. "You're professional assassins."
Chiun nodded. "With the emphasis on professional. I do not recall any gold passing hands."
"Smith paid you. That's why he sent you here, right? To kill me? He did send you?"
The old man tipped his head. "Indirectly," he admitted. "I was out for an innocent stroll around the palace grounds and happened to pass by his window. As he spoke to my pupil about you, a word or two may have reached my blameless ears."
"He's sending Remo?"
"That might have been said. There was so much white blathering it was hard to keep track."
Relief formed deep in the care lines of Conrad MacCleary's ghostly pale face. "Good," he breathed. "But how did you get here first?"
"Because a bolt of lightning is faster than goose droppings. Honestly, MacCleary, I don't know where you found this one. He is lazy, he talks back to his elders. If he is late now, it is only because he chased a butterfly into the park or he lost the little note with the hospital's name on it that someone pinned to his sleeve."
The pain was coming back. Conn's head sank deeper into his pillow. "You think he won't come?"
"Who knows with that one?" Chiun shrugged. Conn felt hope slip away.
"He has to. If not..." He was growing desperate. "Master Chiun, Smith is good for it."
Chiun shook his head firmly. "No credit."
"I don't have any money. I think they took my wallet."
"It wouldn't matter anyway," Chiun said. "Paper money is merely a promise of payment." MacCleary wanted to shake his head in frustration, but the casts and tubes prevented movement.
"If not to kill me, then why are you here?" he said in tired exasperation.
"Your Smith has ordered your death against his own wishes. I could hear the sadness in his regal voice. Like most young emperors he does not yet understand the powerful sword at his side that is Sinanju. I would prove to him that his fears are groundless. I have come to liberate you."
The light of understanding dawned weakly. MacCleary shook his head. "No," he exhaled. "I can't leave."
"White medicine is a dangerous thing," Chiun warned. "We must hie from this den of quacksalvers before they decide to open your veins in order to bleed the sickness from you."
"I can't leave here, Master Chiun," MacCleary insisted weakly. "I was carrying my Folcroft ID."
"All the more reason to spirit you away. If the emperor's enemies learn his general is vulnerable, they might see weakness and use the opportunity to move against him."
"Smith's enemies are our country's enemies, Master Chiun," MacCleary explained tiredly. "I know you don't see it like we do, but you have to trust us. I can't go back to Folcroft now. I'd be leading America's and Smith's enemies straight to him. Smith understands that. The best way for him and the nation to survive-maybe the only way-is to eliminate me. I agree with him."
The old man's frown lines deepened. This was something unexpected. He had come to America expecting sloth and selfishness. But here was a white, ready to offer up his life in service to his king.
"You are stubborn, even for a general," he said quietly.
"Does that mean you'll kill me?"
"I do not give to charity," Chiun replied. "However, since my useless student may never find his way here-he having no doubt gotten lost in a downstairs broom cupboard where he is even now brutally assassinating the mop he has mistaken for you-I will assist you in doing what you think you must. Strictly in the interest of fostering good client relations."
Chiun had noted the open closet door when he first arrived. It was immediately next to the bathroom. MacCleary's bloodied clothes had been thrown out. His personal effects were locked away in storage. All that remained were his shoes and one other item. The plastic forearm of MacCleary's prosthetic had been damaged in the fall, but it was still intact. It had been removed prior to surgery and brought here afterward.
Chiun retrieved the false arm, bringing it over to the bed. The curved hook glinted in the room's pale light.
No words were spoken. None was necessary. MacCleary closed his eyes as the Master of Sinanju pressed the hollow end of the prosthetic up around the elbow nub. Chiun fastened the silver buckles around the forearm and shoulder.
In his fatigued brain, Conrad MacCleary was counting down the seconds of his own mortality. His lack of passion surprised him. He had lived life hard.