He reached to collect another kimono. The weight of five thousand years of tradition heavy on his frail shoulders, the Master of Sinanju returned to his packing.
Chapter 4
The dark cloud of Remo's mood hadn't improved on his way downstairs to the phone. In fact, if anything the parched nasal tone of his employer only put him in a lousier humor.
"The situation is grave," announced Dr. Harold W. Smith, head of the supersecret organization known only as CURE.
"It's always grave, Smitty," Remo replied morosely. "Everything around me is grave. Or graves."
He was sitting on the kitchen counter. A bird had just landed on the windowsill over the sink. Its tiny head darted left and right. As they spoke, Remo watched the bird.
Smith let the remark pass. "As I was saying, it was pure serendipity that this even came to light. One of our old CURE contacts in another government agency reported it through the old network. The CURE mainframes had nothing to track, since at the time there was little electronic information. That has changed dramatically of late."
"I thought you cut all those people loose years ago."
"Most, not all. As you know, in the early days CURE relied largely on scraps of information relayed from a network of thousands of individuals. People who, although strategically important, did not know for whom they worked. The computer age eliminated the need for most of them. Fortunately, I retained a few."
"Yeah, good thing," Remo said absently. "Smitty, what kind of bird has a brown body and a red head?"
The bird hopped along the sill. It didn't even seem aware of Remo's presence on the other side of the screen.
"I don't know. Remo, please pay attention. It's still incredible to me that a scheme so massive in scope could have gone this far undetected."
"I don't know why," Remo said. "East Africa's been a mess for years. I don't think it's a cardinal. Cardinals are all red."
Smith exhaled exasperation. "Only the male. The female is a drab, grayish brown. Remo, please-"
"Really?" Remo asked. "I thought they were all red. Anyway, they're big with orange beaks, right?"
"Correct," Smith agreed. And before Remo could expand on his ornithological theme, he quickly forged ahead. "Political and social upheaval have little in common with criminal activity. East Africa was on the right track when it ended its policy of institutionalized racism, but this has the potential to be as evil. I have tracked billions of dollars from other nations that have found their way into East African banks. Representatives of different crime interests have been shuttling back and forth for several weeks. In some cases, the leaders of criminal fraternities themselves have begun to make the journey. There is every indication that the East African government has decided to look the other way as far as crime is concerned."
"Wait a minute," Remo interjected. "Isn't this like what happened in Scambia years ago? These guys are just ripping off someone else's idea."
"In crime there are no new ideas," Smith said somberly. "Merely new opportunities and variations on old themes."
"Okay, but does Willie Mandobar know about this?"
Smith's reply stunned him.
"Three confirmed sources point to former President Mandobar as the architect of this scheme." Willie Mandobar was one of the most famous men on the face of the planet. A political prisoner in the old racist system, he had risen to the position of president of East Africa once that system was abolished. He had recently retired from office, turning over the reins of power to a handpicked successor in a free election. Mandobar was a smiling, grandfatherly figure. Remo couldn't believe he'd be behind something like this.
"Mandobar is pretty old," Remo offered cautiously. "Maybe someone else is pulling his strings on this."
"I would like to believe that, as well," Smith replied crisply. "But according to a private E-mail sent to the La Cosina drug cartel, Mandobar is clearly behind this. Two other sources confirm the fact that Willie Mandobar, in retirement, has opened the doors of his nation to criminals."
"Couldn't he just gripe about social security from his winter home in Florida like every other old codger?" Remo grumbled, Scowling, he turned his attention back to his bird. Maybe it was some kind of finch.
At that moment, the Master of Sinanju breezed into the kitchen. He immediately spied the bird on the windowsill.
"Scat!" the old man snapped, slapping his hands sharply near the screen. The bird fluttered off in a panic.
Wheeling, Chiun marched to the nearest cupboards. Flinging the doors wide, he began rummaging inside.
"This is a matter that needs our attention," Smith said as Chiun banged pots. "The world cannot allow what would amount to a wholesale terrorist state to emerge from the old East African system."
"Just a sec, Smitty," Remo said.
He cupped his hand over the phone. "Chiun, wanna keep it down?"
Inside a cupboard, backside sticking out into the kitchen, the Master of Sinanju continued clanging metal pots and pans. The racket was deafening.
"I cannot hear you," Chiun sang from the depths of the cupboard.
Remo jammed a finger in his free ear to block out the noise. "Speak up, Smitty." He frowned.
"This is an extremely delicate situation," the CURE director warned. "Willie Mandobar is a hero to many. His death could have international ramifications. Neutralize him only as a last resort."
"So what do you want me to do?"
The banging stopped. A harrumph of deep consideration emanated from the black depths of the cupboard.
"Obviously, there are co-conspirators involved. Mandobar could not manage such an elaborate scheme alone. Find out who these people are and remove them. With them gone, the foundation will collapse beneath their leader."
"You hope," Remo suggested.
"Yes, I do," Smith agreed without irony.
Remo closed his eyes. "Want an alternative suggestion?"
The tone of CURE's enforcement arm made Smith instantly wary. "What?" he asked guardedly.
"A lot of these kingpins are there now?"
"Yes. It is already the largest number of criminal leaders ever collected in any one place."
Remo opened his eyes. They were cold steel. "Bomb the whole damn country," he said, his voice perfectly level.
As the CURE director absorbed Remo's dispassionate, almost clinical suggestion, Chiun emerged from the cupboard, a fat pot clutched in one bony hand.
Although the words were strong, the delivery was not. It was as if Remo's idealism had fought a battle with his practical side and realism had won. Yet his old longing for a perfect world still remained.
So distracted was Remo by his own thoughts, he did not even notice that Chiun had begun to test the strength of the cast iron pot by banging it mercilessly on the countertop.
"You are serious," Smith said after a brief pause.
"One hundred percent," Remo replied in a tone icy enough to chill the phone in his hand. "We've been kidding ourselves that we've been making a difference, Smitty. Ever since you bamboozled me into this rinky-dink organization, you've had me running my ass off all over the world supposedly safeguarding American values. Well, rah-rah for the flag and apple pie. I'm telling you those values are shot to hell. If you nuked that whole damn country now, in one fell swoop you'd be taking out an entire generation of predators. You want something that'll make a difference, Smitty? That would make a difference."
"That is not an option," Smith said stiffly.
"It ought to be," Remo replied.
"No, it should not. You and I are of a different opinion," Smith said. "I think we have made a difference. Right now crime is fragmented. But if it is allowed to consolidate under one roof, as it were, there is no telling how much more powerful it could get."