Chiun was prepared too. He sat on a small rug outside Lavallette's office. He had told the automaker to stay inside and Lavallette had disobeyed only once, when he came out to say that he had received an anonymous tip that the killer was on his way to murder Lavallette.
"Is he coming alone?" Chiun asked.
"I wouldn't know. My informant didn't say," Lavallette replied.
"Go back into your office."
"He'll get me," Lavallette said. "Colonel Savage and his people are gone. I'm dead meat."
"To get to you, he will have to pass me," Chiun said. "Get back inside."
He had pushed Lavallette inside, closed the door, and then taken up his station on the rug outside the man's office, watching the elevator door, waiting.
The moment of reckoning was coming.
Remo did not know why he had stowed away in the back of his father's car, to follow the gunman. When he saw the man with the scar start to ride up on the elevator, he slipped into a stairwell and started to walk upstairs, driven by some urge he did not understand.
When the elevator doors slid open, the gunman had dropped into a marksman's crouch, his Beretta pointed ahead in a double-handed grip. He felt prepared for anything, but he was not prepared to see the old Oriental sitting calmly on a carpet in the middle of the floor.
"You again," he said.
Chiun's face was stern. "Where is my son?"
The gunman laughed. "Don't you mean my son? He's sure of it, you know."
"And what are you sure of?" Chiun asked.
"I'm sure that he's a chump."
Chiun rose from his position without any apparent shifting of limbs under his kimono. He seemed to grow like a sunflower from the floor.
"Whatever Remo is, he is Sinanju. You have insulted Sinanju too many times already. Prepare to die."
The gunman fired two shots coming out of the elevator. One of them buried itself in the door directly behind Chiun, but Chiun was no longer there. He was three feet to the left somehow. And was it the gunman's imagination, or was he standing closer now?
The gunman fired again.
And again, Chiun was suddenly in another place. He had not seemed to move. It was like magic; the old Oriental popped up in another place, grim and purposeful.
Now only twelve feet separated them and the gunman fired four shots in a fanning arc. He had gotten the old Oriental before with a ricochet; why was it so difficult this time?
In the brief microsecond in which the gunman reacted to the noise and flash of the pistol shots, he blinked, and in that same blink of a second, the Master of Sinanju moved again. The gunman's eyes opened and he seemed to be alone in the spacious reception area.
From behind the door marked "LYLE LAVALLETTE. PRESIDENT" a muffled voice called out.
"Hello? Is anyone dead out there? Is it all right to come out now? Hello?"
It was too much for the gunman. There was no possible place where the old Oriental could be hiding. Maybe he had the powers of invisibility or something. He started to back into the still-open elevator, and stopped.
His gun hand seemed to catch fire. He screamed. His pistol clattered to the floor. Something was wrong with his arm, something terrible.
He dropped to his knees, clutching his arm. From the corner of one tearing eye, he saw the Master of Sinanju step out of the elevator.
"How?" he groaned.
"You may spend eternity pondering it," Chiun said coldly. His eyes were wrathful. "Now you will answer my questions."
Chiun knelt beside the squirming man and gently touched his inner left wrist.
"Arrrgh," the man screamed.
"That is just a touch," Chiun said. "I can make the pain much worse. Or I can make it disappear. Have you a preference?"
"Make it go away."
"Where is Remo?" Chiun said.
"I left him back at the hotel."
"Good. You answered truthfully."
"Make it stop. Make the pain go away. Please."
"Who hired you?" Chiun said implacably.
"I don't know. I never saw his face."
"That is not a good answer."
"It's the only answer. I thought it was Lavallette but now I don't know. It might be anyone. Help me. I'm dying here."
"That will come later. Why would the carriagemaker hire you to kill himself?"
"Ask him, ask him. Just give me a break."
Chiun touched the man's arm and the gunman's contorted joints loosened and relaxed. He lay on the floor, still as death.
Chiun was at Lavallette's office door when the door to the stairwell opened. He did not have to turn to know it was Remo stepping out. The first soft footfall told him that, for no other human stepped with such feline ease. Except for Chiun himself.
"Little Father," Remo said. And then he saw the gunman's still body.
"No!" he screamed.
"He is not dead, Remo," Chiun said softly.
"Oh."
"I was going to come for you when I was finished here," Chiun said stiffly.
"Smith's orders?"
"No. I already told the emperor that you were dead. A necessary untruth."
"You both knew about him all along, didn't you?" Remo said, gesturing to the man on the floor.
Chiun shook his aged head, making the wisps of hair over his ears flutter in the still air.
"No, Remo. No one knows the truth. Least of all, you."
"This man is my natural father. You kept that from me. You tried to kill him."
"I kept that from you to spare you grief," Chiun said.
"What kind of line is that? What grief?"
"The grief you would have felt had Smith ordered you to eliminate this wretch. This is my assignment which I took upon my frail shoulders to spare you the burden."
"Oh, Chiun, what do I do?" Remo said.
"Whatever it is, you may have to do it quickly," said Chiun, pointing a long-nailed finger at the gunman, who was rising to his feet now, his pistol in hand.
"Out of the way, kid," he rasped. "I'm going to kill that yellow bastard."
"No," Remo said.
"Get out of my way, kid. You hear me?"
Remo glanced at Chiun, who quietly folded his arms and closed his eyes.
"Don't just stand there, Chiun," Remo called.
"Without a pupil, Sinanju has no future. Without a future, I have no past. I will be remembered as my ancestors have told me I would be remembered as the last Master of Sinanju, who gave Sinanju to an ungrateful white. So be it."
"No, Chiun," Remo said. He turned to the gunman. "Put it down. Please. We can settle this some other way."
"There is no other way," Chiun said.
"For once the gook is right," the gunman said. "Get out of the way. Who the hell's side are you on anyway?"
"Yes, Remo," said Chiun. "Whose side are you on?" The gunman lined up the shot. Chiun stood immobile, eyes closed. The gunman slowly depressed his finger on the trigger.
Remo yelled something inarticulate, then surrendering to reflexes built into him by Chiun over the years, he moved toward the gunman.
The man with the scar whirled and fired at Remo. The bullet missed.
"You asked for this, kid," the gunman said. His finger lowered again.
"Me, too?" Remo cried but it was too late. The killing stroke of his hand was already in motion.
It struck the man called Remo Williams squarely on the breastbone, shattering that bone and turning the connective cartilage to mucus. That was just the beginning. The force of the stroke vibrated through the gunman's body, initiating a chain reaction of breaking bones and jellifying muscles and organs.
The gunman with the scar stood poised for an infinite second, his contorted face seeming to soften as the hardness of his skull dissolved, and then he slipped to the floor like a pile of potatoes tumbling out of a ripped sack.
His last sight was of Remo's empty hand coming at him and his final thought was not his own. He could hear Maria's last words and finally he understood: