"I must restore the glory of Sinanju," said Chiun. "Did you know that just yesterday Remo told me that he was planning to run a benefit concert for me. He said that he was tired of seeing me poor, hungry, and destitute and that he was going to ask Nellie Wilson to run an aid program for me. Did you know this?"
"No. Who's Nellie Wilson?"
"He is a noble singer who stands on the side of the poor in this oppressive land. Remo said he would gladly sing for me, but I told him that it would not be necessary, that Emperor Smith would not fail the House of Sinanju." His eyes looked down at the floor. "But I was wrong, I see. Still I will take no charity from anyone, even so great a man as Nellie Wilson. If America cannot help me, I will simply seek outside employment."
"The terms of our contract expressly forbid it," Smith said.
"The terms of our old contract," Chiun said with a small smile. "And it appears- there may be no new contract. "
Smith cleared his throat. "Don't be hasty," he said. "Of course, we want a new contract with you, but we cannot provide you with things that no longer exist in the world. Nor, I must point out, could any other prospective employer. "
"We are not intransigent, O great Emperor. While our heart aches at your inability to provide us with the few meager items we requested, perhaps something else could be worked out."
"I will double the amount of gold we now ship to your village."
"Triple," said Chiun.
"Double is a gift. Triple is impossible," Smith said.
"Whites are impossible," said Chiun. "Beyond that, the word does not exist in Sinanju."
"I will triple the gold," Smith said wearily. "But that's it. That's final. Nothing more."
"Done," Chiun said quickly. Smith relaxed.
"That takes care of the gold," Chiun said pleasantly. "Now on to other items. . . . "
Smith tensed. "We agreed. No other items. No other items."
"No," Chiun said. "You agreed no other items. I agreed to the gold."
"What other item?" Smith said.
"Only one. Land. Remo and I have no permanent home in this odious land of yours."
"We've been through this before, Master of Sinanju," said Smith tightly. His legs were tingling from sitting on the floor. "It's too dangerous for you and Remo to stay in one place for long."
"The land I have in mind is in a far place," said Chiun, who noticed from Smith's fidgeting that his legs were falling asleep. In negotiating, he always waited for that to happen before asking Smith for the really difficult items. "The place I have in mind is large, with many fortifications, and therefore easily defended. Remo and I would be safe there. "
"Where?" asked Smith.
"Yet it is a small parcel, compared to the lands the Egyptians once bestowed upon Sinanju."
"Can you point it out on a map?"
"And it is near no dwellings," continued Chiun. "Oh, there are some minor structures existing on the land but no one lives in them. I would not even ask that they be razed. It may be that Remo and I could make do with them, although they are not really houses."
"Can you be more specific?"
Chiun made a show of searching his scroll.
"I do not know its exact location," he said. "It is . . . yes, here it is. It is in the province of California. But it is not even on the ocean. And I understand it is overrun with mice and other vermin."
"California is a big place," said Smith.
"It has a name," said Chiun.
"Yes?"
"Ah. Here it is. It is a funny name, but I do not mind. Remo and I will learn to live with it. And the mice."
"What is the name?"
Chiun looked up from his scroll hopefully. "Disneyland it is called."
Lloyd Darton paid his $49 and accepted the room key from the desk clerk. On the seedier side of Detroit, he could have rented a room for just an hour, but that was the kind of hotel where a man could get killed just standing at the registration desk and Darton wasn't the sort to take chances. Better to waste a few dollars, especially since he was here on business. He waved off the bellhop and took the stairs to his room rather than wait for the elevator.
He carefully double-locked the door of the room, placed his single suitcase on the bed, and unlocked it with a key.
It held an assortment of weapons, locked in place by straps and plastic blocks. Satisfied that nothing had been damaged, he closed the lid and sat on the bed. It was 8:45 P.M. His customer should be along soon and Lloyd Darton hoped to be out of the room by 9:30 at the latest.
There was a knock on the door at 8:56. The man who stood there was tall, fiftyish, with the kind of eyes Lloyd Darton had seen many times before. All his customers had them. A scar was faintly visible along the right side of the man's jaw.
"Hello," Darton said.
The man just nodded as he entered the room. He waited until the door was locked again before he spoke.
"You made the changes I asked for?"
"Sure did. Over here." Darton flipped open the suitcase lid. "I fixed the sight for you too. It was a little off. Of course, that won't matter with these new add-ons."
"Skip the sales pitch," said the man with the scar, whose name Darton did not know. All his customers were nameless. They knew him, knew where to find him, but he never asked their names. It was a one-sided business relationship, but so was the money. That was one-sided too and it all fell on Darton's side of the ledger.
"Here it is," said Darton, hefting a shiny black handgun. He took an assortment of devices from the case and in a few quick motions, he attached a folding stock, a telescopic sight and barrel extension, converting the pistol to a takedown sniper's rifle. He inserted a clip, snapped back the slide to show the action at work, and presented it to the other man.
"Don't get much call for this kind of custom work," Darton said. "While you're here, why don't you look at some of the others? You might see something you like better than-"
"There's nothing better than my old Beretta Olympic," the other man interrupted, sighting down the pistol's long barrel.
"If you say so. It's just . . . it's not considered, well, a professional weapon, if you know what I mean."
"It's a target pistol. I'm going to use it on targets. What could be more professional?"
Darton nodded wordlessly. The man had a point and he certainly had the professional look to him. Except that he was sighting down the barrel with Darton at the other end. That was not professional at all. It was not even good gun safety. Or good manners for that matter.
"I can understand your affection for the Olympic," Darton said quickly. "But I find that most people in your business like to change their tools. It reduces complications."
"Don't you think I know that?" asked the man with the scar. "This piece has sentimental value for me. It reminds me of my ex-wife." He lined up on Darton's sweat-shiny forehead. Darton winced. He loved guns. He bought them, he sold them, he repaired them, he remodeled them, and he hunted with them. They were both his hobby and his business and he loved them. But he didn't like to have them pointed at him.
"Do you mind?" Darton asked, looking at the gun barrel.
The man with the scar ignored him. "You test-fire this?" he asked.
"Of course. It fires true. No bias. It's perfect for the kind of work you do."
"Oh? What kind is that?"
"You know," Darton said.
"I want to hear you say it."
"My guess--is that you kill people with it."
"You keep trying to tell me my business," said the man with the scar.
"I didn't mean anything by it, Mr.-"
"Call me Remo. "
"Mr. Remo. I just want you to have the best your money can buy, Mr. Remo."