“Thank you. Master Chiun,” Smith said. “The man who occupies the capital building in Newfoundland is claiming his actions are legal, based on a document called the Proclamation of the Continuation of the British Empire.”
“I must have slept that day in history class,” Remo said. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“You’re not alone. Nobody heard of the proclamation until today, when it was posted on an Internet Usenet group. The proclamation uses all original, authentic source material, but combines them in unorthodox and creative ways. They’ve got several royal documents in here, dating from 1655 through the middle eighteenth century. They were mostly put in place to strengthen the authority of the British Crown by giving more incentive to its field agents. Essentially, it bestows salvage rights on colonies whose control has slipped from England’s hand—either through negotiated treaty or revolt.”
“Snore.”
“It gives this authority only to the knights of the j realm and former colonial governors. Theoretically, a man who has a knighthood is too honorable to abuse his power.”
Remo shook his head. “Yeah, right. So they give some knight the authority to take back a piece of real estate that England stole from somebody else in the first place?”
“They then have the right of taxation and authority in the restored colony,” Smith added.
“They’re sanctioned despots,” Mark Howard explained. “Remember, these rules were established when England was wrestling with all kinds of colonial problems—not the least of which was the developing crisis in North America.”
“So what?” Remo said. “The 1700s were a long time ago—I know it because I saw it on TV.”
“But this morning, Sir Regeddo Tulient staged a takeover of the Newfoundland government seat, called the Confederation Building, and used the proclamation as justification for it,” Mark Howard said, “He claims his knighthood makes it his right and duty to restore the lost holdings of the British Empire.”
Remo stared at Mark Howard. “Don’t tell me people are buying into that load of bulldookey.”
“Not exactly,” Mark Howard said.
“But the situation is politically delicate,” Harold W. Smith added.
Remo got to his feet. “Fine. I’ll handle it delicately. Where should I mount his head?”
“Sit down,” Chiun said.
“Tulient’s mercenaries killed fewer than a dozen security staff—plus the former premier of Newfoundland and Labrador,” Smith explained. “They hired back most of the staff at triple wages, paying U.S. dollars. They’re promising business-as-usual in St. John’s and throughout the provinces if the people accept the new leadership.”
“So?” Remo demanded.
“So, we have a man who has received a high honor from the queen of England. We have hundreds of Canadian citizens. We have a relatively peaceful assumption of power, and we have a rationale that smells almost credible.”
“To take out Tulient you would have to risk Canadian lives, humiliate a British knight and violate what some would consider a legal warrant.”
Remo pantomimed a duck quacking. “Do you want us in Newfoundland or not?”
“Not,” Smith said carefully, “as of yet.”
“Can I go back to my room?”
“Uh. Hem. There’s another matter I must bring up.” There was an awkward silence.
“Well?” he said.
“Be patient,” Chiun said quietly.
“Why?”
“Can you not see that the Emperor wishes to discuss a matter of some embarrassment?”
“Embarrassing to him?”
“More likely you.”
“It’s not a problem of embarrassing someone,” Smith said.
“Why me?” Remo demanded.
“The logical assumption is that it has to do with your hygiene,” Chiun pointed out.
“There’s nothing wrong with my hygiene,” Remo told Smith.
“I didn’t say there was,” Smith said.
“Also likely, your alley-dweller attire,” Chiun suggested. “Just a conjecture.”
“It’s the Technicolor kimonos that get people staring,” Remo countered.
“Gawking rabble are of no consequence. The unprofessional image you present reflects badly on the Emperor.”
Harold W. Smith could have launched into a lengthy argument with just about everything Chiun had just said. The old Master did attract attention in his brilliant Korean robes, and Smith preferred Remo’s nondescript attire because, obviously, he didn’t want any sort of attention whatsoever directed toward CURE activities.
There was a time when Smith enforced the anonymity of CURE to a harsh degree, but the truth was that such activities, performed by two such, well, personalities, could not stay invisible. In the past twenty years this became all the more difficult as the rest of the world closed in on Harold W. Smith in terms of his ability to collect and archive information from around the world.
Now his efforts were focused solidly on managing the inevitable exposure of CURE’S activities. The real threat was not about the information being gathered, but about what information was gathered by whom—and how it was analyzed for patterns. The true risk to CURE was that someone might come to realize, from circumstantial evidence, that some sort of an extraordinary and covert force was at work on behalf of the United States.
It had happened before.
How close these investigators would get to learning any dangerous truths about CURE would be a testament to the spin doctoring of the intelligence by Smith and his assistant, Mark Howard.
On that note, he had an issue to address with the Master of Sinanju. Emeritus.
“Master Chiun, I’m afraid I must discuss this problem with you directly.”
Chiun went blank. Before the ancient Korean could leap to a hundred conclusions, Smith pushed on. “There is a security issue caused by your mode of dress, as we have discussed in the past.”
Chiun seethed—which was a good sign, actually. Smith considered. The old Master could have simply dismissed the subject and refused to discuss it. A delay tactic like that could stall the issue for weeks. On the other hand, he could rebel rancorously, lashing out at everyone around him and causing CURE’S performance to suffer.
“Master Chiun, the Korean robes you wear are beautiful and fine,” Smith said.
“Of course they are, Emperor.” Chiun was stiff and formal. “The great assassins of Sinanju dress in attire befitting their station—recent draftees notwithstanding.”
“Such finery is not necessary,” Smith pointed out.
“It is,” Chiun said, putting great weight into each word. “When one serves an Emperor, when one serves the leader of the world’s most potent nation, when one is honored to hold the position of preeminent court appointee of such a ruler, then one must project the image of grace and cultivation that reflects best upon the Emperor.”
Remo shifted in his chair, forcing his lips to stay shut.
Smith nodded. He was not an emperor and he did not see himself as the true leader of the United States, but he had long ago given up any serious hopes of convincing Chiun of these things. “And yet, your traditional robes, as fine as they are, compromise your abilities to serve your leader,” Smith said carefully.
Chiun simmered. Remo stopped wriggling.
Smith knew what he was doing. Casting doubt on Chiun’s effectiveness risked insulting the old Master, but it might breach his stubborn mind-set. “You are surely unique, Master Chiun,” Smith said almost casually. “You’re too special for most of the world. How can lesser men of any nation help but notice a personage such as yourself?”
Smith folded his hands and tried to remain neutral, inside and out. Had he laid it on thick enough? Had he laid it on too thick?.