"Who saw this?" Chiun asked quickly.
"No one, as far as I know."
"Then you will tell Smith that you dispatched this evil warlord yourself," Chiun snapped. "Use flowery phrases. He will not detect the deceit in your tones."
"I think that when the autopsy results come in and show that Nogeira died from having his head chewed off his shoulders, we'll have a hard time keeping that story alive."
"I will inform Emperor Smith that you are employing a new technique-designed to fool the gullible into believing wild alligators were at fault. We will tell him that this was done in Egyptian times."
"They have alligators back then?"
Chiun gestured with a lifted finger. "Crocodiles. A minor difference no one will discover, if we keep our wits about us."
"I can't lie."
"Why not?"
"Because I already reported to Smith."
Chiun's slit eyes widened in shock. "Before conferring with me? Who did you think you work for?"
"Smith."
"No! A thousand times, no! You work for the village. Smith is merely a middleman. The emperor is not important, only the emperor's gold."
Remo smiled thinly. "I'll tell Smith that next time I see him."
"Don't you dare!"
"Fine. Then get off my back."
"Never. Through you, my House survives. I will never get off your back until you are perfection."
"Never happen," said Remo, going to the cabinet over the stove. He began rummaging for something to eat. A feast awaited him-if a rice smorgasbord was his idea of sumptuous dining. Virtually every kind of rice was available to him, from domestic whites to exotic browns that smelled like popcorn.
He pulled off the shelf a clear plastic bag, heavy with hard, white grains, and grabbed up the still warm pot.
The Master of Sinanju watched this with grim mien.
"What did Smith say when you broke the terrible news of your abysmal failure?"
"He said he didn't want me to kill Nogeira, after all. So there."
Chiun's pale eyebrows drew together. "He changed his mind?"
"It was changed for him."
"Ah. The so-called 'President,' exerting his will. Perhaps this will impell Smith to see the light."
"If by 'light' you mean overthrow the President, I doubt it."
"What exactly did Smith say? We may yet salvage our honor in this-sordid matter."
"I forget," Remo said cagily, drawing tap water and filling the pot.
"Come! Speak! You are hiding something."
"Okay," said Remo. "Turns out he wanted Nogeira alive. "
"Unbelievable!" cried Chiun. The single word was a keen of anguish. "Even in your failure, you have failed."
Remo looked up from the sink. "How's that again?"
"You failed to eliminate your target," Chiun spat. "That is one thing. Your emperor changed his mind and desired that the evil one survive. You had a golden opportunity to demonstrate that you anticipated your emperor's unspoken wishes, and you allowed a mere alligator to come between you and glory."
"Since when is Smith my emperor?"
"Since you have piled failure upon failure."
"The way I see it," Remo retorted, going to the tabletop refrigerator, "I'm a victim of Smith's not knowing what he wants."
Chiun nodded vigorously. "Yes. Good. Now you are thinking. We will blame Smith."
Remo looked back. "We will?"
"In our histories, of course. This way our ancestors will understand that no blame will attach itself to us, and become something they will be forced to live down in later times."
"Now might be a good time to get it down in the scrolls," Remo suggested. "While it's still fresh in your mind."
"You begin to show glimmerings of intelligence," said Chiun, who then swept away in a flourish of Christmas-red kimono skirts.
Remo returned to picking through the refrigerator, his unhappy mouth brightening into a self-satisfied grin.
With luck, Chiun would spend the next hour telling his future descendants how Mad Harold, the Emperor of America, had blown the mission. That would be plenty of time for Remo to cook up a mess of rice and fish.
His grin went away by degrees, when he discovered that there was no more fish to be had. There was plenty of duck, though. All kinds.
The trouble was, it took a lot longer than an hour to cook a duck properly.
Remo hurriedly pushed the smallest duck he could find into the oven and turned on the burner. With luck, it would be ready before Chiun was finished.
Just to be safe, he turned the heat up as high as it would go. After all, luck was something Remo had encountered little of today.
The oven started smoking immediately, but smoky duck would be a hell of a lot better than no duck at all, Remo reasoned. And who knew? He might discover that he liked smoked duck.
Remo never found out. When the smoke got thick enough to attract the Master of Sinanju's attention, Chiun swept in, and threw open the kitchen window to let in fresh air.
He also threw the smoking duck out the open window. Without a word, he tossed the boiling rice water after it, and returned to his labors.
Remo settled for yesterday's cold rice.
Chapter 5
Harmon Cashman had hope in his heart. For the first time in almost four years, since the last presidential election, he had hope in his heart.
Back in those halcyon days, Harmon Cashman had been chief advance man for the then Vice-President and now current President of the United States. He had served the man well. Got him through the minefield of the Iowa Caucuses. Helped shape his presidential image. Distanced him from his predecessor, the incumbent President.
It was true that they had come to New Hampshire trailing in the polls. The campaign was on the ropes. No other way to describe it. There, the governor of the state had stepped in. A real bulldog. No finesse about him at all. But he had single-handedly turned the New Hampshire primary and the fortunes of the Vice-President around.
Harmon Cashman had to hand it to the New Hampshire governor. Even now. Never said any different.
What Harmon Cashman had never understood was how the governor had ended up White House Chief of Staff. That job was supposed to have gone to Harmon Cashman. True, there had been no such agreement, written or oral. But it was understood. At least, it had been understood by Harmon Cashman.
After the election, the President-elect had broken the news to Harmon Cash, gentle but direct. He explained that he owed his office to the governor, who had turned everything around for him. Snatched victory out of the jaws of defeat, the man had. Harmon Cashman took it hard. He declined any lesser appointment. It was Chief of Staff or nothing.
It ended up nothing. To be more precise, a handwritten thank-you note from the new president was forthcoming. A two-pager. Believing himself humiliated, Harmon Cashman, the most seasoned advance man in national politics, withdrew from electioneering, telling himself there would be other elections, other candidates.
Now, four years later, with the presidential primaries in full cry, he found this was true. But not for Harmon Cashman. No one liked a sore loser. The GOP shunned him. The Democrats, who this year more than ever all looked and sounded alike, like some extended family with matching hair, wouldn't have him on their teams. They figured he was some kind of Republican Trojan horse.
Harmon Cashman had made overtures to certain state campaigns, but in every case the boat had already left the dock. There was no place on any campaign-unless he wanted to stuff envelopes in some stuffy storefront campaign headquarters in East Treestump, Nebraska.
This all changed the day hope came into Harmon Cashman's life.
Hope came up to the front door of Harmon Cashman's Manassas townhouse, carrying a paper sack and bearing a beatific smile that made Harmon Cashman instantly want to help the face behind the smile.