Fastbinder demonstrated an overhead swing that chopped a hefty shard of stone from the boulder. The albinos stood groping for Fastbinder, trying to feel his demonstration.
The workers became excited, as if they understood now what was required, but on the first swing one of them smashed his own foot and started howling. There was no blood, thank God. Another feeding frenzy would have delayed the work for hours.
Jack kept an eye on his father as he dialed up the hotel in Cairo. “Hey, Senator, it’s me. Jack. Yeah, we’ve got a few more items to add to our shopping list.”
Who? Or what?
Those were the only questions that remained after all the other facts settled into their appropriate slots.
Dr. Smith saw perfect logic in the fact that Remo and Chiun were related by blood. Remo’s aptitude for Sinanju training had been extraordinary from the beginning—so much so that Chiun had acknowledged Remo as being the fulfillment of Sinanju prophesy, destined to be the greatest of all Sinanju Masters. Therefore it made sense that Remo would have Sinanju blood in his veins. Chiun had mentioned that Remo’s skills had to mean he had Korean ancestors—but Smith hadn’t taken the comments seriously. Just like Remo’s comments about visiting his family out west—Smith always assumed that much of what came out of the Masters’ mouths was just rambling.
Somehow the ancient deviation in the lineage, after hundreds of years of separation, intersected again via CURE, and this one fact troubled Smith deeply. The events that brought it about had to have been engineered.
Was Conrad MacCleary responsible? MacCleary had worked with Smith in the CIA, and in the early years CURE was Smith and MacCleary. MacCleary handpicked Remo to be CURE’S enforcement arm. MacCleary had been the one who urged Smith to hire a very old North Korean man to serve as one of Remo’s trainers.
Yes, it made for a neat little package, but this explanation had a fatal flaw: Conrad MacCleary could never have pulled it off, even if there was a reason for him to do so. Smith and MacCleary worked closely together for years. They were Friends, die-hard compatriots with a mutual love of country. MacCleary would have had no patriotic reason for pulling off the scheme without telling Smith, and however skilled he was, MacCleary was still an old drunk. Smith wouldn’t have been deceived.
Smith looked deeper. Could anyone have influenced MacCleary to choose Remo and to recommend Chiun, without MacCleary or Smith ever being aware of the manipulation? Not possible. The events that influenced MacCleary occurred over decades.
Which left the option of a nonhuman entity.
Smith didn’t like the looks of the ice under his feet, but it was impossible to stop walking.
Had a nonhuman entity manipulated CURE and brought about the pairing of Remo Williams and Chiun, Master of Sinanju. Was it God? Was it some Sinanju deity, seeking the reunification of an ancient Sinanju bloodline?
“Dr. Smith? Are you okay?” Mark Howard asked.
‘Tm fine.” Smith had forgotten the young man was in the office with him.
But five minutes later, Smith was still staring out the window at the pounding surf of Long Island Sound while a growing list of records waited, ignored, on his computer screen.
When Mark Howard came into the suite he found the young woman and the Korean Master, several times her age, huddled together on the mats.
Sarah Slate was giggling.
“Good evening, Prince Mark.” Chiun reluctantly rose to his feet. “I fear I have usurped this young woman’s attention. Do not hold her responsible for failing to fetch you.”
“I asked Sarah not to come up to the, er, offices,” Mark said uncomfortably.
“Ah.” Chiun nodded as if he did not understand and was marking it up to the eccentricities of the Prince Regent, heir to the American Emperor and Master of Puppet Politicians.
“Chiun, you know Sarah must stay isolated.” He looked at the young woman helplessly.
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Oh, relax, Mark, we were just blogging.”
“Yes,” Chiun agreed happily.
“That’s a relief.” Mark rolled to his hospital bed, using the arm grips to hoist himself out of the wheelchair. Sarah went to care for him and Chiun left them.
Sarah Slate was born rich, but she was born with a heart Mark Howard liked to think he sensed the goodness in her soul; that was what he found so attractive. The fact that she was beautiful… well, it helped.
But she was good, full of kindness and inner strength. She stayed with him when she didn’t have to stay, doing everything she could to make his life easier as he recovered. The tom leg muscles were healing slowly, and he’d start trying to walk again soon. But he was bone-tired so much of the time.
“What would I do?” He sighed as she inspected his leg stays.
“Without me?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“You’d have your brace checked by Nurse Escobar.”
“Nurse Escobar smells weird,” Mark said, eyes drooping.
“That’s my main advantage over Nurse Escobar?”
“You’re a lot better looking, too.”
“Gotcha,” Sarah said. “Eye candy, no stink.”
Mark couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or not. “Well, you must admit. Nurse Escobar is twice the woman you are.”
“Maybe more than twice.”
“That’s a lot of woman to love,” Mark said, then regretted it. He met her eyes.
“How would you know?” she asked. “Have you and Nurse Escobar…?”
“Maybe.”
“I see. The truth is, Mark Howard, that sometimes more is not better.” Sarah brought her face so close her nose almost touched his. “If you say ‘prove it,’ I’ll slap you.”
Mark Howard mimed locking his lips and tossing away the key.
“Still, I guess I’d better prove it,” Sarah said, slipping off her sweater.
Chapter 7
Neil Velick was on day six of his seven-day rotation in the Pit, and he was counting the minutes until the long, long elevator ride back to the surface. This time, swear on a stack of bibles, he was never coming back. Even the great paychecks weren’t worth it.
Then Neil thought about the house. It was way more house than he could afford, but it was the house that his fiancée had selected as the one and only suitable dwelling for her and her children. Never mind that the house was five bedrooms, never mind she wasn’t even pregnant, never mind the wedding was still twenty-one months away. Melody Toped had made her decision.
Neil had wondered what would happen if he put his foot down. All it would take would be a quick “I quit” to his boss. The salary would vanish. The house would go with it. Would Melody vanish, as well?
Good chance.
Neil tried to picture it in his head. Melody would throw a big crying fit, then she would beg him to try to get his job back, and when she knew it wasn’t going to happen—well, she’d be history. No doubt about it.
And then she would walk out the door, sobbing, and Neil would be standing there and what would he do?
Neil saw himself wearing a big grin as imaginary ten-ton weights were lifted off his shoulders.
He hadn’t even realized he was toting those weights around with him, but damn, now he could feel them. Wouldn’t it be great to get rid of the weights and job and, yes, Melody, too. She was nice and all, and a hell of a body, but it wasn’t as if she was all that nice to Neil, come to think of it, and it wasn’t as if she let Neil make use of that nice body very often, right?
Neil’s endless hours of boredom at the bottom of the old mine shaft had finally paid off. Enlightenment had come to him. He knew what he wanted, he knew what he sure as shitting did not want, and he knew how to make it all come about. His future was planned, and it looked real good.