The gifts the Master of Sinanju had bestowed on him were staggering.
Oh, there were drawbacks. He couldn't eat meat, processed foods, drink alcohol or smoke cigarettes. But these days he didn't miss any of that. And after the first few years of having any woman he could want, that began to bore him, too. Women reacted to the confident rhythm of his walk, the graceful harmony of every bone and muscle operating to the peak of perfection, just as nature had intended, or to the irresistible pheromone scents he gave off without realizing it. They didn't come on to Remo because he was good-looking, or a nice guy, or honest or because they thought he'd make a caring lover or faithful husband. It was raw sex.
All his life Remo had been looking for love. He had found it in a way in an elderly Korean who treated him with a harshness that sounded like scorn but was really love.
He owed Chiun everything.
But in a way Remo had nothing. No wife, no family. And his job was something he couldn't even whisper to his most intimate lover. If he had one, that is.
There had to be more to life than this. It had taken the death of Roger Sherman Coe to bring it home to Remo.
Twenty years of being America's secret assassin had not made America a better place to live. The schools had become shooting galleries, the streets were ruled by fear and drugs and automatic weapons. Even the nation's capital had become ungovernable short of declaring martial law.
Chiun had always warned Remo that America was doomed. Relying on rule of, by and for the people was folly. What America needed was an emperor, Chiun had always said. Otherwise, it would slip into mob rule. Chiun had insisted America would slip into oblivion anyway. All empires did, ultimately. It was just happening faster here because idiots ran things.
It sometimes seemed that way to Remo. Successive Presidents had been hamstrung by the press and Congress, and it would take mandatory testing to convince Remo that Congress itself wasn't on drugs. America wasn't going forward into the next century. It wasn't even standing still. It was unravelling.
Remo could wash his hands of it without a second thought.
Except for Chiun. Chiun would hector him into an early grave, play on his sympathies and, all else failing, rain guilt down on his head the way the weakening ghost of Elvis was raining on him now, if Remo walked away from the latest contract.
Maybe, Remo thought, it was time to put some distance between himself and the Master of Sinanju. The thought made him cringe inwardly. Chiun had been like a father to him. More than a father, really. But his training was over. He had mastered Sinanju now. Maybe, Remo thought as he looked out over the rain-dimpled bay, it was time to make a clean break with everything. Maybe he needed to find himself, make some decisions that had nothing to do with CURE's mission, America's needs or a tiny fishing village in North Korea that hadn't changed in the three thousand years since it had first sent its sons out into the world to kill in support of its people.
Maybe it was time to stand on his own feet and live his own life. If Chiun cared about him, he would understand that. He had been young himself once, seventy or eighty years ago.
Remo had reached the rocky end of the beach as he came to his decision. He kept walking, his soft Italian leather loafers finding and pushing him along the great granite blocks that had been placed there to hold back the relentless erosion of the Atlantic. He felt the obdurate hardness of the stone even through his leather soles, and it seemed to suggest the rockiness of the path he was about to set out on.
Remo stopped on one of the largest stones. He looked down. Where others saw hard granite, he saw a flawed chunk of the earth's mantle. There were chisel marks at the edges where it had been cleaved from the old Quincy quarries untold generations ago and dressed into a rough oblong. It had rested on this beach since before Remo had been born, and even Hurricane Nornan couldn't move it.
With his left foot Remo traced circular patterns in the stone face, sensed a weak point and without any further thought dropped to one knee, bringing the flat edge of his right hand in contact with the weak spot.
Flesh met granite, and a sharp crack like a peal of thunder resulted.
With a grinding separation, the granite cube split along a perfect line. The two sections fell away from each other, and Remo leaped onto the next stone.
If nothing better came along, he could work as a stonecutter, Remo thought wryly.
The wry grin faded from his face when a squeaky voice called out his name.
"Remo! Is that you?"
"Chiun?"
BEYOND the sprinkling of stones, near a shaded beachfront park, the Master of Sinanju lifted his birdlike head. He was seated on a bench. Spying Remo, he flung the remnants of popcorn to the wheeling cormorants and sea gulls he had been feeding.
The Master of Sinanju crushed the popcorn container into a ball, and it disappeared up one sleeve for disposal later. He padded along on his sandaled feet to meet his pupil. There was the hint of a smile on Remo's face. Perhaps his mood had improved.
But as they drew near each other the Master of Sinanju saw his pupil's features settle into unhappy lines. How often they did that, he thought. It had been Remo's lot to suffer many hardships in life, and the gift of Sinanju bestowed upon him had not erased all cares.
As Remo came to a stop before him, Chiun searched his eyes and said, "You have been thinking."
"I have come to a difficult decision, Little Father." His voice was sad.
And the Master of Sinanju decided to make this moment easier on his pupil. "You wish to seek other horizons?"
"How did you know?" "A father knows his son."
"No offense, Litt- I mean, I don't have a father."
"Not so. You simply do not know your father. You stand here breathing and tasting of Earth's sweet grandeur. The truly fatherless have no such luxury, for they have never been born."
"Point taken. What I meant was you're my teacher and my friend. Not my father."
Chiun cocked his head to one side. "Yet you honor me with the title-when the mood strikes you."
"I have been honored by your teachings and your guidance. But I have come to a place in my life where I must find myself."
"Find yourself? But you are here. Standing on a beach in the land of your birth." Chiun looked out over the rain-troubled bay. "I sometimes long to be standing on a beach in the land of my birth. But alas, this is not for me at this time."
"If you're about to lay a guilt trip on me," Remo warned, "don't."
"I was merely musing on my lot in life. As were you."
"Touché. But I gotta move on."
"I cannot go with you, my son. You know that."
"Where I have to go, I have to go alone."
"And the contract I have yet to sign?"
"That's between you and Smith now. It's only a year. Maybe after a year, I'll be back."
"I can keep Smith happy for a year." "I expected more of an argument."
"That explains the disappointed expression on your sad-sack face," said Chiun. "Heh heh. That explains the disappointed expression on your sad-sack face. Heh heh heh."
And to the relief of the Master of Sinanju, Remo found spirit enough to smile at his poor joke.
"I'm glad you're not giving me a hard time about this," Remo said.
They began walking back toward the sandy end of the beach, the Boston skyline at their backs.
"You are old enough now to make your own decisions," Chiun allowed.
The rain lessened, and behind the endless gray expanse of storm clouds, the sun slid toward the horizon. Shadows grew long and lean as the light began to fail.
"Where will you go?" asked Chiun in a quiet voice.
"I don't know. I don't have any roots to go back to. The orphanage burned down long ago. I can't go back to Newark. Someone might recognize me. I'm supposed to be dead."