Standing before the closing door was the Master of Sinanju. He stood barely five feet tall, a little mummy of a Korean wrapped in a white linen kimono resembling a death shroud and no hair on his skull except a cloudy puff over each ear.
"Master Chiun!" Smith said. "Er, I did not hear my secretary announce you."
Chiun bowed slightly, his parchment features crinkling into a web of wise wrinkles.
"That is because she did not see or hear me pass her station," Chiun said in his squeaky voice, often querulous but now purring with good humor. "For what benefit to the Eagle Throne is an assassin who cannot enter his emperor's inner chambers unseen and undetected?"
Harold Smith swallowed his objection. If the President who had founded CURE could look down from the next life and see his handpicked director being addressed as "Emperor," he would have concluded he had given over the reins of ultimate power to a dangerous megalomaniac. The truth was that Chiun had taken to addressing Smith that way because the House of Sinanju had always worked for absolute rulers, and to act otherwise would mean risking the wrath of his Korean ancestors who might also be looking on from the next life.
"I see," said Smith. He adjusted his hunter green Dartmouth tie, the only spot of color in his otherwise gray wardrobe. Smith's suit, hair and even his face were all shades of gray. Adjusting his rimless eyeglasses, he went on.
"You have looked over our contract?"
"Yes."
"And it meets your approval?"
"The gold is no more than it was last year."
Smith repressed an inward groan. "We have discussed this," he said.
"We have discussed this," Chiun said, his voice growing thin, "but it has not been properly explained to me how it is that the greatest house of assassins in history is not entitled to increased compensation."
Smith did not remind the Master of Sinanju that the matter of the gold that was to be shipped to his village by submarine had not only been explained, but explained in exhaustive detail. Instead, he said with more patience than he felt, "We have a very great deficit in this country. An increase in the gold is impossible this year."
"But the next?"
"Next year is possible. Theoretically,"
"If it is possible next year, why not this year? I would gladly forgo a significant raise next year for a modest one this year."
Smith blinked in the face of a flash of déjà vu. He was certain Chiun had spoken those exact words last year. He had got around it by providing a home for Chiun and Remo to live in.
"I am very sorry, it simply is not possible this year, and I cannot promise for next. But by waiting a year, the odds increase."
"It is the fault of the new President, is it not? The flint-skinned Democrat,"
"The President is under great pressure from Congress and the electorate to slash the federal operating budget."
Chiun slipped up to the desk and pitched his voice low. "Perhaps it would be better for all of us if the stubborn Congress and insensitive electorates all die."
"Congress," Smith tried to explain, "in fact raises the money that enables America to pay you so handsomely. And the electorate are the taxpayers who give their money."
"Then let taxes be raised," Chiun cried, flinging one fist into the air.
"The President is under great pressure not to raise taxes any further," Smith countered.
"I am willing to accept campaign donations. Remo could go door-to-door on your behalf. I am certain he would not mind."
"Impossible."
Chiun flinched as if stung. "That is your final offer?"
"I am afraid so."
Chiun closed his clear hazel eyes. One old ivory hand lifted to brush at the tendril of a beard that clung to his tiny chin. He seemed to be thinking, but Smith knew otherwise. The old Korean was simply trying to psych him out.
Harold Smith had been through all this before. This time he was prepared. "I took the liberty of arranging for the submarine carrying your gold to depart for Sinanju, in anticipation of our coming to an understanding," Smith said in a neutral voice.
Chiun said nothing.
"If I was premature, I will need to know at once," Smith added. "It is very expensive to send a nuclear submarine across the Pacific Ocean without a mission."
Eyes still closed, Chiun remained still and unspeaking.
At length, his eyes popped open, and in a sorrowful voice the Master of Sinanju intoned, "I have a village to support. If some of the babies must be drowned in the cold waters of the West Korea Bay because the food is insufficient, so be it. I will instruct the village caretaker to spare the male children, and do away only with the surplus females."
And the Master of Sinanju cocked a cold eye toward Harold Smith.
Smith wasn't buying. "I am certain it will not come to that," he said.
"If it does, you will be the first to know," Chiun returned in a chilly tone.
"If there is no other business, I will be happy to confirm the arrangements to ship the gold to Sinanju," Smith offered, making a point of touching one of the telephones on his desk.
The Master of Sinanju hesitated. "We will have the formal signing of contracts this evening?" he asked at last.
"As you wish," said Smith, repressing a smile. He had been forced to send the submarine two days ago because it was the only launch window he had for the next two months. If the gold was not in the village of Sinanju on time, Chiun-and for all he knew, Remo-would refuse all assignments until delivery was made.
It was a gamble the parsimonious Smith had been loath to make, and he breathed an inward sign of relief that all had turned out. Perhaps, Smith thought, he was getting the hang of negotiating with the Master of Sinanju.
At his elbow a telephone rang. It was the blue contact telephone. Smith brought the receiver to his ear before the second ring could start.
"Yes, Remo?"
"I've had it."
"What?" squeaked Chiun, rushing to the desk.
"Is that Chiun?" Remo demanded.
"Yes," said Smith. "He is here with me. We have just concluded negotiations for another year of service."
"Well, I hope you and he will be very happy together, because I've had it with these piss-ant hits. Count me out."
Smith clapped his hand on the receiver mouthpiece and said, "Remo seems to be trying to resign. What do you know about this?"
"I know he is obligated to me for his every breath," snapped Chiun, snatching the receiver from Smith's hand. "Remo, stop behaving like a child. Speak! What is wrong with you?"
"From now on I only take assignments I agree with," Remo said tightly.
"This is blasphemy. You accept whatever assignments your emperor deems worthy of you."
"Change in plan. You can have my rejects."
"Remo, what has gotten into you? Think of the poor babies of Sinanju who look to you for sustenance."
"I'm thinking of the little girl I orphaned tonight. No more. From now on I see background checks on my hits. You tell that to Smith." And the line went dead.
Chapter 4
Harold W Smith had already initiated the callback trace program before Remo could hang up. The new system offered up the number and location of the phone from which Remo Williams had called as if Smith had simply wished for it.
Smith hit a function key, and the number was automatically dialed through his blue contact telephone. "Yeah?" Remo said when he picked up. His voice was unhappy.
"This is Smith."
"Don't tell me you bugged my B.V.D.'s," Remo said sourly.
"Hardly. My new computer system traced your call. You are at the Wilmington, North Carolina, Holiday Inn, I see."
"I'd be on the first flight out of here except Hurricane Elvis has the airport shut down," Remo growled. "Next time you send me to terminate a guy, make sure his wife and kid aren't hanging around."