"You mean, Ivan the Terrible?" asked Remo.
"Terrible for whom?" Chiun had answered. He suggested that perhaps one of those new South American countries might have the proper need and respect for an assassin of the caliber of Sinanju. Why, Remo and Chiun could make economic history by opening up these markets. They could always train Samurai, and incidentally, keep them in line for the emperor, who had always had trouble with the Samurai which was the real reason why centuries ago the throne of the White Camelia had declared itself divine—to place some fear in the hearts of the wild bandit Samurai. An undisciplined wild country was Japan, with many bandits roaming the mountains.
Thus spoke the Master of Sinanju who said he was even now receiving correspondence through the American postal system at a post office box in the northeast, and who knew, one day it might bring him and Remo a job offer.
Remo looked at the camera eyes on top of Folcroft which, like most scanners, left areas uncovered for brief moments. Ordinarily, this would be good-enough protection, especially on a high wall such as Folcroft's.
Before a camera caught them, Remo and Chiun were over the wall and down into the vast lawny courtyard smelling of spring blossoms. Chiun commented that the blossoms here were nothing compared to the blossoms of the courtyard of the moguls of Jodhpur.
The administration building still had the one-way windows facing the Long Island Sound which was as nothing compared to the beauty of the Bay of Bengal
The ledges near the one-way windows were pathetic brick outcroppings compared to the temples of Rome.
And there was supposed to be a new temple in Rome greater than all the others. This recent architectural sensation, Remo discovered upon questioning, was St. Peters.
Remo and Chiun worked themselves flat against a large gray moulding encrusted with bird droppings. They could hear voices in nearby windows but not from the one-way window.
They entered through a clear window, excused themselves to startled secretaries, pushed through two doors until they were in the office that looked out on the Sound through the one-way glass.
A blondish man in a neat gray suit, white shirt and not-too-wide tie was conducting a meeting at a long conference table. The other men were dressed remarkably like him, almost as if they were in uniform. The blondish man was in his late thirties and he looked upon the aged Oriental and the taller white man with some confusion and much indignation, but before he could speak, he was spoken to.
"Who the hell are you?" asked Remo.
"I was just about to ask you that," said Blake Corbish.
"None of your business. Who are these dingalings?" asked Remo, pointing to the new executive staff coordinating committee of Folcroft, presently composed of IDC executives on loan to Corbish.
"I beg your pardon," said Corbish, who reached under the long table to press a buzzer, but suddenly saw the intruder move very close to him and then felt his fingers go numb.
"You're the new director of Folcroft, right?" said Remo.
"Yes," said Corbish wincing. The other executives said they had never seen an impropriety such as this before.
The Oriental informed them that he who sees disturbing things perhaps has no need of eyes.
"C'mon, old fella," said the assistant coordinating director of programming, a former tight end for Purdue, trying to be gentle with the frail old Oriental in the wispy kimono. He placed a friendly hand on the old man's bony shoulder. At least he thought he placed a friendly hand on the bony shoulder. He remembered it going down to the shoulder and then he saw tubes coming out of his nose, bright lights above his head and heard a doctor reassuring him he would live, and in all probability, even walk again.
When the assistant coordinating director went down in a massive heap at the feet of the Oriental, it was decided by the executive staff coordinating committee that the meeting should be adjourned and that the director of Folcroft, Blake Corbish, should conduct a private interview with the two guests of the sanitarium. The vote was taken by feet moving rapidly to the door and it was unanimous. Shortly thereafter, five guards came running into director Corbish's office to see what the commotion was about. They too agreed that private meetings should be kept private. This agreement was reached so amiably that four of them were able to leave under their own power.
Blake Corbish smiled very sincerely.
"You must be Williams, Remo," he said. "Smith told me a lot about you before the accident."
"This man is backwards," Chiun whispered to Remo.
"What accident?" said Remo.
"I guess you couldn't have known," said Corbish with a forthright look of concern on his face. "Please sit down. You too, sir. If I'm correct, you also are an employee. Sinanju, Master of."
"The Master of Sinanju is never a servant. He is a respected ally who receives tribute," Chiun said.
"I'm glad you could see your way to making your way here, sir, since we're in the process of reorganization and we've noticed some unusual expenses relating to your employment, I mean, your profile as respected ally."
"What happened to Smith?" asked Remo. His voice was lead heavy.
"That later," said Chiun. "Important matters first. Explain yourself, you."
"Who's first?" said Corbish. He felt sensation return to his fingertips like the buzzing of fresh soda pop. His shirt had become wet with perspiration.
"I'm first," said Chiun.
"What happened to Smith?" said Remo.
"Let him do one thing at a time," Chiun said to Remo. "Even that which appears simultaneous is one thing at a time."
"Thank you," said Corbish.
"The expenses," said Chiun.
Corbish ordered a printout by voice over an intercom. This seemed very suspicious to Remo, since when Smith had run things, only he himself had had access to the organization's printouts.
The expenses Corbish referred to were the cost of the delivery of gold to the village of Sinanju in North Korea, approximately 175 times the value of the gold itself. Now this wasn't sound business planning. Why not take delivery here in the States and Corbish could see his way clear to doubling the annual tribute?
"No," said Chiun.
"I'll triple it," said Corbish.
"No," said Chiun. "The gold must go to Sinanju."
"Perhaps we could mail dollars."
"Deliver gold," Chiun said.
"Then we have another item, a special television device that records simultaneous shows I gather, then feeds them back consecutively into a single television set. The explanation has something to do with soap operas, I believe."
"Correct."
"Would it be possible to have tapes mailed to you, sir? It would really be much less expensive."
"No," said Chiun.
"Well, I'm glad we've settled that," said Corbish.
"What about Smith?" said Remo. He noticed that Chiun, who had railed against serving a succeeding emperor, now seemed satisfied. Chiun placed himself on the floor in a full lotus position and with barely casual curiosity observed the goings-on.
"Your instructor's profile prohibits his participation in these matters."
"He doesn't understand what's going on anyhow. He thinks of Smith as an emperor. He's all right," Remo said.
"As you know," said Corbish somberly, "this is a very delicate organization. You are one of the three men, I guess now four, who knows specifically what we are about. These are hard times and it is a hard thing I must tell you. Dr. Smith—perhaps it was the pressure of the job, I don't know—but Dr. Smith suffered a nervous breakdown a week ago. He fled the sanitarium and has not been heard from since."
"But why you in his place?" said Remo. He rested a hand on the new long conference table that butted up against Smith's old desk.