He was almost at the ramp to the plane when he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Remo.
"No, I don't have a match," said Smith. This would let Remo know that everything was off. Smith could not afford to be identified with such an attentiondrawing scene as Remo had just irresponsibly created.
"C'mon, Smitty," said Remo.
To stand there and deny he knew Remo would draw even more attention.
Feeling as though his blood was drained from his limbs, Smith got out of the line. He ignored Chiun's formal sweeping bow and kept walking. All three got into a cab to Boston.
"Everyone can have half fare if it's a group fare. It's cheaper," said the cabbie.
"Quiet," said Smith.
For the first time, Remo noticed how Smith's gray suit and vest were so confining. He had never thought the man needed to be unconfined. Probably the only baby born with constipation and a sour disposition.
"And that goes for you two also," Smith said. "Quiet. Please."
"Listen," said the cabbie. "This is our new community rate to bring you, the community, a more equitable transportation service within the economic grasp of all."
"That's pretty good," said Remo.
"I thought so," said the cabbie.
"Do you use your ears?"
"Yes."
"Then use them now. I'm not going to give you that rate. Rut if you interrupt me again, I'm going to put your earlobes in your lap. This is a very sincere promise," said Remo.
"Remo!" said Smith sharply. The bloodless face paled even more.
"Merely an assassin," said Chiun, staring at the grit and brick of north-end Boston. "There are a hundred thousand doctors, most of whom will do you harm, but they are not just doctors."
Remo looked at Smith and shrugged. "I don't know what you're getting upset about."
"Very many things," said Smith. "You've been creating problems."
"Life's a problem," said Remo.
"Every country has a king or a president or an emperor. Never has there been a country without one. Yet few have good assassins, a blessing and a rarity. Who talks of just an emperor? When indeed, it is truly just an emperor. An emperor is merely an untrained person who usually did nothing more than be correctly born. But an assassin... ah, the training. For a real assassin," said Chiun.
"I don't want to talk about this in public," said Smith. "That's one of our problems."
"Not mine," said Remo.
"Any idiot can write a book," said Chiun, "That is no great accomplishment when one has time and is not bothered by noisy whites. But who says just a writer? Anyone can write given quiet and no disturbances. But an assassin..."
"Please. Both of you," said Smith.
"Both what?" asked Remo.
"Chiun was talking also," said Smith.
"Oh," said Remo.
Hearing that he should keep quiet, Chiun turned his frail head to Smith. Although normally excessively polite to anyone who employed the House of Sinanju, this time was another matter. Every few centuries there was an emperor loose-tongued enough to tell a Master of Sinanju to be quiet. It was not the wisest move and was never repeated. Giving loyalty was one thing, allowing abuse another.
Smith saw Chiun's stare, that incredibly deep quiet. It was beyond a threat. It was as if for the first time Smith had been exposed to the terrible, awesome force of the tiny, old Oriental, because he had stepped over some invisible line.
Smith had faced death before and had been afraid, yet faced it and did what he had to do.
It was not fear he felt this time, looking at the stillness of the Master of Sinanju. It was like being naked and unprepared in the face of creation. It was like Judgment Day and he was wrong. He had gone into a wrong place because he had made that incredible mistake of taking the Master of Sinanju lightly and for granted.
"I'm sorry," said Smith. "I apologize."
Chiun did not answer right away. It seemed like ages to Smith but finally the old head bowed, indicating the apology was accepted. Somehow an apology was not necessary for Remo. Smith could not explain it but it was so.
In a small restaurant, Smith ordered a meal. Remo and Chiun said they wanted nothing. Smith ordered the cheapest spaghetti and meatballs then waved a chrome rod around the table.
"No bugs," he said. "I guess we're safe. Remo, I am vastly unhappy about the public way, the attention-attracting way you're doing your job."
"Okay, then let's call it a day. I've been with you, doing work that no other man could do, too, too long. Too many hotel rooms, too many Ping Pong codes, too many emergencies and too many places where no one knows me."
"It's not that simple, Remo," Smith said. "We need you. Your country needs you. I know that matters to you."
"Horse spit," said Remo. "That doesn't matter to me at all. The only person who ever gave me anything in my life is... I'm not going to go into it," said Remo. "But it ain't you, Smitty."
Chiun smiled. "Thank you," he said.
"What can I say?" asked Smith. "Other than, you know, things are not going well for your country. We've had hard times."
"So have I," said Remo.
"I don't know how to put this and I am really at a loss for words," Smith said. "We not only need you but we need you in a special manner. You have been attracting attention and we can't afford it."
"How?" said Remo belligerently.
"For instance. There was a television short on the news last night. Someone had given some pottery maker out in Portland, Oregon, a yellow Toyota. Ownership papers and everything. Because he didn't feel like parking it. And he was with an old Oriental."
"Old?" questioned Chiun. "Is the mighty oak old because it is not a green, sap-spewing twig?"
"No," said Smith. "Sorry, but that's what television said." He turned back to Remo "Now I know you just gave that Toyota away. I know it was you. You bought it to drive around and then you got to the airport and you didn't feel like parking it, so you gave it to some good-looking woman who was passing by."
"What should I have done? Drive it into the Pacific? Burn it? Explode it?"
"You should have done something that wouldn't get some news announcer talking about 'How's this for a great Mother's Day gift, folks?'"
"We were late for the plane."
"Park it or sell it for fifty dollars."
"You ever try selling a car worth several thousand dollars for fifty dollars? No one would buy it. They wouldn't trust it."
"Or the scene in the airport lounge," said Smith.
"Yes. This time I must agree with our most beautiful Emperor Smith," said Chiun who called anyone who employed him "emperor." "He is right. What insanity prompted you in a public place before a multitude of people to say 'just an assassin'? How could you have done such an irresponsible and thoughtless thing? Pray tell. What? Explain yourself, Remo."
Remo didn't answer. He made a motion with his hands that he wanted to hear the assignment.
He heard the story of Dr. Sheila Feinberg and how people were killed as if by a tiger.
"Two deaths don't really bother us," said Smith. "That's not the worry."
"It never is," said Remo bitterly.
"What makes this different is that human beings, the human race as we now know it, might just be facing extinction."
The spaghetti and meatballs came and Smith was quiet. When the waiter was gone, Smith continued.
"We have defense mechanisms in our bodies that fight diseases. Our best minds believe that whatever transformed Dr. Feinberg has broken down those defense mechanisms. Basically what we're talking about is a microbe more deadly than a nuclear weapon."
Chiun smoothed his robe. Remo noticed the paintings in this restaurant were done on the wall. The artist had used a lot of green.