"That's right," Remo said, "but I can't tell you yet. I'll keep you posted."
"There is a new element by the way," Smith said. He went on to explain that also aboard the plane was a man who had developed an oil substitute and was going to sell it to Baraka.
"Oh," said Remo casually, "what's his name?"
"Goldberg," said Smith. He was annoyed when Remo laughed, and asked, "What's so funny?"
"You. And all your spies," said Remo. Still laughing, he hung up. So Jessie Jenkins was an operative for the United States. That was the only way Smith could have heard of the oil substitute.
Well, it was good to know. He would keep an eye out for her welfare. At least she wasn't one of the nits.
When he went back into the other room, Chiun was closing his bottle of ink.
"It is done," he said, and handed the long sheet of parchment forward to Remo. He watched anxiously as Remo read.
"Colonel Baraka.
"You have until noon Friday to abdicate. If you do not, there is no hope for you. Give my best to your family."
It was signed: "The Master of Sinanju, Room 316, Lobynian Arms."
"Well? What do you think?" asked Chiun.
"It's got a kind of old world charm about it," Remo conceded.
"You do not think it too weak? Should I have been more forceful?"
"No," said Remo, "I think you've got just the right flavor. I don't know anyone who could have done it better."
"Good. I want to give him a chance to repent."
"Do you think it was a good idea to give him your room number?"
"Certainly," said Chiun. "How else can he contact me to capitulate?"
Remo nodded. "That's true enough. How will you deliver this?"
"I will take it to the palace myself."
"I'll deliver it if you want," said Remo. "I'd like to get out."
"That would be helpful. It is time for my consciousness raising," said Chiun.
Remo took the rolled parchment from Chiun, went downstairs through the dirty unlit lobby and out into the bright sunlight of Dapoli. He absorbed the smells and sounds of the city as he walked the four blocks to the city square.
The palace was ringed with guards and Remo walked casually through the square, looking for one who was an officer. He finally found one with three stars on his shoulders, indicating a lieutenant general. He was walking back and forth before the palace building, informally inspecting the troops.
"General," called Remo moving quietly up behind him. The general turned. He was a young man with a long white scar running down his left cheek.
"I have a message for Colonel Baraka. How do I get it to him?"
"Well, you could send it to him by mail."
"He will get it then?"
"No," the general said. "The mail is never delivered in Lobynia."
"Well, actually, I was more interested in seeing he got the message than in providing a dry run for your mail system."
"Then you might leave it at the front door of the palace."
"Will he get it that way?"
"Not unless you accompany it with a flock of sheep.
One cannot present anything to the supreme commander without accompanying it with a ritual gift."
"Where can I get a flock of sheep?" asked Remo.
"You can't. There are no sheep in Dapoli."
"Is there another way to get a message to him?"
"No," said the general, turning from Remo. Remo clapped a hand on the soldier's shoulder.
"Just a minute. You're telling me that there's no way to get a message to Baraka?"
"Colonel Baraka," the officer corrected. "That's just what I'm telling you."
"Do you know what you're talking about?" asked Remo.
"I am Lieutenant General Jaafar AH Amin, the Minister of Intelligence. I know what I am talking about." the officer said haughtily.
"Suppose I gave the message to you?"
"I would read it, then tear it up and throw away the pieces. This is not America. You have no special privileges here."
"Suppose, just as a hypothetical case, I told you that if you tore up the message, I would remove your intestines and strangle you with them? What would be your reaction to that?"
"My hypothetical reaction would be to call the guard and have you arrested and create an international incident that would embarrass your nation." He smiled. "Hypothetically, of course."
"You know," Remo said, "that scar on your face is really striking."
"Thank you."
"But it lacks symmetry."
"Oh?"
"Yes. It needs to be part of a pair." With that, Remo's left hand flicked out. His fingers barely seemed to graze the officer's face. It was only after Remo had vanished into the crowd that General All Amin realized he soon would have a matching pair of scars.
Remo stopped at a juice stand and ordered carrot juice. He could not go back without having delivered the message. Chiun would go berserk. On the other hand, if he stormed Baraka's palace as seemed to be necessary, Smith would go berserk.
As he was wrestling with the problem, he saw a familiar face.
Jessie Jenkins, her afro a black halo around her head, was being marched along with two other girls that Remo had been on the plane, guarded by a group of four Lobynian soldiers,
"Hey, Jessie," Remo called.
She turned around and smiled. The caravan stopped. The soldiers looked impatiently at the approaching American.
"Where are you going?" asked Remo.
"We're being marched from our compound over there"-she pointed behind the Revolutionary Triumph Building-"to dinner with Colonel Baraka. An invitation."
"Invitation?" Remo said. "At the point of a gun?"
"It seems to be the way they do things around here," Jessie said.
"All right, enough talks," said one of the soldiers.
"Hold your camels," Remo said. "The lady's busy."
"That is no concern of mine. Let us be off," the soldier said.
Remo explained carefully to the soldier that haste makes waste, and then hastily proceeded to waste the soldier's right shoulder which convinced him that they could wait a few moments more.
Remo pulled Jessie aside. "You know we're in the same business?" he said.
"I'm a student," she protested weakly.
"I know. So am, I. I'm majoring in foreign governments and threats against the United States. Can you deliver this to Baraka for me?"
She looked at the rolled parchment. "I can try," she said. She took the rolled paper and with her back turned to the soldier, slipped it into her white nylon blouse.
"If you need me, call me," Remo said. "Room 315, Lobynian Arms."
She nodded, turned and rejoined the group to continue the march to the palace. Remo watched them go, admiring the posterior of Jessie Jenkins and feeling pleased with himself. Message delivered and no one dead. Excellent. Chiun would be proud of him.
However, Chiun was not proud of him.
"You mean you did not deliver my missive personally to Colonel Baraka?"
"Well... I gave it to someone to give to him."
"Ahhh, this someone. You saw this someone give it to Colonel Baraka?"
"Well, no. Not exactly."
"I see. You did not exactly see this someone give the letter to Colonel Baraka. Which means that you did not see the letter given to Colonel Baraka at all."
"You might say that."
"In other words, you have failed again. I send you out on a simple mission, to deliver a letter, and you come back and tell me well, maybe, but not exactly, and you might say that, and on the one hand this and on the other hand that, but all it means is that you have not delivered my letter."
"Have it your own way."
Chiun shook his head. "It is too late for that. If I had it my own way, the letter would have been delivered to Colonel Baraka. To no one else. Ah well, what can one expect when he must do everything himself? No one tells me anything and no one helps me do anything."
"You're making a lot out of nothing," said Remo. "Baraka'll get the letter. Wait and see. He'll answer it."