Bernwick touched his watch and the glow showed him it was 9:04 a.m. Court was now in session.
"General, our spotter says the courtroom is full up," reported one of his Special Forces recruits who pressed an earpiece to his head. "Right on schedule."
"Good," Bernwick said in a low voice. "I know it's not too dignified spending the night in a storage closet, but you're all real soldiers and you've shown your professionalism today. Now it's payoff time. We'll move at 0920, as planned."
There was a murmur of relief from the commandos. They had all known active duty with Special Forces, but this overnight wait had been tense. They could not ignore the nagging uncertainty stemming from yesterday's mission by their brethren in Chicago—a mission that cost the life of every member of the Midwestern cell of the White Hand.
Bernwick had tried to hammer it into their heads that the Chicago mission had not failed. The target was achieved. But even he didn't buy that load of bullshit.
A lot of their comrades died yesterday. No matter how dedicated you were to the cause, it was tough to look at the job as well done when you got killed doing it.
He had been able to keep his cell isolated from the news pretty well, but then, last night, they had slipped through the security in the courthouse and taken up their station, and then they sat there with nothing to do for six long hours except think about Chicago.
Time to address it again, head-on, no more bullshit, Bernwick decided. "This is not going to be a repeat of yesterday. Is that understood? We have a smaller space, fewer participants. Our job is easier because the environment will be under our control. I guarantee you this—we go in aggressive and alert, we're going to be invincible. Nobody, but nobody, is going to stand in the way of a professional soldier. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir," said a chorus of voices.
"Good," General Bernwick said, his own confidence ratcheting up a notch. "Now let's go shoot some civilians."
13
"It is no wonder that your courts are not trusted," Chiun stated imperiously. "This trial is a farce."
"Can't argue with you there," Remo said. They had VIP seating, in the third row behind the families of the fired state workers. Remo knew little and cared little about style and fashion, but he knew expensive clothing when he saw it. Lots of custom tailoring, designer labels and dead animal pelts. This bunch was not hurting for cash. But to hear the opening arguments, every one of the families of the fired workers was on the verge of poverty.
"It is a sad story the attorney tells," Chiun said, leaning slightly over to whisper to a hippopotamus-sized woman in her early fifties. Her face paint revealed her suspicion, but she saw sympathy in the childlike eyes of the ancient man.
"It has been horrible to lose my job," she whispered in return. "It makes you feel helpless."
"It is a despicable breach of trust when a king promises to support his people, then does not."
The woman considered that, then nodded sincerely and rotated her girth to face Chiun more fully.
"You are a very incisive gentleman," she said.
Chiun smiled and closed his eyes in gracious acceptance of the compliment. Remo scooted to the left, opening the gap between himself and the conniving old Korean. He concentrated on listening for unusual noises, but he couldn't help overhear the conversation next to him.
"I come from an ancient lineage," Chiun said. "My ancestors left their village in Korea to work for rulers around the world and there were many times that we were cheated by rulers who promised us payment."
"Ix-nay," Remo muttered. Chiun knew good and well that he was not supposed to talk openly about Sinanju.
"My goodness, how awful! I know just how it was for you to suddenly lose the income you have been promised. It was terribly anxiety-producing to my family."
Chiun nodded. "You have many mouths to feed, and now nothing to feed them."
The woman looked uncomfortable. "Well, there's actually just Raymond and myself. The twins are at Notre Dame and my daughter is a state representative. But we do have the schnauzers, Jack and Jill."
Chiun nodded, his expression without judgment. "In my village," he said, "there were many families, and no fishing or work. All the village relied on the income that came from foreign rulers. When the money did not come—" he shrugged simply "—then there was no food."
"Oh, my."
"It is a sad thing to see a child die slowly from starvation," Chiun said. The blood drained from the face of the big woman. "It is sadder still to see the mother or the father grow gaunt because they sacrifice their share of what little food there is to their children."
The big woman's lower lip trembled.
"And it is not a mercy to prolong the life of a starving child," Chiun intoned in a low, matter-of-fact voice. "If there is no hope of food, then why allow the little one to suffer more than is necessary?"
"I don't..." She couldn't say anything more.
The lawyers for the state were now giving their opening arguments, "...we will show federal tax returns as evidence that, far from being destitute, the fired state employees have annual family incomes ranging from five hundred thousand to three million dollars, and that does not include the salaries they would have received had they continued working for the state."
The big woman wasn't listening to the lawyers, her attention riveted on the mild little Korean man who spoke almost in a whisper.
"In fact, it is an act of mercy to end the suffering of the babies, for their sake and for the sake of the village."
The woman's heavily painted eyes brimmed with tears.
"We live on a bay, you see, and we call this act of mercy sending the babies home to the sea."
Then Chiun did something amazing. Astounding. He produced a tear. It rolled down the ripples in his ancient face, and he allowed his mouth to tremble.
The hippopotamus woman gasped and sobbed loudly. She thrust her great rear end off the seat and grabbed her millionaire husband, Raymond. She towed him out of the courtroom, blubbering and sobbing all the way. The trial proceedings had halted and only slowly did people begin to react to the display.
Chiun sat back in his seat and couldn't hide the slight upturn of his mouth.
Remo couldn't stop being amazed. "Little Father," he whispered finally, "that's one of the coolest things I've ever seen you do."
"Heh-heh-heh."
"How long has it been since Sinanju actually sent any babies home to the sea? Like three thousand years?"
"Heh-heh-heh."
The trial began in earnest, Remo fought the inevitable boredom that came whenever he was in court—not that he was in court often in the past, well, couple of decades. When he was a cop in New Jersey, there had been regular court appearances. Then, of course, there was his own trial for murder. He had been framed and the trial was rigged and Remo Williams was found guilty. Next thing he knew, wham, bam, sizzle, he was in the electric chair.
The entire trial and execution were orchestrated by CURE, which then consisted of Harold Smith and Conn MacCleary, who had once been an agent alongside Smith in the Central Intelligence Agency.
Which got Remo wondering again about his current endeavor and why he was doing it. Everywhere you looked, there was corruption. Somebody was removing the perpetrators of the corruption. Was that really a bad thing to do?
And what was the difference really between these guys and CURE?
Maybe stopping the corruption vigilantes was actually the wrong thing to do.
Chiun had moved down and was speaking to a well-proportioned but meaty middle-aged woman whose husband keep shushing her. The former governor had given the man an accounting supervisory position that took him away one afternoon a week from his nine-to- five job as comptroller for a three-billion-dollar airline.