He wondered why there was a sudden change of activity. He was good at wondering. But when he wondered, it was different from others, and it always had been. He wondered what he would find when he saw something that was not working properly.
It did not have to be a big thing. It just was very clear to him, clearer than sunshine. He could not remember when things like clocks and faucets were not obvious in their workings.
And so when he tinkered with the program systems of Palmer, Rizzuto the thing that stuck him this day was that an element of surveillance had changed.
First, there was the increased activity in the database of Palmer, Rizzuto That meant at one time someone was doing something to the Palmer, Rizzuto information that he, or she, shouldn't have been doing. This had led to a simple refraction program based on binary algorithms that spit out the names of the perpetrators as easily as if it were a list of clients.
There were four so far, including a secretary and a young lawyer.
But what was apparent most of all in these strange intrusions into the sanctity of Palmer, Rizzuto was the hint of a larger system.
It was as obvious as a leaky faucet. Someone meant Palmer, Rizzuto no good and was watching them. And when this system, so organized and relentless, suddenly downgraded its attempt to rifle information from the law firm's computers, this man who knew how things worked understood there was a different, more subtle attack coming against the people who had made him so wealthy.
He phoned Palmer at his home even though it was Palmer's wedding night.
Palmer's wife answered, screaming.
"You can speak to that bastard anytime. I'm leaving," she said.
"Hello, Nathan," he said. "It's me."
"I can't afford any more help. We haven't made anything on Gupta yet."
"I've called with a warning."
"How much?"
"No charge this time. I was just tinkering. You know how I love to tinker."
"What's the warning?"
"You're going to come under attack from a new direction. "
"Well, that's a relief. I wasn't trusting anyone there for a while."
"I am afraid this one is going to be more dangerous than the others. You see, from what I can tell just by understanding the programs they used to get at your confidential information, this is not the kind of organization to pull back. If it appears to be pulling back, it's only bringing in something far more dangerous."
"We don't have money yet. Can you handle it?"
"Of course. I understand how everything works."
Chapter 5
As Remo and Chiun descended the ramp from the jet, Chiun breathed deeply and sighed.
"Our second home. Sinanju has done some of its finest work here. The great pearl of Hortab was earned here, by the Master Chee, in a very delicate and beautiful assassination. It seems-"
Remo inhaled and spit.
The airport, like most of India, smelled of animal and human waste. The massive country made for beautiful pictures and awful odors. Like most of civilization for most of history it had yet to solve its sewage problems. Raw human waste ran in the streets. Garbage was rarely collected in the lower-class neighborhoods, and in the rich neighborhoods it was the prime pickings of gangs. The life of a sacred cow was more important than the life of most citizens and the great holy river of the Ganges, had it run through any Western country, would have been called a pollution danger of immense proportions. Instead the Indians defecated in it, urinated in it, threw their garbage in it, and then bathed in it.
"Son," said Chiun. "I will show you India as you have never seen it. It will be your second home also."
"I'd prefer an armpit," said Remo.
"It is because you do not know how to travel. Before we do anything we must pay our respects to the reigning emperor, and we must go properly," said Chiun.
"They have a president too," said Remo. "You'll find it the same system as America, which you don't understand. "
"Really? If it is the same system as America, then why does the son succeed the mother? That is how you tell a throne. Not by whether people think they vote or not. Dynasties are matters of succession."
"Yeah. He's not going to meet you. India doesn't have kings or emperors or rajahs anymore. That's backward. They're not that backward anymore. They're going to laugh at us."
Chiun ignored the remarks and hired bearers for a litter roofed with a saffron parasol. He hired trumpeters and callers to announce his coming. And then, with his fourteen steamer trunks ornamented in gold and red ribbons, he set about the return of a Master of Sinanju to the palaces of India. When his bearers brought him to the gates of the presidential palace in Delhi, the horns were told to sound arrival and a bard was instructed to sing, in Hindi, praises to Sinanju, the House of Sinanju, the Masters of Sinanju, and all that was Sinanju.
"They're going to laugh us out of here, little father," said Remo. "That is, if they don't start shooting." The former prime minister had just been shot by her own Sikh bodyguards and now her son was prime minister, and he was supposed to be surrounded by heavily armed Hindus, some of them his relatives. These soldiers were less professional than the Sikhs that had turned on his mother, and there were rumors that passersby had been shot by excitable guards just for making too much noise. But in Delhi, with so many dead normally on the streets, no one could really tell the difference. As a commentator had once said, a human life in India had all the worth of a toilet-paper wrapper in America. Remo waited in the litter, chuckling. Chiun waited beside him, the soft warm breezes blowing his wisps of white hair like pennants.
Finally the gates opened and Remo's jaw dropped. The prime minister was standing there, his hands clasped in front of him in formal Hindu greeting. "We have heard of your arrival, O Master of Sinanju. Let India be home to Sinanju and all its glory," said the prime minister.
Remo couldn't believe his ears. He knew this man was an engineer and had graduated from a modern British university. Yet here he was paying homage to a house of assassins. Remo had learned the stories of the Masters, but he had never quite believed the historical part where this Master or that had saved this pharaoh or that king. Or that they were publicly glorified.
He believed in Sinanju, the doing of it, but not the trappings. And here were the trappings come to life.
Chiun sat pleased as punch. He did not bother to say he told Remo so. That would come later. Instead he answered the prime minister.
"We are glad to be home among our friends," he said. "It has become known to us that your mother has met with a tragedy. While we share your grief, we cannot help but think that your mother might still be with us if you had employed Sinanju instead of Sikh guards."
"Master of Sinanju," said the Prime Minister of India. "We always have a place for you in our service." Chiun raised a hand. His gray traveling robe fluttered in the breeze.
"Would you repeat that for my son?" asked Chiun.
"Consider yourself hired," said the prime minister. "Everyone of importance in India appreciates the virtues of Sinanju. You are, of course, a legend."
"Would you, Remo, explain what we are doing in America?" said Chiun. "Listen to the nonsense to which Sinanju has been reduced, O leader of the great Indian peoples."
"No I wouldn't," said Remo. "We don't work for anyone. We're visitors."
"Then you are welcome and your employ is welcome also."
"We're busy. Thank you. Some other time," said Remo, and then whispered to Chiun. "We're not supposed to let anyone know who we work for. You know that. Why'd you tell him to ask me?"
"Because I am too ashamed to say it myself. Look, this is how Sinanju should be treated. See? Can you imagine an American president coming to the gates of the White House and welcoming us? No. Instead we sneak around like thieves in the night, always afraid someone will hear us. This," said Chiun, pointing to the prime minister, "is where we belong."