"The case," he called out as the first blow from a stick staggered him.
There were rocks and fists and clumps of hard dirt too, before someone finally said, "What about the case?"
It was the young boy, the one Smith had seen in the ashram. He picked up the attache case off the street. "Hold it, hold it," he said softly to the attackers as he walked through the crowd. "Let's just see what's going on." He extended the case to Smith as if to give it to him. "Here's your case. What's in it?"
But as Smith reached for it, the young boy yanked it back and kicked Smith in the shoulder.
"Important papers, maybe? Or just a little black book with hookers' names in it?" The boy laughed.
"Don't open it. Please," Smith pleaded. Open it, you little bastard.
"Why not?" the boy said. He stood over Smith with his legs apart. His expression bore the unmistakable mark of someone who enjoyed looking down at people. In that instant Smith knew that the boy was A. H. Baynes's son.
"Please don't. Don't," Smith said. "Don't open it." He closed his eyes and tried not to think of it. Joshua Baynes propped the case against the over turned Porsche, just as Smith knew he would. He manipulated the clasps in the usual way, just as Smith knew he would, and the explosives set into the hinges of the case went off with their predictable fireballs. Afterward, the boy lay on the street with black formless stumps where his head and hands had been and the case was gone, an unrecognizable lump of melted plastic and metal.
The body of the car had shielded Smith from the blast, but now he felt a yellow kerchief looped around his neck. He barely minded it. Now I can die, he thought. CURE will die too, but the United States will live.
On his right lay Ban Sar Din's body, little more than a mound of exposed flesh awash in blood. A stone smashed against one of Smith's legs and he flinched. It would be a hard death, as hard as the Indian's had been. Maybe all deaths were hard, he thought. But his was long overdue and his only regret was that he had not been able to report in that A. H. Baynes and this crazed cult were behind the airline murders. But someone else would find out; someone else would stop them. It wouldn't be Remo; Remo was dead, as Smith soon would be. And without Remo, there would be no reason for Chiun to stay in the country. He would return to America, find that his disciple had been killed in a plane crash, and return to his life in his Korean village. Maybe, Smith thought, maybe someday there would be another CURE. Maybe someday, when things got bad enough and America's back was pressed against the wall hard enough, some President would stand up and say: Dammit, we're fighting back. The thought gave him some comfort as, with shaking fingers, he tried to breathe deepy and evenly to control the pain that coursed through his body.
It was time. He reached for the white capsule in his vest pocket, the pill that promised a death fragrant with almonds. He rolled over onto his stomach and popped the pill into his mouth, just as the rumal tightened around his neck.
Then there was a scream. Just one. Before Smith could register the fact that the beating on his body had suddenly stopped, he was being jerked to his feet. He choked, and the poison capsule lodged in his throat. Then he felt himself sailing in free flight. He landed belly-first in an empty lot and spat out the cyanide capsule whole. He lay there staring at the white plastic cylinder for a moment, until his senses awakened again and he turned to see what had happened to his attackers.
There were bodies strewn all over the street, and while a dozen still stood, something seemed to be whirling in their midst, something turquoise that moved so fast there did not appear to be any substance behind the movement.
One by one the young killers dropped, until only one was left, a woman, and she fled. There, on the street, surrounded by bodies, stood Chiun. He folded his hands inside his turquoise brocade robe and walked slowly toward Smith.
"Chiun," acknowledged Smith.
"I am really disappointed in you, Emperor," Chiun said. His voice sounded like bacon sizzling.
"Why?" Smith asked in honest puzzlement.
Chiun raised his heel and ground the cyanide capsule under his foot. "Do you think I will have it said of me by future generations that an emperor under my protection was forced to take poison? Oh, the shame of it."
"Sorry," said Smith. It was the only thing he could think of to say. He tried to rise, but his legs were wobbly under him, and then he felt himself being lifted into Chiun's arms as if he were a baby.
At the Seagull Motel, Chiun told the clerk, "We do not wish to be disturbed."
"Just a minute, there. You got to register like everybody else," the clerk said.
Holding Smith in one hand, Chiun used his other hand to rip the stairway railing from the banister. He tossed it onto the desk of the clerk.
"On the other hand," the clerk said, "you can register in the morning."
Inside the room, Chiun placed Smith on the bed and then began probing his body with his long-nailed fingers. After several minutes, he stood and nodded.
"There is no serious injury, Emperor," he said. "With rest, your body will return to the same despicable condition which is its normal state."
Chiun looked around the room, distaste evident on his parchment-like face, and suddenly Smith realized that Chiun did not know about Remo. How could he tell him? He reached deep down into his reserves of rock-hard New England character and said, "Master of Sinanju, Remo is dead."
For a moment Chiun did not move. Then he turned to face Smith. His hazel eyes flashed in the glare from the bare overhead light. "How did this happen?" the old Oriental said slowly.
"In a plane crash. Someone at the ashram over there . . ." He tried to point across the street but was unable to move his arm because of the pain. " . . . over there told me," he said.
Chiun went to the window and looked out. "That slum is a temple?" he said calmly.
"Yes," Smith said. "Kali, I think."
"Is the statue there?" Chiun asked.
"It was a half-hour ago," Smith answered.
"Then Remo is not dead," Chiun said.
"But I was told ... The crash . . ."
Chiun shook his head slowly from side to side. "Remo must yet face death," he said. "That is why I went to my village."
"Why?" Smith said. "I don't understand."
"I went for this." Chiun reached into the sleeves of his robe and pulled forth a tarnished silver ring.
"For that?" Smith said.
"For this."
Smith reddened. It had cost untold thousands of dollars and threatened all kinds of security to send Chiun to North Korea, and he had gone there to bring back a silver ring worth twenty dollars at a generous pawnbroker's.
"For just a ring?" he said.
"Not just a ring, Emperor. The last time it was worn, it gave a man like Remo the strength to do something he had not the courage to do before. Remo needs that courage because he faces that same adversary."
"A. H. Baynes?" Smith asked.
"No. Kali," Chiun said.
"Chiun, why do you think that Remo's alive?"
"I know he is alive, Emperor."
"How do you know?"
"You do not believe the legends of Sinanju, Emperor. No matter how many times you have seen them come true, you believe only in those ugly metal cabinets you have in your office. I could tell you, but you would not understand."
"Try me, Chiun. Please," Smith said.
"Very well. Remo came to me a dead man after you brought him into the organization. Did you ever wonder why I deigned to train a white when it is well-known that whites are incapable of learning anything important?"