However, he had never been very good at keeping track of gadgets. Smith had once given him an expensive two-way satellite communications device. Remo had broken it the first time he used it. After that Smith had relied on the telephone system.
It had always worked in the past. Until now. Remo paced back and forth before the windows along the Trafalgar Square side of the office. He rotated his thick wrists absently as he walked.
"You are making me dizzy," the Master of Sinanju complained. He was sitting cross-legged atop one of the empty desks. A bone-china cup filled with steaming tea sat in a gilded saucer. A delicate rose pattern adorned both cup and saucer.
"I can't just sit here," Remo grumbled.
"Why not?" Chiun asked, tipping his aged head. "Have you forgotten how?"
He picked up the teacup in his bony hand and brought it to his parchment lips. He sipped delicately. Remo stopped pacing.
He looked once more at the empty square and then back at the Master of Sinanju. After a moment's pause he walked over to the desk next to Chiun. Climbing atop it, he dropped into a lotus position on the desk's barren surface.
"You see," Chiun intoned sagely, "it is not as difficult as you might have remembered."
Once Remo was settled on the desk, Chiun clapped his hands two times, sharply.
Like a genie summoned from a lamp, Sir Guy Philliston appeared from a small office that was off to the side of the main Source information center. He carried with him a sterling-silver tea set.
Chiun had sent Sir Guy out for some proper herbal tea after the Englishman had returned that morning with the inferior, stimulant-laced East India blend. It took little effort for him to convince the Source commander to serve the tea when beckoned.
The objects on the tray rattled like a curio cabinet in an earthquake as Guy Philliston stepped nervously over to the Master of Sinanju.
"For my son," Chiun ordered.
Sir Guy gathered up the teapot and obediently filled a cup from the serving tray with the steaming greenish liquid. He handed it to Remo.
"The English make wonderful servants," Chiun commented. "I once had a British butler. He was a superb lickspittle."
"He tried to poison us," Remo reminded him, accepting the tea from Sir Guy.
"Yes, but he was polite about it," Chiun replied.
Sir Guy looked anxiously from one man to the other. "Does sir require anything further?" he asked.
Chiun waved a dismissive hand. "That is all, dogsbody."
Relieved, Sir Guy gathered up his serving set. He moved swiftly back inside the side office.
After he was gone, Remo sipped quietly at the tea. He stared out the window thoughtfully.
The Master of Sinanju watched his pupil looking vacantly off into space. A frown crossed his face. "You are troubled," Chiun said.
Remo glanced at him. "Shouldn't I be?"
"No. You should not."
Remo looked back out the window. "Sue me," he said softly.
"What is it that you find so distressing?"
Remo snorted, almost spilling his tea. "Haven't you been paying attention to what's going on?" He set the cup down at his knees. "We've got World War III threatening to erupt in Europe. Or at least a second installment of World War II. According to Philliston's latest intelligence reports out of Germany, every skinhead or skinhead buddy is lining up to march on England. We've got one of the sickest times in modern history resurfacing right before our eyes." Remo exhaled loudly. "That's what's bothering me."
"Ah, yes," Chiun observed, "but were you not also troubled before leaving America?"
"That was different. I was ticked at that incident in New Hampshire. I didn't think I was making a difference back home. I'm over that now. This is a big deal."
Chiun nodded. "If you had been able to save the life of that woman who summoned images of your troubled youth, would you have been pleased?"
Remo shrugged. "Yeah. I guess so."
"You will never change, Remo Williams." Chiun smiled sadly. "Though I have labored lo these many years to alter your narrow perception of the world, my efforts have come to naught. The image you have of yourself is that of a fat sowboy in a white hat riding your trusty steed hither and thither in the defense of justice. I tell you this now, Remo. You are not here to root out injustice. You are here at the request of your emperor. The job of an assassin is a simple one. It is you who make it complex."
"I don't know," Remo said sullenly. "Maybe."
"It is fact," Chiun stated simply. "You were angry before coming here. Now you are no longer angry about the thing you were fleeing-you are angry at something new. When our work here is finished, you will find something even newer to be angry about. You are like a child flitting from one shiny toy to the next, never satisfied with what he has."
Remo knew that there was a great deal of truth in what Chiun was saying. He nodded reluctantly. "So what should I do?" he asked.
"Learn from my example," Chiun said. "See what we do as the business it is. And never take your work home with you."
Remo wanted to laugh. Chiun was talking about assassination like a bookkeeper talked about the company's accounting ledger.
"I'll try," Remo promised, shaking his head.
"You will find that such an outlook lessens the complications in life greatly," Chiun offered. He lifted his teacup and took a thoughtful sip.
Remo glanced back to the office where Guy Philliston was hiding with his tea set.
"Tell me the truth," Remo asked, pitching his voice low. "Wasn't there a little part of you that wanted to zap Hitler all those years ago just for the satisfaction?"
"Absolutely," Chiun replied. "For the satisfaction of a job well done. The little Hun's head on a post outside my village would have brought much work to our House. Lamentably it was not so."
Remo shook his head. "You'll never convince me that you didn't want to bump him off for the sheer pleasure of it."
Chiun's sad smile deepened.
"That is where we will forever differ, my son," the old Korean said.
There was a sudden stomping on the staircase from the apothecary shop. Both Masters of Sinanju grew silent as a young Source agent came running into the main office area. Ignoring the men on the desks, he went racing into the side office of Sir Guy Philliston.
"Jilted boyfriend?" Remo asked, with a nod to the glass office door.
"I do not wish to think about it," Chiun sniffed. A moment later Sir Guy appeared from the room, the young man following obediently in his wake. He marched over to a large television set in the corner of the room.
"This had better be important," Philliston complained. He shot a nervous glance at Remo and Chiun. "The lad is worked up about something on the telly," he explained. He scanned the front of the set. "How does one activate this box thingie?" he asked his underling.
The young assistant turned the TV on. The audio came on before the picture. The stentorian voice of a Thames television announcer blared across the room.
"...the scene in Paris this afternoon is a page torn from the history books. A document of surrender that has been authentically verified as being signed by the president of France himself was released to the world press not half an hour ago. In it control of Paris is ceded to the invasion force you see behind me now...."
The picture slowly congealed into recognizable shapes.
Remo blinked in disbelief as the camera image settled on a column of marching soldiers led by a single man on horseback.
He had seen the footage before. But always in the grainy black-and-white of decades-old newsreels. This was in full, glorious color and surround sound.
The Arc de Triomphe stood in the background, surmounting the hill of Chaillot in Paris. Before it, the soldiers marched proudly through the street, black boots kicking high in the familiar Nazi goose step. Red-and-black armbands were the single spots of brightness on their drab uniforms.