"Any reason to think that?" asked Remo.
"Just one. He told us he was going to kill somebody as a lesson, before killing the President."
"And that was Walgreen." Remo said.
"Yeah." The assistant director nodded. "And you know who Walgreen was ?"
"A businessman," said Remo.
"Right. And a former Secret Service man. And after he got out of the service, he was called back for a special occasional assignment."
"Which was?"
"Delivering the tribute money to prevent the presidential assassination," the assistant director said. "When he got killed, it was more than just an example to us that the assassin could kill. He killed the man who was directly responsible for getting the money to him. That's what scares me. It's like he's telling us I've got enough money
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now, and this time I don't want money, I want the President's ass." The man grabbed again for the glass of Alka Seltzer.
Chiun flicked the glass from his quivering hand.
"Fool. Stop this. Stop this what you do to yourself."
"I'm not doing it. The job's doing it."
"You are doing it. And I will prove it," said Chiun. "When there is a death in the family, do you quiver like this ?"
"I'm not responsible for keeping my family alive."
"You are, but you do not know it. You suffer from what you do know. You know your job is important and almost impossible. So you worry. You."
"How the hell can I stop ?"
"By accepting the simple fact that you cannot guarantee your success, and by thinking of your President as an egg. You will protect him just as well but you wouldn't worry about an egg, would you?"
The Secret Service man reflected for a moment, and then his body eased its chemical assault upon his stomach and a great relief came upon him. He thought of the President as an egg and suddenly felt an ease which no chemical had been able to bring to him. He felt exorbitantly good by, for the first time in months, not feeling extraordinarily bad.
Viola Poombs had gotten lost through the conversation between Remo and the assistant director and had stopped taking notes with a borrowed pencil on a borrowed pad. "The President is going to die?" she asked now. She wondered if she
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could get a book done, predicting it. Maybe something about exactly how it was going to be done. Perhaps some sex. She could pose nude in the centerfold. Perhaps a foldout centerfold of a book. She would need a connection between the nude picture and the very modest and religious President. Well, she would write the book herself. That was connection enough. Authors often had their pictures on book covers. Hers would be in the centerfold. Men didn't need too great an excuse to look at bareass pictures. And she had the ass to bare.
When Viola Poombs asked the question, the Secret Service man thought of his President being assassinated and he dove for the bottle. But a long delicate fingernail somehow miraculously stopped his progress.
"Think of egg. All your worry does not help. Only hurts. Think of egg," said Chiun.
The man did. He imagined an egg being broken by a sniper's bullet, cracked splat everywhere by a .45 caliber bullet. An exploding egg. A burning egg. A fried egg. An egg sandwich. Who cared about eggs? He felt better. He felt tremendous.
"Kind sir, how can I thank you?"
"Stop spreading lying slander about the House of Sinanju."
"House of Sinanju? Why I didn't say anything about that. And it's just a legend anyway."
"It is no legend. They are the wisest, kindest, most venerable assassins ever to grace this meager planet. Stop calling others 'possibly the best there is.' You insult the best when you call others the best. Know you this, trembling young man, the House of Sinanju can tame and humble these upstarts. Best? Hah, would you compare a
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sewer with all the oceans of the world? Then do not compare murderous knaves with the House of Sinanju.''
"Who are you, sir?" asked the assistant director, tears of gratitude in his eyes.
"An unbiased observer," said Chiun. "One who has an interest in truth."
Outside the office, Chiun looked grave. A few paces from Viola Poombs, where she could not hear, he confided in Remo:
"We are in trouble. We must leave. Doom is near."
Remo hadn't noticed anyone making a move. He looked around.
"Remo, we cannot afford to allow the House of Sinanju to become associated with this pending disaster. What will the world think if your President is hacked to bits or exploded or shot in the head and the House of Sinanju was not only not the one which achieved it, but had instead been hired to protect him? It is bad, Remo. Countries come and go, but the reputation of Sinanju is important."
"Chiun, there are maybe fifty people in the entire world who have heard of Sinanju and forty-seven of them live there."
"Your President is going to die and embarrass us. That is what your President is going to do to us. If it were not against my ethics, I would kill him myself from the anger I feel. How dare he get himself carelessly killed to disgrace our name? It is true what they say about new countries being bad countries."
"What's this doom? What makes you so sure that he is going to die ?"
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"Did you not hear? Did you not listen? For years, your country was paying tribute for its fear. Tribute to others when the House of Sinanju was in their midst. Nevertheless, people do not pay tribute for nothing."
"They do it all the time," Remo said. "Ask a real estate broker. They sell one part house, three parts lying."
"But not governments with so many policemen and military men wishing to show their leaders how effective they are. This does not happen unless his protectors know in their hearts that they cannot save him. Every payment is a disgrace to them. This is so, Remo. Yet they have recommended paying off this murderer because they know he is capable of doing what he has threatened. For years they paid him. And then he killed the man who was the messenger of the money. This Walgroon."
"Walgreen," Remo said.
"Whatever. These killers killed him. They did not do that because they want more tribute. They did that because they are going to kill your President and they want his protectors to know that they cannot protect him."
Viola Poombs bounced over, her cleavage preceding her like ship's bells in fog.
"Everything all right ?" she asked.
Remo did not answer. Chiun smiled.
"In your account of how this President died, you should note most of all he refused to avail himself of the House of Sinanju," Chiun said.
"Ignore him," Remo said. "This President is using the House of Sinanju. And the House of Sinanju will save him. I guarantee it. So get this down for the ages. The Master, of Sinanju
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promises that no harm will befall the President. Be sure to write that down. It's important."
"Until this moment, Remo, I had not realized how cruel you were," Chiun said.
"I just want to give you some incentive, Little Father, for hanging around and protecting the Man."
"You are an evil person," Chiun said.
"Right," agreed Remo. "Did you get that, Viola?"
"Almost. How do you spell guarantee? And do you have a pencil I could borrow?"
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CHAPTER SIX
Les Pruel of Paldor Security watched the blade come down on the glistening sweaty neck of the boy. The boy was about twelve and had a clubbed foot, and two guards in resplendent uniforms had pushed him down to his knees while the President for Life of the Peoples' Democratic Republic of Umbassa talked on about security and what sort of guarantees could Mr. Pruel give that his excellency would not succumb to the fate of so many African leaders.
"I can't, your highness. No one can. But I can give you the best protection that technology and our experience can offer. We at Paldor appreciate your problems and we have never lost a client yet."