"Enough," Smith said. "Have you fixed that faulty French connection?"
"Is the Fonz cool?"
"Where is the Fonz?" asked Smith.
"Never mind," said Remo. "Job's done."
"Good. I have another assignment for you."
"What now?" asked Remo. "Don't I ever get any sleep? Who've we got to zap this time?"
"Not over the phone," Smith said. "The outdoor cafe on the north side of the hotel. In twenty minutes."
There was a click, then a dial tone that Remo swore sounded as if it had a French accent.
"That was that lunatic Smith," Chiun said, still immobile in the lotus position on the mat.
"Who else at this hour?"
"Good. He and I must talk."
"If you wanted to talk to him, why didn't you answer the telephone?"
"Because that is servant's work," Chiun said. "Did you send it?"
"Send what?"
"The message to Norman Lear, Norman Lear," Chiun said.
"Little Father, I just got up."
"I cannot trust you to do anything right. You should have sent it by now. He who waits waits forever."
"And a stitch in time saves nine, a penny saved is a penny earned, early to bed and early to rise. Which way is north?"
Harold Smith, the director of CURE, sat among the colorful, babbling young French patrons at the early-morning bistro like a cockroach at a cocktail party.
As Remo slid into a seat across the simple white table, he saw that Smith wore his customary gray suit, vest, and annoying Dartmouth tie. Countries changed, years passed, some died and some lived, but Harold W. Smith and his suit remained eternally the same.
Chiun parked himself on the next table, which was, mercifully, unoccupied, so that Chiun did not have to unoccupy it. Customers stole glances at the trio, and one young man identified Chiun as Sun Mung Moon in town for a pop rally.
The hired help had seen the trio's kind before, however. The older one in the twenty-year-old suit must be the producer. The thin one in the black T-shirt was the director, and the Oriental couldn't be a servant since he was sitting on a table as if he owned the restaurant, so he must be the actor playing Charlie Chan or Fu Manchu or something. Just another silly American film company.
"Hi, Smitty," said Remo. "What's worth waking me up for?"
"Remo," said Smith, by way of greeting. "Chiun."
"Right again," said Remo.
"Hail to the Great Emperor, wise guardian of the Constitution, ageless in wisdom and generosity," said Chiun, bowing low, even with his legs crossed on the table.
Smith turned to Remo. "What does he want now? When he calls me 'Great Emperor' he wants something."
Remo shrugged. "You'll know when he tells you. What's happening?"
Smith talked for approximately twelve minutes in the annoying ring-around way he had mastered during the bug-infested sixties. Remo gathered that there had been two deaths of Israelis recently, thousands of miles apart, but they tied in to something much bigger.
"So?" he asked.
"Reports from the areas in question," said Smith, "mention a man who fits your description."
"So?" Remo repeated.
"Well," said Smith, in a way of explanation, "the victims were found mutilated."
Remo screwed his face up in disgust. "Come on, Smitty, I don't work like that. Besides I don't free-lance."
"I'm sorry. I just had to be sure," Smith said.
"We've found that both victims were involved in the nuclear area."
"What?"
Smith cleared his throat and tried again. "We have reason to believe that these deaths may signal an impending attack on a recent addition to the Israeli armament."
Remo waved a hand in front of his face as if shooing a fly away. "Run that by me again. This time, try English."
"These violent incidents might be directly related to the Israeli stockpile of powerful armaments that might threaten the entire world."
"I got it," Remo said, snapping his fingers. "You're talking about atomic bombs. He's talking about atomic bombs, Chiun," he called.
"Shhhhh," said Smith.
"Yes, shhh," said Chiun in a loud voice. "If the Emperor wishes to talk about atomic bombs, I alone will protect his right to do so. Go ahead, great one, and speak of atomic bombs in perfect safety."
Smith looked upward as if hoping to see an elevator from God.
"Wait a minute," Remo said. "You say they found a woman's body, too?"
"She was clean," Smith replied. "Probably just an innocent person who got in the way."
"Okay," said Remo. "Where do we go from here?"
"Israel," said Smith. "This might be a prelude to World War III, Remo. The two dead men had been involved with Israel's atomic weapons. With terrorists running wild there, who knows what might be going on? Any kind of incident could blow up the Middle East. Perhaps the whole world."
Smith sounded as if he were reciting a recipe for chicken salad, but Remo managed to look concerned. Chiun looked overjoyed.
"Israel?" he chirped. "A Master has not visited Israel since the days of Herod the Wonderful."
Remo looked over. "Herod the Wonderful?"
Chiun returned his look brightly. "He was a much maligned man. He paid on time. And he kept his word, unlike some other emperors who promise things, then send other things."
Smith rose, managing with obvious difficulty to ignore Chiun's hinted complaints. "Find out what's happening and stop it," he told Remo. To Chiun, he said, "Be well, Master of Sinanju."
As he turned to go, Chiun said, "My heart is gladdened by your news, Emperor Smith. So gladdened that I will not disturb you with the grieving woe that besets your poor servant."
Smith shot a glance toward Remo. Remo stuck out his top front teeth in an imitation of Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman or of Hirohito, Hirohito.
"Oh, that," said Smith, "The man responsible has already been taken care of. Your daytime shows will be forwarded to you as soon as you settle in the Holy Land."
This time Chiun stood on the table before bowing, intoning graciousness and lifelong gratitude, and explaining that no matter what Remo recommended, he would not think of demanding increased tribute for the village of Sinanju, even if the cost of living had increased seven-tenths of one percent in the last month.
Seasonally adjusted.
CHAPTER THREE
In the hills of Galilee are the cities of Safed and Nazareth, where Israelis cultivate the land, raise turkeys, pick oranges, and happily exist in their Holy Christian cities.
In the bay of Haifa, one of the Mediterranean's busiest shipping ports is run between warehouses, metal foundries, oil refineries, fertilizer factories, textile mills, and glass plants.
In Judea is Jerusalem, clashing in style between the old city and its newer sections but united in feeling and faith.
And in Tel Aviv is an office where a small group of personnel are responsible for the security of Israel's nuclear bombs and for their detonation over Arab lands should Israel face destruction in a war against what some press elements in the United States insisted upon calling "their Arab neighbors." Until the body count of dead Israeli babies, murdered by Arab terrorists, finally rose too high for even The New York Times' op-ed page's understanding of neighborliness.
On the door of the office was an inscription in Hebrew. It translated into English as Zeher La-hurban, "Remember the Destruction of the Temple." It masqueraded as an archeological study group, but its mission was to see that Israel was not reduced to being an archeological footnote to history.
Inside the office, a man sat with his feet on his desk, trying not to scratch the right side of his face.
Yoel Zabari had been told by his doctor not to scratch the right side of his face. The doctor told him not to, because the itch was psychosomatic, since, literally speaking, Yoel Zabari didn't have a right side of his face. Not unless one called a mass of flat, numbed tissue and plastic a face.