"Ma, my ass," the woman said. "Who are you to call me Ma?"
"The guy who didn't stuff you into a jet engine, lady. Take a hike," Remo said. So much for niceness.
After three more tries, he got Harold W. Smith on the phone.
"There wasn't any bomb," Remo said.
"No bomb," Smith repeated. Remo could almost see the frown lines deepening at the corners of his thin mouth.
"There were a couple of Pakeeta Indians though," Remo said. "They're the ones who got the Rangers."
"And?"
"I got them," Remo said. "They were waiting inside the cave to kill me." Remo thought that news might perk Smith up a bit. It wasn't a bomb to destroy America but at least it was something.
"Why? Who hired them?"
"They didn't know. They got an anonymous phone call and some cash in the mail. Somebody promised them ten grand for me and another hundred grand for describing exactly how they did it. But they didn't collect. Then there were three more incompetents waiting for me outside the cave. They fired rifles at me for a while and then they used handguns and they blew themselves up. I didn't get a chance to talk to them, but I figure their employer wasn't exactly trustworthy either."
"I saw it on television," Smith said.
"How'd I look? Somebody told me I should be in movies," Remo said.
"I guess you were moving too fast for the cameras," Smith said. "You always seemed to be a blur. You know, Remo, this is really strange."
"No, it's not. I can always be a blur when I want to," Remo said.
"I don't mean that," Smith said. "First an attempt on the President's life. Then an elaborate bomb threat that turns out to be a hoax. And both incidents staged with enough time to allow us to respond." He paused a moment. "Remo, do you think that perhaps these things happened just to try to flush you out in the open?"
"Could be," Remo said. "I told you, somebody thinks I ought to be a movie star. Maybe people just like to look at me."
"But why didn't anybody try to kill you at the President's news conference then, if they tried out at the Indian reservation?"
Remo thought a moment, then said, "Maybe somebody was trying to film me. That happened at the reservation. The networks were there, but there was also an independent film crew. They took pictures of me and the self-detonating hitmen. Super-speed film," he said. Remo went on to explain about his meeting with the late William and Ethel Wonder, the missing film and the odd coincidence that the same cameraman had covered both the news conferences and the demonstration in Montana.
"I think you're right," Smith said. "I think someone is trying to get your moves on film so that they can figure out a way to gun you down."
"Gun me down? You've been watching gangster movies again," Remo said.
"Take a vacation," Smith said, "while I figure this out."
"I already took one. Four fun-filled days of surf, sand and sun."
"Take another one. Go back to Little Exuma. You're a property owner now. Go check your property," Smith said. "Inspect your condominium."
"I don't need another vacation. I'm still recovering from the last one."
"It's not a suggestion, Remo. It's an order. Go back to Little Exuma. If you don't want to rest, don't rest, but just stay out of the way while I try to find out who's after you. Please," Smith said, and then gently cradled the receiver.
At the other end of the line, Remo listened to the pleasant humming noise for a moment, then hung up the phone. Why had Smitty been so upset? People were always trying to kill Remo. Why worry so much about a few inept would-be assassins and a missing canister of high-speed film?
It was Smitty who really needed to take a vacation. Remo didn't.
He made his way through the crowded airport to the cocktail lounge where Kim Kiley was waiting for him. She was sitting in a back booth, staring thoughtfully into a wineglass as if it might, in some small way, hold a portent of things to come.
When she saw him approaching, she looked up and smiled at him with a smile so warm, so beckoning that Remo felt a tingling in his body that was so old, it was now new.
As he sat down, she said, "I wish we could run away for a while together."
"How does Little Exuma sound to you?" Remo asked.
"It sounds fine as long as it includes you."
"Okay. It's agreed," Remo said. "Little Exuma."
"I can work on my tan," Kim Kiley said.
"You can work on my tan too," Remo said and Kim reached across the table and gently brushed his cheek with her fingertips.
"I'm looking forward to working on your tan. And other things," she said.
The ink-charged brush moved across the parchment, forming the necessary characters with strokes as sure and smooth as the movement of a seabird's wing. Smiling, Chiun studied the page. He had finally done it, finally managed to include in the ongoing history of Sinanju all that was necessary to tell about Remo and his origins. The eyes and the skin color had been giving him problems, but he had solved that with a pair of master strokes. He had written that Remo had a certain roundness of eye which was regarded as attractive by many people in the world who suffered from the round-eye affliction.
This, Chiun had said, made Remo a definite asset when seeking contracts in many places in the world because these round-eyed things like to deal with one who resembles their own kind. Chiun was proud of himself for turning a negative into a positive.
And Remo's skin color? Chiun had solved that even more easily. From now on, in the histories of Sinanju, Remo would be referred to as "Remo the Fair."
There. It was written. All the facts were there for anyone to see and he, Chiun, could not be blamed if some future Master of Sinanju was unable to see the truth inside the truth.
With a sigh of satisfaction, Chiun put down the bamboo-handled brush. Someday, he thought, he would find a truly satisfactory way of dealing with Remo's birthplace. He would find a way of writing Newark, New Jersey, to make it sound as if it were part of Sinanju. But that would be later.
He broke off his reverie as he saw two figures advancing up the sun-swept beach. Remo was back and that was good. But there was a young woman with him and that was not good at all.
This was the hiding time and Remo, as a new Master, should withdraw from the world for a while, and that meant withdrawing from people too. The hiding time would not last much longer; Chiun was sure of that. But it should not be ignored. Remo just did not understand.
"Little Father, I'm back."
"Yes, you are back." Chiun glanced beyond Remo to the girl who lingered at the edge of the beach.
"I brought a friend along."
"A friend," Chiun sputtered. "And what am I?"
"All right, I'll play your silly game," Remo said. "What are you?"
"She is your friend, and I? A millstone around your neck, no doubt. An incurable disease. Some old robe, fraying at the edges, to be cast on the trash heap without a moment's thought."
Remo sighed. "You are my friend, Little Father, as you know. And as you know, you are a great deal more. And you are also, at times, a giant-sized pain in my rear end."
Chiun moaned. "Words to pierce an old man's heart." His thin voice quavered. "It is not enough that I have given you Sinanju? Devoted my best years to your training and well-being?" There was a rustle of silk as he raised one frail-looking hand to his forehead in a gesture that Sarah Bernhardt would have loved. "It is obviously not enough for you, however."
"I said you were my friend."
"Well, if I am your friend, why do you have to have another one?"
"Because she's a different kind of friend. There isn't any law that says I can't have more than one friend. Her name is Kim Kiley and you might even like her if you give her half a chance."