"No good," said Remo. "That's a phony."
"Oh, my lord. These people are evil," said Kathy O'Donnell. But there was not much tension in her voice. She was as warm and content as a milk-full kitten by a warm winter stove.
Chemical Concepts might as well be on the moon, she thought. "Do you remember anything about the people who hired you?" he asked. He didn't eat the food. Kathy sucked contentedly on a breadstick.
"I remember a bit. You look married."
"Not married. What were they like?"
"Never been married?"
"No. Were they Americans? What did they tell you about themselves? What didn't they tell you about themselves?"
She picked a name at random. Someone far away, someone who it might take some time getting to. She also picked one of the deadliest men in the world. He was in a jungle somewhere in South America.
"Do you like jungles, Remo? I hate jungles."
"Which jungle? Lots of jungles in the world."
"It was a jungle. You know, if you don't like Italian food we can leave. What do you eat?" she asked.
"I eat rice and sometimes duck entrails and sometimes certain fish eyes."
"What does it taste like?"
"Tastes like shit. What do you think it tastes like?" said Remo. She identified the jungle. She identified the man positively.
"He promised me it would be for the good of mankind," said Kathy O'Donnell. She said she could lead Remo to him. She did not know what they would do when they got there. But at least she would have Remo for a flight across the Atlantic.
A sign of hope. Remo had phoned in and not only gotten the person in charge of the experiment in Maldon, but had found the whereabouts of at least one machine.
It was not the most secure rope to hold a world together, but it was a rope. And there was no one better to put an end to that machine than the man who was on his way to South America. If only someone could get into Russia and somehow find out why they were linking a first strike buildup to that machine, Smith would feel that both fronts were being covered. But in Russia, America was limited so far to normal means. Normal means could get all manner of technical information, such as missile counts and the kinds of missiles being deployed. This was the stuff of wiring and electrodes. But the why of things, the human factor of things, was as mysterious to the CIA as the farthest side of the dark universe.
Only Chiun's Oriental formula, that Smith had never quite understood, explained in equally unexplainable terms why Russia did things. But Chiun was even more unreachable now than Remo. In desperation, Smith again attempted to work the formula translated into numbers, and then back into English. Often, when all else failed, this strange combination of mysticism and mathematics worked.
And sometimes it didn't. The translation came out "the bear hides in the cave." Was Russia afraid? Was fear prompting those new irresponsible missiles? But why were the Russians so incredibly afraid of America when the ozone shield was something that protected everyone?
And then Chiun got through again. The phone connect to Pyongyang had been reactivated.
"Chiun, we have a problem about the bear and the cave . . ."
"They shall breathe their blood in their vile throats that have dared profane thy magnificence," said Chiun. "But first a humble matter. You, of course, forwarded my message to Remo."
"I did give it to him when he made contact."
"Good. Then he will understand. I can be reached through the North Korean embassy in France."
"Are you working for them now?"
"Only for the greater glory of your throne, Emperor Smith. This is a personal matter."
"We can increase shipments. The future of the world . . ."
"Is the past, O Graciousness. I am defending the past. What did Remo say when you told him about the passage? Did he read it? Did he say anything?"
"I secured the book. It was a school textbook for North Korea. I read it to him."
"In English?"
"I had to. I had it translated. I don't know Korean."
"And he said?"
"He said, 'Anything else?' "
"That was all? Just 'Anything else?' "
"Yes."
"It loses everything in the translation."
"Look, whatever anyone is paying you, we will pay you more."
"Can you give me yesterday?"
"I don't understand," said Smith.
"Can you give me Alexander the Great making his Greek phalanx stand in salute? Can you give me the dipped banners of the moguls, or the homage of the shogun? Can you give me the Roman legions stopping in Syria because an emperor was told that his foot soldiers could take not one more step east? Can you give me knights giving way in a court, and king and emperor saying in tongues, some now unspoken by human lips: 'You Sinanju have found the triumph of man'?"
"Chiun, we can give what we can give. And it will be anything you ask."
"Get the original text to Remo."
"And then you will perform this service for us?"
"As surely as the lotus petal kisses the dark smooth waters of night."
"That is yes, then?" said Smith:
And Chiun had to wearily explain that rarely had a stronger yes been expressed anywhere. It was a yes worthy of such a great one as Emperor Harold W. Smith.
"Well, good then. Thank you. I suppose," said Smith. This one, thought Chiun, is especially slow in understanding. If he had time, Chiun would have tried to fathom what was behind the white's plan to "save tomorrow for the world," as he called it. Was it finally the secret maneuverings of a genius like Charlemagne of the Franks, playing one nation against the other until his desire for world conquest manifested itself? Or was Smith just crazed with his talk of secrecy and saving the world? If he had no intention of conquering it, why did he want to save all of it? Chiun certainly would not care if Bayonne, New Jersey, disappeared from the face of the earth. Why should Smith care about Sinanju or Pyongyang?
Only briefly did Chiun, Master of Sinanju, contemplate such puzzles. For he was in Paris of the old Frankish nation now called France, civilized to these many years since the Romans had called it Gaul, and trod their crude nailed sandals upon its dusty roads.
Chiun was about to give this land its first great history. Paris would be known forever as the city where Chiun, the Great Chiun hopefully, had recovered the treasure of Sinanju.
Chapter 8
It was the rarest auction ever held by the House of Arnaud. And since it was the rarest auction in the House of Arnayad, it was the rarest in Paris. And if it were the rarest in Paris, then most naturally it was the rarest in the world.
Only the most select bidders had been invited to the great marble building on Rue de Seine, District Seven. On either side, the posh art galleries had closed their doors in respect for what was going to happen this day. One hundred gold Alexanders were for sale. The gold alone would have been worth a half-million strong American dollars. But these coins, 2,500 years old, were as shiny as if minted yesterday. And rarer yet, no other coin ever saved from antiquity bore such markings.
On one side was the unmistakable strong head of Alexander, seen so often in brass, gold, and silver; the flowing locks, the proud nose, the sensuous lips. Alexander the Great, Conqueror of the World.
But on the other side, instead of the sign of the city, such as Athens' owl, was a phalanx of Greek foot soldiers, their spears raised in salute. And Greek lettering for a word unknown in the Greek tongue. The sound could be translated roughly as:
"Sinadu."
The first thought of some was that it was a forgery. Yet scholars identified the tooth-edged die markings as typically Greek. The head of Alexander was also typical. So was the lettering of the strange word.