"I'm sorry. That would destroy our cover story."
"Then be certain they leave my name out of it entirely," Chiun said bitterly. And he left the room in a huff.
"What about the treaty?" Remo asked after Chiun had gone.
"I spoke with the President about that too. Worthless, I'm afraid," he said, digging the papers from his suit pocket. Remo took them.
"Even when we win, they don't let us win, do they?" he said.
Smith cleared his throat. "I thought you'd want to know that Youngblood has been interred in Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors."
"He deserved better. He deserved to live."
"Try to put it out of your mind."
"I wish you had told me about the service. I would have gone."
"And I would not have let you," Smith said, pausing at the door.
"I feel like I should do something more."
"Security comes first."
The door closed on Remo's muttered curse.
At the Vietnam Veterans' Memorial in Washington, D. C. , the custodian was clearing the grounds of the day's litter. There was surprisingly little, considering how many people passed before the twin black-granite walls each day. It made the custodian's job that much easier, but more important, it made him feel good that Americans once again respected their war dead.
As he made a last sweep of the area, he noticed a man crouched before one of the two 250-foot-long angled slabs on which the names of the over fifty-eight thousand U. S. servicemen killed in Vietnam were carved.
The man's fingers touched the highly reflective surface the way he had seen many do when they came to a familiar name.
Quietly the custodian withdrew. The man was probably looking at the name of an old war buddy or relative and deserved to be left in peace.
A little while later, the custodian noticed the man leaving. Despite the bitterness of the Washington winter, he didn't seem cold in his black T-shirt. The custodian nodded in greeting as he passed, and the man nodded back. He had the deadest eyes the custodian had ever seen. Those eyes made him shiver in a way the stark memorial never had. The guy was probably a vet himself. He had that look. What did they call it? Oh, yeah. The thousand-yard stare.
Finishing his work, the custodian paused at the section of the wall where the dead-eyed man had crouched. Impulsively he crouched in the same place. He was surprised to find himself staring at the blank section of the wall reserved for the name of missing servicemen whose fates had yet to be determined.
At the bottom of the row of names, there was a new name. It didn't look like the others. It was not neatly carved and the lettering wasn't of professional quality. A fresh pile of granite dust lay on the ground under the name. Loose grains sifted down from the irregular letters. The custodian read the name:
RICHARD YOUNGBLOOD, USMC SEMPER FI
The custodian decided that if anyone asked, he had no idea when or how that unauthorized name got there. He just knew it belonged there as much as any of the others. Maybe more so.
What he could never figure out was how the dead-eyed man had carved the name. He hadn't carried any tools.