“Master Chiun, I beg to differ,” said the man behind the desk. “Anything that affects my enforcement arm is my business. Remo becomes more headstrong every day. He’s never been the most cooperative man to manage, but now he’s utterly unpredictable and belligerent. He is putting his own interests ahead of CURE’s mandate.”
The small Korean man, who was actually much older than the man behind the desk, wore a smile that wouldn’t budge. The old man behind the desk, Harold W. Smith, director of CURE, glanced worriedly at his assistant. Mark Howard was at another desk, which looked out of place in the timeworn office.
“To be blunt, Master Chiun,” Smith said, “Remo is failing to fulfill his contract.”
“I assure you, Great and Humble Emperor of the North American Continent, Remo has fulfilled all your stated demands.”
“You speak of his missions,” Smith said.
“He has failed none of them.”
“But he has failed to perform his most basic assignment,” Smith said. “That is, to maintain the security of this organization. He exposed us all. The future of CURE is tenuous at this point, and that is because of Remo’s reckless action.”
Chiun tilted his head. “I fail to understand your meaning, O Emperor.”
Smith long ago stopped trying to dissuade Chiun from calling him Emperor. Smith wasn’t an emperor. He was the head of the most effective organization in the federal government: CURE. There was no government entity more secret, and there was none more illegal.
CURE was designed to protect the U.S. Constitution by violating the Constitution. The Bill of Rights was mincemeat when CURE got its fingers into it. But America would have fallen into anarchy without CURE’s intervention in past crises.
“This Native American tribe out near Yuma, Arizona,” Smith said. “All the people of this tribe must know about CURE by now.”
“I cannot say, Emperor.”
“How long has Remo been hiding Winston there?”
“I cannot answer that question, Emperor.”
“And this daughter, Freya. Both have been there for years, from what I can tell.”
Chiun was silent, his face a mask that could not be penetrated.
“And this man they call Sunny Joe Roam. Are you aware that he is Remo’s biological father?”
Chiun’s expression changed at that. Smith read volumes in it. “I understand, Master Chiun. You did know, but you did not expect me to know.”
Chiun, Master of Sinanju Emeritus, trainer of Remo Williams, said nothing. What could he say?
“This is intolerable,” Harold W. Smith declared flatly, and he turned in his chair to do something that was rare these days: he gazed out the one-way glass of his office at the pounding surf of Long Island Sound. He was troubled.
But Mark Howard, assistant director of CURE, didn’t think his boss was as troubled as the old Master looked. Chiun’s posture had become slightly more rigid, his brow stem, his childlike eyes intense. Still, Chiun said nothing.
“Remo has forced me into a very difficult position. I have never shied away from silencing those who could expose CURE.” Smith rotated away from the view. “If this exposure had occurred ten years ago, I would have not hesitated to order—”
“Hold!”
Chiun’s palm was toward Smith, who fell back in his chair as if shoved.
“Do not speak those words, Emperor,” Chiun said. “Even as idle threat.”
“I don’t understand.”
“And I shall not allow such things to pass my lips, even to educate you. Suffice it to say you tread dangerous ground.”
“Dangerous to whom?”
“Dangerous to our continuing association,” Chiun replied formally. “At the very least you risk forcing me to declare our contract void.”
Smith’s mind was spinning like an old-fashioned computer tape drive gone berserk. What was he missing? He personally hashed out CURE’s contract with Chiun, every word of it an agony of negotiation. What stipulation was he close to violating and what was wrong with him that he didn’t know it?
Mark Howard’s wheelchair squeaked, bringing Smith back to the old office in the large private hospital in Rye, New York.
“May we then discuss the Remo problem?” Smith asked hesitantly.
Chiun smiled, so abruptly Smith didn’t know what to make of it. “Remo has always been a problem, great Emperor of Puppets. What more can be expected of him?”
When the blue icon flashed on the computer screen hidden under his desktop, Smith was almost relieved for the distraction. He keyed on the telephone.
“Hey, Smitty, it’s all messed up out here in Montana,” Remo Williams said as soon as the line was opened. “Hey, Junior. Hey, Little Father.”
“Can you be more clear about ‘messed up’?” Smith asked. “Did you catch the killers?”
“Yes, explain this failure to your emperor,” snapped Chiun.
“Well, if there was a failure, then I guess the blame ought to go to whoever gave me the lowdown on this fiasco,” Remo said.
“Be polite, Remo,” Chiun chided.
“Listen, Smitty, I came out here to look for a killer skydiver. Look for signs of tampering with the parachutes, you tell me. Look for a skydiver with a sniper’s rifle. Well, I looked and I didn’t find anything like that.”
