“Then what did happen, Remo?”
Smith listened closely to Remo’s account of the championship round of the Third Annual Extreme Competitive High Altitude/Low Opening Skydiving event. He and Mark Howard simultaneously began combing the reams of information that was pouring into their data-gathering mainframes.
“You obtained a victim?” Smith asked.
“I obtained an equipment pack. That’s what heated up. The problem is, there’s nothing inside of it that could have generated that much heat.”
“You should have acquired a cadaver,” Smith said. “We can’t be sure the heat didn’t originate from something in their clothing.”
“Yes, we’re sure because I’m sure,” Remo said.
“Even you’d be able to figure it out if you had a look at the guy. The heat starts inside the pack and works its way out. I think it’s actually the plastic parts of the frame that get hot, but there’s nothing inside the pack to make them get hot. Whatever started it came from the ground, but it got turned off or we drifted out of its range or something. You want me to send you the pack?”
“Remo, there might have been a radiant element hidden in the clothing of the competitors,” Smith persisted. “It could have made the pack appear to be the heat source when, in fact—”
‘You want the equipment or do I give it to Goodwill?”
“Remo,” Chiun warned, “you shall treat your emperor with respect.”
“Bring the equipment back with you, Remo,” Smith said. “Get here as soon as possible.”
“Hey, no, uh-uh, I’m going to the Middle East. Remember the mean old Mr. Senator who keeps doing bad things to the U.S. of A.?”
“We have not yet located Senator Whiteslaw,” Smith said. “He’s in hiding.”
“Finding people is your specialty. You didn’t even try, did you?”
“We made an effort to locate him, but we do have other problems vying for our attention.”
“Yeah, like what? On second thought, don’t tell me.”
The click of the disconnect filled the office.
“Will there be anything more, great leader of the United States of North America?” Chiun was smiling as if he had no cares in the world.
When the old Master was gone, Smith turned to his assistant.
“Mark, what do you make of this contract-voiding business? For the life of me I can’t figure out what he is talking about.”
Mark Howard bit his lower lip. “There’s an extended-family clause in the contract, isn’t there?”
Dr. Smith frowned. “Yes. What of it?”
“You would ask him to assassinate members of his own family,” Mark said. “That’s so forbidden it is like… blasphemy.”
“I did not say that I would, and regardless, I would have made the request of Chiun, not Remo. Despite their relationship, Chiun and Remo are not related by blood.”
Mark just sat there. Smith suddenly understood that what he had said was dead wrong.
“How can this be?” he asked. “How long have you known?”
“A few weeks. Since I went to Yuma to get him. Remo’s related by blood to the entire Sun On Jo tribe, and the tribe, from what Remo says, was founded by a pre-Columbian Sinanju Master.”
Harold W. Smith turned again and stared out at the Sound. The waves were mighty today, like powerful fists battering the land, but they were fragile compared to the realization that assaulted Smith’s mind.
He had seen much that was illogical during his tenure with CURE. He had witnessed amazing things, and yet his mind rebelled against what he had just learned and all that it implied.
Remo and Chiun, related by blood.
Remo and Chiun, distanced by fate.
Remo and Chiun, rejoined by CURE.
The odds against it happening by chance were incalculable, but the alternative was unthinkable: Remo and Chiun brought together by CURE, which was under the control of something else.
Smith felt his chest become heavy. The question that remained, the unanswerable mystery, was what or who had manipulated CURE?
Chiun stood in the hall, out of sight of Emperor Smith’s well-meaning but doddering secretary, and eavesdropped as Mark Howard confirmed what he knew of Chiun and the Sun On Jo tribe. It was a secret best aired, Chiun considered. Too long had the truth remained unspoken to their employer.
Smith was a ruthless man, willing to make any sacrifice to continue the work of his hidden power base. Chiun learned years ago that it was best to keep quiet to the Emperor about the true extent of the fame and glory of Sinanju, and yet Remo was not so skilled at masking the truth. That he had kept the secret of the Sun On Jo for all these years was tribute to his patience, if not an indictment of his stubbornness. This subterfuge had been necessary once, lest the emperor view the existence of this tribe and Remo’s offspring as a threat to his power, and order their destruction.
That would be a foolish act, brimming with ruinous consequences, and Chiun did not think Smith would make that misstep. Still, he would keep a wary eye on the emperor in the coming days.
The emperor, after all, was old and set in his old ways, and had always been prone to episodes of insanity.
