Warren Murphy - The Eleventh Hour

During the short hop, Remo broke the strained silence.

"You seem to have recovered awfully fast," he said.

"'Of course," said Chiun. "I am the Master of Sinanju."

"I thought you said you were dying."

"I never said that. Your American doctors said that. And what do they know?"

"Wait a minute," Remo said accusingly. "You specifically told me that you were dying."

"Never. I merely pointed out that I was in my end days, which I am. I have no more days left to my life than those which lie before me, which are many fewer than the years I have lived before this."

"How many days would that be?" Remo asked suspiciously.

"Who can say? Twenty, perhaps thirty years."

"Years?"

Chiun put on a hurt expression.

"What is the matter? Are you disappointed in that? Are you so looking forward to becoming the reigning Master of Sinanju that you can't wait for me to be put into the cold ground?"

"I thought I was the new reigning Master of Sinanju."

Chiun looked shocked. "Without a proper investment ceremony? Are you mad? You know these things must be done correctly."

"I'm confused."

"You were born confused," said Chiun. "Look! There is our village below. And there is Smith waiting for us."

The helicopter touched down in the square, sending up waves of dust. Remo and Chiun emerged and the machine lifted skyward.

Smith trotted up to greet them. He was still clutching his briefcase. His ruined jacket was fastened in front by bone needles.

"Remo. And Master Chiun."

"Hail, Smith," said the Master of Sinanju. "My village is well?"

"Yes, ofcourse."

"It's all over, Smitty," Remo said. "The Russians have backed down."

"They have? That's wonderful. For America."

"And I'm staying here. I'm going to be the next Master of Sinanju."

"Do not get ahead of yourself, Remo," Chiun warned, handing Smith the contract scroll which he had recovered from the Soviet General Secretary with a studied lack of ceremony.

"Master of Sinanju?" Smith said blankly.

"Clause fifty-six, paragraph four," Chiun said. "Should a client ever sell a contract to another emperor, said contract is immediately null and voic. Sinanju is not for sale. Only its services are. You may keep this document for future reference, in case an American emperor two or three centuries from now requires our services and needs to know terms."

"I guess you can go home now, Smitty," Remo suggested.

"I'm supposed to be dead," Smith pointed out.

"Now you know how it feels," said Remo.

"You know full well I cannot go home. The Russians may have backed down, but CURE is finished. And so am I."

"Your choice," said Remo.

"I need a favor," said Smith

"Yeah?"

"I only had one poison pill. Do you think you could-"

"What? You want me to kill you?"

"Please, Remo. It's my duty."

"Not me. I'm retired, as of today."

Smith, a disappointed expression on his lemony face, turned to the Master of Sinanju.

"Master of Sinanju, I wonder if you could grant a final boon?"

"Yes?" Chiun said brightly.

"I must not live beyond today."

"How unfortunate for you," Chiun said.

"Do you think you could eliminate me? Painlessly?"

The Master of Sinanju frowned. "How much money do you have with you?" he said after some thought.

"Money?" asked Smith, perplexed.

"Yes, of course. You are no longer a client, so you must expect to pay for service."

Smith dug out his wallet and found there an assortment of bills. He counted them.

"I have over six thousand dollars in traveler's checks."

"No checks," said Chiun firmly.

"But these are guaranteed."

Chiun shook his old head stubbornly.

"I also have nearly thirty-seven dollars. American."

"Worse," said Chiun. "You have no gold?"

"No, of course not."

"Silver?"

"Some coins." Smith poured out the contents of his change purse into Chiun's hands.

Chiun examined them. And promptly dropped them to the ground disdainfully. "Not pure silver. No good. Come back when you have gold," said the Master of Sinanju, his hands folded into the sleeves of his robe.

Smith turned back to Remo. "Remo, please."

Just then the phone in Smith's briefcase buzzed.

Smith went ashen.

"What? This can't be. Incoming calls are poured through Folcroft. Those computers are dead."

"Surprise," said Remo.

The phone kept buzzing.

Smith opened the briefcase. Holding it clumsily across one arm, he tapped the keypad. There was no downlink from St. Martin. Those computers were definitely dead. But when he signaled Folcroft, he got an "ACCESS CODE REQUIRED" response. He almost dropped the briefcase in shock.

"Why don't you answer the phone, Smitty?" Remo asked.

Smith did.

"Yes, Mr. President?" he asked hoarsely.

After a pause, he said, "Yes, Mr. President. I understand the Soviets have let us off the hook. The crisis is over, yes. Resume operations? Yes, that is possible. The main computers are still functioning. Somehow," he added under his breath.

"Remo?" Smith suddenly looked up at Remo. Remo frowned. He made a throat-cutting gesture with his finger.

Smith straightened up. "I'm sorry, Mr. President. Your call came too late. I regret to inform you that Remo Williams is no longer with us. Yes, sir. I took care of that matter personally. Yes, it is regrettable. Very. And I'm afraid our signing Chiun's contract over to the Soviets has broken an important provision. He won't be with us any longer either. My error entirely. I had forgotten that clause. No, I doubt that the Master of Sinanju would consider training another, after what happened to Remo."

Remo watched the first peep of sunlight break over the eastern hills. He whistled a happy tune to himself. It was the theme from Born Free.

"Yes, Mr. President," Smith continued, putting a finger to his ear to keep out the sound. "I will return immediately. I'm sure that we can continue operations without them."

Dr. Harold W. Smith hung up the phone and closed his briefcase. He cleared his throat noisily. "Thanks, Smitty," Remo said simply.

"I can't understand what happened. The erasure codes were foolproof. They couldn't fail."

"But they did. It all worked out, so try not to lose any sleep over it."

"Of course. You're right," Smith said. He put out his hand.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Smith asked. Remo shook Smith's hand firmly.

"I wasn't when I first came here. But now I am. Chiun was right. He was right all along. These people are my family. I belong here. There's nothing back in the States for me now."

"What about the background search for your parents? There's no longer any security reason not to pursue it vigorously."

"Funny thing, Smitty. It's not that important anymore. I wanted to know who I was. But now that I know who I am, it doesn't matter."

"I understand," Smith said.

"Tell you what, Smitty. Do the search. But don't call me. I'll call you."

"If you start free-lancing, we could end up on opposite sides, you know," Smith said, releasing Remo's hand.

Remo shook his head. "This village has more gold than most nations. They don't need an assassin. They need an investment counselor. I can handle that."

"I'm relieved to hear that," said Smith. "Then this is it."

"Maybe it's not forever," Remo said. "If something really special comes up, Chiun and I will be there if you need us. Who knows? Maybe someday I'll train somebody to take my place."

"It's hard to say good-bye after all these years," Smith said stiffly.

"I know. But that's the biz, sweetheart." And Remo smiled.

Smith took the shore road to the waiting raft that would take him back to the USS Darter. Remo watched him from the rocks, feeling no sadness at all. It was over at last. He was free.