Warren Murphy: Look Into My Eyes

The long fingernails fluttered as Chiun spoke. "We need someone now. Can we use you?"

"I am always of service, ready to bring your glory to its ultimate brilliance at your every whim."

"Good. Then I think you should know we have a target who will be coming to America, we suspect possibly in the vicinity of New York. I want you placed in New York City now-"

"It would be the wrong time to leap to your very whim. We must get Remo well again before we go on."

"How long will that take?" asked Smith, who remembered he had a back problem that doctors had pronounced incurable until Chiun, with less than three seconds of manipulation, blessedly cured it forever.

"A rapid fifteen years," said Chiun.

"We don't have fifteen years. What can we give you to get your services, services I might remind you we are this very moment paying for in gold tribute to the village of Sinanju, gold that is delivered on time when you want it."

"And we are here for you. Forever to sing your praises. Only in your service has Remo's mind been injured. Yet we humbly accept that harm as part of our service to you."

"Remo is now gallivanting around the countryside with a man I ordered executed-"

"One you have certainly paid to have executed," said Chiun. "And it should be given you."

"And Remo is eliminating people we have not asked him to."

"For nothing?" asked Chiun, in horror.

"Yes. Remo doesn't care about money. You know that."

"It has come to this. He has taken the wisdom and skill of Sinanju and become an amateur. Oh, how the world has cruelly vented its scorn upon this lowly head in your gracious service, O Emperor Smith."

"Well, I am glad that for the first time we have agreed on something, Chiun," said Smith. "In this disaster, at least that is a blessing."

He wondered if the sheriff's car would be following them. He wondered how many other reasonless killings this aged Oriental had committed, only to have them hidden by Remo.

He wondered if he could keep things together enough to save America one last time. He felt tired. His body and mind were telling him to toss it all in, maybe drive off the road into the river along which the road ran. Let the water come in cold and dark and final and give him some peace at last.

And then without even being aware, Harold W. Smith felt as bright as a summer morning, fresh as his orange juice, and more chipper than anytime since the morning of his tenth birthday.

He saw Chiun remove his long fingernails from behind his neck, and Smith's neck was still tingling.

"You were letting the tiredness of your body make your decisions," said Chiun. "Now how does the world look?"

"Difficult."

"For the great emperors it is always difficult."

"'I don't suppose it would do any good to tell you I'm not an emperor. I guess not. There is a difficult problem. And I can't reach Remo."

"All problems are the same. They just have different faces and times," said Chiun.

"You mean you may have run up against something like this in the histories of Sinanju?"

"I guarantee we ran up against it in our history. The question is, will I recognize it? You see, our histories are our strength. That is what Remo must learn. He would know what he is experiencing now if he had properly revered our histories."

"He didn't like that part of the training, I take it," said Smith.

"He called it an ugly name," said Chiun.

"I'm sorry," said Smith.

"Now we are all paying for it," said Chiun. "Ah well, he will be back soon. I will tell him you are angry also."

"How do you know he's coming back?"

"He always comes back to me after he completes a service for you."

"But I thought you said he suffered from the Master's disease. "

"And he does, most gracious Emperor Smith. He will wreak acts of vengeance upon mankind. It is an old Hindu curse interpreted by them as a duty imposed by one of their gods."

"But if he is wreaking vengeance, his own personal vengeance, how will he do what he is supposed to do for me?"

"You mean your assignment?"

"Yes. This man he was supposed to eliminate," said Smith.

"Oh, that," said Chiun, dismissing the worry as trivial. "That's business. The man is dead."

"Guenther Largos Diaz is perhaps the most cunning briber in the world. He should have been dead days ago."

"Yes, I admit, Remo may be late, but there is no question. Mr. Diaz may think he is saving his life, but Remo will come to his senses because the disease fevers the brain in waves, not in a constant barrage. Don't worry. Remo is Remo."

"Yes," said Smith wearily, "but who that is, I don't know. "

"You read the souls of all men, O most gracious Emperor," said Chiun, who thought that it would take a white to deal with someone for twenty years and then come out with a statement as stupid as that. If he didn't know Remo by now, he never would.

* * *

Guenther Largos Diaz had understood immediately there was a quality to this man called Remo that he had never seen before. And even though he had learned many things about him in the last few days, he did make the disastrously impulsive judgment that he knew Remo.

He had seen him kill at the foot of the Andes, seen his work in Boston and now in Denver, seen the flippant grace that made awesome deeds seem no more than the simple manipulation of the hand, like swatting away a fly.

It was this very simplicity that made it all seem so natural, which in Diaz's understanding made it all the more magnificent. He could feed this force victims and thus prolong his own life, but life was too valuable to live it poorly, to constantly be running around America one step from death.

There had to be a significant move along the way when Remo would make that switch to working for Diaz instead of Diaz working for Remo. The more subtly it was made, the more possible it would become. What Guenther Largos Diaz wanted was for their goals, his and Remo's, to become indistinguishable, and then once that had been established, to slowly substitute Diaz's real goals.

For in this one man Diaz would have an army of killers. To this end, he questioned Remo. They were aboard the private jet on their way to Atlanta, where Diaz had assured Remo a major builder was also using Diaz cocaine money. "We are really getting the big shots, Remo."

"You seem happy about it, Diaz."

"I am happy to be alive," said Diaz. He examined a tray of truffles brought to him by the steward aboard his jet, and dismissed them as inadequate. They could always fly to France for the best truffles. Life was so short, why settle?

"You didn't seem to be too frightened," said Remo.

"Why be frightened even though life is dear? But I am thinking, why not get the true masters of crime. We have dealt with bankers and bookies and commodities dealers, and now we seek a builder. Let us get the great criminals of the world."

"These are big enough for me," said Remo.

"Do you know how much a country steals every day? What does one communist government steal when it has everyone within its borders providing cheap labor? What does the American government steal when it taxes? Cocaine smugglers are pipsqueaks, and so are bankers. Are you willing to go for the really big boys, Remo?"

"No," said Remo. "As a matter of fact I should be getting home. I'm late."

"I thought you didn't have a home."

"I don't really. It's my teacher I live with."

"And he teaches you these powers."

"Yeah. In a way," said Remo. He liked the plush white cushions on the plane. He wondered what it would be like to live this way, to have many homes. Guenther Largos Diaz had many homes. If he worked for Diaz, so would he.

"In what way, Remo?"

"I'd tell you but I don't have time."

"We have all the time in the world," said Guenther Largos Diaz, making a broad gesture with his hands.