Warren Murphy: Sue Me

And now, for nothing that had anything to do with national security, Remo had endangered them all. And Harold W. Smith was furious.

His computers intercepted the horrible tale as the State Department tried to quiet down the uproar. Remo (it had to be Remo, no other person in the world could have done what had been done except his teacher, Chiun, who was Oriental and therefore did not fit the description) had gone into a country friendly to America and had taken it upon himself to terrorize it until his demands were met. He imposed his morality on a friendly country. He killed and maimed and damaged in said country and then dared anyone in the town to come after him as he walked slowly down the main street. He boarded a plane with a person as yet unproved to be an American citizen, looking Mexican soldiers in the eye and daring them to shoot. Then he flew back to America.

Apologies from everyone in the State Department were now flowing to the Mexican government. When Smith finally heard from Remo he had only one question.

"Why?"

"I felt like it."

"That's it?"

"That's it," said Remo into the phone after he had dialed the special number that automatically scrambled sound waves so the line could not be tapped.

"You know what you endangered, of course."

"Not a damn thing, Smitty," said Remo. "Not a damn thing worth a damn, and especially not the organization."

"Remo, we may not be able to use you anymore," said Smith.

"Wonderful," said Remo.

"Do you still love your country?"

"That's just why I did what I did."

"Remo, we've got to talk about this. We've got to talk in person. I think you've got to understand how much your country needs you now."

And then Smith heard what he had thought he would never hear from Remo, the person he sometimes thought of as the last true patriot:

"I need me, Smitty," said Remo and hung up, leaving America without the killer arm of its last hope for survival, as one president once called CURE. Another chief executive had called it the nation's ace in the hole. Now it was no more deadly than the microchips in the computers at headquarters in Folcroft.

Remo did not feel very good about hanging up on Smith. He respected the man. He trusted the man. But too much had gone down and nothing ever seemed to improve in America, while an awful lot seemed to get worse. He just wanted to do what was right. Just once. Not what was secret. Not what was secure. Not what was in some grand plan for the United States of America, but something for an American family.

And he felt good again.

Harold W. Smith knew from the phone call that Remo was somewhere in Ohio. He put the investigation of Palmer, Rizzuto on hold while he drove up to Connecticut, where he knew Remo eventually had to return. But if he had known what the law firm was planning, he would have stayed at his computers.

Chiun, Master of Sinanju, glory of the House of Sinanju, teacher of Remo, the first Sinanju assassin to set foot on the shores of the new country called the United States and therefore written in the history of the House of Sinanju as the discoverer of the United States, prepared to receive Harold W. Smith, head of CURE.

As discoverer of this country, Chiun had the obligation to future Masters of Sinanju to describe the nature of the people, and how to deal with them.

It was thus somewhat amusing to Chiun to hear Smith describe Remo as suffering some mental imbalance, "emotional chaos without reason."

These were the exact words, in Korean of course, that Chiun had used to describe the American character, Smith in particular.

It was the only explanation of why Smith would assure gold tribute delivered to Sinanju, and then not have Chiun or Remo eliminate the current emperor, called President, to install himself or a relative on the throne. Instead, he had Remo and Chiun running around the world performing the strangest feats, and then even when they were wildly successful, insisting they remain secret. Acts that would have resounded to anyone's glory. Feats Chiun was proud to list in the history of Sinanju, which in the course of things would survive this crazy young nation.

The United States was a mere two hundred years old. Rome was a thousand years old when it fell. But Sinanju, sun source of all the martial arts, outlived them all, every dynasty it had ever served. Every empire and every kingdom. It was forty-five hundred years old, and even though it was not written in the histories of Sinanju, Chiun was sure other Masters of Sinanju listened to other emperors just as insane. There was of course a formula for dealing with similar situations, and Chiun did not even have to think to use it.

"Your words are like the sun itself, casting illumination upon the darkness of souls," said Chiun in his night velvet kimono, with characters from the main ung poem embroidered in gold thread upon it. His long fingernails were resting delicately in his lap. Wisps of hair flowed down his cheeks and brushed his parchment-dry skin.

"I don't know what to do with Remo."

"It is a wise master," said Chiun, "who comes to a devoted servant."

Why Smith never ordered Chiun to appear at his place of residence, Chiun did not know. But if Smith chose always to visit Chiun and Remo in some out-of-the-way place, that was just more evidence of his peculiarity, another piece in a mosaic of madness that was so much a part of this country and unfortunately sometimes still affected Remo.

Smith sat rigid on a chair, his briefcase resting on his lap. He wore his usual gray three-piece suit and Dartmouth tie and his expression was dour, not because of the problem at hand but because that was always his expression. Chiun attributed it to his bad breathing technique, but Remo said it was the man's soul showing through his face. Despite comments like that from Remo, Chiun knew Remo respected Smith, and they shared some sort of white bond that Chiun did not quite understand, an irrational loyalty to what they called their country.

"I don't know what's gotten into Remo; but yesterday be took it upon himself to go down to a village in a friendly country and terrorize it. And why? There was no strategic or tactical reason for any of it. It had nothing to do with what we have been commissioned to do."

Chiun nodded gravely.

"Yes, Remo has done some strange things from time to time, but I have always understood them," continued Smith. "He's a good man with a good heart."

"He speaks nothing but praises of his Emperor Smith. His lips lie fallow but that they sing your glory. "

"But the other day, all I heard was that he was going to correct something. There was this family in Ohio who had lost a son."

"Ah," said Chiun. He remembered it. He had watched with Remo on the television in the Westport home that CURE had bought for them after Remo had complained about living in so many hotels.

Chiun remembered a large sum being mentioned. It was a traditional ransom, quite common throughout history, but in the hands of the lunatic Americans, something that turned into a fiasco. Not only had the abductors been paid the money, but they had failed to return the child, something any self-respecting kidnapper during the worst days of the Chinese warlords would never do.

If one took ransom and did not return the victim, how could one demand ransom again? Yet in this country, according to American tradition, the police had stepped in and predictably, the parents lost their money and their child.

It was perhaps too great a hope for Chiun's aged breast, but he wondered if Remo at last was seeking gold. In this land supposedly filled with peole who did nothing but lust for wealth, Chiun had found more people who refused to do things for money than in any other country on earth in all history. Those who prided themselves on their religious motivation were the worst offenders.