Warren Murphy - The Last Alchemist

"In how much of a city could be destroyed."

"Whoever has stolen the uranium could make enough bombs. . ." said Harold Smith, pausing to jot a few notes down on a pad, "to destroy the east coast and island as far as St. Louis."

There was a pause from the presidential end. "Has the uranium gone overseas?"

"No indication of that, sir," said Smith.

"Then you believe it is still in the United States?"

"I believe we don't know, sir."

"So what you are telling me is that enough uranium has been stolen from us to destroy most of our major cities, and we don't have any idea what has happened to it? I mean how can they get it out of the country without setting off a million and one detectors? That's what I want to know."

"I don't think they can."

"Then the uranium is here."

"We don't know that, sir."

"What do you know? I mean, I want you to understand you are the country's last resort. What are those special two doing?"

"They are on it, sir."

"It would be nice if they got to it before half the country went up."

"They are close, I think."

"How do you know?"

"Because they have located the probable source."

"What I want to know is how uranium can be stolen from us without the Nuclear Control Agency knowing where it went."

"I think they did. They are the ones who top the suspect list so far."

"But what are they doing with it? They have all the uranium we make."

"Maybe they're selling it."

"To get us all blown up? They'll go with the rest of us."

"I don't know, sir, but I think we are quite close to finding out."

"That is the first good news I have had on this thing," said the President.

Harold W. Smith swiveled in his chair to face the lonely reaches of Long Island Sound, viewed through the one-way glass of his office.

"Yessir," he said. The President hung up. Smith looked at his watch. There had been a brief contact the day before when Remo and Chiun had returned to America. Remo had informed him of the NCA. Smith had asked if Remo wanted any backup information. Remo had answered he didn't. He felt it might only get in the way.

This, of course, meant more bodies. Smith had been almost tempted to tell him to wait for backup information. There had been so many bodies in so many places. But the figures were too ominous to ignore. All he had said was, "Fine."

And he had asked for a callback to verify success. He had given a time. He did not know where they would be. Chiun had recently taken a liking to this system. It gave him the opportunity to destroy those telephones that did not work.

According to Remo, what Chiun hated most about the telephone was the insolent servants of the wire who refused to pay him respect. He had called the American telephone system "a warren of insulting vermin." He was referring, of course, to operators.

When Smith had explained that the system used to work very well, Chiun had demanded to know what had happened.

"Someone decided to fix it," Smith had answered.

"And he was beheaded?" Chiun asked.

"No. It was a court. A court of judges that made the ruling."

"And were they beheaded?"

"No. They are judges."

"But what do you do when the judges do wrong, when they create such a dastardly warren of vermin who feel free to insult and hang up, who are rude and stupid?"

"Nothing. They are judges."

"Oh, Emperor Smith, are you not emperor or soon to be?"

This was a common question from the Oriental who never understood democracy, or laws. The House of Sinanju had only dealt with kings and tyrants before, and Chiun did not believe anything else existed.

So there was no real answer to Chiun's question that would get anyone anywhere.

"I am not. I work for the government in secret. Our President would be the closest thing to an emperor."

"Then can he behead them?"

"No. He is just the President."

"Then these judges who make the laws are accountable to no one."

"Some of them," said Smith.

"I see," Chiun had said, but later Smith had found out from Remo that Chiun had suggested both Remo and Chiun go work for the judges because they were the true emperors of the country. Remo had told him the judges were not the emperors. Chiun had asked then who did run the country, and Remo explained he wasn't sure if anyone really did.

Remo had relayed this as sort of a joke, laughing. "It's not funny," Smith had told Remo. "I think Chiun should learn who he is working for and why."

"I've told him, Smitty, but he just won't accept it. He can't believe it isn't better to hang someone's head on a wall as an example than to go sneaking around trying not to let anyone know you exist. And sometimes, I think he's right."

"Well, I hope that your training hasn't changed you that much."

That was what Smith had told Remo. But sometimes, secretly, late at night when he, too, despaired of the country, even Harold W. Smith wondered whether Chiun was not right. He looked at his watch.

The phone rang on the second. It was Chiun. How Chiun could tell time so exactly without a watch was another mystery to Harold W. Smith.

"Oh great emperor," began Chiun, and Smith waited for the litany of praises to flow forth. Chiun would never begin a conversation without the traditional praises, which posed a problem to Smith. The director had been forced to explain to Chiun that the special scrambler lines should not be used for any great length of time. As the usage increased, so did the possibility that unscrupulous enemies could unscramble the communication. Chiun reluctantly agreed to use the short form of greetings. He could now deliver his praises in seven minutes flat.

Smith thanked him for the call and asked to speak to Remo. Chiun was never as good at relaying what was going on because no matter what was happening, according to Chiun it was happening to increase the glory of Smith.

"Remo has gone his own way. We can only feel sorry for him."

"Is he all right?"

"No."

"What's wrong?"

"He has refused to honor the memories of the Masters."

"Oh, I thought it was something serious," said Smith, relieved.

"It is a most serious matter."

"Of course. How is everything else working out?"

"There is nothing else, I must sadly say, with deep regrets."

"Yes, but how is the project?"

"Doomed," said Chiun.

"Please put Remo on."

"He is not here. I am not with him. I will not go near him."

"Yes, well, is he going to check in?"

"Who knows what disrespect he is capable of, o gracious one."

"Where can I make contact with him?"

"I can provide you with the telephone number. As you know, I am familiar now with your telephones and their mysteries. "

"Good, what is the number?"

"The area code which describes the area but not the specific location of the phone begins with the illustrious number two. Then it is followed by that loveliest of numbers and the most mysterious, a zero. But lo, look again-here comes that number two again and that is the code of the area."

"So you are in Washington, D.C.," said Smith.

"Your cunning knows no bounds, gracious one," said Chiun. And he continued number by number until Smith not only had the telephone number of the motel Remo was now in but the room number as well.

He thanked Chiun and dialed. He did not like phones on switchboards but the scrambler could eliminate switchboard access to the line once he was connected to Remo. If that didn't work, Remo could always phone back.

Smith dialed, got the motel, and got the room. A woman answered.

"Is Remo there?" asked Smith.

"Who is this?"

"I'm a friend. Put him on, please."

"What's your name?"

"My name is Smith. Put him on."

"He can't come to the phone now."