Warren Murphy: The Arms of Kali

"What do we do, then?" Remo asked.

"There isn't a good word in English for it. It lacks majesty."

"Because it's the right word," Remo said stubbornly.

"Never," Chiun spat. "I am not a mushroom. Maybe you are but I am not and I never will be. I have tried to take what was given me, ignoring the fact that you are white. I have always ignored it."

"You've never stopped mentioning it, Little Father."

"You mention it and bring it on yourself. Ignoring the fact that you were white, I gave all to you. I gave you Sinanju."

"Nobody in Sinanju could get it right. That's why. You thought you would teach me a few blows, pick up a bag of gold, and go home. I know why you stayed on to really teach me. Because I was the only one who could learn. This century. Not in the Mings or the Fus or any dynasty from Persia to the golden blossom courts of Japan. Today. Me. I was the only one."

"Trying always to ignore the fact that I was dealing with an ungrateful white, I gave you what centuries have blessed only one house of assassins with," Chiun said solemnly.

"And I learned."

"And if you learned, then you cannot call what we do ... that word."

"Killing," said Remo. "We do killing."

Chiun clasped his breast. Remo had used the word. Chiun turned his head away.

"Killing," Remo repeated.

"Ingrate," Chiun said.

"Killing."

"Then why do you do it?" Chiun asked.

"I do it," said Remo, "because I do it."

Chiun lightly waved a long-nailed, delicate hand into the air of the penthouse suite.

"Of course. A reason without a reason. Why should I have ever expected that you would have performed for the House of Sinanju or for me? What have I done to deserve the slightest inkling of respect from you?"

"I'm sorry, Little Father, but . . ."

Remo did not finish. Chiun had clapped his hands over his ears. It was now the proper time for sulking and Chiun was doing it. He had one last word for Remo before he went to the large picture window where he could best be seen sulking.

"Never say that word again in my presence." Chiun lowered himself into a lotus position facing the window, his back to the room and Remo, his head in perfect balance with his perfect spine, his face a rhythmed stillness of poise and silence. It was a graceful sulk. But then again, he was the Master of Sinanju.

It was only when he heard the door to the suite slam shut that he remembered there had been a message for Remo from the head of CURE.

"I will come up there to meet him," Smith had said.

"We wait with delight your coming, O Emperor," Chiun said.

"Please tell Remo to wait there for me."

"It is inscribed in the stone of my soul," Chiun had promised.

"You'll give him that message, then?" Smith asked.

"As the sun informs the spring flowers of its presence," Chiun had said.

"That's yes?" Smith asked.

"Does the sun rise in the morning and the moon at night, O Emperor?" said Chiun.

Remo had often corrected him, saying that Dr. Harold Smith was not an emperor, and did not like to be called an emperor. He just ran CURE. He was a man chosen, Remo would explain, precisely because he didn't like such things as titles and because he would not use such a powerful organization for his own self-aggrandizement. Chiun had always smiled tolerantly, knowing that Remo would eventually grow out of holding such silly notions about people. He could not learn everything at once.

"So he will be told as soon as he gets there," Smith had said warily to Chiun.

"He shall not see my face before he hears your words," Chiun had said, and having taken care of Smith, he had gotten back to more important things, namely his posters assailing amateur assassins.

He remembered the message only when he heard the door slam behind Remo. But it didn't really matter. Smith shipped the gold for Chiun's services to Sinanju whether messages were delivered or not. Besides, even though he hadn't delivered the message, Chiun could always figure out something to tell Smith when the time came. One had to know how to handle emperors. Someday Remo would learn that.

Harold Smith arrived in Boston and almost had a heart attack at Logan Airport. In World War II he had been parachuted into France with the OSS, and even floating at the end of a chute in darkness over Limoges, he did not feel quite so helpless as he did now, holding this Boston newspaper. He hadn't even bought it to read the news, since he already knew the news, but for the sports section, hoping to find something on Dartmouth football.

His gaunt lemony face suddenly became white, and even the cabdriver noticed it.

"Are you okay?" the driver asked.

"Yes, yes. Of course," said Smith. He straightened the gray vest of his gray suit. Of course he was all right. He had been dealing with shocking situations all his life. That was why he had been chosen for this position.

But he had not expected this. Not in a newspaper. Just three days before, Smith had been in the White House to assure the President that CURE was a secure organization.

"I'm sure you know how the press would treat something like this," the President said. "Especially in my administration. It wouldn't matter that I wasn't the President who started your little operation."

"Security, sir, is paramount with us," Smith had said. "Are you aware how we established our security arm?"

"No."

"We used a dead man. We framed someone for a crime he didn't commit. We altered the execution mode to let him live and then we trained him. He's a man who doesn't exist working for an organization that doesn't exist."

"If you framed him, why didn't he resent it?" the President asked.

"He did."

"Why didn't he just walk away?"

"He wasn't the type," Smith said. "That's why we picked him. He is a patriot, sir, and he can't fight that."

"And the older one? The one you said was well into his eighties?" The President smiled when he mentioned that.

"He is no patriot," Smith said. "Not to us, and I believe he would leave us if the gold stopped. But he has developed some form of attachment for his pupil. The pupil loves him like a father. They are always together."

"The older one is better?" the President asked with a melon-wide grin.

"I'm not sure."

"I'll bet he is," the President said.

"I don't know. Those two would know, but I don't, sir," said Smith.

"So there is no danger of exposure," the President said.

"There are no guarantees in this world. But I think you can rely on us. We are nothing if not secret," Smith said.

"Thank you, Smith. And thank you for doing what has to be the loneliest job in America. My predecessors were right. We have the best of men running that shop."

"May I ask you a favor?" Smith said.

"Of course."

"I will, of course, come here whenever called. But every contact, no matter how well executed, is another small danger of exposure."

"I understand," the President said.

"If you understand, sir," Smith said coldly, "then please refrain from asking for a contact just to be reassured that everything is all right and to give me compliments. If there is any danger, you will know about it because we will not be there anymore. I will collapse the organization as planned."

"I just wanted to tell you I appreciate what you're doing."

"We all have wants, sir, but with the responsibility for so many lives, it behooves us all to control them," Smith said.

The President realized his predecessors had been right about Smith in another way too. The coldest SOB ever put on this green earth, they had called him. And they were right. The President tried to smile.

Smith remembered that smile, trying to cover up the President's hurt at being so coldly rebuffed. Smith had not wanted to hurt his feelings, but secrecy was paramount. To be exposed was to be a failure in every respect; it was to admit that America could not work within its own laws.