The Billings, Montana ‘Settle Inn’ was not a five-star establishment, but it was a far sight better than a no-tell motel. Its few frills included a small meeting room off the side of it for business guests to reserve, which was really just a table, three chairs, and a phone.
That was all Bob Janos needed to screen applicants who had answered his online call for “activists looking to make a difference.” If ‘making a difference’ was not reason enough to volunteer, however, the advertisement also listed a stipend of “$200 in cash, plus free lodging and travel,” which was enough to generate a wave of newfound civic engagement.
Bob knew that most of the respondents were just there for the paycheck and the opportunity to see another part of the country, but he still gave each one the same earnest spiel about appreciating their service, how they were helping take their country back, and how it was people like them who taught King George’s men a thing or two about what real patriots would do for the country they loved.
The ones that were enthralled by his pitch, he listed in one group. He wanted to keep them together, near the back of the protest, where they would busy themselves talking with each other about how they were very good people doing a very good thing for their very good country.
Then there were the ones just there for the job. They would hold any sign, chant any slogan, and march any street, so long as money landed in their bank accounts. These he would place in the middle of his ensemble — they would bulk up the head count in photographs, but they would be inaccessible to the media, and would not have to answer questions.
Finally, there were the hardcore believers. They were much like the first group, except they were motivated by something other than patriotism, no matter what they deluded themselves into believing. These were angry, bitter men and women; they were tired of uppity left-wingers, immigrants, minorities, and everyone who was not like them — namely, white.
These he would put in the front of the march, to lead the chants, and to guide the others on their way with lighted torches.
It was a good system, and it never failed to put the right people in the right places.
A knock at the door was followed by a man’s voice. “This where we come to get paid to protest?”
Bob Janos looked up from his organized stacks of applications. The man in the doorway was thin and forgettable, despite whatever statement he was trying to make with the tight black t-shirt, black chinos, and Italian loafers. He held a copy of the advertisement and application printed from the Internet.
“You got it,” Bob said with practiced cheerfulness. “That is, if y’all are looking to help take our country back —” He took the application from him and read the name. “— Mister Lee?”
“Back to where?” Remo asked flatly.
Middle group, Bob noted to himself, his smile never fading the slightest. “Pay is two hundred, plus travel to Arlington, Virginia and lodging. Sound good to you?”
“What’s in Arlington?” Remo asked.
“America’s future,” Bob replied.
“America’s future is a graveyard? I could have told you that.” The voice behind Remo Lee was accented, and somewhat musical. Peering around the taller man was a scrawny little Asian whom Bob thought could be knocked over with the breeze from a slamming door, if he did not first crumble into dust. The little man was bald, except for two wisps of gray hair that stuck out from his temples, and a similarly wispy strand that clung to his chin. He had skin like wrinkled parchment, which stood in contrast to the ornate silk kimono that draped over him.
“It will be if we let it continue in the direction it’s going,” Bob said. “Are you here to join our march?”
“This is my father, Chiun,” Remo said. “He’s just along for the ride.”
“The man said it pays,” Chiun interjected.
“Two hundred dollars,” Bob repeated.
“American dollars?” Chiun sniffed. “Worthless. Can you pay in gold?”
“I like how you think, Mister Chiun,” Bob said. “Our economy has been driven into the ground by our leaders bowing to foreign powers. And those who control our country’s wealth, well they’re not exactly from our kind of tribe, right?”
Chiun sniffed. “The corruption of currency is older than that,” he said dismissively. “Many blame the Greeks and the Persians, and they are not wrong in this understanding — but like most whites, they are shortsighted. The problem truly began with the Egyptians.”
“Gold is where the smart people going these days.” True believer, Bob noted, figuring where best to place the wizened old Asian. “Nothing holds its value like gold.”
“Finally, a white who understands,” Chiun said to Remo, his eyes brightening.
Remo shook his head. “He’s not going,” he said again. “I just brought him with me so he didn’t burn the house down while I was gone.”
“Bring him along,” Bob urged him. “The more the merrier, right? Here, take one of these.” Bob handed Remo a key card and a slip of paper with a room number and a list of bullet points. “In case someone in the media picks you out of the crowd for an interview, you’ll know what to say.”
Remo glanced at the sheet and nodded. “Thanks.”
Bob dug in a box and pulled out one of many bandanas, printed to look like American flags. “Wear this when we go,” he said. “Like the boss, you know?”
Remo let the bandana hang limp from his fingers, and looked at it with barely disguised chagrin. “Born in the U.S.A.” he muttered.
“Mr. Chiun, you sure I can’t convince you to sign up with us?” Bob Janos held out another bandana, and Chiun looked at it as though he were being offered a rotted fish, dead seven days.
“Why are you handing me that?” he asked. “Surely you do not wish me to wrap that about my head?”
Bob smirked to himself and gave Chiun another appraising look. “Perhaps something in white?” he countered.
Chiun nodded. “Let us discuss your terms.”
Remo shook his head and walked away. The last thing he wanted right now was to be a part of contract negotiations. Chiun would have that guy going in circles in less than ten minutes, come away with triple the fee, and probably some kind of signing bonus, too.
As he rounded the corner, he crumpled the paper and flung it down the hall, sending it neatly into a wastebasket near the elevator.
The tiny act did little to alleviate the edginess that had been plaguing him. For the past several days, Remo had found himself looking for reasons to use Sinanju. Not parlor tricks, either, but the deeply satisfying act of carrying out the business. He had been surprised at how hard it was to accidentally run into people who deserved it, and his frustration had been mounting, like an itch he could not scratch.
He had meant to bring it up to Chiun, but Upstairs had sent him on another mission so quickly, he had gotten momentarily distracted. The mission had been enough to temporarily assuage him, but he still needed to talk to his master, before the wrong opportunity presented itself.
“Nice shot,” a female voice piped up from behind him.
Remo turned to see an elfin face with sparkling blue eyes and blonde hair so straight it appeared to have been ironed into a sheet. She was a head shorter than Remo, with a build like a gymnast. Her short-sleeved white blouse was new enough to still have the original creases, and was tucked into a pair of faded denim shorts that were quickly unraveling into strings at the hems. Against her neck rested a pendant: a red, white and blue enameled Confederate flag.
She extended her hand. “I’m Ewe,” she said, pronouncing it like the female sheep.
“I’m pretty sure I’m me,” Remo replied, taking her hand.
Ewe rolled her eyes, but smiled. “It’s Hawaiian,” she said. “It means ‘lineage.’”
Remo looked the pale blonde up and down again, checking for any trace of Polynesian, and found none. “Funny,” he said. “You don’t look Hawaiian.”
She giggled and shook her head. “Of course not. But my daddy was stationed in Hawaii when he was in the Navy,” she replied. “He saw it in a list of baby names.”
“I think they pronounce it ‘EH-way,’” he said, knowing they did.
She shook her head again. “I looked it up in the dictionary and it’s pronounced ‘you.’ Of course, the English dictionary says it’s a sheep, but in Hawaiian it means ‘lineage.’ Daddy said it would remind me I was pure.”
“Pure what?” Remo asked.
Ewe giggled. “You’re funny. What’s your name?”
“Remo Lee,” he replied.
She nodded approvingly. “Nice name,” she said. She held out her tiny hand. “Ewe Johnson. So, Lee — that’s not short for ‘Lieber’ or ‘Liebowitz’ or anything, is it?”
“Oh, good heavens, no,” Remo replied. “But my mother was a Goldstein.”
Ewe’s eyes widened, as though she had seen horns grow out of Remo’s forehead. “Really?”
“No, I was just kidding,” Remo smiled.
The girl relaxed once more. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” she said, lightly punching his arm. “Some people might get the wrong idea about you.”
“Like what? That I’m rich?”
She looked up, searching his eyes for something. The longer she looked, the more she got drawn into them. They were deeply set, and shadowed by his brow. There was something about this man that set the tiny hairs on her body at alert, as though she should run from him as quickly as she could. And yet there was a magnetism as well, that made her feel she might fall into those eyes and become lost.
As she gazed into the abyss, it was gazing into her as well, and it did not like much of what it saw. Sure, Remo could appreciate the pretty packaging, the shapely form of her breasts and the gentle curve of her hips. But Remo could sense that there was an evil that festered inside her. She might not burn a cross on someone’s lawn, but she might set up a stand across the street to sell cups of gasoline to those who would. Yes, there was that kind of evil in her, but not the kind that required the special services of a Master of Sinanju’s deadly art.
Of course, not every art of Sinanju was deadly, and Remo could not deny that the girl was deserving of some kind of lesson. Deep inside him, something simmered, and cried out with satisfaction that justice was about to be served.
Ewe blinked. “You’re a funny man, Remo Lee,” she said, slowly.
“I am hilarious,” Remo replied. “Let me show you.” He took her hand and, keeping eye contact with the pretty blonde, gently ran a fingertip along her ulnar artery.
“What are you…?”
Ewe’s question went unfinished, and would only be answered much later, as she followed Remo to his room.