From the beginning, there had been two colors in Dr. Harold W. Smith’s world, light gray and dark gray. His clothing and office furnishings never varied from a palette of ash, pewter, and iron. There was no flash to his personality, no hint of creativity or imagination, and certainly not a spark of ambition. His wife had once bought him a taupe overcoat, but he had her return it because he did not need anything nearly so showy.
It was this proclivity to avoid attention, combined with an unwavering patriotism and adherence to duty, which had earned him the position he now occupied. While his business cards and mail were sent to the attention of the Chief Administrator of Folcroft Sanitarium, Rye, New York, this was merely a cover for his actual work, a presidential appointment made long ago: Director of CURE. Smith’s job was to look for threats to the United States Constitution and then work outside the confines of that document to eliminate those threats. To do this, Smith had to expand the operation to include a second person, serving as an enforcement arm.
This enforcement arm brought a third color into Smith’s world: the shocking and distasteful pink of the liquid antacid he kept in his upper right-hand desk drawer. Given that his enforcement arm was Remo Williams, there was never any worry that the bottle’s contents would expire. He replaced it with a new one nearly three times a week—four, if Remo was on a CURE-sanctioned mission.
For the moment, Smith’s world was one of battleship gray, quickly shifting toward arsenic as Remo strode through his door unannounced. “I don’t get it, Smitty,” Remo said. “You send me to Dallas because your computer suspected things would go sideways, and then when they do, you call me back instead of letting me take out their whiny leader.”
“Cheryl Sparks is too high-profile a target at this time to sanction without more to go on,” he said. “Perhaps if you had left a witness for the police to interrogate, they could have begun an investigation into Sparks and her WeaponWisdom movement.”
Remo settled into one of the hard-backed oak chairs. Hands behind his head, he leaned it back on its rear legs, his feet off the ground, balancing it perfectly. “I did leave a witness,” he said, rocking back and forth. “He was in perfect working order when I left, more or less.”
Smith typed a string of characters into the computer that was installed in a recess beneath the polarized glass atop his otherwise utilitarian desk. “Braden Mallott was taken into custody by Dallas SWAT and rushed to Parkland Trauma Center.” Smith peered over his glasses at Remo, his lips pursed grimly.
“Okay, so maybe a little bit less than more,” Remo said. “Still, alive.”
“While being admitted, Braden Mallott was approached and fatally shot by—”
“John Wilkes Booth?” Remo interjected.
“By a retired police officer named Adrian Castle,” Smith continued, unperturbed. “Sterling record of service, five commendations, thirty years in homicide—and a retirement spent doing volunteer work to end gun violence.”
“Looks like Cheryl Sparks has her own enforcement arm,” Remo mused.
Smith sniffed and typed a few more lines. “She is on our watch list,” he said. “The fact remains, she could have been handled by more prosaic authorities, had you not violated protocol and eliminated the other shooters.”
“They were killing cops,” Remo said, letting the chair noiselessly come back to all fours. “That demanded some kind of justice.”
“Pfah. Justice.” The elder Master of Sinanju had entered the room noiselessly—an ability Smith knew the Master of Sinanju possessed, but something he could not recall ever having happened. Usually when Chiun entered, he was either arguing with Remo or, if alone, complaining about Remo.
“Well, it did,” Remo said stolidly.
“And you dispatched the villains, it is true,” Chiun replied. “Remo Williams is an assassin—the most honorable of professions, serving at the pleasure of pharaohs, kings, and emperors. But this does not make him the judge of right and wrong.” He tilted his head obsequiously toward Smith. “Justice is whatever Emperor Smith says it is.”
Smith sighed inwardly. For years he had been unable to persuade Master Chiun he was not an emperor, that America was led by a President elected by the people. The notion had been anathema to Chiun, who insisted that the House of Sinanju only ever provided its services to royalty, and it eventually became easier to just let him continue in his assumptions.
“Thank you, Master Chiun,” he said. “While I certainly understand Remo’s frustrations and anger at anyone who would target our law enforcement officers in this fashion, it would have saved us some trouble down the line if he could have left all of them alive.”
Chiun bowed his head slightly, his eyes nearly closed to vellum slits. “Incessantly do I apologize for my successor,” he said. “Remo lacks the wisdom that comes as second nature to the Emperor, and is unlikely to gain it before I pass into the void.”
“You’re not passing into the void any time soon, Little Father,” said Remo. “And I’m not going to apologize for taking out a couple of schmucks looking to assassinate cops. It’s a stain on the profession,” he added, knowing Chiun could not argue with him about that aspect of the matter.
“What’s done is done,” Smith said. “We will keep Cheryl Sparks on the watch list, and get back to her if the situation merits. In the meantime, I have something else for you to look into.” He pushed a manila envelope across the desk toward Remo, who shook out the pages inside: printouts of two newspaper articles, one from Minnesota, the other from Mississippi, detailing the sudden and inexplicable destruction of two major bridges.
“Bridge collapses?” Remo asked. “What, is there some mad bomber on the loose?”
“That’s indeterminate,” Smith said. “None of the witnesses at either location reported hearing an explosion. The prevailing theory points to a combination of age-related deterioration and exposure to untreated sewage in the water.”
“Sounds like crap to me.”
Smith pursed his lips, making his resting sour face all the more lemony. “Untreated sewage contains sulfate-reducing bacteria,” he said. “They create hydrogen sulfide, which, when oxidized, turns to sulfuric acid.”
Remo let out a low whistle. “I’m never swimming in open water again. But aside from the interesting chemistry lesson, so what? You want me to go squash a few naughty bacteria for you? Or go give the business to the poop dumpers?”
Unnoticed by either, Chiun’s passive face gave just the slightest indication of concern at Remo’s eagerness.
“Neither,” Smith replied. “The Helena Bridge between Arkansas and Mississippi went down without a fatality, and is still being investigated. However, the day after the Black Hawk Bridge incident, Professor Ronald Sweet, a biochemist at Maidenhead Technology in Palo Alto, gave a press conference where he claimed to have had a front row seat to the collapse.”
“He saw who did it?”
“So he claims,” said Smith.
Remo leaned back in the chair again, eyes closed. He again balanced the chair on just its two back legs, then gave a little shift so it balanced on just the right rear leg. “Okay, Smitty,” he said. “I’m ready. Hit me with what you’re not telling me.”
“Sweet claims it was aliens.”
Remo laughed. “You’re slipping, Smitty,” he said. “Some California nutball sees little gray men and you’re sending out Sinanju? Isn’t that a little over the top, even for CURE?”
“The men are green,” Chiun piped in, eyes still closed as though napping. “Neither are they little. And pray Sinanju never be called in against them.”
“Normally you would be right,” said Smith, ignoring Chiun’s interjection. Chiun opened one eye just long enough to get Remo’s attention and mouth the phrase, ‘Not true.’
“However,” Smith continued, “Sweet scheduled this press conference before the Black Hawk went down. He still might have had advance knowledge of the event.”
“Okay,” Remo said with a sigh. “Tickets to the left coast already waiting at the airport?”
“You leave immediately,” Smith said.
“Let’s go, Chiun,” he said. “It’s going to take us a little longer than ‘immediately’ to haul all your trunks to California.”
“Go,” said the ancient Master of Sinanju. “I will join you presently when I finish my meditations. That will give you sufficient time to see to my treasures.”
“Remo’s Moving and Storage, at your service,” he said humorlessly. “I’ll call you if I find anything,” he said to Smitty on his way out.
As soon as the door latched closed, Chiun rose silently to his feet. “Emperor Smith, I beseech you for a moment of your most precious and valuable time.”
Now this was the Chiun to whom Smith had become accustomed, the one who used graciousness like a scalpel in order to improve the nature of his contracts. Smith was prepared to tell him he was not going to increase the shipments of gold to his village of Sinanju, the North Korean village from which the ancient sun source of all martial arts originated, when Chiun told him the thing he had always suspected.
“There is something wrong with Remo,” Chiun said quickly.
Smith blinked. “Can you elaborate, Master Chiun?”
Chiun smiled fawningly. “I understand such concerns are beneath your lofty gaze, but you are aware Remo was born under the sign of Virgo, not a Leo as befits a strong Master of Sinanju. All the greatest of Masters were Leos, like the Great Wang.”
“Are you not also a Leo, Master Chiun?” Smith asked.
“As you say,” Chiun said with a slight bow. “But as a Virgo, Remo cannot help but be influenced by certain ideals. Oh, I have tried, as you well know, to train these weaknesses out of him, but you have seen how stubbornly Remo can cling to his so-called notions of trivial things like patriotism and justice.”
“Master Chiun, Remo’s belief in those ideals were a large part of the reason why he was selected to be CURE’s enforcement arm,” Smith replied.
“There is more,” Chiun added. “In Cowboyland, I was able to observe Remo’s actions up close, being merely a few city blocks away. I witnessed his strike against the last man.”
Harold Smith stiffened at the tone of the Master of Sinanju. If Remo’s abilities were somehow deteriorating, it could have a disastrous impact on CURE’s operations. “And?” he prodded.
Chiun hissed a reply, his eyes wide with what might be considered horror. “His elbow was not bent!”
“I see,” Smith said, patiently processing the information. He had been cataloging as much of Sinanju as he could over the years, since the information might be useful to CURE in the future. However, he was careful how he questioned the Master of Sinanju on this matter. “Master Chiun, I realize my knowledge of Sinanju is but that of a grain of sand on the beach, but is it not desirable that the elbow not be bent when delivering certain blows?”
“It is as you say, oh most exalted Emperor,” Chiun said. “But Remo’s elbow is always bent.”
“So this would be an improvement long in coming, it would seem,” Smith said.
“It could mean much more,” Chiun said. “It is something that requires very careful consideration and study.”
Smith waited patiently. It paid to allow Chiun to deliver his messages in the time Chiun deemed appropriate, but the longer the stories went on, the more Smith began to long for the antacid. “Go on,” he prodded.
“I need to request Remo be granted a sabbatical from his duties as assassin to your majestic personage,” Chiun said.
“A vacation?” Smith asked, relieved that this was all that was being asked. “You have certainly earned one, but right now I need Remo on this.”
Chiun smiled. “Of course, this is not something of an immediate nature,” he said. He extended a bony finger toward a date on the calendar on Smith’s desk. “We still have until this time before Remo absolutely must not be employed.”
Smith considered the Master of Sinanju’s words in his typical stolid manner. “Very well,” Smith said. “Once Remo has completed his current assignment, he will be given the time, provided there is not a crisis needing his attention.”
“The Emperor is too gracious,” Chiun replied with another slight bow. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must find Remo, who has certainly become lost between your throne and the fortress doors, and is doubtless wandering aimlessly among Castle Folcroft’s labyrinthine halls.”
When the door closed behind the departing Master, Smith typed a few keystrokes into his computer to satisfy his curiosity, then opened his drawer for his bottle of sweet pink relief as he pondered how an upcoming lunar eclipse fit in with the Master of Sinanju’s adherence to astrology.
· · ·
Chiun caught up with Remo in the courtyard out front of the imposing architecture of Folcroft Sanitarium, the institution that served as the headquarters for CURE.
“Did you get what you wanted from Smitty?” Remo asked.
“What more do I need from the mad emperor, than that the gold continues to flow to Sinanju—ensuring the children do not get sent back to the sea?” Chiun replied with injured innocence.
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Little Father,” said Remo. “You never stick around to talk to Smitty alone unless you want something or you’re concerned about something.”
The elder Master pressed his lips together into a thin line. “Yes on both accounts,” Chiun said. “And I succeeded for you, not that you need to thank me, for you surely would not anyway. Finish your investigations into bridges falling down quickly, for afterward we are both afforded the opportunity for rest and relaxation with an abundance of sun and salt air.”
Remo raised an eyebrow. “You finagled us a vacation? Well, all right then. Let’s get to the airport and wrap this up so we can get on with it.” He gave Chiun a suspicious look. “This is a vacation, right? You don’t have some crazy scheme for some new Sinanju ritual, or some mad prophecy from the scrolls that’s going to interfere with my plans to do nothing?”
“You spend your life doing nothing,” Chiun replied. “And even that you do as sloppily as you did the butchery of those men with the boomsticks in Cowboyland.”
“Killing’s what we do.”
Whip-like, Chiun’s hand shot out, grasping Remo’s chin and forcing his gaze to meet his own. “No! We are not killers. We are assassins! We provide a valuable and necessary service, for which we are handsomely paid, I should not need to add. Where is the bag of gold for the death of those men?”
Remo opened his mouth to defend himself, then stopped. “You’re right, Chiun. That was sloppy. I just got angry and, well, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Poetic justice, you know?”
“Your poetic license should be revoked,” Chiun replied acerbically.