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  "I have a new appreciation for America." Chiun said.

  "You didn't ever have an old appreciation for America. It was a barbarian land, remember? It was a land of round-eyed whites who smelled of beef and pork fat and had feet so big it was a miracle they could walk."

  "I was younger when I said those things. Much younger. I have grown in wisdom since those long-ago days."

  "Since last week?"

  "What's that racket?" asked Ferris D'Orr, poking his head out of his laboratory.

  "Who's he?" asked Remo peevishly.

  "That is Ferris. Do not mind him. He always gets irritable when he is around metals. He is a metallurgist, poor fellow."

  "Is that the kidnapper?" asked Ferris, looking at Remo. "No, this is my son. The son I told you about. Allow me to present Remo to you. He is in condoms. And toilets."

  Ferris looked Remo up and down. "Keep him away from me, then. I don't swing that way."

  "Can we have a little privacy, please?" Remo asked.

  "Sure thing," said Ferris D'Orr, hanging a Do Not Disturb sign on the lab door and slamming it behind him.

  "The treasure house?" Chiun asked low-voiced. "Did you lock it behind you?"

  "Double-locked. I left Pullyang in charge."

  "Pah! Better you had staked one of the village dogs at the door. A dog does not bray at lame jokes."

  "What's eating you? Will you tell me that?"

  Chiun reached into his breast pocket and extracted a red leather wallet "Look," he said.

  Remo looked.

  "A woman's wallet. So what?"

  "It is a woman's?" asked Chiun, surprised. "I chose it because it was the most appealing in color."

  "A man's wallet is never red. Black or brown. Never red."

  "I almost bought a green one," Chiun said hopefully, with a silver clasp."

  "Woman's,"

  "Oh," said Chiun. "Then show me your wallet."

  "I don't have one. I threw it away when I knew I wasn't coming back to America. Or so I thought."

  "Then do not insult my fine American wallet if do not have one of your own. This will serve me well, for it carries something that is priceless."

  "Gold?"

  "Better than gold," said Chiun.

  "Am I dreaming, or did you say better than gold?" The Master of Sinanjaa extracted a gold-colored plastic card from the otherwise empty wallet. "Behold." Remo took the card.

  "American Express," he said. On the card was embossed the name M.O.S. Chiun. "M.O.S.?"

  "Master of Sinanju," Chiun replied. "I wanted it to read 'Reigning Master of Sinanju,' in acknowledgment of your current status as subordinate Master, but there was not enough room on the card, so I had to settle."

  "I didn't know I was supposed to be subordinate Master. Is that my title?"

  "I just made it up," Chiun admitted. "But let me explain how this wonderful American invention works." Remo was about to say that he already knew, but realized that Chiun would go on anyway, so he shut his mouth to save time.

  "Instead of money, you give this card to merchants in return for services."

  "Oh really?" Remo said.

  "Oh, I know that does not seem like much," said the Master of Sinanju, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "But that is not the wondrous thing."

  "What is?"

  "They always give the card back."

  "They always give-"

  "Shhhh," said Chiun. "I do not want this to get out. Then everyone will go to Smith for one of these wondrous cards."

  "Can't have that," Remo said.

  "It is better than gold. You give a merchant gold and what happens?"

  "He bites it to see if it's real," said Remo, thinking of the cabdriver who had brought him to this precious moment in life.

  "Exactly. Because he has your gold. But unlike gold, merchants in America do not get to keep this card. They put it through crude machines or copy down the unnecessary numbers which for some reason are on my wondrous card. And then they give it back. Some of them even say thank you."

  "Imagine that. They must not know how you're putting one over on them."

  The Master of Sinanju drew himself up haughtily. "I am doing nothing of the kind, Remo. I give them the card. They give it back. How am I at fault if the merchants of America are so feeble-witted that they cheat themselves at every turn?"

  "You have a point there, Little Father. But maybe it isn't what you think."

  "Do you know something I do not, Remo?"

  "Let's go see Smith. He'll explain it."

  "I cannot. I am here on important service to the Generous Emperor Smith, Dispenser of American Express."

  "Last week he was Mad Harold."

  "He has changed, Remo. Surely you noticed."

  "He did look grayer, at that."

  "He has many burdens. Burdens whiten the hair." And the Master of Sinanju made a point of stroking his snowy beard.

  "I was talking about his face."

  "He is not ill?" squeaked Chiun.

  "He has problems. But never mind that now. What's this about your returning to service?"

  "It is true. I am bound to serve Generous Harold another year."

  "Mah-Li will give up the gold."

  "But then what will you do?" asked Chiun. "You can't marry her without the gold for a dowry. It is contrary to Sinanju law. Unless you wish to break the engagement. If you wish to break the engagement, I will be disappointed, but I will try to bear up. Yes, if that is what you must do, let us sit down now and write to the poor child and inform her of your decision while there is still strength in our breaking hearts."

  "Nothing doing," Remo said flatly. "We're getting married. As for the dowry, I'll go earn a new dowry for her."

  "That is forbidden," said Chiun. "The husband does not provide the dowry. It is as foolish as the American merchants returning the wonder card."

  "I'm not going back to Sinanju without you, Chiun. You know that."

  "Maybe Smith has a place for you in the organization," said Chiun thoughtfully. "I cannot guarantee this, but I will put in a good word for you, if that is your wish. I cannot promise you a magic card, for obviously only assassins with seniority get these, but perhaps there is such a thing as a silver card. Or a titanium card. I understand titanium is a very valuable metal in America."

  "Forget it. I'm not working for Smith. Those days are gone."

  "But their pleasantness lingers in the memory, does it not?" Chiun asked.

  "Right," said Remo. "It does not."

  Just then the elevator doors slid open.

  "Expecting company?" Remo asked.

  "Not such as these," said Chiun disdainfully.

  The three men who gingerly stepped from the elevator cage wore goosedown jackets, stained bluejeans, and plastic baseball caps decorated with Confederate-flag decals. Their pores reeked of beer.

  "We're lookin' for Ferris Wheel," said Boyce Barlow, pointing a double-barreled shotgun at Remo and Chiun. "Try a carnival," said Remo.

  "Do you mean Ferris D'Orr?" asked Chiun.

  "Yeah, that's him," said Boyce Barlow. "Trot him out, hear?"

  "I am not deaf," said the Master of Sinanju. "One moment."

  "What are you doing?" Remo asked Chiun, who was calmly walking to the door with the Do Not Disturb sign on it. Chiun knocked.

  "What?" Ferris D'Orr called angrily.

  "A moment of your time, O metallurgical one." Ferris stuck his head out the door.

  "Are these the bandits who attempted to kidnap you?"

  "Yeow!" said Ferris, slamming the door.

  "I think that was a yes," Remo pointed out.

  "I think it was too," said Chiun, walking up to the three men. "Watch this," he added under his breath. Remo leaned back against the wall. He yawned, The Master of Sinnnju stopped before the three men. They pointed rifles at his head. The Master of Sinanju smiled and bowed from the waist, first unbuttoning his coat.

  The three men looked uncertain. When they di
d not bow in return, the Master of Sinanju kicked them in their shins, producing the required bowing action.

  With fingers so fast they blurred, the Master of Sinanju sent the first two fingers on his right hand into the eyes of the man on the end.

  The man dropped his rifle. His hands started to reach for his eyes, but he fell backward before completing the motion.

  Boyce Barlow heard his cousin Luke fall over. The closing elevator doors vised his head. Then he heard Bud, on the other side, do the same. Boyce tightened down on the double triggers of his shotgun. He stopped squeezing because, suddenly, two fingers pushed his eyes back into his brain with such force that the pressure cracked his skull. That crack was the last sound Boyce Barlow ever heard.

  Chiun returned to Remo's side, dry-washing his hands. "I've never seen you do moves like that before, Little Father," Remo said.

  "I learned them from Moe Stooge," said Chiun happily.

  "Never heard of him."

  "Really, Remo, he is very famous in America. He is one of the Stooge Brothers. They are excellent entertainers. Possibly brilliant. I would like to visit them as soon as possible. I may be able to help them refine some of their moves."

  "No chance," said Remo.

  "You would deny me such a tiny request?"

  "I'm sorry to be the one to break this to you, but they all died years ago."

  Chiun trembled. "Curly too?"

  "He was the first to go."

  The Master of Sinanju bowed his head in sorrow. "The good die young," he said.

  Remo went over to the three bodies and tested their carotid arteries.

  "They're dead," he said.

  "Of, course. They are the vicious would-be kidnappers of Ferris the Metallurgist. They did not deserve to live. What are you doing?"

  "Checking them for identification."

  "Why bother? The dead have no need of their names."

  "But Smith might. Nothing. Their wallets are empty."

  "What color?" asked Chiun.

  "This one's black."

  "I will take it, seeing he does not need it any longer."

  "Okay, let's go," said Remo, straightening.

  "Where?"

  "Back to Smith. We're going to get you unhired."

  "But, Remo, what about Ferris?"

  "Smith sent you to protect him from these guys. He's protected. Permanently. Let's go."

  "I cannot. My duty is to stand guard until my emperor orders otherwise," said Chiun.

  "What's going on out there?" Ferris' frightened voice called out from behind the lab door.

  "It is all right, Ferris. Your assailants have been vanquished by the awesome magnificence that is Sinanju."

  "Are they dead?" asked Ferris, stepping carefully into the hall.

  "Of course," said Chiun, dragging the bodies into the elevator.

  "Is he always like this?" Ferris asked Remo. "Usually he makes me dispose of the bodies," Remo said. "Watch. He'll say something about being too old to lug them onto the elevator."

  But when the Master of Sinanju continued piling the three Barlow cousins onto the elevator in silence, Remo was forced to ask, "Need any help, Little Father?"

  "I am fine," said Chiun. "Do not trouble yourself. I will dispose of these carrion and return momentarily."

  "I don't get it," Remo said in a shocked voice. "He never handles the bodies himself."

  "They pile up a lot, huh?" asked Ferris D'Orr.

  "Sometimes they're hip-deep."

  In the alley behind the Lafayette Building, the Master of Sinayju tossed the Barlow cousins into the building dumpster. Seeing that it was nearly full, he stirred the garbage until the bodies were covered.

  Chiun did not know who these men were and he did not care. Perhaps they were free-lance, possibly they worked for someone else. Smith would know. But if Smith identified them as the instigators, and not hirelings, then Chiun might be recalled to Folcroft, his mission accomplished.

  The Master of Sinanju did not wish to be recalled to Folcroft, where Remo might convince Smith to release him from his contract. He did not wish that at all.

  Chapter 18

  They welcomed Konrad Blutsturz with the straight-arm salute of the past.

  As one, they came to their feet in the great auditorium of Fortress Purity, their arms shooting out and up in perfectly stiff Nazi salutes, more like robots than men and women.

  "Sieg Heil!" they shouted, as Konrad Blutsturz, Fuhrer of the White Aryan League of America and Alabama, sent his wheelchair buzzing down the aisle, beneath the swastika flags hanging in ordered rows. The wheelchair labored up the low inclined ramp to the podium like a wind-up toy that didn't quite work. The handicapped ramp was one of the first things Konrad Blutsturz had installed earlier in the day. By nightfall, every staircase in Fortress Purity would be replaced by a ramp.

  Attired in a jet-black military shirt, Konrad Blutsturz Joined Ilsa, who stood waiting, microphone in hand, and faced the audience. A huge Nazi banner served as a backdrop.

  He returned the salute and lifted the microphone slowly, soaking up the cheering like a thirsty man. For a moment he knew how Hitler had felt. For an instant he felt the thrill the true Fuhrer must have known. But then he looked hard into the faces of the crowd, these sons and daughters of Alabama and North Dakota and Ohio and Illinois, and made a disgusted noise low in his throat.

  Hitler had spoken to a unified people. These were rabble. It was not the same at all. He let the noise of the crowd run its course and motioned them to be seated.

  At a nod from him, Ilsa dropped to her knees so that no one sat higher than Konrad Blutsturz.

  "A war is coming," he told the crowd, his dry voice rumbling over the public-address system. "A race war. You know it. I know it. Our beloved founder, Boyce Barlow, knew it. That is why he founded the White Aryan League. This is why he built Fortress Purity. That is why we have had to erect razor wire around our settlement and top it with electricity. Because the rest of America-mongrel America-resented our prophetic vision."

  The crowd applauded.

  "The Jews already control America. Everyone knows it. They control the media. They control Wall Street, and the corporations. If their power grows, they will control America the way they control Israel. If this goes on, we true, white, patriotic Americans will be displaced as the long-suffering Palestinians have been displaced. America will become the new Israel-an occupied land!" Konrad Blutsturz shouted, and the effort set him coughing.

  Ilsa handed him a glass of water. He sipped.

  "But this day may never come to pass," he went on.

  The crowd cheered.

  "It may never come because the inferior blacks will bring this proud nation to its knees before then. Look at the major cities of America. Once they were proud and white. Now they are dirty and black. Many people have come to these shores. Germans have come, and the English, and the French. Even the Polish. They have given to America. The blacks only take. They steal from our mouths by refusing to work. They live off welfare. Our taxes pay for their loud radios, their many children, their vile drugs. Now, the Jews are bad, but the blacks-they are like the kudzu weed you chop from the perimeter fence each day. The blacks, by their sheer numbers, are strangling this land."

  "Down with the blacks!" the crowd roared, and Konrad Blutsturz had them. He grinned his skull-like grin.

  "Keep it up," Ilsa whispered. "You've got them going good now."

  "But the blacks are not organized," said Konrad Blutsturz, his voice cracking with exertion. "And the Jews are patient. There is a third enemy, the Orientals. They are the more immediate menace."

  The crowd hissed. Some yelled "Gook" and "Slanteyes. "

  "The Orientals combine the worst traits of the others. They are becoming as numerous as the blacks, but they are as crafty and avaricious as the Jews. You have seen them coming to these shores in increasing numbers. Even here in Huntsville, there are many. It does not matter whether they are Chinese, or Japanese, or Vietnam
ese, or any other 'ese.' They are all the same. You know it. I know it."

  The crowd cheered the words of Konrad Blutsturz as other crowds had cheered the words of Adolf Hitler fifty years ago, because the words were the same and the crowd-like all mobs-was also the same.

  "How is it," Konrad Blutsturz shouted, "that when America defeated the Japanese, the Japanese ended up with economic superiority?"

  "They cheated," the crowd yelled.

  "When the Vietnamese defeated the Americans in the last decade, the Vietnamese flocked to these shores, to steal the jobs that the Japanese industries did not already take, and buy up the homes that true Americans could no longer afford. These people are so unfair, they work two or three jobs. For every employed Vietnamese, there are three unemployed Americans!"

  The crowd screamed its anguish at the injustice of the selfish Vietnamese immigrants.

  "But the Orientals are not the worst. No," said Konrad Blutsturz in a low voice that forced the auditorium to listen very hard.

  "The fourth group is the worst. We cannot recognize them by the color of their skins, or by their habits. Because they are chameleons, poisonous chameleons."

  "I didn't know chameleons were poisonous," Ilsa whispered.

  "Poisonous chameleons," Konrad Blutsturz repeated, ignoring the girl. "For they come in all sizes and shapes. They blend into our society unsuspected and unchallenged. You know them for what they are, the Smiths." Konrad Blutsturz hissed the word.

  The crowd screeched its horror at the menace of the Smiths until the walls shook.

  "You know that I have just returned from investigating the Smith menace firsthand. I have seen the evidence with my very eyes. The Smiths are as numerous as the blacks, more numerous than the Asians, and craftier than the Jews. I have fought them in unreported skirmishes. I have inflicted Aryan vengeance upon their seemingly white heads."

  "Aryan vengeance," howled the members of the White Aryan League of America and Alabama.

  "When the race war begins, it will be begun by the Smiths. Not the Jews, not the blacks, not the Asians, but by the Smiths. Have I not always said so?"

  "Yes!"

  "Did not Boyce Barlow, our founder, prophesy this?"

  "Yes!"

  "And it has come to pass!"

  "No," the crowd protested.