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  "Good. Because now it is important."

  And then, of course, he phoned the man who was watching the man he just spoke to. It struck him as a great irony that keeping his wealth safe was a lot harder than getting it.

  It also struck him that he had a great natural talent for distrust and perfidy, perhaps two of the most important attributes of a monarch. You hired the bards to sing of your justice and mercy, but you kept your crown with your sword.

  He would, of course, need a sword, but this one had to be superior to poor Francisco. He would also need an heir. Death was the one twist even Harrison Caldwell couldn't buy his way out of totally. But he had to postpone the death that pair and whoever sent them had planned for him. The problem was how to investigate all these killings and track down the source of that joint commission, while not becoming vulnerable himself.

  To mull over that great problem, he chose a gold pool in his New Jersey estate. He soaked in the warm water and felt the gold so smooth under his feet and against his bare flesh. By midnight, he knew. He would not seek out the pair covertly. He would track them down in broad daylight. And he would make sure the world would cheer him on.

  Harrison Caldwell was going to show his mercy to the world. For that one needed a bard, and the modern bard was an advertising agency.

  Harrison Caldwell came to Double Image, Inc., as a philanthropist.

  He had made a lot of money in his life, he said. He had become rich beyond his wildest dreams. Now he wanted to give some of it back.

  "I want to end violence in America."

  Because he was one of the richest men in the world, the agency directors all thought this was seriously possible. They would have thought melting the polar ice cap for mixed drinks was seriously possible, considering this man was willing to spend thirty million in advertising.

  Art directors who ate bean sprouts and communed with cosmic forces of love suddenly felt a strong urge to hang anyone committing violence.

  The vice-presidents, and there were many because at ad agencies they always seemed to flourish like roaches, all agreed for the first time that violence was America's most dangerous epidemic. It needed a cure.

  What Caldwell wanted was immediate advertising. He didn't want to wait a month. A week. Even days. He didn't care about the beauty of a campaign. He didn't care about artistic merit. He cared about a blitz that would begin tomorrow on radio, in newspapers, and on television, a campaign to alert Americans that they were being lied to. America was much more violent than it appeared. The country was plagued by hundreds of unsolved horrible murders. The police departments should have to account for all the deaths Americans suffered and break the conspiracy of silence.

  Why, he himself knew of six deprived youngsters from Boston who were brutally slain in McKeesport, Pennsylvania. Their deaths were ignored by the police. "I don't think we can lose our future . . ."

  "Resources," suggested a copywriter.

  "Yes. A wonderful word. We are endangering our future resources. We'll call them resources. How did you think up that wonderful word?"

  "When you can't say anything nice about a group of people, you call them resources. What else are you going to call them, 'human disasters'? Lots of cities have directors of human resources. They are in charge of the city grief, the welfare system, the crime elements, et cetera. Resources. Or the community. You can call it the community."

  "I like that word, too," said Caldwell. "We will save the community. We will save our human resources." To save community resources, Caldwell bought a large building and staffed every office of every floor with people willing to take down as much information as callers would give. When the advertising campaign hit, an entire building proved not enough to tally the violence in America.

  "Just taking down all the complaints is going to cost you a fortune, Mr. Caldwell," an adviser said.

  "We must save community resources," Caldwell answered.

  The Islamic Knights of Boston, heretofore a police problem, became martyrs, the Boston Six. They died, according to the newspapers, because they tried to make America a better place to live. No one bothered to interview official Islamic groups, which had never even heard of the Six.

  In the flurry of advertising and publicity, Harrison Caldwell got exactly what he wanted. Extracting bits of information from the masses of useless data and hearsay, the workers in Caldwell's building put together a pattern of exceptional violence by extraordinary means. Places that had been presumed secure from any human entrance had mysteriously been entered, their occupants often killed, or threatened in such a way as to turn state's evidence and testify against even the most powerful crime lords or conspiracies.

  The toughest, most ruthless hoodlums and enemy agents had been killed coast to coast by blows that could not have been delivered by humans, but only by machines. Yet mysteriously, there were no traces of machines.

  Almost all of these exceptional killings had been reported to that special joint commission of the FBI and Secret Service. And none of the killers had ever been caught.

  Harrison Caldwell was definitely on the trail of his enemy's home. Find out who was behind that joint commission that did nothing and he would find out, he was sure, who was behind the pair who were after him.

  And for that, he needed a search through the vast maze of America's telecommunications, hundreds of detectives, computer experts, and telephone engineers. It would be the most concerted technological effort since the Space Shuttle.

  It was not a major problem. All it would take would be money.

  Harold W. Smith saw it coming, saw the vast number of technological experts being brought from different areas, all pouring into his project searching out who received the data on the deaths, almost all of which had been done by Remo and Chiun.

  Smith was not sure if it could be traced back to him. Electronics never failed to amaze him. There were machines that could tell if a person had been in a room by the amount of heat let off. Were there devices to trace who had access? He thought he had taken advanced precautions to establish blocks. But with all electronic barriers, there was always an electronic solution.

  He felt very vulnerable and very alone in the office watching a giant thing out there ready to come after him.

  And the Goliath behind it was Harrison Caldwell, a man not noticeably distinguished by civic virtue until this campaign. Whether Caldwell had evil purposes or not, Smith could not tell. But he had to be stopped. He had to be reasoned with. Remo could do that best.

  Remo had not checked in for the last few days. On a chance, Smith reached out for him at the same motel. He was in luck. Remo was still there.

  The bad news was that Remo was dead. "What?"

  "He's just stopped breathing. He didn't want a doctor. He didn't want help. He refused it, right up until the end." This from the woman who was living with him in that room.

  "Does he have a pulse?"

  "I don't know how to take a pulse."

  "Do you have a mirror?" said Smith.

  "What do you want me to do with a mirror?"

  "Do you have one?"

  "A pocket mirror?"

  "Exactly."

  "Yes. I have one in my purse."

  "Take the mirror and put it to his nose and mouth."

  "To see if it collects moisture. That means he's breathing."

  "Yes," said Smith.

  He waited in the office, drumming his fingers against the tabletop, wondering what they all had run into, wondering if what some people said about the stars were true. This was too much bad luck not to be caused by some other power.

  It seemed to take forever for her to get back. Finally she was on the phone.

  "He's dead," she sobbed.

  Chapter 11

  Smith of course was insane. Chiun had always known that but he tried to reason with him.

  "Yes, you have told me that he is dead. And what can I say but that when one refuses to honor the ancestors properly, one pays the price."

>   "The whole organization is in trouble. You're our last resort."

  "It is the lack of respect for ancestors that is the problem in the world. Respect the ancestors, and you respect what is good and decent in all civilizations."

  "Can you help?"

  "The power, strength, dignity, and honor of the House of Sinanju are eternally at the call of your hand, to render glory," said Ghiun. Then he hung up. It was time to see Remo.

  He heard the phone ringing as he prepared to leave the room he had rented but he did not answer it. He was sure it was Smith again.

  At the entrance of the hotel, one of the servants of the building beckoned Chiun. He said there was someone trying to reach him desperately.

  On the chance that it was the girl Remo was staying with, Chiun picked up the telephone. But it was Smith. "I think we may have been cut off, and I phoned the lobby to see if you were in. They said you were on your way out. Look, we have a problem. I can't talk on this phone. Can you make a phone contact again?"

  "With praise for your glory on my lips forever," said Chiun, and hung up, heading for the door.

  Remo's motel was not far away. It had happened sooner than he had expected; but then Remo had advanced so much in Sinanju that it was difficult to tell where Sinanju left off and Remo began until he became insulting. Then of course, he was white.

  The woman in Remo's motel room was distraught. A doctor sat by the bed. He shook his head as he removed the stethoscope from Remo's chest.

  Remo lay still on the bed, his eyes shut, his chest bare, wearing only boxer shorts. His body was still. The pendant hung by the chain from his neck but now rested by his ear.

  "I'm afraid it is too late," said the doctor.

  "Get this white out of here," Chiun told Remo's woman, Consuelo.

  "He's the doctor."

  "He is not a doctor. He knows neither yin nor yang. Where are his herbs? Where is the age to show wisdom? He is only forty years old at most."

  "Remo is dead," said Consuelo.

  "Get him out," said Chiun. Did he have to do everything himself?

  "Your friend is dead," said the doctor.

  "You know nothing of death. What do you know of death? Who have you killed on purpose?"

  "Well, I am going to have to file a report."

  Chiun dismissed that with a hand. If the boyish doctor wished his own authorities to know how big a fool he was, this was not Chiun's problem.

  When the doctor had left, Chiun told Consuelo Remo was not dead.

  "Then if he is not dead, what is his problem? He sure as hell looks dead. He has no pulse. He does not breathe. The doctor says he's dead."

  "His problem is stubbornness," said Chiun. He pointed to the pendant lying beside Remo's ear. "Remove that," he said.

  "What good will removing a curse do now?" asked Consuelo. It was too late. Didn't this old Oriental know that?

  "Remove it," said Chiun.

  "All right. It doesn't matter anymore. He was a nice guy," said Consuelo. She felt an urge to kiss Remo's forehead as a way of saying good-bye, perhaps cover him, as a fitting way to let a corpse rest. Instead she eased the chain of the pendant up over his chin and then over his head, until she had it in her hands. She offered it to the Oriental, who stepped quickly away in horror. It was faster than a step. It was a movement away to the other side of the room, and the shuffle seemed to follow him.

  "Don't bring it near me. Move it away. It's cursed."

  "Oh, c'mon," said Consuelo.

  "Out of here. Out. Get it out."

  "What am I going to do? Walk up to some stranger and say here, have a gold pendant?"

  "Away."

  "It must be worth several hundred dollars."

  "Out of the room."

  "I can't believe it," said Consuelo. "Your friend is dead and you're more worried about a piece of gold."

  "Away."

  "All right. I'm going. But I think you're nuts."

  "The swan always looks awkward to the worm," said Chiun.

  "That's insulting," said Consuelo.

  "We at last can communicate, I see," said Chiun. When Consuelo returned she saw Chiun sitting beside the bed. She could not believe what she was hearing. Here was this close friend, the one Remo had called little father, sitting on the bed hectoring Remo's corpse. "Well, now we see. I am not one to say I told you so. But it is so. Your pride has brought you here. Your arrogance has brought you here. And why? All you had to do was listen. Listen with some respect to the House of Sinanju that has given you so much, loved you so much. But what do you do?"

  Chiun paused, drawing himself up to gather more fully the greatness of the indignity he had suffered. "Do I mind that you continued to serve the insane emperor, although truly honored positions are available in the world? No. Do I mind that when all I wanted was a little respect, that was the last thing you would give? No. Do I mind that daily, I suffered humiliations from your neglect of Sinanju? . . ."

  Chiun paused a moment and thought.

  "Yes, I minded it all. And here you are because of it all. How justice has finally come upon you! I told you so and you deserve it."

  "How can you? That's sick," screamed Consuelo.

  "And that harlot you took up with. A good Korean girl wasn't good enough for you . . ."

  "Is that what you dismissed the doctor for? To lecture the body?"

  Chiun cast a disdainful eye upon Remo's latest girlfriend. The boy was profligate. There was no doubt about that.

  "I beg your pardon, madam,'' said Chiun.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I am talking in English because he might have momentarily lost his command of good Korean."

  "I don't believe it," sobbed Consuelo. She shook her head and stumbled against a seat in the corner. "I don't believe I am hearing this."

  "You of no faith. Open your eyes. Look now at the fingertips. If you cannot sense the essence of life coming back strong, then at least feel the heat."

  "I don't want to touch him."

  Chiun did not argue. He merely, with a deft move of his fingers to the side of her skirt, got her moving to the bed. She had to stop her hysterics.

  "Touch," he said.

  "I don't want to," she said.

  "Touch."

  She felt her hand taken by an irresistible force and laid upon the matted dark hair of Remo's chest. The body was not cold yet. She felt her hand pressed down harder. At the cup of her palm, crushing the hair into the warm flesh, she felt a delicate thump. Then another thump. Then another. The heart was beating.

  "My Lord," she gasped. "You brought him back to life."

  "I did not, fool. No man can do that. That even I can't do."

  "But he's alive."

  "He was never dead. He was indeed dying, and as he felt himself succumb he shut down his functions, so as to suffer more slowly. It was not death. It was a deep protective sleep. I am surprised he even did that adequately. He can hear everything we say. So be careful. Don't lavish him with praise. I have already spoiled him."

  "I've never heard you say a nice word to him."

  "I have. Many times. That is what provoked this arrogance. That is why I am ridiculed and scorned."

  "When will he get better?"

  "When I learn to control my nurturing instincts. Then he will listen."

  Remo's eyes opened a crack, as though there were too much sun in the room. A finger stretched out, very slowly, followed by another finger, and then the whole hand opened. The chest moved gently, and Consuelo could see he was breathing.

  "He is coming back," she said.

  "He was never gone," said Chiun. "If he listens, he will be well in no time."

  "Good," said Consuelo. "The country is in danger. We have reason to believe that those who are stealing the uranium are just those people responsible for keeping it safe. There's nowhere to turn but us."

  "Your country is always in danger," Chiun told the woman. "Every time I turn around your country is in danger. We have more im
portant things than your country. It's not the only country in the world."

  Remo groaned.

  "Quiet," said Chiun. "It is your time to listen. If you had listened before with respect, you would not be here, disgracefully on your back in a motel room with a strange woman."

  "You mean you're not going to help. Whatever he has sufferred he has suffered in the line of duty," said Consuelo.

  "No, he hasn't. He's been punished for disrespect. What is this line of duty, and suffering? You are not supposed to suffer if you are an assassin. The other person is supposed to suffer," said Chiun.

  "So you are not going to help America?"

  Chiun looked at the woman as though she were mad. There were things Remo had to understand. He had to know why the gold was cursed. He had to know the tales of Master Go and why removing the pendant took away the curse from his body. He had to think correctly again. "Then you will not help either?"

  "I am helping. I am helping whom I should help."

  "Do you know that the uranium stolen could blow up thousands and thousands of people with horrible bombs?"

  "I didn't make the bombs," said Chiun. What was this woman talking about?

  "But you can stop them being made."

  "By whom?" said Chiun. He saw Remo regain functions in the fingertips and the function control move up the arms. He massaged the shoulders. He lifted Remo's lips and examined the gums. Good. Good color. It had not gone too far.

  "We don't know," said Consuelo.

  "Then why should I attack someone whom I don't even know? The violence in this country is awful. I have seen it on your television. I know your country. Random violence among strangers, and not one professional assassination in how many Presidents who have been killed? I know your country, young woman," said Chiun. He opened Remo's eyelids wider to see the whites. Good. The pupils were coming back too.

  "Please," said Consuelo. "Remo would want you to help his country."

  "Just a minute," said Chiun, turning to the pleading woman.

  "President McKinley. Assassinated. Amateur. John F. Kennedy. Dead. Another amateur. No payment involved anywhere. Your President Reagan missed on a city street by a mind-troubled boy. Another amateur. And this is a country you wish a professional assassin to save? You are not worth saving."