Blue Smoke and Mirrors td-78 Page 2
Remo nearly died of monosodium-glutamate poisoning.
After that, he found it hard to watch movies. He had never thought much about how film worked before- how the illusion of action was created by light shining through the rapidly moving picture frames. Movies, of course, did not actually move. They just seemed to,
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much the way old flip-action book drawings appeared to move when the pages were fanned. The human eye read the changing images as action.
Remo's more-than-human eyes read them as a series of stills. Only the sound was uninterrupted. Over the years, Remo had learned to adjust his vision so that movies still moved for him, but the concentration required sometimes gave him eyestrain.
Television was the same. The pixels-the tiny phosphorescent dots of light which changed every one-thirtieth of a second-created the illusion of moving images. In fact, it was a lot like movies, which changed at a mere twenty-four frames a second, and Remo had to learn to adjust to that phenomenon too. Sometimes he could see the pixels change, line by line, on old TV's. It was distracting.
He didn't have quite as hard a time with high-definition TV's.
And so he sat down with a bowl of cold unseasoned rice and a glass of mineral water, to enjoy the national pastime. He looked like any American on this Saturday afternoon. He was a lean young man of indeterminate age, with chiseled but not too handsome features set off by high cheekbones. His brown eyes were hard as brick chips. His chinos were gray and his T-shirt was white.
Millions of other Americans had their eyes glued to millions of TV sets across America on this ordinary day. Remo liked to think he was one of them. He was not. Officially, he no longer existed. Unofficially, he was the sole enforcement arm for CURE, the superse-cret government agency created to fight crime and injustice outside of constitutional restrictions. Professionally, he was an assassin.
It was a peaceful day in early autumn. The leaves had only started to turn brown and gold outside the windows of his suburban Rye, New York, neighborhood. The air was crisp, and Remo had left the win-
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dows open so he could hear the last birds of summer twitter and cheep.
A pleasant afternoon.
He knew it was not going to last when the familiar padding of sandals came from one of the bedrooms.
"What is it you are watching, Remo?" a squeaking voice asked. There was a querulous undertone to the question. Remo wondered if he had disturbed the Master of Sinanju's meditation. No, he recalled, Chiun usually meditated in the morning. Chiun had trained him in Sinanju, making him, first, more than human, and ultimately the sole heir to a five-thousand-year-old house of assassins, the first white man ever to be so honored.
"Baseball," Remo said, not looking up. No way was Chiun going to ruin this day. No way. "It's Boston versus New York."
"I knew it would come to this," Chiun said sagely. "Though you often spoke with pride of America's two-hundred-year history, I knew it could not last. It is a sad thing when an empire turns on itself. I will pack for us both. Perhaps the Russians will have use for our mighty talents."
"What on earth are you talking about?" Remo asked.
"This. Intercity warfare. A terrible thing in any age. Who is winning?"
"New York. And it's not warfare, Little Father. It's a game."
"A game? Why would you watch such a thing?" asked Chiun, reigning Master of Sinanju. He was an elderly Korean with the bright hazel eyes of a child.
"Because I'm a masochist," Remo said, knowing the humor would be lost on the man who had trained him to such a state of human perfection that he was reduced to subsisting on rice and focusing all his attention in order not to see the pixels change.
"Is this the game all Americans watch?" demanded Chiun, whose parchment features were hairless but for
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thin wisps of hair clinging to his chin. Two cottonlike puffs adorned his tiny ears.
"Yep," Remo replied. "The national pastime."
"I think I will watch it with you," said the Master of Sinanju. He settled at Remo's elbow like a falling leaf. Except that a leaf would make a sound hitting the floor. Ghiun did not.
Remo noticed that Chiun wore his chrysanthemum-pink kimono. He tried to remember why that was significant.
"You were so quiet in there I thought you were busy," Remo remarked.
"I was writing a poem. Ung, of course."
"Uh-huh," Remo said. And he understood. Chiun was writing poetry and Remo had interrupted with his baseball. Well, Remo had as much right to watch baseball as Chiun had to write poetry. If Chiun expected total silence, then he could go outside and do it under the trees. Remo was watching this game.
"I have just completed the 5,631st stanza," Chiun said casually as his face screwed up. He, too, had to focus so as not to see the pixels change.
Remo took a sip of water. "Almost done, huh?"
"I may be almost done when I come to the 9,018th stanza. For this is a complicated Ung poem. It describes the melting of the snowcap on Mount Paektusan."
"Korean mountains aren't easy to describe, I'm sure," Remo said politely. No way, he vowed silently. He was watching this game.
"You are very astute. Tell me, I am curious about this ritual which fascinates whites so. Explain it to me, my son."
"Couldn't we wait until it's over? I'd like to enjoy it."
"I would like to enjoy my declining years," Chiun said sharply. "But I was forced to come to this strange land and train a white man in the art Of Sinanju. 1 could have declined. I could have said, no, I will not.
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And had I been so selfish, you, Remo Williams, would not be what you are now. Sinanju."
The memories came flooding back. Fragments of Remo's past life danced in his head. His youth as an orphan. Vietnam. Pounding a beat in Newark. Then, the arrest, trial, and his execution in an electric chair for a murder that was not his doing. It was all part of a frame engineered by Dr. Harold W. Smith, the head of CURE. It provided CURE with the perfect raw material, a man who didn't exist. Chiun's training had provided the rest. He shut out the memories. It had been long ago. These were happier days.
Remo sighed.
"Okay," he said, putting down his rice. "See the guys in the red socks? Those are the Red Sox. That's their name on the screen."
" 'Socks' is not spelled with an X," Chiun pointed out.
"It's just their name. They spell it that way because ..."
Chiun's eyes were bright with anticipation. "Yes?"
"Because," Remo said at last. "That's all. Just because. The other guys are the Yankees."
"Should they not be called the Black Sox? With an X."
"The Black Sox is a whole different story," Remo said dryly, "and if we get into that, we'll be here until the year 2000. But in your own way I think you're catching on."
Chiun smiled. "The Yankees are the ones who are hurling balls at their opponents?"
"Absolutely correct. But only one of them is pitching right now. They take turns."
"And what is the purpose of this pitching?"
"They're trying to strike out the player who's up at bat."
"He is the one with the club?"
"They call it a bat."
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"Why? It does not have wings."
Remo sighed again. "Look, just give me the benefit of the doubt on terminology. Otherwise we will be here until the year 2000."
"We will save the elaborate details until I have mastered the fundamentals," Chiun said firmly.
"Good. Now the pitcher tries to strike out the batter."
Chiun watched as the pitcher threw a fastball. The batter cracked it out to left field. Infielders scrambled for it. The batter ran to first.
"I think I understand," Chiun said levelly. "The pitcher is attempting to brain the batter. But the stalwart batter uses his club to fend off the villain's cowardly attacks. Because he was successful, he is allowed to escape with his life."
Chiun's facial hair trembled. "So young?"
"Not permanently. They just switch batters."
"Most peculiar. Why is this new person taking up a club?"
"The first batter has earned the right to go to first base. That's the white pad he's standing on there. Now the second batter is going to do the same thing. If he hits the ball correctly, he gets to go to first and the second guy will go to second base, or maybe third if the first one hits the ball far enough."
The batter swung and missed. Then he popped a r ball into center field. Two Yankees collided in an attempt to catch it. The ball slipped between their meshed gloves.
"See!" Remo shouted excitedly. "He's going for second. He's at third! Now he's going home!"
The first batter slid to home base in an eruption of dust. The second was tagged running for third base.
The Master of Sinanju absorbed all this in passive
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silence. Then he nodded. "He is going home now," he said, "his work done."
"No. He's gone to the dugout. He's already been home."
"He has not!" Chiun flared. "I was watching him every minute. He ran from third base to fourth base, and now he is walking away, dirty but unbowed."
"That's not fourth base. That's home."
"He lives there? The poor wretch."
"No," Remo said patiently. "Home plate is the object of this game. You hit the ball so you can run the bases and reach home."
"But that man started off on the home plate. Why did he not remain there, if he coveted it so?"
"Because you don't win unless you run the bases first," Remo said in an exasperated voice.
"I see. And what does he win?"
"He doesn't win. The entire team wins. They win points, which are known as runs."
"Ah, diamonds. I have heard of the famous baseball diamond. It must be exceedingly precious."
"Not diamond points. Points. You know, numbers."
"Money?"
"No," Remo said patiently. "Numbers. See the score at the bottom of the screen? The Red Sox just went from four to five. The score is now twenty to five."
"Numbers? Not gold? Not jewels? Not riches?"
"Actually, these guys make a fair piece of change. I think that batter pulls down almost two million a year."
"Points?"
"No, dollars."
"American dollars!" Chiun cried, leaping to his feet. "They pay him millions of American dollars to run around in circles like that!"
"It's not the circles, it's the points. It's the achievement."
"What do these men make, what do they build,
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what do they create that they are worth such money?" Chiun screeched.
"Baseball is a skill," Remo insisted.
"Running in circles is not a skill. Beheaded roosters do it even after they are dead."
"Will you please calm down? Wait until I finish explaining the game before you get upset."
Chiun settled back onto the floor.
"Very well," he fumed. "I am very interested in learning more about these inscrutable white customs of yours."
"Now, see this batter? While you were jumping up and down he swung twice and missed. Each miss is called a strike."
"I see. If he fails to defend his home from the aggressor, his fellow warriors punish him with their clubs."
"No, a strike means a ... There! See? He just struck out."
"And look!" Chiun proclaimed. "The opposing forces are rushing to attack him. I see now. They are going to pummel him into submission, thereby conquering his territory."
"No, that's not it. Will you let me tell it, please? They're changing sides. Now it's the Red Sox's turn to pitch and the Yankees' at bat."
Chiun's parchment face wrinkled up. "They are surrendering their opportunity to make points?"
"Yep."
Chiun clenched his bony fists. "Unbelievable! They have all the clubs and yet they let their mortal enemy take over. Why do they not beat them back? Why do they not simply crush their skulls and run around in circles as much as they wish? Thus, they could achieve thousands of useless points after they have eliminated the other team."
"They can't. It's against the rules."
"They have rules?" Chiun's voice was aghast.
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"Yes, they have rules. It's a game."
"All games are a form of warfare. Chess is one example. And Go another. And intelligent men know that in war there are no rules. With such wealth at stake, they should be defending their position to the death."
"Now, how can they have a contest if they don't let the opposing team have their turn at bat?"
"Did the Greeks allow the Persians to take over their cities?" Chiun countered. "Did Rome cease laying waste to Gaul, and then stand idle while the enemy besieged their own cities so the ultimate victory would not be excessively decisive?"
"It's a freaking game, Chiun."
"It is base. Now I know why they call it baseball. It is a pastime for idiots. They run around in circles for no purpose and are paid richer than royalty. More than an assassin. Why am I not paid this richly? Do I not perform a more important service in this land of cretins? Without me, your American civilization would crumble. Without me, your feeble Constitution would be only a scrap of yellowing paper."
"Louder," Remo muttered. "The neighbors might not hear you clearly."
"I am going to speak to Emperor Smith about this at our next contract negotiation. I demand parity with these base baseball cretins."
"You may not have long to wait. I think I hear knocking at the back door."
"Some journeyman, no doubt," Chiun sniffed.
"No," Remo said suddenly, getting up. "I think it's Smith."
"Nonsense. Emperors always employ the front entrance."
"When Smith accepts that he's an emperor, and not the head of the organization we work for, I'll believe you," Remo said, angrily shutting off the TV on his way to the kitchen.
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Remo opened the back door on a lemon-faced man in a gray three-piece suit and striped Dartmouth tie. His rimless glasses rode his patrician face like transparent shields.
"Hi, Smitty," Remo said brightly. "Here to complain about the noise?"
"Quick, Remo," Dr. Harold W. Smith, the director of CURE, said. "I mustn't be seen by the neighbors."
Remo shut the door behind Smith.
"Oh, for crying out loud, Smitty. We're next-door neighbors now. You can afford to be seen paying a social call."
The Master of Sinanju entered the kitchen and bowed once, formally. His expressionless face was a mask.
"Hail, Smith, Emperor of America, where hurlers of balls are paid more richly than anyone. Including those closest to the throne."
Smith looked at Remo. "What is he-?"
"I've been explaining baseball to him. He was fascinated by the players' salaries."
"Does that mean what I think it means?" Smith asked in a raspy voice.
Remo nodded grimly.
Smith turned to Chiun anxiously.
"Master of Sinanju, I realize it may seem out of line that baseball players are paid what they are, but you have to understand the circumstances. They are paid out of commercial revenues."
"Then we will do the same," Chiun shot back triumphantly. He raised a finger from which grew a long sharp nail. "I can see it now. We will fly to the ends of this disintegrating empire and after dispatching the enemies of America, Remo will shout for all to hear that this assassination was brought to you by Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs, breakfast of assassins,"
"Oh, my God," Dr. Harold W. Smith said hoarsely.
"I'll talk him out of it," Remo whispered. "Relax, Smith. What's that in your hand?"
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Smith looked down at the measuring cup clutched in his
hands as if seeing it for the first time. His knuckles were white. He relaxed. His pinched sixtyish features registered doubt.
"Er, oh, this. I told my wife I was going to borrow a cup of sugar."
"Smitty, you know we don't use sugar."
"It slipped my mind. Well, that isn't the real reason I've come. We have a situation on our hands. A very bizarre one."
"Pull up a chair, Smitty. You look pale. Paler than usual, I mean."
"Thank you," said Smith, taking a seat at the kitchen table. Remo and Chiun joined him. Chiun folded his hands on the table. His expression was impassive.
"I don't know how to tell you this," Smith began. "I don't believe it myself, but the President specifically requested that I bring you into this."
"He is very wise," Chiun said blandly. "And healthy, one trusts?"
"Yes, of course. Why?"
"Chiun caught the Vice-President on TV," Remo remarked dryly.
"Youth is overvalued in this country," Chiun said. "It is another of its deficiencies."
"That is not our department," Smith said quickly. He stared into the glass measuring cup as if peering into his own grave. "We have a low-level crisis at a launch-control facility attached to the Grand Forks Air Force Base in North Dakota. They have been plagued by a rash of unexplained thefts."
"Don't tell me someone lifted a warhead?" Remo said.
"No. But critical missile parts are missing. As are certain other . . . things."
"Which things, Emperor?" Chiun asked interestedly.
"Steaks. Blue jeans. Nonmilitary items such as those. The jeans disappeared from a secure building. The
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steaks from a locked and watched freezer in that same building. It is impossible."
"We did not do it," Chiun said quickly.
"Master of Sinanju?" Smith said.
"When people whisper of the impossible, the name Sinanju always comes to mind first."
"I think I detect a commercial coming on," Remo groaned.
"Hush," Chiun admonished. He addressed Smith in deferential tones. "What you describe is not impossible. I could accomplish such things. Remo, too, on one of his more alert days."
"Thanks a lot," Remo said, folding his bare arms.
"But we did not. I assure you."
Smith nodded. "There's more. We have a witness to one of the thefts. An Air Force OSI agent named Robin Green. She saw the thief's feet-or what we presume are his boots. He wore what she describes as shining white boots."