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  Remo acquired numerous bruises and minor nicks, but had learned to move first and think later whenever his ears told his brain that a deadly instrument was zipping toward him. As his training progressed, these weapons were sharpened finer and finer with a whetstone. Chiun made Remo sharpen them himself.

  "You're trying to kill me, aren't you?" Remo had said one day.

  "Yes," the Master of Sinanju had replied blandly.

  "You admit it, huh?"

  The Master of Sinanju had shrugged carelessly. "I admit it. For your enemies will attempt to kill you in earnest. If I am to instill in you the reflexes that will save your life, I must do my best to motivate them in like earnestness. That is why you must sharpen these tools yourself, so that your dull white senses fully comprehend the danger you face."

  And Remo had. The training progressed from bruises to punctures and the occasional scar. Then it was second nature to twist out of the way. When no blade could catch him unawares, Remo was taken to the next level. Turning the weapon against his attacker.

  Now, as the dagger neared his back, Remo slid off to one side, pivoting. His hands, impelled by chemical reactions in his brain he no longer thought about, swept around and clasped the dagger-he knew it was a dagger before he saw it because they sounded heavier in flight than a stiletto or a bowie knife-capturing it. Its momentum, redirected, became a part of Remo's pivoting until he let go.

  Still in motion, the dagger spun around and returned to the one who had thrown it, point first. It was called "Returning the Angry Coin."

  The blade buried itself in a wall with a heavy thunk.

  And under its quivering bone hilt, a crouching man boomed out joyful laughter.

  "Very good, White Tiger! Very good indeed!"

  The attacker straightened, his face a beaming brazen gong in which dark almond eyes twinkled with good humor.

  "Kula! What are you doing here!"

  Kula the Mongol surged up the stairs and threw out his great arms in welcome.

  Fading off to one side, Remo ducked the bear hug.

  "Where's Chiun?" he demanded, keeping a safe distance. Mongols ate and drank things that caused their pores to leak unpleasant odors Remo would rather not inhale.

  "Preparing our tea, as a good host should." The Mongol squinted. "Are you not pleased to see me?"

  Remo wasn't sure if he was or he wasn't. He didn't like company. He never had company, as a matter of fact. And every time Chiun had company, trouble usually followed.

  "Chiun never mentioned that you were coming," Remo pointed out.

  "How could he? He did not know."

  "Then how'd you find us?"

  "I called the magic number and the secret address was revealed to me by the Master of Sinanju's servant, Pullyang."

  "What magic number?"

  "1-800-SINANJU"

  "Chiun has a toll-free number!"

  "Does not everyone these days?"

  "You, too?"

  Kula nodded. "1-800-PILLAGE. What is your magic number?"

  "I don't have one."

  "Ah, you have not earned the right. I see." Kula tried to give Remo a reassuring clap on the back, but ended up smacking himself in the face. Remo wasn't there when the hand reached his back. He was suddenly to Kula's right. "Do not worry, White Tiger, you will receive your magic number when you are deemed worthy. I was given mine by Boldbator Khan himself. His magic number is 1-800-GENGHIS. "

  "Look, in America call me Remo. Okay?"

  Kula the Mongol looked injured. "You have forgotten the days when you and I harried Chinese soldiers-you the White Tiger and I your strong right arm?"

  "I haven't forgotten it. I just put that stuff behind me."

  "There is a statue celebrating your glory in the lobby of the Hotel Genghis Khan in Ulan Bator."

  "There is?" said Remo, brightening.

  "Truly. It commemorates your mighty deeds. Of course, we gave you Mongolian eyes so as not to frighten our children with your fearsome round eyes."

  "Good move," said Remo. "Now, where's Chiun?"

  "He is below, communing with the Bunji Lama."

  "Who's the Bunji Lama?"

  "A great man, alas."

  "Why is that 'alas'?"

  "You will know why when you come face-to-face with the Bunji Lama!'

  Remo cocked a thumb at the open door where the shaved-headed man sat serenely. "Then who's that rude guy in there?"

  "He is the Most Holy Lobsang Drom Rinpoche, who is destined to find the lost Bunji Lama."

  "How can the Bunji Lama be lost if he's downstairs with Chiun?"

  "You will see with your own eyes."

  "Why don't I do that?" said Remo. "Wait here."

  Kula folded his burly arms. "I have waited all my life for the Bunji Lama. I can wait a little longer."

  "Right," said Remo, starting down the stairs. His happy mood had evaporated. He had met Kula years ago in a Mongolian tavern.

  Back then Kula had been a bandit chief, and Remo had hired him to help track down the Master of Sinanju, who had disappeared into the wild steppes of Outer Mongolia in search of the lost treasure of Genghis Khan. The treasure had been found and divided between the Master of Sinanju and Boldbator Khan, who had mustered an army of Mongols to fight off an attempt by Chinese troops to claim the booty for Beijing.

  It had been a very difficult trek for Remo, who in addition to everything else had received none of the treasure.

  Remo found the Master of Sinanju in the first-floor kitchen.

  Remo noticed that Chiun wore one of his heavy brocaded kimonos usually reserved for meeting with heads of state. This one was a deep blue. It sat on his frail-looking shoulders like a lap rug supported by a clutch of sticks.

  The Master of Sinanju didn't look like the deadliest assassin on earth. He stood approximately five feet tall. He weighed about as much as a hollow tree. There was no hair on his head other than the tufts of wispy white floating over the tips of his tiny ears. As he moved about the stove, his wrinkled features came into view. A tendril of stiff hair that barely passed for a beard stood out against the dark ivory of his parchment face.

  He looked, not old, but ancient. But he moved with a quick, birdlike grace that put Remo's lean economy of movement to shame. The old Korean pretended not to be aware of Remo's presence. But his quick hazel eyes stole appraising glances as he moved about the kitchen.

  Chiun was puttering over the stove, Remo saw, brewing tea. But the smell of tea was overpowered by a musty stench that reminded Remo of a tomb.

  "What're you cooking, Little Father?" he asked. "Yak?"

  "I am brewing tea for our illustrious guests," replied Chiun in a voice that was distinctly squeaky.

  Remo frowned. "Smells like yak. What's going on?"

  "We have guests."

  "So my nose tells me," said Remo, looking around. The smell wasn't coming from the stove. It seemed to be emanating from a large black steamer trunk that sat on one end in a corner of the kitchen.

  "What's that?"

  "The Bunji Lama's trunk."

  "It must be really old to smell like that," said Remo, going to the trunk.

  "Remo! Do not disturb it."

  "Okay, I won't."

  "If you promise to do so carefully, you may have the honor of carrying the Bunji Lama's trunk up to the meditation room."

  "Not until you explain what this is all about."

  "What is anything of importance about?" Chiun asked carelessly.

  Remo gave that a second's thought, reminded himself that it was Chiun asking the question and said, "Gold?"

  Chiun nodded. "Gold. Good. You are learning."

  "So help me, Chiun, if you've taken to renting out the other units to your friends for pocket money, I'm moving out."

  "This is agreeable. Your room will fetch a good price."

  "Get stuffed."

  "I will carry the tea if you will carry the trunk of the Bunji Lama."

  "Will carrying the trunk get me straig
ht answers faster?"

  "It will."

  "Deal."

  Remo used both hands to lift the trunk. As a result, it almost went crashing into the ceiling. It looked heavy but weighed next to nothing. Remo had been caught off guard. He got the awkward container under control.

  "Remo! You will anger the Bunji Lama."

  "Sorry." Remo started up the stairs, Chiun following and wearing a silver tray laden with celadon teacups and hot water in a brass kettle. "Where is the Bunji Lama anyway? Kula said he was with you."

  "He was. Now he is with you."

  "Huh?"

  "He is in the trunk that you carry, and take care not to drop him or his wrath will be upon you like black hailstones."

  "The Bunji Lama is inside this trunk?" Remo demanded.

  "The old Bunji Lama, yes."

  "He must be really old to smell this bad," said Remo, reaching the top of the stairs.

  Remo set the trunk down in the center of the meditation room. The shaved-headed man continued to sit on the floor with the serenity of a contented bullfrog. Kula was laying tatami mats in a circle around the trunk as Chiun set down the tea, crossed his legs at the ankles and scissored onto his personal mat. He began pouring at once.

  Remo pointed to the trunk and asked, "Is the Bunji Lama really in this thing?"

  "The old Bunji Lama," Kula corrected.

  "Guess he flew economy class," said Remo, knocking on the trunk. "Time to stretch your legs, pal."

  "It is not time," said the Master of Sinanju. "We must bargain first."

  The tea was passed around. Remo took his place, sitting as far from the colorful personal odors of Chiun's guests as possible.

  Kula took his cup and swallowed it all in one greedy gulp and offered the empty cup for more. Chiun obligingly poured.

  The shaved-headed Asian accepted his tea, looked deep into the cup and spoke up. "No yak butter?"

  The Master of Sinanju bestowed his pupil with a reproving glare. "Remo, did you forget to churn the yak butter this morning?"

  "I must've. Silly me."

  Chiun addressed the shaved-headed man. "I apologize for the inefficient white help, Most Holy, but you will have to drink your tea without yak butter."

  "It is good tea," boomed Kula, offering his drained cup for the third time.

  When all the cups were refilled, Remo whispered to Chiun, "Yak butter?"

  "The Most Holy Lobsang Drom is a Tibetan. They put yak butter in their tea," Chiun confided.

  "Is that why he smells so bad?"

  "Tibetans have many beliefs you would find strange. Bathing regularly is not among them."

  "I don't know what smells worse, him or that trunk. Smells like it was stored in a musty cellar."

  "It was. Since before you were born."

  Remo settled down as tea was imbibed in silence for some time.

  At length the Tibetan spoke up. "I am the Most Holy Lobsang Drom Rinpoche. Rinpoche means 'treasured one.' I seek the Light That is Coming. What is your name?" he asked Remo.

  "Remo."

  "Re-mo?"

  "Yeah," said Remo.

  "It is a strange name."

  "My last name's Buttafuoco."

  "Butt-a-fu-"

  Remo nodded. "It means 'lies through teeth with head up ass,'" he said with a straight face.

  Lobsang Drom nodded somberly. "It is a worthy name."

  "For a white," inserted Chiun.

  "For a white, it is a perfect name!" roared Kula.

  Everyone except Remo laughed and drank to that.

  Remo waited for the hilarity to settle down, then asked, "So what's this about?"

  "The Bunji Lama," said Chiun, his hands disappearing into the brocaded sleeves of his kimono and the sleeves coming together to form a tube.

  "He is lost," said Kula.

  "I thought he was in the trunk," said Remo.

  "That is the old Bunji Lama," said Kula. "We seek the new Bunji Lama."

  "So if you're looking for the new Bunji Lama, why'd you drag the old Bunji Lama all this way?"

  Everyone looked at Remo as if he had just asked why they exhaled after each intake of breath.

  "The nuns who raised me had a saying-there's no such thing as a stupid question," Remo said.

  "These nuns were white, too?" asked Kula.

  "Yeah."

  "Buddhist nuns?" asked Lobsang Drom.

  Chiun answered that: "Christian."

  Kula and the Most Holy Lobsang Drom grew wide of eye.

  "I have beaten the Christianity out of him," Chiun said hastily. "Most of it. Some remains." He shrugged.

  "He is white," Kula pointed out.

  "He cannot help being white," Lobsang Drom added.

  Everyone agreed that Remo couldn't help being white and if the Master of Sinanju continued beating him regularly, he would renounce the last lingering delusions of Christianity in due time.

  Remo sighed. His eyes kept going to the steamer trunk.

  "I'm still waiting for the answer to my question," he said. He was ignored.

  Instead, Lobsang Drom said, "We have come a great distance to acquire your services, great one whose hands are like swords."

  "I cannot help you," Chiun told his visitors sadly.

  Kula started. Lobsang Drom slumped where he sat.

  "For I serve the white emperor of America who is named Smith," Chiun said, one clawlike hand emerging. His fingernails, like bone blades, flashed in the room's mellow light.

  "A simple smith rules this land?" Lobsang Drom asked in surprise.

  "Why not?" said Kula. "Lord Genghis was born Temujin, a name which means 'ironworker,' and he grew up to found a great empire."

  "Of plunderers and murderers," said Remo.

  "Who told you those lies?" Kula demanded.

  "The history books," said Remo.

  "Christian histories?"

  "No, American ones."

  "Hah! You are well named, Remo Buttafuoco, for you speak lies even without an ass on your head."

  "That's 'head up my ass,'" corrected Remo.

  Kula nodded, and, his point made, addressed the Master of Sinanju.

  "Why can you not help us, Master of Sinanju? Does the emperor of America fear the return of the Bunji Lama?"

  "I do not know if he does or does not," said Chiun, "but while I enjoy his gold, I can work for no other, for my contract is with him"

  "We will pay more gold."

  "How much?"

  Kula extracted a yak-hide bag from his vest. Untying the drawstring, he emptied out shapeless nuggets of gold.

  Chiun made a face, as Remo knew he would. "Not enough."

  Grumbling, Kula removed another bag, and the pile of gold was doubled.

  Chiun's eyes grew veiled and his voice thin. "The gold of Smith would fill this room three times over," he pointed out.

  Kula the Mongol threw his gaze about the room, avoiding Chiun's hazel orbs. "For how many years of service?" he asked aridly.

  "One."

  "We ask only for help finding the Bunji Lama."

  "Which could take one year or twenty," returned Chiun.

  "We have less than ten years, for the Panchen Lama has been found."

  Chiun nodded wisely. "I read of this. A Chinese, discovered dwelling in America. Never has a tulku been discovered so far from Tibet."

  "Since the Dalai Lama sits spineless in exile, the Panchen Lama is next in line to the lion Throne of Lhasa and will claim it when he comes of age. Unless the Bunji Lama can be found."

  "It is a bad thing," Chiun agreed. "But I cannot risk angering my emperor for less than a roomful of gold."

  "A roomful of gold would earn how much service?" Kula asked.

  "For a roomful of gold, I would search the entire West for the Bunji Lama until he was found or my last breath was spent."

  "The West! Why the West?"

  "It is simple. The East has been scoured to no avail. No flame-headed one bearing the true birthmark has been found. Nor any f
aceless joss holding a sword. There can be but one conclusion. The Bunji Lama was born in the West."

  Kula the Mongol and Lobsang Drom exchanged startled glances. Remo sat there and looked confused.

  "It is impossible," Lobsang Drom spit.

  "If the Panchen Lama has been found in the West, why not the Bunji Lama?" Chiun countered. "Clearly the Panchen Lama chose to be born in the West to evade Chinese oppression. Might not the Bunji Lama have foreseen the coming of the oppressors and elected to be born here in the West, so that his next body would not be imperiled?"

  Kula leaned across and muttered to Lobsang Drom, "He speaks sense."

  "He's conning you both," Remo said.

  Chiun spanked the floor with his heel. The overhead light rattled. "Silence, Christian! Do not interfere."

  "Blow it out your ass," Remo hissed.

  "I must consult with Boldbator Khan before I can agree to your terms, Master of Sinanju," said Kula. "For he authorized me to offer no more than six bags of gold."

  The Master of Sinanju said, "Remo, bring our honored guests a telephone."

  "Want me to dial 1-800-GENGHIS for them, too?" he said acidly.

  "Yes," said Kula.

  Frowning, Remo returned with the phone. He sat down and punched out the numbers, but only because he wanted to see if the 800 number really existed. There was a brief clicking of overseas relays, and a musical voice said, "Sain Baina."

  "Sounds like Outer Mongolia to me," muttered Remo, who recognized the traditional Mongolian greeting.

  Kula took the phone. In his native tongue, he spoke in low whispers, listening often. Chiun feigned disinterest, but Remo knew that the old Korean was following every word of both sides of the conversation.

  At length Kula clapped a beefy hand over the receiver and said, "Boldbator Khan, Khan of Khans, Future Overlord of Mankind, has instructed me to tell you that he will agree to pay you a roomful of gold for your services upon one condition."

  "Name it," said Chiun.

  "That you permit the gold to be shipped on your Federal Express account number."

  "Done," said Chiun, clapping his hands.

  "Since when did you get a Federal Express number?" Remo demanded of Chiun.

  "It was a stipulation of my last agreement with Emperor Smith," said Chiun.