The Seventh Stone td-62 Read online

  "Hey," said the oldest boy, the one called Napoleon. "That's the business, baby. At least you didn't kill the children. Let's hear it for the handsome gringo."

  The two other boys started to applaud.

  "And on your way out, kind gringo, would you please take Daddy? They tend to smell up the place after a while."

  "Sure," said Remo.

  The kid had a nice way of looking at things. Maybe Remo's feelings were just a brief throwback to his days before training. This anger surprised him, though. He wasn't supposed to feel anger anymore, just a unity with all the forces that made him work correctly.

  Then why was he worried? He had nothing to worry about. Just a feeling, and feelings didn't kill people. Of course, other people weren't so finely tuned that even their emotions were expected to be synchronized with their movements and their breathing and their being. It was almost like a golfer who, if he finished in a wrong position, knew-even without looking-that he had hit the ball wrong.

  But, Remo told himself, nothing had gone wrong. Therefore, nothing was wrong.

  And besides, only he had to know about it. Nothing was wrong.

  Halfway across the country, the last Master of Sinanju, sun source of all the martial arts and defender of the Korean village of Sinanju, knew something was wrong, and he waited for Remo to return.

  Chiun, the Master of Sinanju, was in the American city of Dayton in the state of Ohio. Dayton looked to Chiun just like all other American cities with green signs and fine highways, just like Rome in the time of the Great Wang, the greatest of all Masters of Sinanju. Chiun had often told Remo about the similarities between serving Rome, as did the Great Wang, and serving America.

  Of course, in the histories of Sinanju, nothing was quite so strange as this country which had given birth to Remo.

  As Master, it was Chiun's responsibility to pass on the history of his masterhood, just as it would someday be Remo's responsibility.

  Chiun would not lie in writing the history of his reign because that would be dangerous to other Masters who would follow and carry out the work as great assassins to the world. But he did not necessarily, when writing his histories, include all the facts. Such as the fact that Remo was not only not born in Sinanju, and was not only not Korean, but he was not even Oriental. He was a white and therein was the problem. Remo had been raised white, taught white and lived among whites until Chiun had gotten him with more then twenty-five years of bad habits ingrained in him.

  In the many centuries of the assassins of Sinanju, each Master faced an occasional time in which all that he had been trained to be would recede, only to blossom fully again. A Master who had been raised in the village of Sinanju could deal with this because, as a Korean child, he had been taught the game of hide.

  All the children of Sinanju knew that every so often a Master would return to his house and not again cross the threshold for a long time. He would stay there and it was the task of the village to tell everyone he had left and was off serving some other emperor or king.

  It was the game called hide. And every Sinanju-trained Master knew that when his powers were less and he had descended from peak, he must hide and remove himself from service until it passed.

  But what would Remo know? What would he remember? What white games were there to tell him what to do? Would he remember where he was raised in that white Catholic orphanage? What games could the Church of Rome teach Remo that would prepare him for the moment of coming down from his peak?

  How could he know that in feeling again old feelings that he had thought were buried he was being given a signal to hide, to retreat like a wounded animal until he was well again?

  These were the questions the Master of Sinanju, in Dayton, Ohio, United States, asked himself. Because he knew Remo's problem. He had seen the signs in Remo even though Remo hadn't yet seen them. Oddly enough, the trouble began when one felt perfection, a total unity of mind and thought and body.

  Remo had been happy before he left and Chiun had criticized him for it.

  "What's wrong with feeling perfect, Little Father?" Remo had said.

  "To feel perfect can be a lie," Chiun had said.

  "Not when you know it's so," Remo said.

  "From what place is the most dangerous fall?" asked Chiun.

  "I know what bothers you, Little Father. I'm happy."

  "Why shouldn't you be? You have been given everything of Sinanju."

  "So what is there to worry about?" Remo had asked.

  "You have not been given birth in Sinanju."

  "My eyes are always going to be round," Remo said.

  But it was not the eyes. It was the childhood, and Chiun had not given so many years of his life to see it wasted now because of an accident of birth. He knew what to do. He would use the American telephone: Even if Remo didn't know it, Chiun knew it. Remo was in trouble.

  Chiun's movements were like molten glass, slow but with a sureness of flow that transcended the normal jerky movements of men. His long fingernails stretched from a golden kimono reaching for the black plastic thing on the hotel-room table, the thing with the buttons. He had parchment-frail skin and wisps of white hair hung down over his ears. He looked elderly, as old as sand, but his eyes danced like a falcon on the soar.

  From his robe he took the proper codes that worked the thing that Americans placed all over their country. Their telephones. He was going to work one. He was going to save Remo from himself.

  He did not even try to assume the essence of the instrument. He had tried that before, several times, and feeling nothing, sensing nothing, let it be. But now, this was the only way to reach Emperor Smith, a white who was always as remote as a faraway wall. He was a man, Chiun truly believed, who was filled with a plan to seize the country and the plan was either brilliant or sheer lunacy.

  Remo, in his innocence, continually assured Chiun that Smith had no plan for national takeover. First, he said, Smith was not an emperor. He was simply Dr. Harold W. Smith. Second, Remo said, both Smith and Remo worked for an organization they wanted no one to know about. This organization enabled the government to work and enabled the country to survive by working outside the Constitution against the country's enemies.

  Remo even showed Chiun a copy of that document once. Chiun had admitted it was truly beautiful with all its rights and protections, all its many ways of doing things to exalt its citizens.

  "Do you pray this often?" Chiun had said.

  "It's not a prayer. It's our basic social contract."

  "I do not see your signature, Remo, unless of course you are really John Hancock."

  "No, of course I'm not."

  "Are you Thomas Jefferson?" Chiun asked.

  "No. They're dead," Remo said.

  "Well, if you didn't sign it and Emperor Smith didn't sign it and most people did not sign it, how can it be a basic social contract?"

  "Because it is. And it's beautiful. It's what my country is about, the country that pays Sinanju for your services in training me."

  "They could not pay me for what I have taught you," Chiun said.

  "Well, it's who I serve. And who Smitty serves. Do you understand?"

  "Of course. But when do we remove the current President for Emperor Smith?"

  "He is not an emperor. He serves the President. "

  "Then when do we remove the President's opponent?" Chiun asked, truly trying to understand.

  "We don't. The people do. They vote. They vote who they want to be President."

  "Then why have an assassin with the power to remove a President or keep him in office?" Chiun had asked.

  Confronted by absolute logic, Remo had given up and Chiun had copied the Constitution into the history of the House of Sinanju so that perhaps, one day in the future generation, someone in Sinanju would figure out what these people were up to.

  Now on the American instrument, Chiun was reaching out for Emperor Smith. With these devices, the person speaking could be anywhere. The next room or across t
he continent. But Chiun knew that Emperor Smith ruled from a place in the state of New York called Rye, and often from an island called St. Maarten in the Caribbean. When he was there, Chiun often wondered if he had been sent into exile or was waiting for the President to be removed from the throne, a service Sinanju would provide on request.

  Chiun carefully pressed the numbered code into the machine. The machine spoke back with little bipping gurgles. There were many numbers. There were many bips. One mistake, one number wrongly inserted, a six instead of a seven and the machine would not work.

  Somehow in this country, even the children of these ungainly and ugly people seemed able to operate these number codes to speak to other ungainly and ugly people.

  As Emperor Smith had explained, the numbers that he gave Chiun would activate another machine that would not let people listen in. How wise that was, especially for a fool who if he did not act soon against the President, would be too old to enjoy the pleasures of the throne.

  Suddenly there was a ringing on the other end. And the voice that answered was that of Smith. Chiun had done it. He had mastered the machine with the codes, the codes of the Americans.

  "I have done it," Chiun said in triumph.

  "Yes, you have, Master of Sinanju. What can I do for you?" Smith asked.

  "We have great dangers, O wise Emperor."

  "What's the problem?"

  "There are times when Remo is at his height. And times when he is not, when he is low. Never so low that he is a bad product; that I can assure you. But I am looking out for your longer-term interest, Emperor Smith."

  "What are you saying?"

  "Not that you will not be protected. I will always be here for you. Your tributes to Sinanju are sufficient and do glory to your name."

  "I am not increasing the payments," Smith said. "As you know, we have enough difficulty smuggling them into Sinanju as it is. The submarine trips are almost as costly as the gold."

  "May my tongue wither, O Emperor, if I ask for another payment beyond your generosity," said Chiun, making a mental note to remind Smith at the next negotiation that if the delivery cost was almost as much as the tribute itself, then the tribute was obviously too small.

  "Then what is it?" Smith asked.

  "To further enhance your safety, may I suggest that Remo perform in the traditional manner of all Masters of Sinanju. That is to do more when he is at the level of perfection and to do less at times when your glory would be less well served."

  "Are you saying that Remo should take some time off? Because if you are, you won't have a problem here," Smith said.

  "How wise," said Chiun, ready with a counterargument should Smith suggest that payments be accordingly reduced. Yet in his inscrutability, Smith said nothing of the sort. He said that Remo deserved a vacation and should take a rest.

  "Please be so kind, most enlightened Emperor, to come here to Dayton of Ohio and tell this to Remo yourself."

  "You can tell him," Smith said.

  Chiun allowed a deep sigh. "He will not listen to me."

  "But you're his teacher. You taught him everything."

  "Ah, the bitter truth of that," said Chiun. "I taught him all but gratitude."

  "And he won't listen to you?"

  "Can you imagine? Nothing. He listens to nothing I say. I am not one to complain, as you well know. What do I ask of him? Some concern. To keep in touch. Is that a crime? Should I be ignored like some old shoe whom he has worn out?"

  "Are you sure that Remo feels that way? I know that he defends you at every turn," Smith said. "I am happy with your service but sometimes we have disagreements and Remo always takes your position. He used to agree with me more."

  "Really?" said Chiun. "How have you been attacking me?"

  "I haven't. We have had different positions occasionally though."

  "Of course," said Chiun. He would have to question Remo about this and find out how Smith had been attacking him. "I ask that you personally tell Remo to rest."

  "All right, if you think that's wise."

  "Most wise, O Emperor, and if you would confide in me how the position of Sinanju in any way differs from the wonders of your line of correct thought, we will adjust ourselves to your slightest whim."

  "Well, there's this problem with your seeking outside work, possibly for tyrants and dictators. . . ."

  Chiun let the receiver fall on the two buttons of the cradle. He had seen Remo do that when he wanted to stop talking to someone and it seemed to end the conversation very nicely.

  When the telephone rang again, Chiun did not pick it up.

  * * *

  When Remo returned from Coral Gables to the hotel room in Dayton, Ohio, he saw that Harold W. Smith was waiting there for him, along with Chiun.

  He wondered if Smith ever changed the style of his suit. Gray, three-piece, Dartmouth tie, white shirt, and acid expression.

  "Remo, I think you should take a vacation," Smith said.

  "Have you been talking to Chiun?"

  And in Korean from another room came Chiun's squeaky voice: "You see? Even a white recognizes the fact of your cosmic separations."

  And in Korean, Remo answered back: "Smitty has never heard of a cosmic separation. Nothing is wrong with me and I'm not taking a vacation."

  "You defy your emperor?" Chiun said.

  "I don't want to be maneuvered into a vacation by you, Little Father. If you want me to take a vacation, just say so."

  "Take a vacation," Chiun said.

  "No."

  "You said to say so," Chiun said.

  "I didn't say I'd do it," Remo said. "I'm fine."

  "You're not fine. You only feel fine," Chiun said.

  Harold W. Smith sat rigidly in a chair, listening to teacher and pupil, Smith's sole enforcement arm for the entire organization called CURE, argue in a language that he did not understand.

  "Remo," said Smith finally. "It's an order. If Chiun thinks you ought to rest, you ought to rest."

  "He also thinks we ought to kill the President and make you President so that he has something of value to show for his time here. Should I do that?"

  "Remo, you always turn on the people who care about you," said Chiun.

  "I'm not taking a vacation."

  "There really is nothing of danger now, no emergency. Why don't you just take a little rest?" said Smith.

  "Why don't you mind your business?" Remo asked.

  "You are my business," Smith said.

  Remo let out a little whistle, something vaguely like a Walt Disney tune, picked up Smith in his chair and put the chair and Smith out in the hallway.

  Smith looked back and said simply:

  "Are you telling me you don't need a rest, Remo?"

  Remo looked at Chiun, contentedly folding his arms into his kimono.

  "Where do you suggest?"

  "I don't want you in continental America. What about the Caribbean?" Smith said.

  "St. Maarten?" Remo asked.

  "No. Too close to our computer backup in Grand Case harbor. What about the Bahamas? There's a condo development in Little Exuma. Take a rest there. You've always wanted a home. Buy a condo," Smith said. "A cheap one."

  "I wanted a home in an American town, on an American street, with an American family," Remo said bitterly.

  "This is what we can give you for now, Remo. But you should know that what you're doing is helping other Americans have that dream."

  "Maybe," said Remo. "I'm sorry about putting you in the hall. But I really am feeling fine."

  "Sure," said Smith.

  "I am," said Remo to Chiun. And even Chiun agreed, but no one believed him, not even himself anymore.

  Chapter Three

  A Korean had come to Little Exuma Island, to the new Del Ray condominiums. He was one of the first buyers of a condominium unit. A Korean, in Korean robes.

  "All right, Dad," said Reginald Woburn III. "I'll get to it. I'll get to it."

  "When? He's already there, right where the
stone was uncovered. The forces of the cosmos are with us. Now is the time for revenge. Now is the time to strike at the one our ancestors were defenseless against."

  "You mean a Korean coming to where our supposed ancestor buried the stone of the seventh way? Do you know how many Koreans there are in the world? Do you know the odds against that particular Korean being a descendant of that assassin, who should have been paid to begin with?"

  "Reggie, no more excuses. It's your duty to the family."

  "I don't believe this Korean is anyone special," Reginald said.

  "Do you believe in getting your allowance?"

  "Devoutly, Father."

  "Then at least begin. Show the rest of the family you are doing something."

  "What?"

  "Something," his father said.

  "You mean start taking potshots at every Korean who walks in the street?"

  "What's bothering you?" his father said.

  "I don't want to kill anyone. That's bothering me. I do not want to take a life."

  "Have you ever killed anyone?" asked Reginald's father. He sat facing the young man on the spacious white veranda in the Palm Beach home. The young man didn't quite know what it was like to deal with the rest of the family.

  "Of course not," Reginald answered.

  "Then how do you know you wouldn't like it?"

  "Really, Father. I will do it. I just need more time. It's like a game with proper moments for things and now isn't the proper time. I am the chosen one, according to the stone. I am supposed to be the most ferocious of all in my lust for blood. Now, Father, I know about lust. And I know you can't force it."

  He swirled the remnants of his sweet iced drink and took the last sip. He hated these talks about the family because the servants were never allowed near enough to hear and that meant you could never get anything to drink if you needed it. It was good being part of the family, Reggie knew, because if one weren't, one might have an excellent chance of being poor or having to work, neither of which appealed to him. The bad thing was that the family tended to get a bit bonkers when it got onto itself. Like this stupid stone. Everything depended on the stars, which were the clocks of the universe. And at that right time, the family would produce its great blood-lust killer. And now it was supposed to be him. Ridiculous. As if all the family genes were bubbling away toward the purpose of a two-thousand-year-old revenge. Reggie had no use for revenge. You couldn't drink it, sniff it or make love to it. And you probably got overheated in the process. But Father appeared insistent. He just wasn't going to stop and Reggie knew he was not going to be able to wait him out.