Deadly Seeds Read online

  “You never quite understood what the organization was all about, Chiun.”

  “I have heard you and Smith talk. He is emperor of your organization that worships the document Constitution and you kill for its glory. This I know.”

  “Maybe that’s how it worked out but that’s not how the whole thing was planned.” And Remo explained about the Constitution not working, and that it was the basic document of the country and that more than a decade before a president feared that his country would become a police state if the drift into chaos continued. This, he said, Chiun must know because as keeper of the records of the House of Sinanju which had sold its services as assassins for countless centuries, he knew of many governments and he must know police states came from chaos.

  “Ah,” said Chiun. “You sought this chaos so that America could become like the rest of the world and you would be chief assassin of this police state. I did not understand it before.”

  “No,” said Remo and he explained that the American Constitution was a document, a contract between all Americans with one another. And it guaranteed freedoms and rights to everyone. It was a good document. But according to its rules many evil men could operate freely. So, while keeping this contract, an American president had set up an organization which no one knew about to make sure that the country could still survive. The organization would make sure that prosecutors got proper information, dishonest judges were exposed, great organized crime families would lose their power, and all the while, the rights of the people would be protected. Doctor Harold Smith, whom Chiun called emperor, headed this organization and Remo, whom Chiun himself had trained, was the enforcement arm.

  Chiun allowed that he followed Remo.

  “So you see,” Remo said, “there were problems. If it became known that we existed, it would be like admitting the Constitution didn’t work. So secrecy was important. Well, they couldn’t allow a killer arm to go around leaving fingerprints, so what they did was they got someone without a family and they removed his prints from the files in Washington by pretending he was electrocuted. Like when you first saw me, I was unconscious, right? Right?”

  “When I first saw you?” said Chiun and he cackled. He did not tell Remo but white man’s silliness was enough to tickle the universe. “If your fingerprints, a system of identification you think was invented in the West but was known to us thousands of years ago, if your fingerprints in these records you talk about were so important, where are your fingerprints now?”

  “The fingerprints of dead people go into a special file.”

  “Why then did they not just put the records in the other file instead of bringing you close to death, by pretending to electrocute you?”

  “Because people knew me. And they had to create a man who didn’t exist for an organization that didn’t exist.”

  “Ah,” said Chiun and his long–nailed fingers formed the roofing of a Western chapel. “I see now. Of course. It is all so clear. Let us have sweet sauce for our rice. Would you like that?”

  “I don’t think you understand, Little Father.”

  “You are most clear, my son. They killed you to make you not exist so that you could work for the organization that did not exist to protect the document that does not work. All hail the wisdom of the West.”

  “Well, things aren’t working and that’s what I wanted to tell you. I’ve been wrong. Let us go work for the Shah of Iran or the Russians or anyone else you wish to sell our services to. I’m through with Smitty and this whole stupid thing.”

  “Now you confuse me,” said Chiun and his voice rose to the higher pitches of joy. “You have just made a wise decision after ten years of wrong decisions and you are unhappy.”

  “Sure. I wasted ten years.”

  “Well, you have stopped wasting your life and you will never regret it. In the East, they appreciate assassins. Ah, what joyous news.”

  And Chiun told Remo he must allow the Master of Sinanju himself to inform Emperor Smith of the termination, because it was just as important to end services well as to begin them well, and Remo should watch closely in order that he should know the proper way to bid farewell to an emperor. For emperors did not lightly yield the cutting edge of their empires which, since history first began, had been their assassins.

  When Smith knocked approximately five minutes later, the parsimonious face was in a state of frothy hysteria. The thin lips hung open like pink windsocks in a gale. The blue eyes blinked wide. He dropped his briefcase on the sleeping mat.

  “Hail, Emperor Smith,” said Chiun, bowing courteously.

  “My god,” said Smith. “My god, Remo, there’s a woman outside. Our cover. It’s been blown by a magazine. The whole thing’s come apart. The whole thing. She read about me in a magazine. A brunette. In her twenties. Recognized me. A magazine. Our cover.”

  “Guess we have to close shop then, Smitty,” said Remo, pulling a chair off the pile of furniture at the edge of the room and slumping down into it. His joy unplugged Smith’s excitement. Smith’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. He picked up his briefcase. He regained his composure.

  “Did you see the young woman in the hallway?”

  “As a matter of fact, Smitty, I did,” said Remo.

  “I see,” said Smith. His voice was flat. “And after so many years and so much effort. After so many years of precise covers and broken links just to protect our security, you, for a practical joke and I assume it’s that, just blabbed the whole thing to some strange biddy out in the hallway. I assume it had some deep motivation such as her breasts.”

  “Nope,” said Remo.

  “You misunderstand your loyal servant,” said Chiun. “He was espousing your glory to the populace, oh wondrous emperor of CURE.”

  “And you explained us to Chiun also?” said Smith. “He knows what we’re about.”

  “He extolled the glory of your Constitution. The heads of its enemies shall lie in the street. All proclaim the way of CURE,” said Chiun.

  “All right,” said Smith. “Chiun doesn’t know. What happened in the hallway? Did you go insane?”

  “No. She doesn’t understand any more than Chiun. She heard a name. So what? Really. Look at it. She heard a name and saw a man. Who is she? No one. And if she could make heads or tails of the whole thing, so what? So what?”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Smith and he looked for a place to sit.

  In one slow movement, Remo was off the chair and it was sliding across the floor where it stopped just behind Smith’s legs.

  “I see we have tricksters. Our investment is in a juggler,” said Smith. “Would you mind telling me what’s happening?”

  “I went home last night. Not that I have a home. I went back to that orphanage.”

  “You were supposed to avoid that area under any circumstances.”

  “The orphanage was abandoned. The whole area was abandoned. It was the center of a city and it looked like it had been bombed. And I wondered what I had been doing for the last ten years. And I wonder what you’ve been doing for the last ten years. The whole organization.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “We’re failures. We’re a waste of time. We were supposed to be this super setup to make the Constitution work. Everyone would have their freedoms while the destructive elements were put in their place. America was going through a trying time, we were supposed to help it out and then disappear with no one the wiser. We’d be here and gone. One country, one democracy saved.”

  “Yes?”

  “What do you mean ‘yes’?” said Remo. “We were a fucking waste of time. We had a president who would have been convicted of breaking and entering if he didn’t get a pardon. Half the top government is in jail, the other half ought to be. You can’t walk in the city streets unless you know how to kill. You read every day where this cop and that is on the take. Care for the aged has turned into a gigantic ripoff. And all this while I’m up to my armpits in bodies, supposedly ending this sort of crap.”
<
br />   “That’s just what we’re doing,” said Smith.

  “Hey, I’m no congressman and you’re no head of a legitimate government agency. I can read newspapers, you know.”

  “And what you’re reading, Remo, is the organization finally working. This is the pus coming out of the lanced boil. Nixon wasn’t the first president to do such things, he was just the first not to get away with it. His successors won’t try it again. Didn’t it strike you as strange that half a dozen CIA men should bungle a simple burglary? Didn’t it strike you as strange that suddenly tape recordings that the former president didn’t know about suddenly appear? And he can’t destroy them? Remo, just how do you think we work? What you’re seeing is the organization working.”

  Remo cocked a quizzical eyebrow. Smith continued.

  “You’re not seeing new crimes, Remo. You’re seeing people not get away with the old ones. That nursing home scandal goes back more than ten years. Cops on the take go back to the Revolutionary War. Cops getting sent to jail for it is new. You’re seeing this country do what no other democracy has been able to do. We’re cleaning house.”

  “Then how about the streets?”

  “A little adjustment. Give us five years. Five years and the doomsayers will crawl back under their rocks. This country is coming out stronger and better.”

  “Why didn’t I know about this?”

  “Because we only use you for emergencies. You’re what I use when things go wrong or can’t go right any other way.”

  Now the Master of Sinanju had listened to this and had been quiet, for when Westerners talked silliness, no light could penetrate their shroud of ignorance. And seeing that they were now satisfied with themselves, he spoke.

  “Oh, gracious Smith, how wondrous has been your success, how firm your guiding hand. Your kingdom is in order and gratefully, the House of Sinanju must take its leave, singing always the praises of Emperor Smith.”

  “If you wish, Chiun,” said Smith. “You have trained Remo well and we are grateful, but he knows enough now to operate without you.”

  “There’s a little problem here, Smitty,” said Remo and Chiun raised his long delicate fingers, silencing Remo.

  “Gracious emperor,” said Chiun. “The Remo who once belonged to you now belongs to Sinanju.” And seeing confusion on Smith’s face, he explained that when he began training Remo, Remo had just been another American, but there was so much Sinanju training in him now that he was Sinanju, and therefore no longer Smith’s but Sinanju’s.

  “What’s he talking about?” asked Smith.

  “Look,” said Remo. “You give a guy a pot, right. A little dinky metal pot.”

  “A pale pot,” added Chiun. “A miserable worthless pale pot.”

  “And he adds a gold handle. And a gold top. And a full inch of gold outside,” said Remo.

  “I like your choice of metals,” said Chiun.

  “Shut up,” said Remo.

  “Gratitude is dead,” said Chiun.

  “And now you’ve got this golden vessel with just the bare little metal left of the original pot.”

  “The ingratitude is what is left,” said Chiun.

  “Well, it’s not your pot anymore,” Remo told Smith.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Smith.

  “The mountain is not the pebble,” said Chiun. “And you cannot violate this law of the universe. It is sacred.”

  “I’m not sure what you are getting at, Master of Sinanju, but we are willing to double in gold the payments to your village for your services. Since you regard Remo now as of Sinanju, a someday Master of Sinanju, we will pay your village for you and him. Double payment for double services.”

  “You don’t understand, Smitty,” said Remo.

  “He most certainly does,” said Chiun. “Listen to your emperor and learn of him what is your next mission.”

  Smith opened his briefcase. There was a problem in the Chicago grain markets that just might prove to be more disastrous for the survival of the nation than anything Remo had handled before. It had to do with the purchase of grain and famine spreading to the Western world. Even with its vast network and computers, CURE had been unable to ascertain just what was the matter. A lot of money was making peculiar things happen.

  And bodies were floating up around Lake Michigan.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE MORNING SUN CAME UP over Harborcreek, Pennsylvania, as winds blew the chemical waste breezes across Lake Erie into Remo’s car. Remo explained the mission to Chiun. This Chiun had demanded, since he was no longer just the trainer in the eyes of the organization. He was a coequal partner. It always amazed Remo how Chiun managed to grasp sophisticated Western concepts when it suited his purpose, like coequal partner.

  This, Chiun hastened to point out, did not mean that Remo was his equal in the eyes of the universe, but only in the blurred and narrow vision of the white organization for which they worked.

  “I understand, Little Father,” said Remo, turning off the asphalt road into a dirty driveway. Remo could only use the side–view mirror because Chiun’s lacquered wooden chests jammed full the back seat and made the rearview mirror useless unless Remo wanted to look at a pink dragon on a bright blue background.

  “We are looking for a man named Oswald Willoughby, who is a commodities broker. He is going to testify about price–fixing on the commodities exchange. Someone or some organization dumped twenty–five million dollars worth of winter wheat on the exchange just at planting time. This caused one of the smallest plantings on record just when the world needed the most plantings. No one knows why this dumping occurred, but of the dealers who handled the bulk of the selling, two came up dead in Lake Michigan and the third is Oswald Willoughby. We’re supposed to keep him alive.”

  Chiun thought a moment. Then he spoke.

  “However,” he said, “coequal does mean equal payment to Sinanju. It is good that we can get as much for quality as we can for shoddy. The villagers will appreciate my business acumen.”

  “You didn’t understand a word I said, did you?”

  “We are to keep a man alive and then you mentioned some things that could not be true.”

  “Like what?” snapped Remo.

  “For instance, no one knows why these men were killed. This is not true. Someone knows why.”

  “Well, I meant we don’t know.”

  “I could have told you of your ignorance before we left.”

  “You don’t understand how the market works, do you? Do you?” Remo looked for a white frame cabin with a green fence. He could see steam rise from the night–cool stream flowing through the hot morning.

  “You didn’t understand a word about winter wheat and prices. Well, I’ll tell you. If prices are high at planting time, farmers plant more grain. Most people don’t buy the grain to keep. They buy it to sell. They buy it now to sell at a future time, like harvest time, when they expect the price will be more. Well, someone at planting time bought up a lot of what they call futures and dumped them on the market. Twenty–five million dollars worth. Now, while that’s not much considering the total, the sudden dumping all at once sent the price skidding. Real low. It was perfect timing. Farmers couldn’t get credit for large plantings and they didn’t want them. So we’ve got a short crop this spring which explained part of the price rise in food.”

  “So?” said Chiun.

  “So we’re afraid it might get worse. That’s why we’ve got to figure out what or who was willing to lose the bulk of twenty–five million dollars. There’s a food crisis in the world.”

  “Why are you so worried? Sinanju has known food crises. You are telling me, you dare to tell me about food crises, you who were raised on meat and never went hungry a day in your life.”

  “Oh, Jeez,” moaned Remo for he knew he would now hear the story of Sinanju, how because of starvation the village of Sinanju had to put their newly born babies into the cold waters of the West Korea Bay, how the village was food–poor,
and how the Masters of Sinanju were born in desperation, how each Master for centuries had rented his services as an assassin to emperors and kings in far–off lands so that never again would the villagers have to send the babies “back to sleep” in the waters of the bay.

  “Never again,” said Chiun.

  “It’s more than fifteen hundred years since that happened,” said Remo.

  “When we say never again, we mean never again,” said Chiun. “This is your tradition now also. You should learn it.”

  · · ·

  It sounded like a pot banging a pot down the road, through the scrub pines, whipped short with almost greenless branches by the Lake Erie winds. It sounded dull in the morning air that made the car seat sticky. It sounded like a little pop that morning sleepers shouldn’t notice. It was a shot.

  Remo saw a dark man run from the white house with the green fence. He tucked something into his belt as he trotted to a waiting pink Eldorado with its motor running. The car took off before the door was shut, a fast but not screeching start, kicking up little dust flurries. The driver intended to pass Remo on the left as all oncoming cars should. Remo occupied the lane. Chiun, who thought seat belts were bondage and was not about to wear one, caught the car crash with a slight upward motion lifting his light frame so that at the moment of impact, he was aloft. Two long fingernails of the right hand caught the dashboard in such a way that it looked as if he were doing a mild vertical one–handed pushup. The other hand caught flying glass. Remo stopped his forward motion with an elbow against the wheel and the same free flight uplift as the Master.

  The door popped open and he was out of the car, on the road before the cars stopped their first spin. He caught the Eldorado, snapping open a door, and reached in past a bloody body to put on the brake.

  He dragged the two still forms from the Eldorado and saw that the dark man had a gun in his belt. It smelled of a fresh shot. Remo felt for a heartbeat. It was the last strong flutter of a muscle about to die. It stopped. The driver’s heart was better. Remo felt around the body. Only a shoulder bone had that squishy loose feeling of a break. The face flowed red from glass cuts but it was not serious. Remo maneuvered his hand underneath the man’s jaw, working on veins going up through the neck. The man’s eyelids opened.