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  "What does the pattern have to do with anything?" asked Lord Wissex.

  "If it is what I am thinking of, those killings were not done by any machine. And your wogs may or may not have even seen what killed them."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Find out the pattern of that kimono because we might all be dead if you don't know it," said Uncle Pimsy.

  "You're serious, aren't you? You know, this isn't the Britannia-rules-the-waves sort of heroics."

  "If that pattern is what I think it is, heroics or anything else won't do any of us any good."

  "Would you mind telling me what you suspect?" Neville asked.

  "Do you remember that your late father and I had one stipulation before you took over?"

  "Yes. That we not take any contracts in the Orient. No clients in the East," said Wissex.

  "Do you know why?"

  "Frankly," Lord Wissex said, "I thought it rather peculiar but I had to make that promise so you wouldn't stop me."

  "We had you make that promise because our fathers had us make that promise because their fathers had them make that promise because their fathers had them make that very same promise."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I am talking, lad, about why you must find out the pattern of that kimono."

  "You won't tell me beforehand?"

  "Find it," ordered the old man, and he turned and limped his way down the battlements, with the poodle following behind wagging her scented tail.

  "What a lovely kimono," said the British gentleman to the trio on the beach in front of the St. Maarten village of Grand Case. Grand Case was a walk up the road to the new headquarters front, the offices of Analogue Networking Inc. Smith had devised a plan whereby a request for the lost information would be beamed over the satellite during a weather disturbance similar to the one in which it had originally been lost. The hope was that it would reach the same terminus it had reached before. If it reached anyone. If all the records even existed anymore.

  The request for return of the records had been carefully written by Smith, so as not to sound desperate. Instead, it hinted at a sizable reward. Nothing so big as to alarm, but enough to get interest from someone out there who might just be wondering what was all this nonsense about two decades of undercover work and its detailed portraits of how crime worked, with its names and numbers and tools and secrets to see a nation through its desperate years of trial.

  So Remo and Chiun had returned to St. Maarten with Terri from the Yucatan, along with a battered golden plaque that they had found in an underground cave near the wiped-out village. Terri had to translate the plaque and its battered condition made that a detective's riddle, and so Remo, while waiting, would keep an eye on the transmission from Analogue Networking Inc. If something happened with CURE's records, Chiun would continue with Terri, and Remo would be off to retrieve the program.

  Terri wore a scanty bathing suit while she pored over the rubbing of the Hamidian plaque they had found. Each time she thought she had the key to it, she had another question and it all still puzzled her.

  She looked up from the rubbing as the cultured voice intruded on her thoughts.

  "I say, that is an interesting pattern on the kimono you are wearing, sir."

  Remo looked at the man. He was carrying a small concealed weapon under his left armpit.

  Chiun stared at the horizon, that clean line separating the Caribbean blue from the pastel sky.

  "I say, that is a most interesting design. May I photograph it?"

  "Why do you ask?" said Remo. "You could just stand up the beach over there and photograph us. Why do you ask?"

  "I just thought you might mind."

  "We do. Thank you. Don't photograph," said Remo.

  "Oh," said the gentleman. He wore a dark suit with vest and regimental tie. He carried an umbrella.

  "I say, what is that?" he said, looking at the rubbing Terri was analyzing.

  "It is an ancient Hamidian inscription," she said.

  "Yes, yes. I seem to have seen that somewhere. Some time," he said.

  "Where?"

  "The Yucatan Peninsula, I believe it was. I don't imagine you've been there."

  "Why, yes, I have," said Terri. He was so polite.

  "Why, yes, I have," said Remo, imitating in sing-song Terri's voice. "Surprise."

  Terri shot him a dirty look.

  "What does it say?" the British gentleman asked Terri.

  "Nothing much," said Terri.

  "I see. The villagers there also worshiped a jade standard with a similar design to the one your gentleman friend is wearing."

  "His name is Chiun."

  "Hello, Chiun. How do you do."

  Remo smiled. He knew why Chiun was staring implacably at the horizon. He did not wish even to honor this man by a look.

  A delicate finger with the nail curving gracefully upward emerged from the kimono. Slowly, it signaled the gentleman to come closer.

  Down went the forehead, up went the finger, with such speed that only Remo saw it.

  So fast and clean was the stroke that at first no blood emerged, just a thin line where the forehead had been cut. Not deep but deep enough.

  By the time the British gentleman knew what had happened, the blood had formed in tiny specks on his forehead, reproducing the symbol on Chiun's robe. It was the symbol that meant "house," and that meant the House of Sinanju.

  It was not necessary to say more.

  "Better wash your forehead with the salt water," Remo said.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "You've been cut on the forehead."

  "It just tickled."

  "Not supposed to hurt," Remo said.

  A gloved hand went up to the forehead and came back down with blood on it.

  "What? Blood. Gracious. My blood."

  "Wash it off. It's not deep," Remo said.

  "Why did he do that?"

  "You wanted the symbol to take back to your master, so now you've got it. It means greetings from the House of Sinanju."

  "I can't believe Chiun would do that," said Terri, who had not seen the blow because the hand had moved too quickly.

  "He did it," said Remo.

  "You did it. And you are blaming it on him. Right? Right, Chiun? You wouldn't do something like that, would you?"

  Chiun did not answer.

  "I'm sorry," Terri said. "I interrupted your meditation, but your partner has been slandering you again."

  The Briton stumbled to the water's edge and splashed salt water on his forehead, groaning.

  "It's only the salt that stings," Remo said.

  "Poor man," said Terri.

  Remo got up and went slowly toward the gentleman and reached into where he was favoring his body, just under an armpit. He brought out a very nasty little Cobra pistol.

  He showed it to Terri.

  "See? He is not just an innocent beach stroller."

  "You palmed the gun to justify your vicious attack," she said.

  Remo tossed the gun back to the man who put it in his neat little nylon shoulder holster.

  "I also planted the shoulder holster. Under his jacket," Remo said.

  "Well, he wasn't firing it," said Terri.

  "I've got to leave, Little Father," said Remo. "I'll be back soon."

  "Don't hurry," Terri said.

  Remo kicked sand in her face.

  "Go lift weights," he said.

  "Did you see what he did?" Terri said to Chiun, but the old Korean was not answering. He was looking at the skyline for a reason Terri or the British gentleman could never fathom.

  Remo knew why.

  Chiun was looking at the skyline because he liked the way it looked.

  At Analogue Networking Inc., the technician explained to Remo the foolproof method of checking whether a transmission was received or sent and how the computer stored such information.

  Remo did not understand the language the man used. There was a satisfied sort of ch
uckle in the man's voice as he went on about all the wonders of computers.

  He explained that it was the weather's fault that the program was lost in transmission. Not the computer's. The computer did not make mistakes. It couldn't. No one had yet taught it how.

  On that the man showed his molars.

  Remo stood behind him as Smith's message came in from Folcroft in Rye, New York. It was beamed along the same situation in satellite figuration, the man explained to Remo.

  There was even the storm.

  Nothing appeared on the screen.

  "Perfect," the man said. "We think it got to the other source. If it appeared here, it would not have worked. So it worked. Possibly."

  The man punched in a "confirmed." Confirmation of the confirmation returned.

  "Perfect," said the man again. He wore a white shirt and faded unpressed slacks and, of course, that satisfied smile.

  "What is perfect?" Remo asked.

  "How this worked."

  "What worked?"

  "The transmission through the satellite being disturbed in hopefully the same manner," the technician said.

  "So it reached the same person it reached the last time."

  "It reached someone. It may not be that person, you see. The person can be wrong. The computer is not wrong. It chose the wavelength and everything else identical to what it was before."

  "In other words," Remo said, "it is right but what happened possibly wasn't right."

  "You're familiar with computers, then?" said the man, showing his molars again.

  "No. What I'm familiar with is stupid. When I hear stupid, that I know. I recognize stupid."

  "You're not calling the computer stupid?" said the man, worried.

  "Why would I do that? It's perfect," Remo said. "It just doesn't do things that work out right for people, that's all. But it's always right, even if everything turns out wrong. Right?"

  "Absolutely," said the man. He showed his molars again.

  Neville received his agent at Wissex Castle. The man was distraught. Good regiment. Good school. Good blood, English of course, but distraught nevertheless.

  "Sir, if I did not have my paramount mission of returning with the symbol you requested, I would have thrashed those blighters."

  "They wounded you?" said Lord Wissex, staring at the large bandage on his agent's forehead.

  "They humiliated me and I suffered it because I knew the House of Wissex comes before all. Before life, before honor, before love."

  "You'll get your raise, Toady old boy," said Wissex.

  "Thank you, sir," said the agent. Uncle Pimsy stood somberly by Neville's side.

  "Do you have the symbol?" he asked. He was drooling slightly down his gray vest but Uncle Pimsy had been drooling for the past twenty years.

  The agent reached up to his forehead and with a yank took the bandage off. His face showed its embarrassment.

  "Thank God," said Uncle Pimsy.

  "You mean it's not who you think it is?" asked Lord Neville.

  "It is who I knew it was. But they are giving us another chance," Pimsy said. "That is a warning. That's how they send it to other assassins."

  "We're not assassins, strictly assassins," said Neville.

  "They are," said Uncle Pimsy, and after the agent was dismissed, the uncle explained why no Wissex had taken work in the Orient since the fifteenth century.

  It had occurred to one Wissex that the Orient was rich, and a Thai king had offered an ox's weight in gold for anyone who would kill a neighboring Burmese chieftain who had been raiding the king's borders.

  The chieftain used the hills so well no army could capture him, so the king decided on an assassin.

  The Wissex knew he was as good as any man with broadsword, long bow, or even the new experimental powder-firing muskets.

  So off he went into the jungles of Asia, Pimsy related. Tracked the tribe which, of course, would not hide from one man. Made it into the camp, got the chieftain's head and set off for Thailand with the Burmese tribe hot on his trail.

  Strange thing happened, don't you know. Heads kept falling about him. Out of trees. From behind rocks. Everywhere. And when he investigated the bodies, he found they were all carrying weapons and they all wore the clothes of that Burmese tribe.

  So the Wissex realized he was being protected by someone who could move faster than he could and could see people he couldn't.

  When he reached the gates of the Thai king's palace, he was accosted by a Korean in a kimono.

  "Along your trail, you have been given many heads that saved your life. Now I want that one. For with that one, I am paid." And he pointed to the head of the Burmese chieftain that the Wissex carried in a leather bag.

  "But I took the head," said the Wissex. "I should get something for it. I am grateful for my life but I earn my living by this."

  "My name is Wang and I am of the House of Sinanju and I let you work your England because your king is cheap. Take the pittances from Europe. But Asia is mine."

  "I'm afraid I can't do that," said Wissex, drawing the great broadsword with which he had cleaved many a spine and smitten many a skull to quivering jelly.

  He pulled a level stroke through the kimono's middle but it was as if he had struck air, for the kimono swished around the blade. He swung for the skull with a perpendicular smash, and the great broadsword that he had swung with such awesome fury in his years cracked harmlessly into the ground.

  Wang was laughing.

  Wissex drew the long bow. He could put an arrow through an eye at fifty yards. And this close, he could send it through the back of the skull. It hissed from his bow. And Wang's face was still there, laughing.

  Wissex aimed for the chest. The chest did not move. The arrow went through. Or seemed to. But there was no blood, no rent in the kimono, just the rustling of the material settling down.

  Each time he fired an arrow, the kimono seemed to settle down from a flurry he could not see or understand.

  And each time the Korean called Wang moved closer until he was finally only a breath away.

  Wissex drew his dirk and went for the chest, but all he felt was his arm enwrapped with the light flossy kimono.

  And with every stab, Wang seemed to kiss his forehead with a prickly thing.

  The Wissex realized Wang was making a mark on his forehead with his teeth. He felt hot blood cloud his vision and then he was flailing wildly into air. But such were the powers of this Korean that even when Wissex had seen, he could not touch.

  He dropped his knife and waited to die.

  But he did not die.

  "Go ahead and kill me, you pointy-eyed son of a plagued she-cow," said Wissex.

  And Wang laughed again.

  "If I kill you, others of your family will return— for that is the business of your family, to seek gold for strength of singular arms. And then I will have to kill them, for all they will know is that none return and it will take generations before the message gets through. Now you can know and tell. I have placed the mark of my kimono on your forehead. Stand back. It is not for you."

  "But I cannot see your kimono. I am blinded by blood."

  "When the wound heals on your forehead, you will see the mark in your mirror. It is the same as on my kimono. And do not use that smelly wound poultice you carry. It almost made me retch as I circled you all the way from Burma."

  "It's a good poultice. A third of the wounds heal perfectl— —"

  "It is an awful poultice," said Wang. "Two out of three die from it." And from mosses, he pressed a new poultice upon the wound and within three days it had healed miraculously leaving only the faint red outline of the House of Sinanju.

  And that was the last Wissex to bear arms in Asia.

  Thus spoke Uncle Pimsy, taking his nephew Neville to a secluded room in Wissex Castle. There, in an old dusty painting, was the Wissex who had ventured into the realm of the Thais.

  And on his head was a faint mark.

  It was the same mark
borne by the agent back from the Yucatan, the agent who had suffered his cut in moves he did not see, as a warning.

  "Sinanju lives," said Uncle Pimsy, desperately clutching Neville's arms. "Run, lad. Save the House of Wissex. They've spared us again."

  But Neville was thinking. What Uncle Pimsy had told him was apparently that the Sinanju people, whoever they really were, were still confined to hand-fighting. No weapons. And they might not have faced any sort of modern technology. Really modern.

  "What are you thinking, lad?" asked Pimsy.

  "Nothing."

  "For God's sake, Neville, do not challenge the awesome magnificence of the House of Sinanju. Withdraw from this foolish scheme to fleece this Moombasa creature. Return to the old days. To British steel. To honest labor."

  Uncle Pimsy was squeezing Neville's arm a bit hard. This part of the castle had always been uncomfortable and Uncle Pimsy was so close that his drool was reaching the cuff of his afternoon suit. Any closer and Pimsy might be on Neville's tie.

  "Go piddle a poodle, Pimsy," said Neville. "I'm running things."

  "You always were a perfect rotter," said Pimsy.

  Chapter Seven

  Generalissimo Moombasa waited for the American woman to be delivered. He would interrogate her himself, he decided, and he would use his wiles instead of torture.

  He would show her his subtle nature, his romantic side, make her want to help the Hamidian people's struggle against imperialism or whatever.

  And if that didn't work, he'd beat the information out of the American bitch.

  For the first meeting, he chose the military presence of his armored corps uniform. It was robin's-egg blue with gold epaulettes, tight bands with black Cordoba leather boots, with the Hamidian insignia of a condor embossed in gold and green.

  The hat was a high peak supported by the same condor insignia. In tiny zircons, the motto of the armored corps was displayed across the visor. The motto read:

  "Crush the world beneath our treads."

  It was a very big visor. The armored corps was 300 strong and every man had a uniform. But since the uniforms were so expensive, the People's Democratic Republic of Hamidia had to cut back somewhere else.