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  "Why are you so gleeful?" Chiun asked suspiciously. "It is not like you."

  "You don't get it. This is the American dream, Little Father," Remo explained. "We live to see our politicians fail. Especially a smug little creep like Princippi. It's the grease that oils the gears of this great democracy."

  Chiun shook his head. "This nation is unfathomable," he said. He turned his attention back to the television.

  On the screen, Mike Princippi was saying, "I wish we could outthink my opponent."

  There was a sudden flurry of movement from the right side of the screen. All at once, a new figure strode onto the set. He was short and wore an expensive business suit on his pudgy frame.

  As he noted the nationality of the latest player to join the others, Chiun's interest was immediately piqued.

  "Chiun, isn't that-?" Remo began, suddenly worried.

  "Silence!" Chiun commanded.

  Princippi was in the middle of saying, "Oh, hello. Aren't you Reverend Man Hyung Sun?"

  "I am he," Sun intoned seriously.

  "This is worse than I thought," Remo muttered. The glee he had felt before had begun to dissipate the moment the cult leader made his appearance.

  "...future. I am your future. I know your destiny." Sun pointed out at the television audience. "And yours."

  The image quickly cut from the studio-produced scene to an outdoor segment. Pink-robed Sunnies interviewed men and women on the street about the amazing prognosticating abilities of the Reverend Man Hyung Sun.

  Everyone was thrilled with the information the seer's hotline helpers had given them. Throughout the anything but spontaneous interviews, a 900 number flashed at the bottom of the screen. It was accompanied by the phrase "Your personal psychic is standing by."

  The videotaped outdoor segment lasted for only a few minutes. When it was done, Man Hyung Sun reappeared. He and Mike Princippi were sitting together in a faux living-room environment. It held many of the same furnishings as the faux conference room in the lead segment.

  "Holy flying crap," Remo murmured.

  "Must you continue babbling?" Chiun complained, peeved.

  "Chiun, don't you get it? It was bad enough when it was just Princippi up there. Now he's having a powwow with the head of the freaking Loonie cult. Before it was a joke. Now it's just plain embarrassing."

  "Perhaps the Greekling is wiser than you," Chiun pointed out. "If Sun is indeed a seer, he could have prescience to alter events yet to be."

  "Sun is a con man," Remo said, rolling his eyes.

  "You do not know that."

  "I know enough, Little Father. That guy shanghais kids into his dippy cult. He had the mindless drips banging away on tambourines in airports all over the place back in the '70s and '80s, remember? He was also found guilty of tax evasion, I think. He's an A-number-one asshole-creep-conman-millionaire-rat-bastard. With a capital B."

  "He is Korean," Chiun said somberly.

  Remo frowned. "So what?"

  "He would not shanghai anyone. Shanghai is named for the vile Chinese practice of putting men aboard ships against their will."

  "Okay, so what do Koreans call it?"

  "Unexpected oceangoing journeys filled with wonder and delight."

  "Fine," Remo said. He pointed to Sun on the television. "That's what he does with mushbrained teenagers."

  Princippi was in the middle of asking Sun about his qualifications as a clairvoyant.

  "I have been aligned with cosmic forces for as long as I can remember," Sun said. His English was better than that of most Americans. "Through heightened perceptions impossible for mortals to understand, I have seen these forces recently arrange themselves in such a way as to foretell a great end. And a new beginning. For those viewing this program, know you this-the Omega Time has come."

  "What the hell is he going on about?" Remo asked.

  "Silence!" Chiun commanded. His voice was sharp.

  "I am the Sun Source," Sun proclaimed. He looked out at the camera as he spoke.

  In their living room, both Remo and Chiun were surprised by his words. They glanced at one another. Chiun's face was severe, Remo's puzzled.

  When they looked back at the TV, Sun was finishing his spiel. "The pyon ha-da is upon us. Birth of death, death of birth. Call now. Operators are standing by."

  The pink-robed Loonies reappeared. The same videotaped man-on-the-street segment as before began playing. Chiun did not watch it this time. Gathering up the remote control, he clicked off the television. He was deep in thought.

  "I can't believe it," Remo said, shaking his head. "Mike Princippi. How the almost mighty have fallen. You think Smitty knows about this?"

  Chiun looked over at Remo, annoyance creasing his wizened features. "Do you not know what this means?" he asked impatiently.

  Remo was surprised by the harshness of his tone.

  "Um, no matter how bad you've got it, there's always someone worse off than you?" Remo suggested.

  "You are uneducable," Chiun spit. "Did you not hear the words he spoke to us?"

  "To us?" Remo said. "Not that Sun Source stuff?"

  "The same."

  "Chiun, that's a coincidence. He can't know that Sinanju is called the Sun Source, too. His name is Sun. They just cooked up some silly Madison Avenue twist on his name-that's all."

  "I must make a pilgrimage to see this holy man," Chiun proclaimed. He rose like steam from the floor, smoothing out the skirts of his scarlet kimono.

  "Holy my ass," Remo said, also standing. "He's a scam artist, Chiun. Worse than that. He's a bad scam artist. You can't have fallen for that pap."

  "You will telephone Smith in the morning," Chiun instructed, ignoring Remo's complaints. "Have him consult his oracles to learn the location of the holy one. I must meet with the wise and all-knowing Reverend Sun."

  With that, Chiun turned abruptly and left the room. Remo heard his bedroom door close a moment later.

  Alone in the living room, Remo shook his head wearily. "I can't believe it," he sighed. "Not even home for an hour and I already miss Germany."

  Picking up their empty rice bowls, he skulked morosely back to the kitchen.

  Chapter 11

  One of his first acts in office had been to stop vagrants from frightening drivers at intersections.

  The city homeless had somehow gotten it into their heads to stagger up to cars stopped at traffic lights and spit on their windshields. They would then wipe the slimy ooze away with a filthy rag and hold out a grimy hand for a gratuity. Frightened drivers would hand over money, fearing reprisal if they did not.

  It was extortion, plain and simple. In a crazed bow to the lords of political correctness, the city of New York had looked the other way for years. That practice changed the minute Randolph Gillotti was elected mayor.

  The panhandlers were arrested in a clean sweep.

  Homeless activists screamed. Television reporters screamed. Hollywood celebrities screamed. Everyone screamed but Randolph Gillotti. As mayor of the greatest city in the world, he didn't have time to scream.

  He had attacked the Mob at the Jacob Javits Center, forcing out illegal activities. He had flooded sections of New York with police, dramatically reducing certain types of street crime. Briefly, he had even scored points with the rightbashing media by endorsing a candidate for governor who was not of his own political party. And that was only in his first term.

  Hated by men on both sides of the political aisle, loved by as many on either side, Randolph Gillotti was the king of controversy in a city that thrived on conflict.

  However, on this day, as the mayor of New York fidgeted in his seat behind his city-hall desk in lower Manhattan, Randolph Gillotti felt like anything other than controversy.

  The Loonies were back in town.

  It seemed like only yesterday when the crackpot cultists were harassing everyone at airports around the country. But after the Reverend Sun's run-in with the IRS, they had all but disappeared. Gillotti-like most reasonable
Americans-hoped that they were gone for good. It turned out that they had only been dormant all this time.

  The return of the Loonies to active life meant a fresh headache for the mayor of New York.

  He frowned as he looked over the latest manpower reports sent by the police commissioner's office on the event Sun had scheduled for noon today.

  It was ridiculous. The expenditure of time and manpower was absolutely crazy. Insane beyond belief. The cost to the city was astronomical. And worst of all, it was not anything that could possibly be twisted into good press.

  A mass wedding. According to the documents forwarded by the Washington headquarters of the Grand Unification Church-as Sun's bogus religion was officially called-there would be nearly fifteen hundred couples tying the knot today.

  Gillotti was not unlike most good New Yorkers. Most days he blamed the Yankee organization for everything-from the weather to the potholes in the Bronx. But today, it really was their fault. The Yankee people were the ones who had rented their stadium out to the crackpot cult leader and his tambourine-banging minions.

  The leather padding beneath him crackled as Gillotti tossed the police reports aside. Moaning wearily, he dug at his eyes with the palms of his hands. As if responding to his cue, his desk intercom buzzed efficiently.

  "Governor Princippi to see you, Mr. Mayor," his secretary announced.

  Gillotti removed his hands from his eyes. Briefly, he considered letting the former Massachusetts governor stew in his outer office for an hour or two, but decided against it. Better to get this whatever-it-was-about meeting over with.

  "Send him in," Gillotti lisped tiredly.

  Princippi was ushered into the room a moment later. After exchanging polite handshakes, the exgovernor took a seat in front of the mayor's desk. Princippi noted with distaste that the mayor had not bothered to put on a jacket for the meeting. His Honor sat in shirtsleeves, hands cradled on his broad polished desk.

  "What can I do for you, Mike?" Gillotti asked. "May I call you Mike?" he added. His smile was that of a cartoon squirrel, so, too, his sibilant S-filled speech.

  "I suppose," Princippi said, clearly unhappy with the familiarity. "May I call you Randy?"

  "My people tell me you said this was urgent, Mike," the mayor said, dodging the question. "What's up?"

  The tone was set. Though Princippi frowned, he pressed on. "You know about the Sunnie ceremony today." It was a statement, not a question.

  "The Loonie ceremony, yes," the mayor said.

  "A bunch of middle-class whack job kids trying to get even with their parents for not buying them that Porsche when they turned sweet sixteen. Frankly, Mike, I'm surprised to see you mixed up in all this."

  Princippi cleared his throat. "Be that as it may, the Reverend Sun has sent me here as his emissary."

  "Is that a step up or down from running for President?" Gillotti laughed. "Sorry," he said instantly, raising an apologetic hand. "We've all got to make a buck somehow."

  Princippi's bushy eyebrows furrowed. His embarrassment at the infomercial he had cut for Sun was rapidly turning to annoyance. "You know about the ad," he said flatly.

  Gillotti leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, I've heard something about it. Brainwashing wasn't good enough for Sun. He's branched out into fortune-telling, right?"

  "In a sense," Princippi agreed. "But he doesn't just see the future. He sees the past and present, as well."

  "What is he," the mayor scoffed, "some kind of Korean Magic Eight Ball?"

  "It's not a question of whether you believe it or not," Princippi said with a displeased frown. "It's the truth. As much as I hate to admit it."

  "Come on, Mike. Don't tell me you buy that bullshit?" the mayor taunted.

  Princippi forged ahead. "Can we get back on topic? The ceremony?" he pressed.

  Gillotti sighed. "What is it, Mike? Cops? You've got a ton of them. Uniforms on foot in the stands and on the field. I've even got you horses in the parking lot. It may bankrupt the city of New York, but you can go back and tell that halfcrazy millionaire boss of yours that his ass is safe for his marriage-a-thon, or whatever the hell you Loonies call those sham wedding things."

  Princippi pursed his lips. "You are correct," he admitted, thinly hiding his displeasure. "This is about the police."

  "I figured as much."

  "However, the specific numbers faxed to Sunnie headquarters are unacceptable to Reverend Sun."

  "Geez, come on," Gillotti complained, his lisp becoming more pronounced. "You've been around a few crowds in your life, Mike. You know we can't have an equal cop-to-spectator ratio. I can't believe he'd send you here to try and strong-arm me. You go back and tell that old fraud he doesn't get a single blue-suit more than the commissioner has allocated."

  Princippi smiled. It was an oily expression devoid of mirth. "You don't understand," he said evenly, "we do not want more police. We want less. Specifically, none."

  Gillotti had been readying another mild diatribe but paused in midbreath. He blinked once. "Come again?"

  "Sunnie security can handle the day's events. Reverend Sun wishes for this to be a private ceremony. A police presence will only interfere with the solemnness of the occasion."

  "Private?" Gillotti said, dully. "With three thousand candy brides and grooms propped on top of the cake?"

  "This is what Reverend Sun wishes."

  "No way," Gillotti said. "If something goes wrong, Sun will be the first one screaming bloody murder."

  "Nothing will go wrong," Princippi assured him.

  "Who told you that?" Gillotti snorted. "Your buddy the soothsayer? Tell him I am not letting a bunch of frolicking, robe-wearing, head-shaving psychos loose in the Bronx without an armed escort. The cops are there," he added firmly. "Whether the Loonie leader wants them there or not."

  Gillotti crossed his arms determinedly. On the far side of the mayor's desk, Mike Princippi allowed himself a small smile. This one genuine.

  "I can't tell you how he gets his powers of divination," the former governor said. "But they really are remarkable. Always right on the money. And speaking of money, he told me a little something this morning about the way you financed your first campaign for mayor."

  A tiny squeak came from the mayor's chair. His eyes were dead, unreadable. "I conform to all of the rules of New York's election commission," he said.

  "Of course you do."

  "The finances are all out there for everyone to see. Even you. And I resent you coming into this office proxying for a thief like Sun and suggesting that anything I've done isn't aboveboard. This meeting is over."

  Rather than buzz his secretary, Mayor Gillotti stood abruptly. Sweeping around the desk, he stepped briskly across the wide room, flinging open the door. In the outer office, the eyes of aides and secretaries looked up at the mayor in surprise.

  Back near Gillotti's desk, Princippi stood. Slowly, he stepped across the room to the door.

  The mayor's jaw was firmly set. He intended to say not another word to the former governor.

  As he stepped past the mayor, Princippi paused, as if considering something. All at once, he whispered a few quick words, too soft for anyone in the outer room to hear.

  Although no one outside heard what was said, they all witnessed their boss's reaction. Mayor Randolph Gillotti's eyes grew wide in shock and anger. But he did not turn away.

  When he slammed the office door violently a moment later, Mike Princippi was still inside.

  Chapter 12

  "Where are all the cops?" Remo asked. As he walked, he was glancing around the grimy parking lot of New York's Yankee Stadium. He didn't see a single blue uniform.

  "Perhaps they have journeyed inside for an audience with His Holiness," Chiun suggested, strolling beside him.

  "This guy's not the pope, for crying out loud," Remo griped.

  "Perish the thought," Chiun said, horrified. "Seer Sun must guard against papist influence. I will advise him so when he honors me with an audience."


  Not wanting to get into another pointless Charlemagne-Church of Rome argument, Remo bit his tongue.

  At Chiun's insistence, he had called Smith that morning to find the location of the Reverend Man Hyung Sun. Relieved that they had returned from Germany without further incident, Smith had readily supplied the information, warning only that they should keep a low profile. When the CURE director asked why they were looking for Sun, Remo artfully dodged Smith's question by hanging up the phone.

  So here he was, strolling across the parking lot of Yankee Stadium amid a sea of pink-robed Loonies. Remo looked with displeasure at the cult members' costumes.

  "Don't they get cold wearing those dresses?" he asked.

  "Must you take pains to display your ignorance?" the Master of Sinanju sighed.

  "What, you're saying they aren't dresses?" Remo said.

  Chiun inspected a cluster of Sunnies as they walked past. "The white section is a simple robe," he said. "I detect Roman influence, although in Rome white togas were strictly worn by those running for political office."

  "I thought everyone wore a white robe back then."

  "That is why you are only Apprentice Reigning Master," Chiun replied. He nodded to a Loonie. "The length of these robes is far too great. Only on state occasions would high officers wear anklelength tunics."

  "What about the pink wraps?" Remo asked.

  "Indian sari," Chiun answered. "Although worn entirely incorrectly. A Hindu woman drapes her sari over the left shoulder, a Parsi over her right. These cretins have them thrown all higgledy-piggledy, without regard to caste or sect. It is quite disgraceful. I will have to mention this to His Holiness, as well."

  Nearer the stadium, entrance booths had been set up by vendors. As he approached, Remo was surprised to find them staffed not by hot-dog or beer salesmen, but by more pink-and-white-robed Sunnies.

  They were walking past one of the open booths when a blank-faced Sunnie vendor called out to Remo.

  "Hello, friend. Would you care to test your skill? It is for the good of the Grand Unification Church."

  Remo looked at the rear of the booth. A large corkboard had been fastened to the wooden structure. A few inflated balloons were scattered across the face of the board while still more deflated bits of rubber hung limply from red thumbtacks. The asphalt floor of the booth was littered with the remnants of destroyed balloons.