or other to see how the President was doing. He was introduced as a new personal secretary. He stayed out of the office when an old OSS buddy of his had a meeting with the President. The old friend now owned his own company.
Chiun arrived near midnight without fanfare.
“Our hour is near,” he told Smith. “I salute you and give you exaltations.”
“Uh, thank you, I suppose,” said Smith. “I think you realize what we are up against. But let me be frank.”
“Your subtlety over the years is now appreciated, your genius evident,” said Chiun, who for a while had given up all hope that Smith was going to make himself emperor of this nation. Consequently Chiun had seen no hope in America for Sinanju, and the moment he could get Remo to leave, he planned to be gone.
But now fate, as ever the curious wonder of the universe, had exposed Harold W. Smith, the silly-looking peculiar man with the strange meaningless missions, as actually far more cunning than Chiun had even imagined. He had shown inordinate patience, a rarity in a white man.
Now with Smith about to become emperor of the richest nation in the world, with Sinanju at his side, his loyal and faithful assassins, the oblivion suffered by Sinanju since the first of the Western world wars was about to come to an end.
With America acknowledging Sinanju, and Sinanju performing as no amateurs could, there would be a demand again for the professional assassin. And of course the greatest demand for Sinanju. It would be an age to rival the reigns of the Borgias, or Ivan the Prompt, who paid the very day a head was delivered to him in Russia, a man curiously known by other whites as Ivan the Terrible, but a person whose word to his assassin was his bond.
All these things did Chiun think about as he joyously hailed Harold W. Smith on the threshold of their shared greatness.
But Smith only seemed worried.
Chiun assured him that it was normal to be worried.
“A first for you, an age-old mission for us,” said Chiun.
“The first thing I want you to do is to examine the Oval Office.”
“We will remove him there,” said Chiun.
“Not necessarily,” said Smith.
“We will use a more secluded place. When he sleeps.”
“Perhaps,” said Smith. “First I want to protect him from something.”
“Of course, but may I suggest something that has worked well through the ages?” said Chiun. He noticed Smith's office was sparse and small. But it had always been like that. He hoped that Smith would not be one of those emperors who insanely denied themselves the glory of the throne, living frugal and bare lives. Genghis Khan, who ruled from the saddle, was impossible to work for, and when the fine civilization of Baghdad fell before his barbaric sword, it was a sad day for Sinanju.
But one could never tell with Smith. He was inscrutable.
“No. What I want is this. We will attempt to protect the President from a certain substance. If we cannot, then and only then will I possibly order that you do what you have to do. But I don't want to put this country through another assassination. I want it to appear like a heart attack. Can you do that?”
“A heart attack is one thing, a seizure is another. We do a wonderful fall with just the right bones broken, leaving the face untouched for a state funeral. I would recommend that,” said Chiun. “We have a prepared speech that could be translated into English. You assure everyone you are going to carry on his wise policies, except make them more lenient while enforcing safety even more. People like to hear that. It goes over so well. It is a good way to start a reign.”
“You don't quite understand. Let's just look at the Oval Office for now. I'm looking for a substance that can take away memory. I believe a small amount has affected the President. It occurred in that office. I'm afraid of what would happen if you touch it, so touch nothing.”
“You mean the sort of poisons that move through the skin? Do not worry about us.”
“You mean Remo is safe from that too?”
“At peak, the skin is as controllable as the lungs,” said Chiun.
“I see,” said Smith, “but Remo was not at peak.”
“Is he all right?” asked Chiun.
“Yes,” said Smith. It was the first time he had ever lied to either Remo or Chiun. “He's fine.”
Smith did not want Chiun distracted.
“I wonder if around the White House you might wear something less flamboyant than a gold-and-red robe. I know it's your greeting robe to the ruler, but I would prefer you go unnoticed.”
“Until the time is right?” said Chiun.
“If we must eliminate the President, I want you to take Remo away from here.”
“But how will you rule?”
“You will understand everything at the right time,” said Smith.
“A great emperor is a mysterious emperor, for who knows what wonders he performs,” said Chiun. Actually emperors who acted mysteriously did very well for a very short time until their empires collapsed around them, because no one knew what to do.
Chiun examined the Oval Office for any strange substance. He found forty of them, from the synthetic material in the flags to the plastic on the desk.
“We are looking for something oily that makes people forget.”
“Olive-flavored gin,” said Chiun.
“Not drunk, steals the mind.”
“A living death,” said Chiun. “You wish to put this emperor out of his misery?”
“No. They are happy when they forget. I guess pain is a learned thing.”
“Pain and happiness are both illusions, O great Emperor Smith,” said Chiun. Whites liked that sort of thing nowadays. It made them feel as though they were getting something wise.
* * *
Even Rubin had to admit that Beatrice's plan was brilliant and the only way out.
“He wanted war, he's got war. Our only problem is we weren't fighting a war.”
“You're right. You're right. When you are right, you are right,” said Rubin. He wheezed under the weight of the bags at Nassau airport. They had gotten out of America easily. They simply used two phony passports and carried the money on board.
Just before their bags went through the X-ray check he coated the money with a fiberglass that made it all look like loose sweaters.
But at Nassau they had to open their bags entering the Bahamas. The airport was hot, with signs for rum and entertainment on the walls. The light was Caribbean bright, like rhinestones under fluorescence, a bit too bright to feel natural for Americans.
The customs inspector saw the fiberglass coating and politely inquired what it was. He had to be on the lookout for anyone bringing in narcotics or weapons.
Rubin explained it was a gift for his good friends on the island, a new sort of material to make building houses easier.
“A technology from outer space,” said Rubin.
“Lay off that planet-Alarkin stuff or we'll both be in the slammer,” said Beatrice. She asked the customs inspector where they could buy suntan lotion and because he did such a good job with directions, gave him ten crisp hundred-dollar bills.
“You are welcome with your invention from outer space to the Bahamas,” said the inspector.
But Beatrice and Rubin did not stay on Nassau. They took a small charter aircraft to the island of Eleuthera, a long strip of coral and sand dotted by occasional beaches and many small villages with no more than two stores apiece. There could not be more than ten thousand people on the island, and a closer guess would have put it at three thousand.
“Too many for the plan,” said Beatrice. “Too big. The people can make trouble.”
Rubin looked over the map. He pointed to an even smaller island ten minutes by boat from Eleuthera. It was
