“That is no way to talk. If an emperor thinks you are serving him despite injuries, allow it. Allow as to how every living breath serves his glory. Provided of course the tribute arrives on time.”
Remo didn't even bother to explain anymore that Smith was not an emperor. He had explained to Chiun too many times already that the organization served a democracy which decided its emperor by voting, not be an assassin's hand or marching army or accident of birth. This Chiun not only thought of as a foul abomination, but also impossible in the affairs of men, and Remo was only a fool to believe it, like our Western fairy tales such as Santa Claus, or that God decreed who would rule. The saying in Sinanju had always been, “The divine right of all kings is crafted by the hand of the assassin.”
It had been a good selling point in the Ming and Chang Dynasties of China, and the court of Charlemagne.
“Is that Chiun there? Send him our regards and tell him the tribute shipment arrived on time,” said Smith.
“He knows that, Smitty.”
“How? I only found out this morning.”
“I don't know how he knows. There was a problem once with a delivery and the accumulated treasure of the house, and ever since, he has kept an eye on the accounts.”
“He doesn't trust us anymore?”
“Sort of,” said Remo. How could he explain it to Smith? Chiun didn't trust anyone beyond the suburbs of Sinanju proper and did not have all that much use for everyone inside those boundaries either. He trusted Remo because he knew Remo. He most certainly was not going to trust a client.
“We have a minor court reinforcement in California,” said Smith. There wasn't too much more to be said, except for the name and place.
Remo had done it many times. Made sure witnesses didn't clam up. It was part of the original purpose of CURE, as the organization was called, to make sure the nation could survive within the Constitution. That meant making the courts work. But so many witnesses had been bought off or frightened off that in entire states the justice system barely creaked along. It was the one thing Remo could say CURE had actually improved. The rest of the work was keeping the world from falling apart, and he was fairly certain that in that area, CURE was losing.
“You're not ready yet,” said Chiun.
“For you, no. For what I have to do, yes.”
“The first step into eternity is a missed breath.”
“I'm good enough.”
“Good enough? Good enough?” said Chiun. “Good enough would be to hit someone over the head with a brick. Good enough would be to use a gun. You are Sinanju, not some... some white gangster in a uniform.”
“I'm still white, Little Father.”
“You sound it.”
“Didn't you say that emperors couldn't tell perfection from duck dung? That all they cared about was putting a head on a wall?”
“Yes, but we care. That is who we are. Besides, in this country they do not put heads on walls. They are crazy. They are ashamed of their assassins.”
“Right, Little Father. We're a secret organization.”
“See. You are ashamed of what you do. And that is the fault of the mad Smith. In any civilized country he would have used me to openly declare himself emperor. He would hang all his enemies' heads on the palace wall to show his strength. But no, we must skulk around like criminals.”
“Right, Little Father. Secret,” said Remo pleasantly.
“Only a worm is pleased to live under a rock,” said Chiun.
“No time to argue, Little Father. I've got to get going.”
“To do what? To remove a rival for a great throne, adding honor to the history of Sinanju? What should I write down now that you do? Deliver packages? Watch over machinery like a slave at a water wheel? What new misuse for the talents of Sinanju?”
“I am going to make sure a witness testifies.”
Chiun rolled up the scroll and capped the ink.
“You are all crazy. All crazy. If Emperor Smith wants a decision from a judge, why doesn't he buy the judge like in any civilized country?”
Remo had packed everything he needed for the trip. Everything was a wad of cash in his pocket.
“That's what we're fighting against,” said Remo.
“Why?” said Chiun.
“It has to do with the Constitution, Little Father, and I don't have time to explain it now.”
Chiun shrugged, folding his long delicate fingers underneath his robe. He would never be able to explain it in the histories of Sinanju. Here was a piece of paper Smith and Remo held sacred. The very existence of what they called the organization violated that piece of paper, but the organization was created to protect it. And therefore everyone had to be secret about what they did. Even for whites, this was puzzling. Remo denied Smith had plans for becoming the emperor, which they called the President here. But if that were not his real plan, what was it? It certainly could not be protecting a sacred piece of paper. There weren't even any jewels on it. He had seen it once in a glass case.
“That's it?” Chiun had asked, looking at the simple old parchment.
“That's it, Little Father,” Remo had said proudly. “A lot of men died for that.”
“Who killed them?”
“Lots of people. People who would destroy America mainly.”
“You mean if that piece of paper burned up, America would no longer exist? It is magic then. The magic paper that holds America together.”
“Yes. In a way. In a definite way, yes,” said Remo. Chiun remembered how happy he had been when he said that. Actually happy. He wasn't lying either. Remo didn't lie. A frightening characteristic in a human being, like an inability to blink one's eyes, but nevertheless a characteristic of Remo.
And so there was Chiun standing before the glass case in a white man's building, listening to Remo happily explain a fairy tale about a piece of paper, claiming its words ran America.
But nowhere in the document was there any mention of king or emperor. Nowhere. All it talked about was what the government could not do to its subjects. Remo had read through about a half page of citizens' rights when Chiun had asked to be excused. He was going to vomit if he heard any more.
To the service of this nonsense was the awesome magnificence of the power of Sinanju now dedicated. Chiun thought about that as Remo, happy, left the apartment.
Chapter 3
Gennaro “Drums” Drumola weighed four hundred and thirty pounds and when he laughed his stomach stayed still and the room shook.
It didn't help that he was in a small wood frame house. But the U.S. attorney wanted him there, wanted him miles away from downtown Los Angeles or any city. He wanted to make sure Drums's friends could not reach him. The best military guards were posted at the edges of the woodlands. Electronic sensors were hidden in a necklace of warning underneath the ground behind the human shield. And above them all, aircraft constantly patrolled. Gennaro Drumola by his testimony alone could bring down most of the narcotics trafficking and protection rackets operating in California.
Drums had been more than willing to do this for his government. Drums had an aversion to gas chambers, and his government had told him he could live, albeit in prison, if he would help them build their case against the
