"I can hear you," said the guard. He held a submachine gun loosely at his side.
"Then you should know you're going to get nothing from me."
"I wouldn't want anything from you, Hazel Thurston," said the guard. "You're an ugly old Brit bitch to begin with."
"In victory or defeat, you people are just as disgusting as the day your mothers foaled you," said the British Prime Minister. The aide shot her a look of caution.
"What are you afraid of?" she asked. "That he won't like us?"
"If I didn't like you, bitch, you'd have your eyes shot out."
"I am sure that is the new form of government you wish to bring to Ireland. I don't know why people are surprised that when terrorist movements take over a country, they just use the police force the way they use you louts."
The courageous woman's chest heaved. The air was getting very thin. The guard had a little plastic tube he sucked on every few minutes. He was getting fresh oxygen.
"If I am going to pass out," said Hazel Thurston, "I do have a last word. Please get your leader here."
"You can tell it to me."
"I wouldn't leave my used tissues with you. Get your leader."
Mr. Arieson arrived without one of those tubes that apparently supplied oxygen. He didn't seem to need air. He was fresh as sunshine.
"You want to see me? You have a last word?"
"Yes, I do. I feel myself on the verge of passing out. And I want you to be aware of my last sentiments."
"I love last sentiments," said Mr. Arieson. "I love monuments to last sentiments. I love banners with last sentiments, and standards with last sentiments, and a statue with a last heroic sentiment absolutely makes me swoon."
"God save the Queen, and God save England," said the Prime Minister, and was feeling a darkness envelop her when one of the walls caved in, sending a large block of stone smashing into the room as though it had been shot from a cannon.
A man followed it inside. Blessed air filled the room. It became light. The terrorist with the submachine gun brought it to bear. He was a large man with thick forearms. The intruder, smaller and thinner, seemed to just slap at the forearms. But it sounded like thunder. The arms looked like jelly in the sleeves, and the submachine gun fell harmlessly to the ground.
The man caved in the terrorist's head like an inflated paper bag.
The intelligence man gasped. "I've never seen moves that fast or effective. Ever. That's not a man. I don't know what it is."
"He's from an old house I know," said Arieson, who didn't bother to hide or duck.
"You. I want you," said Remo.
"Here I am,' said Arieson. "I obviously wanted you. And here you are. Don't you get the message yet."
"I'm waiting."
"Stay out of my way. "
"You set things up for me to be here and you say I'm in your way."
"You people are always in my way. I try to have a little fun, do my thing, and you always cause trouble. Sinanju are the biggest troublemakers of all time. Look here at this old unused house of Granicus Maximus, who by the way knew how to treat me, if you don't. You killed him before he had his civil war."
"Who are you?" asked Hazel Thurston.
"I'm someone who doesn't like to be interfered with," said Mr. Arieson.
"I'm your rescuer," said Remo to the Prime Minister. "Or didn't you mean me?"
"I meant both of you. Get out of my way, please."
"Just a second," said Remo. "I'm going to try to kill this guy."
"Be our guest, but please do let me out first." said the Prime Minister. She saw Scotland Yard types at the entrance to the room the thin stranger had made. She told them to wait.
The thin stranger picked up a block of stone from the floor that must have weighed a ton. He did it in a gentle motion, and then the stone was chest-high and then it was flying through the air at Arieson. But the stranger was moving alongside it, as though waiting for Arieson to duck. He did not duck. He walked through the stone, and through the wall, calling out:
"Salve gladiati."
The stone shattered like shrapnel, wounding the Prime Minister lightly on her forearm and cutting a small gash in her aide's head. The thin stranger left a little less mysteriously. Whereas Arieson appeared to move through solid stone, the thin stranger moved through solid phalanx of Scotland Yard.
He was lost by the police on the road back to Bath, but later the Prime Minister found out in a confidential phone call from America's President that the stranger was American and had been sent to rescue Prime Minister Thurston.
"He seems to have amazing moves," said the Prime Minister. "But who is this Arieson and what terror group does he represent?"
"We don't know yet."
"Well, it certainly can function better than any of the hostiles before it."
"That's what worries us," said the President. He did not tell his ally, but Harold W. Smith of CURE had set up a strategy room just for this phenomenon. It tracked all the methods of the new warfare and found that previously ineffective groups had suddenly developed not only a skill for warfare but also a desire for it, something that the military academies could only hope to instill. Something was making men want to go to war more than had ever been recorded in the insane history of the planet.
Remo arrived back in Sinanju with Poo, and his puzzle. While he could do nothing with Arieson, he had a plan for Poo. He brought her to live in the big house on the hill, as was befitting the wife of a Master of Sinanju.
There he asked Chiun to speak with her.
"As an American I want my wife to be part of our business," said Remo.
"Most foolish, like most things American."
"Poo's got some good ideas about how to run the House of Sinanju."
"Really?" said Chiun. He folded his long fingernails in his lap and his face was calm.
"Yeah, she thinks we ought to formalize our relationship. You know, who gets what for what. Right now it goes into one big kitty. I don't keep track of it. But I'd like you to talk to her."
Remo said this with a straight face. And with just as straight a face, Chiun said he would be delighted. He allowed Poo to make a place for herself on a mat before him. She served them tea. Chiun's was little more than warm water. Hers was harsh and black. Remo sat down between them with the countenance of an innocent.
Poo began with praises for the Masters of Sinanju, and then began recounting tales of their wives. Remo had never heard these stories before.