"Not yet. You want to NOIWON the Iraqi matter?"
"Not a chance in hell. I can't go to the Pentagon over loose talk about an Iraqi ghost," Foxworthy answered.
"Glad you're being civilized."
There was a pause on the line, and when the NSA duty officer spoke again his tough tone softened. "So whaddya hear about that imbroglio at the UN the other day?"
"Scuttlebutt is old Double Anwar can't control his diplomats."
"I hear that, too. Maybe we should have moles in the UN."
"You mean you don't?" Foxworthy said.
"You mean you do?"
"Sorry. Can't talk about operational matters. Talk to you soonest."
"I hope not," Woolhandler said sincerely.
Chapter Twenty
By early evening Remo was feeling as if the walls were closing in on him. And while the walls might have been constructed of purple-and-orange cardboard FedEx mailers, they were as threatening to his future as poisoned spikes.
The Master of Sinanju had entered the weeding-out process in earnest. Now the seven unsuitable thrones had grown to a whopping eight unsuitable thrones, prompting Chiun to express great pleasure in their swift progress.
"Now," he said happily, "we throw ourselves into the task of separating the rich thrones from the richer. After which we shall winnow out the lesser rich from the most rich, thereby isolating only the richest thrones."
"How about we throw them up into the air and those landing facedown get tossed?" Remo suggested.
Chiun wrinkled up his nose. "You have no understanding of the joys of ritual."
Meanwhile the mail kept straggling in. FedEx continued depositing pouches, and Chiun's interest waxed with each new arrival.
"What word from Fondustan?" he asked as Remo laid down a stack.
"I never heard of Fondustan." Remo consulted his list. "So far, we've heard from Afghanistan, Pakistan, Uzbekistan, Baluchistan, Tajikistan, Turkestan, Turkmenistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and Trashcanistan, but no Fondustan."
"Fondustan was once great. If we elect to stand beside the Cockatrice Throne, it will be great again." Chiun abruptly frowned. Looking around he said, "I do not see the seal of the mansa of Mali before me."
"I don't think Mali has a mansa anymore, Little Father."
"And the king of Cambodia?"
"A lot of those old thrones closed up shop a century back."
"And the White Chrysanthemum Throne?"
"Which one is that?"
"Pah! You know nothing of the ancestors you have shunned. No less than the emperor of Japan sits upon the White Chrysanthemum Throne. Once they employed us for an entire of your centuries."
"Look, how about we break for lunch?"
"Ah," breathed Chiun, selecting a red mailer from the latest stack. "Word from England."
"We already heard from Great Britain," said Remo.
"That was the queen. We have not yet heard from the Queen Mother, a sterling woman. Perhaps she has grown weary of dwelling in the shadows and seeks our assistance in restoring her to glory."
Taking the cardboard letter container, the Master of Sinanju ignored the paper zipper and, employing a long fingernail, slit one end. Out slid a cream-colored letter. He glanced at it and his papery features constricted in disgust.
"Pah!"
"What is it?"
"Merely a request from the wayward Prince of Wales. We do not treat with mere princes. They control no purse strings."
"Think again. They discovered oil under both Windsor and Balmoral castles."
"You may read the wretch's entreaty, Remo. I will not sully my eyes with the scribbling of unfaithful princes."
The letter sailed in Remo's direction. He snatched it from the air and looked at it. Under a magnificent embossed letterhead declaring this to be a true communication from HRH the Prince of Wales was a short text full of flowery praise and oblique language.
Remo frowned. "Unless I'm reading this wrong, this guy's looking for a one-shot hit."
"We seek a long-term relationship. Who does he desire freed of the burden of life?"
"I could be reading too much between the lines, but I think it's the Princess of Wales. We don't do princesses, do we?"
"Not for filthy oil. Gold is our coin. You will pen a response offering regrets and earnest hopes for a mutually rewarding relationship at some future time."
"You know my penmanship isn't that good."
"You will improve. We will accept only one client. The other—"
"One hundred thirty-two."
"Yes, that number. You will pen sincere regrets to all, so as not to prejudice future employment."
Remo groaned. "Look, Chiun. I'm starved."
Chiun clapped his hands together. "Yes. Let us put off this wonderful task and eat."
"Takeout okay?"
"No. This is our first supper since you have returned groveling."