Chiun nodded sagely. "Do you contemplate continued service or a single dispatch?"
"We invite the House of Sinanju to bask in the radiance of the Sun of Vergina for as long as you wish, because our houses share such deep historical ties."
"Yes. Very good. Macedonia is eternal," Chiun stated.
"I am glad you think that way."
"But gold is forever. Duration of service equals the weight of gold. In order to speak of the gold, the service required must be known."
"You may have all the gold in our treasury, if only you will swear allegiance to Great Macedonia," the king said magnanimously.
Chiun's small nose wrinkled up. Remo dipped a cup into the brackish water and sipped slowly through his clenched teeth, hoping to strain out the most disagreeable impurities. To the horror of all, he ended up spitting the water back into the flagon.
The Master of Sinanju raised his voice to cover the rude noise.
"Sinanju will consider extended service, then. And the gold in your treasury will suffice—"
The king of Macedonia clapped his hands together. "Excellent!"
"—providing it is equivalent to the gold bestowed upon the House by the Persian, Darius."
The king stroked his chin carefully. "How much gold was that?"
Eyeing the attentive retinue, Chiun said, "Some matters are best not spoken of in the presence of those who depend upon the gold of the emperor for their comforts."
"Ah." The king leaned forward. An amount was whispered in his ear.
The king froze, leaned back on his cushion and went so pale his scarlet robes deepened to crimson.
"That would be acceptable," he said slowly.
"Good."
"—if we had such an amount. But we do not."
Chiun frowned. "How much gold does your treasure house contain?"
The king looked left and right and leaned forward. He whispered an amount.
On his cushion the Master of Sinanju stiffened, hazel eyes widening.
All the color drained from his face. He arose, so perfect he might have been a yellow flower seeking the sun.
"Come, Remo," he said in a cold voice. "We must leave this fraud that dare call itself Macedonia, for they have no gold."
The king of Macedonia leapt to his feet. "Please do not go."
"Forget it," said Remo, opening the exit door for the haughty figure of the Master of Sinanju. "Next time remember the rice."
Remo had to drive the limo back to the airport, and when he got there, the entire artillery complement of the Macedonian army sat waiting. Both cannons.
After a knot of sweating officers finished ramming the iron balls into the mouth and tamping them down with ramrods resembling giant Q-Tips, they fired the powder hole with a Bic lighter.
Remo was just exiting the limo when the cannon-ball began whistling in his direction.
One ball arced high from the west. Remo stepped to the rear fender and slammed the trunk lid with a hand that caused it to spring open.
The ball impacted the vertical armored trunk lid, making a wonderful reverberation. The ball stuck to the lid. Remo smacked it with his hand, dislodging it. It toppled into the trunk, and Remo slammed the lid back. The limo stopped rocking on its springs.
The other ball came whistling from the south and, after it whistled over their heads, went whistling happily to the north.
It landed somewhere in a patch of weeds with a meaty thunk.
Climbing aboard the waiting jet, Remo waved to the chagrined artillery officers and closed the door behind the Master of Sinanju.
There was no problem getting clearance. All Remo had to do was promise the tower he'd stop flinging luggage at their heads if they were cleared immediately.
He was thanked for his consideration. Chiun translated.
"What language was that?" he asked Chiun.
"Bulgar," sniffed Chiun.
"I thought Macedonia was Greek."
"Macedonia," intoned Chiun as the jet's wheels left the ground, "is no more."
"We came all this way to do a little business, and not only did we get rooked on a decent meal, but they try to kill us to boot."
That last thought brought a wistful smile of satisfaction to the Master of Sinanju's papery lips.
"There is at least consolation in that."
Remo just rolled his eyes.
Chapter Thirty-six
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff wore his face like a waxen mask. His mouth moved as he spoke in a mechanical fashion, but nothing else did. His voice was grim. His eyes were lusterless stones.
"Mr. President, we are embroiled in a new arms race."
"With whom?" asked the President.
"With everyone outside of Uruguay and Samoa," he said flatly.
It was like a slap in the face to the beleaguered Chief Executive. The grim tone of the JCS chair's voice carried no accusation, but the harsh lash of his words seemed to say, It is your fault and you must deal with it.