"Of course," Remo lied, suddenly remembering the files tucked into his back pocket.
"Good. And I suggest you clear this house of smoke before someone calls the fire department."
"Fear not, Emperor," Chiun called loudly. "We will serve your needs with skill and daring, for we honor your wisdom and your graciousness."
His patrician face embarrassed, Smith hastily closed the door after him.
"Why do you always raise your voice when he's got the door open?" Remo asked. "You know how he is about security."
Chiun shrugged, pulling the case off the table. "Perhaps it will encourage him to visit less often." He disappeared into another room.
A few minutes later, the racket coming from the attic was too much for Remo to ignore and he went up the folding stairs.
He found the Master of Sinanju dumping the contents of one of his steamer trunks into the diplomatic
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valise. Remo noticed that the items included videotapes and phonograph albums.
Remo plucked up one of the latter as Chiun began stuffing posters in between the heavier objects as packing.
"Barbra Streisand's Greatest Hits?" Remo asked, pointing to the smiling face on the album cover.
"When one has a retentive mind, one need listen to a song but once and it will stay in the heart forever," Chiun said distantly.
"That's not what I meant. I thought you still harbored a crush on her-although I'll admit it's been a long time since you've mentioned it."
"She has spurned me for too long."
"The love letters still coming back unopened, eh?"
Chiun shrugged his frail shoulders. "It is not that so much. I assume that selfish sycophants around her are responsible for that. But I lost respect for Barbra after she took up with that mere boy."
"And who might that be?" Remo asked, handing the album to Chiun. The Master of Sinanju snapped it in two without hesitating and stuffed it into the case. A framed portrait of Streisand followed it in, its glass front cracked.
"I do not recall his name. John Donson, or something. He is the one on that absurd flamingo show. Florida Lice, I think it is called."
"Florida . . .? Oh, that. Yeah. I can see how you'd be upset, getting shut out by a twerp like that. I mean, the guy must be ... what, forty, fifty years younger than you?"
"She could have had perfection," Chiun growled. "Instead she settled for one who shows so little respect for himself that he wears no socks and shaves only once a week."
"I got news for you, Little Father. Miami Vice is off the air, and I think Barbra Streisand dumped him long ago."
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"It is? She did?" Chiun looked up, his facial hair quivering with hope.
"Of course, that's just a rumor," Remo admitted. "It may not be true."
Chiun hesitated. Then he shredded the unauthorized Barbra Streisand life story-both the hardcover and paperback editions-into confetti and used them for packing as well.
"It no longer matters," the Master of Sinanju said resignedly. "That she kissed such a one as that is enough of an insult to my feelings."
"She actually kissed him, huh?"
"I know it is shocking, but I have it on excellent authority. Now I can never forgive, nor will I forget this humiliation."
Chiun slammed the case closed. Then, hands tucked into his sleeves, he marched, chin lifted high and only slightly quivering, to the ladder steps. He floated down them with stolid dignity. Only Remo recognized the square set of his thin shoulders as indicating a breaking heart.
"What about this case?" Remo called after him. "You gonna just leave it here?"
"No," Chiun returned dully. "You may carry it."
"Why not?" Remo muttered, hefting the case. "I've been carrying your spear for years." It was surprisingly heavy. He hoped it weighed as much as a case full of stolen military equipment.
Outside, Remo placed the case in the trunk of his blue Buick. It felt strange to think of a car as his. He used to rent cars exclusively for security reasons, often leaving them in remote locations so that the rental bills would go through the roof. But now that he had a permanent home, Remo figured security wouldn't suffer from owning a permanent car too-although he missed Smith's howls of protest when the rental bills came in.
Chiun was already in the passenger seat when Remo
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got behind the wheel. The Master of Sinanju stared ahead woodenly.
"When we get back," he said in a low, bitter voice, "remind me to speak to Smith about John Donson."
Remo started the engine. "What about him?"
"I have heard rumors that he has a criminal past."
"I think you're confusing the TV role with the actor."
"We shall see. But perhaps Smith's computer things will turn up something, and I can persuade him to allow me to punish Donson for his vicious infractions committed against the glorious American Constitution. In God We Trust."
Remo grunted. "I'm glad you're taking this so well."
"Masters of Sinanju learn how to bear up under disappointment," Chiun sniffed, rearranging his kimono skirts primly. "Besides, there is always Cheeta Ching, the beautiful Korean anchorperson."
"Isn't she married now?"
Chiun's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I have written to her about her husband. He has been laying hands on other women, the pervert."
"How do you know that?" Remo asked as he backed out of the driveway.
"He is a gynecologist," Chiun hissed. "He admits this."
"No!" Remo said in a mock-serious voice.