His gray face blanched as the line plotted through the Turkey Point nuclear power station on the tip of Florida.
"My God!" said Smith. "He's long threatened that plant. This time he actually went for it."
Smith returned to his search, his eyes stark.
It might be too late for Remo and Chiun to enter the crisis, but he would have to try.
If only he had some inkling of their location . . .
Chapter 5
Remo Williams was torn between duty to his country and his responsibility to the House of Sinanju.
It was not the first time. Almost since the day he had been framed for a crime he didn't commit and subjected to a chillingly convincing mock execution, only to wake up in Folcroft Sanitarium with a new face, all traces of his past erased, and then placed in the hands of the Master of Sinanju to be trained in Sinanju-the first and last word in the martial artsRemo had experienced divided loyalties.
In the early years, the choices had been clearer. Remo was an American. A former Newark cop. A Vietnam veteran. America was his home. America his choice, hands-down. No contest.
Over the long years of training, Remo had begun to change. He had become Sinanju, which made him kin to the long line that had stood beside the thrones of history. Although the blood of the past masters did not flow through his veins, their responsibilities had fallen onto his shoulders.
In North Korea, on the West Korea Bay, lay the village of Sinanju, a cold, stark place of mud huts and ignorance. It was from this village that the art of Sinanju had emerged. In the harsh village there was no arable land, and the fishing was unreliable.
In the good years, the simple folk of Sinanju eked out a meager existence.
In the bad years, the children were drowned. First the females. Then, if the times demanded it, the irreplaceable males. It was called "sending the babies home to the sea."
Centuries of this heartbreaking cycle had forced the leaders of the village to seek another way. And so the men of Sinanju had hired themselves out as mercenaries to other provinces. This practice grew, and before long the name of the Master of Sinanju and his cunning mercenaries-the night tigers of Sinanju-had become feared throughout the kingdom of Korea.
With their increasing reknown, the Masters of Sinanju had taken to foreign lands to ply their cold trade. The courts of China, India, Japan, Persia, and Egypt came to know them. Not as mercenaries, but as assassins.
They were a dynasty unrecorded by history. An invisible power that had changed the course of empires. The art they plied was at first simply the seminal martial art. But in a time harsher than any other, a Master, Wang the Greater, had discovered a secret deeper than the hidden historical role of the House of Sinanju. He had unleashed the sun source-the power of the unlocked human mind.
This secret had been handed down from Wang to Ung to Chen to each succeeding master, until, in the latter part of the twentieth century, the last true Master of Sinanju, Chiun the Younger, bereft of an heir and without clients, had been summoned to serve the newest and greatest empire in history: The United States of America.
Chiun had trained Remo. Remo had learned well. He also unlearned bad breathing, unmasked his senses, foresworn the use of weapons, and waxed in skill. And became the secret enforcement arm of CURE. America's unknown assassin.
As he grew in Sinanju, Remo became one with Sinanju. The village of the ancestors-who-were-not-his became as important to him as America.
Now, in the hotel that was more palatial and wonderfilled than the royal halls through which the old Masters of Sinanju had moved with uncanny stealth, Remo Williams fretted about his choices.
His responsibility to the organization and to his country demanded that he call Harold W. Smith.
But he had a responsibility to the House of Sinanju, too.
Above all, it was to feed the babies of the village, lest they be sent home to the sea once again. It had not happened in over a generation. But the gold that emperors paid was the sole coin of value in Sinanju.
To shirk this responsibility would be the same as betraying the country of his birth.
Worse. The worst Harold W. Smith would do to him was to hunt Remo down and kill him-if he could. Remo was under no illusions. He was an expendable component of a supersecret "black budget" operation.
On the other hand, if he pissed off Chiun badly enough, he would suffer horribly. Chiun would see to it.
And to Remo Williams, raised in the orphanage called St. Theresa's, never married, and cut off from his past, the Master of Sinanju was the closest thing to family he had ever known.
A clear choice. In the early days, he would have called Smith. Now, his gut told him to obey his Master.
Still, Remo was torn. Maybe there was a way to finagle things so Smith could locate them.
The arrival of room service brought Remo out of his worried state. Whatever he ended up doing, it could wait until after dinner.
He let the waiter in. The man wheeled in a gleaming stainless-steel cart that was busy with silver and linen napkins.
"Looks great," Remo said, handing the man a twenty. It was Smith's money, so he felt free to squander it.
"Complimentary bottle of champagne from the room service manager," the waiter said. "Shall I open it for you?"
"No. Why don't you take it?"
"I couldn't, sir."
"Okay," said Remo, pulling the six-hundred-dollar bottle from its ice bucket and tossing it over his shoulder.
The waiter watched as the bottle, as if in slow motion, tumbled like a sweaty candlepin across the room, caromed off a wall, and mimicking a billiard ball, landed in the kitchenette sink with a resounding crash and splash.
"That was the best champagne we have!" the waiter gulped.
"Next time, consider taking it," Remo said, gesturing toward the open door.
"Next time I will."
After the front door had closed, Remo knocked on Chiun's.
"Soup's on!" he called.
The door flew open and there stood the Master of Sinanju, his eyes steely.
"Uh-oh," said Remo, noticing the color of the old Korean's kimono. It was black. Black silk. And cut high at the sleeve and hem. The better for combat.
It was the traditional night-fighting garment of the Master of Sinanju. Designed for optimum stealth. Remo had a Western-style version, which consisted of a black silk blouse and flowing beltless pants.
"Your Duck in Orange Sauce is here," he said, hiding his surprise.
"I have no time for duck," said the Master of Sinanju, sweeping past Remo like a black patch of darkness. "I must avenge this insult to my viewing pleasure."
Remo followed him anxiously. "Are you going somewhere?"
Chiun shook a tiny fist in the air. "I am going to pluck every hair from the ruffian's ugly beard."