"No, Remo, don't hang up! We have a crisis. An unknown military force has landed at the Bay of Pigs, and in retaliation Castro has attempted to take out the nuclear power plant at Turkey Point."
"He did!"
"Yes. Fortunately, the MIG was shot down before it could inflict any damage. But we expect another attempt."
"So what do you want Chiun and me to do?" Remo asked sourly. "Patrol all of southern Florida with our slingshots poised?"
"No. I have conferred with the President. Castro is convinced this is a CIA-U.S. operation, but it is no such thing. It is critical that we locate the true provocateurs and expose them."
"Wait a minute! Hold the phone! Are you saying we're supposed to go after the guys who are attacking Castro?"
"Yes. And it is imperative."
Remo lowered his voice. "Uh, Smitty, I hate to break this to you, but Old Bushyface has been jamming the TV channels down here."
"I am aware of that."
"Are you aware that he cut in on Cheeta Ching's evening screed?" Remo added.
"Why is that important?" Smith asked, testy-voiced.
"Oh, I don't know," Remo said airily. "Maybe because Chiun was watching and got pissed."
"I will have a tape made," Smith said quickly. "He will have missed nothing."
"And just as you called," Remo added, "he was on his way out the door to assassinate Castro."
"I was not!" Chiun called from the other room.
"Remo," Smith hissed. "Do not let Chiun provoke that lunatic. Our highest priority is to keep the lid on an explosive situation."
"I can't make any guarantees," Remo said slowly.
"Those who are without gainful employment are unpredictable," Chiun called out. "The homeless are without hope, and where there is no hope, passions run high."
"What is he saying?" Smith asked harshly.
"Tell you what, Smitty," Remo said. "Maybe you should talk to Chiun. Get this contract knot unraveled."
"There is no time," Smith said, his voice rippling with concern.
"I will perform no service without certain considerations being met," Chiun announced.
"Tell him I'll meet them," Smith said quickly.
"I thought you were too broke," Remo asked.
"Remo, I will meet them. Now tell him!"
"No need," said Remo, handing the phone to the Master of Sinanju, who had suddenly appeared in the doorway. Chiun took it and listened quietly, the receiver pressed so tightly to his ear that Remo heard nothing of Smith's end of the conversation other than an intermittent lemony buzz.
At length the Master of Sinanju said, "Remo and I will do what we can." Then he handed the phone to Remo, saying, "You will receive the instructions. I must finish my meal."
Remo clapped the receiver to his ear. "Okay, Smitty. Nice move. Shoot."
"We are in the dark," Smith said urgently. "There is no time for stealth or finesse. You must start in the Cuban community of Little Havana. Go there immediately. Turn the place upside down if you must. Find out who sponsored this Bay of Pigs incursion and put a stop to any further activity."
"Sounds simple enough," said Remo. "Any name in particular I should start with?"
"Yes. Dr. Osvaldo Revuelta, reputed leader of Ultima Hora."
"Ultima what?"
"Ultima Hora. It is Spanish for 'Eleventh Hour.' Revuelta is a wealthy Cuban expatriate who is suspected of financing Ultima Hora, a group of Cuban mercenaries bent upon retaking the island. It is believed that Revuelta's ultimate goal is to establish himself as the first democratic President of Cuba."
"Sounds like he's on our side," Remo said.
"Not if his activities put the U.S. and Cuba on a collision course," Smith said, flat-voiced.
"What's the big deal? We can take those Caribbean losers in an afternoon. Remember Grenada? The Cuban troops ran for their lives."
"Remo, you know the situation in Russia. It is extremely delicate. There is a mood to return to the Soviet model. Our government and theirs have a tacit understanding: Hands off Havana. If we embarrass the former Red Army, they may agitate to intervene. War fuels depressed economies, as you know."
"I still don't like it," Remo said, face and voice bitter.
"Nor do I. But we live in a changing world, and we must adapt. Castro can't stay in power forever. But he can cause great harm if he seizes upon this incident as a way to rally his people behind his crumbling regime."
"Okay, Chiun and I are on the way."
"Report as necessary."
Remo hung up and sauntered back into the kitchen. There, the Master of Sinanju was patting his tiny mouth with a linen napkin. On the plate under his bearded chin lay the bodily remains-largely spine-of a trout.
"You ate my trout!" Remo shouted.
"The duck was greasy," Chiun said.
"But you knew that!"
"I did not know how greasy. Besides, the trout would have been cold by the time you returned to it, and both of our dinners would have been ruined. Why should two suffer when the wisdom of one can prevent this?"
Remo picked up a bamboo chopstick and poked at the duck. The crackling brown skin broke. No steam leaked out. He could see by the gelatinous state of the orange sauce that the meal was stone-cold.
"I wasn't in the mood for duck," he complained. "And I'm sure not in the mood for cold duck in congealed orange sauce."
The Master of Sinanju stood up and shook back into place his black silk kimono sleeves, which had been folded high over his bony elbows.