"Ah. The so-called 'President,' exerting his will. Perhaps this will impell Smith to see the light."
"If by 'light' you mean overthrow the President, I doubt it."
"What exactly did Smith say? We may yet salvage our honor in this-sordid matter."
"I forget," Remo said cagily, drawing tap water and filling the pot.
"Come! Speak! You are hiding something."
"Okay," said Remo. "Turns out he wanted Nogeira alive. "
"Unbelievable!" cried Chiun. The single word was a keen of anguish. "Even in your failure, you have failed."
Remo looked up from the sink. "How's that again?"
"You failed to eliminate your target," Chiun spat. "That is one thing. Your emperor changed his mind and desired that the evil one survive. You had a golden opportunity to demonstrate that you anticipated your emperor's unspoken wishes, and you allowed a mere alligator to come between you and glory."
"Since when is Smith my emperor?"
"Since you have piled failure upon failure."
"The way I see it," Remo retorted, going to the tabletop refrigerator, "I'm a victim of Smith's not knowing what he wants."
Chiun nodded vigorously. "Yes. Good. Now you are thinking. We will blame Smith."
Remo looked back. "We will?"
"In our histories, of course. This way our ancestors will understand that no blame will attach itself to us, and become something they will be forced to live down in later times."
"Now might be a good time to get it down in the scrolls," Remo suggested. "While it's still fresh in your mind."
"You begin to show glimmerings of intelligence," said Chiun, who then swept away in a flourish of Christmas-red kimono skirts.
Remo returned to picking through the refrigerator, his unhappy mouth brightening into a self-satisfied grin.
With luck, Chiun would spend the next hour telling his future descendants how Mad Harold, the Emperor of America, had blown the mission. That would be plenty of time for Remo to cook up a mess of rice and fish.
His grin went away by degrees, when he discovered that there was no more fish to be had. There was plenty of duck, though. All kinds.
The trouble was, it took a lot longer than an hour to cook a duck properly.
Remo hurriedly pushed the smallest duck he could find into the oven and turned on the burner. With luck, it would be ready before Chiun was finished.
Just to be safe, he turned the heat up as high as it would go. After all, luck was something Remo had encountered little of today.
The oven started smoking immediately, but smoky duck would be a hell of a lot better than no duck at all, Remo reasoned. And who knew? He might discover that he liked smoked duck.
Remo never found out. When the smoke got thick enough to attract the Master of Sinanju's attention, Chiun swept in, and threw open the kitchen window to let in fresh air.
He also threw the smoking duck out the open window. Without a word, he tossed the boiling rice water after it, and returned to his labors.
Remo settled for yesterday's cold rice.
Chapter 5
Harmon Cashman had hope in his heart. For the first time in almost four years, since the last presidential election, he had hope in his heart.
Back in those halcyon days, Harmon Cashman had been chief advance man for the then Vice-President and now current President of the United States. He had served the man well. Got him through the minefield of the Iowa Caucuses. Helped shape his presidential image. Distanced him from his predecessor, the incumbent President.
It was true that they had come to New Hampshire trailing in the polls. The campaign was on the ropes. No other way to describe it. There, the governor of the state had stepped in. A real bulldog. No finesse about him at all. But he had single-handedly turned the New Hampshire primary and the fortunes of the Vice-President around.
Harmon Cashman had to hand it to the New Hampshire governor. Even now. Never said any different.
What Harmon Cashman had never understood was how the governor had ended up White House Chief of Staff. That job was supposed to have gone to Harmon Cashman. True, there had been no such agreement, written or oral. But it was understood. At least, it had been understood by Harmon Cashman.
After the election, the President-elect had broken the news to Harmon Cash, gentle but direct. He explained that he owed his office to the governor, who had turned everything around for him. Snatched victory out of the jaws of defeat, the man had. Harmon Cashman took it hard. He declined any lesser appointment. It was Chief of Staff or nothing.
It ended up nothing. To be more precise, a handwritten thank-you note from the new president was forthcoming. A two-pager. Believing himself humiliated, Harmon Cashman, the most seasoned advance man in national politics, withdrew from electioneering, telling himself there would be other elections, other candidates.
Now, four years later, with the presidential primaries in full cry, he found this was true. But not for Harmon Cashman. No one liked a sore loser. The GOP shunned him. The Democrats, who this year more than ever all looked and sounded alike, like some extended family with matching hair, wouldn't have him on their teams. They figured he was some kind of Republican Trojan horse.
Harmon Cashman had made overtures to certain state campaigns, but in every case the boat had already left the dock. There was no place on any campaign-unless he wanted to stuff envelopes in some stuffy storefront campaign headquarters in East Treestump, Nebraska.
This all changed the day hope came into Harmon Cashman's life.
Hope came up to the front door of Harmon Cashman's Manassas townhouse, carrying a paper sack and bearing a beatific smile that made Harmon Cashman instantly want to help the face behind the smile.
"I am called Esperanza," said the smile.
Harmon Cashman understood the name to be Spanish. He frowned. "I had a maid named Esperanza once," he muttered, looking over the face behind the dazzling smile.
It was a round, cherubic face, the color of toffee. The skin was as smooth as molasses, as if poured into a mold; perfect and without blemish.
The eyes were a liquid, like melting licorice. They gleamed with a I-want-you-to-like-me gleam.
The man was some kind of ethnic. But he had such a nice face that Harmon Cashman was instantly lulled into swallowing his surprise.
"Esperanza," the man said, "is my last name." His voice reminded Harmon of honey, sweet, and golden clear. It was the perfect radio voice. An alto. With a trace of fire under it. "Esperanza means 'Hope.' " He lifted the paper sack. "I bring you hope."
Brown fingers pulled open the bag. Harmon Cashman looked inside. He saw vaguely familiar hard, black, round shapes mixed with curls of white. Like thin smiles. They seemed to be smiling at him, those round black shapes. The smiles were familiar. They reminded him somehow of Virginia, where he had grown up. And Grandma Cashman's kitchen.
He reached in and pulled one of the hauntingly familiar smiles out of the bag. It was sandwiched between two serrated wafers of black chocolate.
He sniffed it. The odor brought back powerful childhood memories.
"This is an Oreo cookie," he said, blank-voiced.