"No doubt CIA. Probably a control agent. He is of no importance. What is of significance is the fact that the President of the United States employs an assassin."
"I guess," Harmon Cashman said vaguely.
"In spite of the congressional prohibition against assassination as a tool of Executive Branch policy."
Harmon Cashman stopped in mid-bite. He looked up.
"Are you saying we have some political dirt on the President?"
"Such an unsavory way of putting it. Let us say that the President inadvertently has betrayed to us probably his greatest secret."
"How's that gonna help the campaign?"
"Harmon, my friend. Sometimes it is enough to know a secret, without turning it to one's advantage," said Enrique Espiritu Esperanza quietly.
Chapter 14
The next day a gleaming, white-chocolate Mercedes tooled through Chinatown.
It drew up before an ornate temple, and Enrique Espiritu Esperanza, resplendent in white, emerged. Harmon Cashman followed.
The Master of Sinanju was there to greet him. He bowed once. Enrique Esperanza bowed in return.
Esperanza looked around. His own image stared back from every wall and lamp post, and although he could not read the calligraphy under the multitude of identical faces, the sight of his repeated image gave him a warm feeling of hope.
"You have done well," he said.
"I have only begun," Chiun replied. And, raising his voice, the Master of Sinanju began to chant in a singsong voice.
The words were unintelligible. But the reaction was immediate.
From out of shops and tenements came curious Chinese.
They gathered around as Chiun lifted his arms and began to speak. He gestured broadly, as if scolding the crowd.
"Sounds like a harangue," whispered Harmon Cashman, in a worried voice. "Maybe I'd better break out some Oreos."
"They will not be necessary."
The harangue-or whatever it was-continued.
At the end of it, a sea of blank, bland faces stared back.
"They don't look very impressed," Cashman muttered uneasily.
"How can one tell?" answered Enrique Esperanza, not a care evident in his voice or on his face.
Then, while they were considering edging back to the car, the Chinese began to lift their voices.
"Syiwang! Syiwang! Syiwang!"
"What the heck are they saying?" muttered Harmon Cashman.
"They are saying," said Enrique Esperanza proudly, " 'Hope.' "
In Little Tokyo, it was the same.
Only the word was Kibo.
In Koreatown, it was Somang. To the Vietnamese of Little Saigon, it was Hyvong. Whatever the tongue, it was music to the ears of Harmon Cashman.
"This is incredible!" he breathed. "You can hardly get the Chinese and Japanese to pay attention to local politics. And look at this! If that little guy can do this all over the state," he said enthusiastically, "we got the Asian vote sewed up slicker than a sackful of stray kittens."
"He can."
And once again, Enrique Espiritu Esperanza stepped forward to address the crowd. He spoke in English. The Master of Sinanju translated. The crowd applauded whenever the old Korean lifted his thin hands, as if responding to an applause sign.
Harmon Cashman could only marvel at the sight.
"If we could only move the white people this way," he said wistfully, as they walked back to the waiting Mercedes.
"We will," promised Enrique Esperanza.
"How? There aren't enough Oreos on the planet to hand out to everybody. If there were, our campaign war chest could go broke trying."
"Harmon," said Enrique Espiritu Esperanza, "I wish you to alert the press that I will give an important speech at four o'clock this afternoon."
"Done. Where?"
"In South Central."
"The barrio!"
"South Central, yes."
"But that's the Hispanic and black district!" Harmon protested. "You got the Hispanic vote in your hip pocket."
"I am not going to South Central to sway the Hispanic vote," said Enrique Espiritu Esperanza smoothly. "I am going there to court the white vote."
"Ricky," Harmon Cashman said in a firm voice, "I think you've been out in the sun too long. Not only are there practically no whites to speak of down there, but it's downright dangerous. It's gang heaven. They have to send in the National Guard just to collect the garbage." "I have no fear."
"I know you don't. But in everything you've done so far, you've showed good sense. People have already taken shots at you. Brown people. Your people. Why don't we move on to San Francisco? I know they'll love you up there."
"Because I have not yet taken L.A. County," said Enrique Esperanza, gesturing to the Master of Sinanju, who was regaling the scattering crowd in their own tongue.
Out of the corner of his eye, the Master of Sinanju caught the beckoning gesture of his candidate. He finished his remarks to the gathering crowd.