And suddenly he could hear it again, menacing and inexorable, the helicopter in his mind that would lead him to madness.
But it wasn't in his mind. Consuela burst into a flurry of Spanish as she pointed to the eastern horizon.
Remo saw it, too. It was coming from the opposite direction from where Bauer's helicopter had gone. As it drew nearer, he could see that its markings were different, too. It was a police helicopter.
"Karen!" Consuela gasped. "She must have contacted the police before she died."
Chiun smiled. "Our yellow-haired friend is with them."
"How can you see that far?" The Mexican woman looked at him. bewildered.
"Don't ask." Wolfshy said.
The Korean was on his feet. "We must be quick. The police will find you medicine and a place to rest, son. But you must not mention that Remo and I were with you."
"Why not? You did—"
"It is our Emperor's wish that we remain anonymous. Tell the authorities that you acted alone." He took a final look at Consuela. "And tell these women to clothe themselves. It is disgraceful."
He lifted Remo up by the ribs and propelled him toward the stairwell. By the time the police helicopter landed and Karen Lockwood and the officers got out, the two of them were deep in the valley, out of sight.
?CHAPTER TWELVE
By nightfall, Remo and Chiun were near the foothills of the mountain range. Remo had not spoken since Deke Bauer's bullets tore across the sunlit monastery roof. Those bullets had almost killed Sam Wolfshy, and it had been Remo's fault.
How could I forget? Remo asked himself again and again. How could I ignore all the discipline and training of Sinanju because of a moment's memory?
The sight of Deke Bauer's face had caused him to lose control. But he had let it happen. At the moment when he most needed his skills and confidence, he had lost them. And Sam Wolfshy had paid the price for Remo's failure.
At the edge of a barren copse, near a streambed trickling with water. Chiun finally let go of his pupil's arm and told him to sit down. Remo obeyed, his face a tense mask of self-hatred.
Chiun built a fire. Then, with a stone, he fashioned a bowl from a piece of wood and filled it with water. He untied a small silk pouch from the belt of his robe, poured its contents into the water-filled bowl, then set the bowl on the fire.
"It is rice," he said softly. "Even Masters of Sinanju must eat."
Remo stood up and turned away.
"And so must you, whether you feel you deserve it or not," the old man added pointedly.
Remo leaned against a tree. He remained there, his eyes focused inward, until the rice was cooked. Finally he walked over and knelt beside the old man. "I want you to do me a favor," he said, so quietly that he was almost inaudible.
"So the white man speaks at last. Of course, his first words are to demand some service of me. But I am prepared. Go ahead."
"I want you to go back to Smitty and tell him I'm through."
The expression on Chiun's face did not change. "Because you failed?"
Remo hung his head. "Yeah." A puff of mirthless laughter came from his lips. "Just a little. Sam only got his arm blown off because of me."
Chiun helped himself to the rice. "Well," he said, "for once I agree with you. You have failed miserably."
Remo expected him to say more, but when the old man only went on with his meal in silence, Remo stood up. "That's that, then. I guess I'll leave you here."
Chiun nodded. "Yes, yes. But before you go, Remo, let me ask you one question. Have you never failed before?"
"Not like this."
"Ah." He chewed another mouthful of rice.
After what seemed like an eternity, Remo said, "What does that mean? 'Ah'?"
"Nothing. Only that a great lesson has been shown to you. But evidently you have chosen not to learn from it."
"What are you talking about?" Remo shouted. The veins in his neck stood out. "I'm walking away from everything that means anything to me."
"Why?"
"Because I don't deserve it, damn it!"
"Ah," Chiun repeated. "As I thought."
Remo took a deep breath. "I suppose you knew I was going to quit."
"Of course."
"Oh, excuse me," Remo said nastily. "I underestimated your powers as a prophet."
"Not as a prophet. As a historian."
"This never happened before."
"Not to you," Chiun said. "But to another. Shall I tell you the story, or are you eager to dart aimlessly into the darkness?"
Remo shot him a disgusted look, then sat down. "This better not be about how the Masters of Sinanju had to hire themselves out as assassins to feed their starving villagers."
"It is," Chiun said cheerfully.
Remo rolled his eyes. But it would be the last time, he thought. Even if it was a story he'd heard Chiun tell countless times before, he wanted to hear it again. "Okay," he said.
"I have never before told you the full story of the Great Wang, first real Master of Sinanju." Chiun began. "You know only that he was the one to save his village by offering his services as an assassin to foreign monarchs. But you do not know how Wang came upon the idea. You see, it was the Master himself who brought on the misfortune that destroyed his village and made his people starve."
"Wang? I thought he was the Dudley Do-Right of the East."
"Then listen, my son." The old man settled his robe around him. Lit by moonlight, his parchmentlike skin seemed to glow as he told the ancient legend.
"Wang did not become Master until well into his fifth decade." Chiun said. "But he was a hero among his people from the time he was a young man. As a youth, he used the discipline of Sinanju, which he himself developed, to protect the village from the invading soldiers of a greedy prince. The villagers loved him for his deeds of valor. They draped his house with garlands and showered honors upon him. He was known to them all as Wang the Invincible.