"Yes," said Chiun. "But he brought back no mountain of gold. Everyone talks about mountains of gold, but no one has ever seen one, it seems. No one except Puk, that is, and who could believe Puk?"
"Is that how you learned to speak Hamidian?" Remo asked.
"That was another master some time later. He went to Hamidia, but he never mentioned any mountain of gold."
"So it's a fairy tale," Remo said.
"For all we know," said Chiun.
"Okay. What happened to Puk?"
"Puk had many assignments around Korea for the rest of his life and helped support the village but he was never truly forgiven for the terrible story he told about the mountain of gold. And when he died, there were none of the ceremonies that usually attend the death of a master. In fact, few mourned. The villagers wrote a song instead. It said, 'Puk, those who would have mourned were
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sent to the sea while you were out chasing moonbeams. If you seek mourners, go to the bottom of the sea.' "
"It's a sad story," Remo said.
"Yes," said Chiun. "Puk did work in Hamidia and didn't get paid for it. That is very sad. Anyway, when you come next to Sinanju, I will show you Puk's grave. The headstone says, 'Here lies Puk the liar. Still lying.' "
Remo left Chiun on the balcony, still shaking his head over the irresponsible liar, Puk. This time the operator got his call through quickly and Smith answered it on first ring.
Quickly, Remo filled him in on what had happened and said, "A scam, Smitty. That's all it was. I don't know why but somebody faked all those plaques and put them around. Chiun says it has something to do with some British assassins, the House of Unisex or something. Yeah, the girl's all right. I think she's mad at me for getting rid of the last Limey who tried to kill her. I don't know. She's wacky. Something about him being her dream man. Anyway, that's the bottom line. No mountain of gold. The dip is out shopping. Naturally. We'll be leaving here tomorrow. No, she doesn't know who we are."
Remo paused and listened as Smith rapid-fired instructions into the phone.
"Hold on," Remo said. "I've been halfway around the world and I need a rest. I don't want to go to Hollywood. Sure, it's important, everything's always important. No, no, no. We; We'll talk about it when I get back. Smitty, you're babbling. Ham-
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let and assassin movies and producers and points. Take a Valium. We'll talk when I get back. All right, all right, if you want them gone, they'll be gone. That make you feel better?" He listened to Smith's answer, then slammed down the phone.
"Yeah, sure," he grumbled to himself. "Thanks for telling me it was a good job. Sure. In a pig's ass. I'm tired of being unappreciated."
Sixteen
"Cuanto?" asked Terri Pomfret.
"For you, Madam, six dollars."
"Es demasiado," Terri said.
"It took many weeks to make," the merchant said. "Is six dollars too much for the work of the three women, day after day, trying to make something that they can sell at a fair price to put bread on the table for their starving children?"
"I'll give you four," Terri said. She was annoyed at herself for her lapse into English. She spoke fourteen languages, and she did not like some Spanish merchant bandit conning her out of a language she used as well as her own.
The merchant shook his head and turned his back to walk away.
That was part of the mercantile courting dance too. Terri put down the shawl she had been looking at and began to inspect a row of shirts hanging randomly from a pipe rack.
The scene was being watched by a man in a tan poplin suit. He looked around and saw that he was, in turn, being watched by a street urchin.
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The young boy was physically small, but he had the wary untrusting eyes of an adult who had lived many years.
The man in the poplin suit called him over and when the boy dutifully stood in front of him, the man leaned over to whisper in his ear. The boy listened, then nodded brightly. His eyes Sit up with pleasure, and the pleasure was redoubled when the man put two dollars into his hand.
"You are a woman without heart," the merchant said in Spanish.
Terri answered in English. "Not without brains though," she said. "Enough brains not to pay six dollars for something worth only a fraction of that. Four dollars."
The merchant sighed. "Five dollars. That is my very last and best price and the memory of those starving children will be on your head, not mine."
"Sold," Terri said. "But you must promise never to r,eveal to my friends the outrageous price I paid for this or they will begin to doubt my sanity."
"I'll wrap it," the merchant said. "Although even the price of the wrapping paper makes this transaction a loss to me."
He took the shawl to the counter in the center of the store and measured off a piece of paper to wrap it. He seemed intent on making sure he did not use one millimeter more paper than was absolutely necessary.
Meanwhile, Terri reached in her purse. She was watching the merchant and feeling into her purse with her hand, when suddenly the pocketbook was yanked away from her.
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She shrieked and turned to see a small boy holding the purse, running toward the front of the tent-topped shop.
She turned to run after him, but then stopped. A big man reached out a big hand and grabbed the little boy's shoulder. The boy stopped as if he had run into a wall. The big man removed the purse from him, then gave him a paternalistic and not unkind rap on the rear end. The boy ran away without looking back.
The big man in the tan poplin suit looked at Terri and smiled and she felt her heartbeat speed up.
The man stepped forward and handed her the purse.
"Yours, I believe." The accent was British.
Terri just gaped, open-mouthed, for a second, at this quintessential man of her dreams. Then, flustered, she said, "Yes. Thank you."
She took the purse, nodded to the man, and turned back to the merchant, who was still measuring the wrapping paper.
"How much are you paying for that shawl?" the Briton asked.
"Five dollars," Terri said.
"Very good. A very fair price for a fine piece of work. Congratulations."