Looncraft cursed under his breath. The Dow would close significantly below opening quotes, but not as low as Looncraft had expected. Or wanted.
"Tomorrow is another day," he told himself glumly.
Chapter 5
Remo Williams pulled his blue Buick coupe into the driveway of his Rye, New York, home. He got out and started for the back door, holding a newspaper in front of his face like a mafioso arriving in court.
"Ah, the hell with it," Remo said suddenly. He stopped, lowered the paper, and doubled back. "I'm sick of this." He paused at the front door, not caring who saw him, and boldly checked his mailbox.
He found only junk mail, which did not surprise him. The bills-what few there were-were made out to a James Churchward. That was the name on the box. There was no such person as James Churchward. It was a cover identity he'd used to buy the house.
Remo inserted the key in the lock and entered. The nearly bare living room greeted him with its slight odor of incense and candle wax. It smelled like a Chinese church.
Remo noticed that the only piece of living-room furniture-a large-screen TV was a shambles of wood and electronics.
"Chiun! Are you at it again?"
A bedroom door opened like a book, framing a tiny figure in aquamarine silk.
"I found another of Smith's insects," said Chiun, reigning Master of Sinanju and Remo's trainer. He lifted a silvery disk between delicate fingernails. The nails were exceedingly long. His eyes were hazel almonds in the network of wrinkles that was his face. The puffs of white hair over his tiny ears were like thinning steam.
Remo accepted it as Chiun joined him, his aquamarine kimono skirts rustling.
"You mean a bug," Remo said. "This is a listening device. And this is getting ridiculous. We find them, and he plants new ones."
"He has gone mad."
"You've been saying that for years," Remo said, rubbing the bug between compressed palms until he got a sound like gravel in a sifter. He walked over to a wastebasket and spanked his hands together. What remained of the listening device sprinkled into the receptacle like powdered aluminum.
"We're going to have to talk to him," Remo said fiercely.
Chiun cocked his head. "I understood you vowed never to speak with Smith again," he said.
"I did. But I'm going to make an exception, just this once. "
"You are still angry with him over the unfortunate incident?"
"You bet I am. After all these years of working for that old tight-ass, I find out he's got my house rigged with listening devices and a gas-delivery system so anytime Smith wants, he presses one of his damn computer keys and I'm anesthetized in my sleep. It would have happened to you too, you know, if you hadn't been in Korea when Smith lowered the boom."
"Smith did not lower the boom, as you call it," Chiun corrected. "It was that villain Ransome."
Remo threw up his hands. "Smith. Ransome. Who cares? It was Smith's boom. Ransome lowered it. And I'm retired to death row with my memory wiped clean back to Johnson's presidency. I don't even know if I have all my original memories back."
Chiun's wrinkled face started.
"I had not considered that possibility," he said slowly. His child-bright hazel eyes refocused on Remo.
"Do you remember that illustrious day when I saved your life?"
"I remember a couple of times that happened. What of it?"
"And the promise you made to me of your own free will?"
Remo's eyes narrowed. "What promise?" he asked warily.
"That you would not rest until Cheeta Ching became my bride."
"Cheeta? You mean the TV anchorwoman?"
Chiun took an involuntary step backward. He sucked in his parchment-dry cheeks with mock horror.
"No!" he cried. "It is true. That fiend Smith deprived you of your most treasured memories. Come. We must confront him with this latest proof of his perfidy. We will demand that he restore you to your full faculties."
"I never made any such promise," Remo said evenly.
Chiun stopped halfway to the door. He whirled, his kimono skirts swirling. The pattern was carnation. It looked like a bathrobe purchased from a Ginza street stall.
"Worse than your memories, he has absconded with your gratitude," Chiun proclaimed in a bitter voice.
"I never promised you Cheeta Ching. Even if I had, how do you expect me to deliver? Abduct her?"
"No, entreat her. Tell her of the riches that will be hers if she becomes my bride."
"You're twice her age," Remo pointed out. "Besides, she's married."
"To become the consort of the Master of Sinanju, she would gladly divorce that unworthy person. I would shower her with gold and jewels. She would spend her days basking in the reflected glory of my awesome magnificence."
"She makes a cool three mil a year. She doesn't need your gold, and she's famous all by herself."
"This is an impossible country," Chiun spat. "The women are paid fabulous sums for looking into the TV camera and reading unimportant words."
"Can it, Chiun. If you have a crush on Cheeta Ching, do your own courting. Now, let's go. We're having a showdown with Smith."
The Master of Sinanju watched his pupil storm past him, his face a mask of elemental rage. He tucked his hands into draperylike sleeves and padded after Remo on silent feet.
As they got into the car, Chiun put a quiet question to Remo.
"What do you intend to say to Smith?"
Remo started the engine and threw his arm across the back of his seat as he backed out of the driveway. He shifted to forward gear and sent the car slithering down the street.
"I've had it," Remo said after a long pause. "Ever since that Enquirer story broke, my life has been an open sore. It was bad enough being dumped onto death row again. But to find out that Smith hadn't mellowed over the years-just gotten better at hiding his cold-bloodedness-that's it. No more."
"It was not Smith's nature that was hidden. It was that you allowed yourself to become blinded to it. All emperors are cruel."
"Smith's no emperor. He's just a bureaucrat. And let me finish, will you?"