Smith squeezed his eyes shut. Briskly he took out another photograph. "I think Remo killed them," he said.
Chiun nodded. "Perhaps they offended him."
"Will you please look at these?" Smith asked, thrusting the sheaf of photographs in front of Chiun.
With a sigh, the old man turned first his head, then his eyes in the direction of the pictures. Then slowly his hand reached out and depressed the "Off" button on the Betamax. "Remarkable," he said.
"I thought you'd recognize the style."
"These attacks were nearly perfect," he said beaming. "Oh, a little sloppy with this third vertebra, slow inside line here-details, details. Overall, this is most excellent work. I congratulate you, o Emperor."
"On what?"
"On your most astute perception of my pupil's progress. Will you give him a medal?" Chiun nodded expectantly.
Smith cleared his throat. "That's not exactly what I had in mind."
"Oh!" Chiun slapped his forehead. "Of course. You are a man of great wisdom, Emperor Smith. Many thanks, o illustrious one. I shall display it with great pride and humility."
"Display what?"
"My medal, of course. Only one of truly keen acumen such as yourself would seek to reward the student by honoring the teacher. I am deeply touched by this tribute."
"Chiun, you don't understand. I've never assigned Remo to these islands before."
"So? An assassin with skill such as I have taught Remo can kill here as well as anywhere."
"I was afraid of that," Smith said. His face was drawn and haggard. "Please listen to me, Chiun. I haven't got much time, and I have to explain something to you. If Remo didn't kill those men in the truck on assignment, that means he's been killing them on his own. You know I can't permit that. It was part of our initial deal."
Chiun's smile faded as Smith's meaning became clear. "Perhaps he was only practicing?" Chiun offered.
"It doesn't matter what the reason was. If Remo has gone off on a killing spree, he must be stopped."
"Yes," Chiun said softly. "It was our agreement."
"And you must stop him."
The old man slowly nodded assent.
"It should be done at an appropriate time, and with no witnesses. That's why I rented the villa for you. You'll have to dispose of the— uh—"
Chiun held up a hand for silence. After a moment, Smith stood up awkwardly beside the frail old teacher who sat with his back bent and his head bowed.
"This is the end for all of us," Smith whispered, his voice cracking. "After you report back to me at Folcroft, you'll be sent back to Sinanju, and..." There was no need to explain that Remo's death would mean the end of CURE, since Chiun had never known who his employer was beyond Harold W. Smith. And there was no need to point out that Smith's own life would end with Remo's, in the basement of Folcroft Sanitarium. There was, in fact, no need to say anything more. Quietly, Smith walked back to the window. As he removed his hat in preparation for his exit, Remo walked into the room.
"Smitty," he said. "What are you doing here?"
"Uh— vacationing. With Mrs. Smith. On Saba, uh, nearby island." Smith had never been a good liar. He nodded tersely and strode toward the door.
"Hey, wait a minute. You two look like senior projects at undertakers' school. What's going on?"
Smith shook his head, cleared his throat again, and said, "Good day," without looking at either of the men in the room. Chiun sat motionless, his head bowed. "Oh, I nearly forgot," Smith said. He took a parchment-colored envelope from his breast pocket and slid it on the floor beside Chiun. "It was on your doorstep, but I saw the wind blow it into the bushes. Thought I'd better hand it to you myself before it got lost." He touched his fingers to his hat and was gone.
"What in the hell has happened to Smitty?" Remo said, laughing. "First he puts us here in deluxe accommodations, then he comes here on vacation. That old skinflint hasn't taken a vacation in fifteen years, and the last time was to visit his wife's uncle in Idaho..."
Chiun wasn't listening. His breath was catching as his hand moved slowly toward the envelope beside him.
"What is it?" Remo asked. "You feeling all right, Little Father?"
Chiun snatched up the envelope and held it with both hands up to the light. On it in both English and Korean, was written the name "CHIUN" with thick black brush strokes. In a frenzy the old man tore open the envelope and yanked out a single translucent piece of old, dried rice paper.
Then Chiun did something so strange, so unlike himself, so terrifying, that Remo couldn't believe his eyes. The old man leaped up from the floor, bounded toward Remo, encircled him in his frail, bony arms, and held him.
"Wha-what?" Remo stammered. "Little Father, are you okay?" Chiun said nothing, but held fast. "I mean the dives were pretty good, if I do say so myself, but... C'mon, I'm not used to this. Hey, it's the envelope, isn't it, Chiun? What'd you get? A fan letter from Sinanju. That's it, isn't it, a fan letter?"
Still caught in the old man's embrace, he turned to see the piece of paper in Chiun's hand. On it were three carefully drawn Korean characters.
"What's it say, Chiun?" Remo asked.
Chiun broke away. "It says 'I live again.' "
Remo half smiled, trying to share Chiun's joy. "I live again? That's it, huh?"
"That is the message. 'I live again.' "
"Hey... great. Good news. Really glad to hear it. Who lives again?"
"Never mind," Chiun said. He tucked the paper into a fold of his kimono sleeve.
"Well, whoever it was, I'm glad he gave you such a lift. Say, I've been thinking maybe we could take a little sightseeing tour of the island before dark—"
"You will perform ten more Flying Walls," Chiun snapped.
"What? I just did fourteen!"
"Fourteen of the most slovenly examples of the Flying Wall I have ever had the misfortune to witness. Your descent was at least a handspan too steep."
"It was not. You weren't even watching..."
"Ten," Chiun decreed.
Glaring over his shoulder, Remo shuffled toward the door. "See if I ever ask you again..."
"Ten."
After the door closed, the old man smiled.