"How do you know?" asked the new president.
"You're still alive, aren't you?" said the old president. "And I lost the election, didn't I?"
"I'll never use it," said the new president. And he had meant it.
Then.
He picked up the red telephone.
The bacterium had to be stopped. The people behind it had to be stopped. It would do no good to worry about the sanctity of the Constitution because if the bacteria were loosed on the world, there would be no Constitution. No America. He had to use the secret agency he had sworn never to use.
There was a sharp, lemony voice on the other end of the line.
"Yes, Mr. President."
"Civilization has a problem. It's rather sudden, but there is no one else I can turn to. It must be stopped."
"If you are talking about the rapid-breeder bacteria, we are already on it," the lemony voice said.
"Then you know about the missing scientists at MUT and the fact that there's nobody left to help us."
"We already have people at MUT," said the acid voice.
"Then you must know what in the Lord's name is 94
r
behind this. What possible purpose could anyone have in eliminating the world's oil supplies?"
"We don't know that yet. But we are fairly certain that that is the purpose. And what this person, whoever he is, has done by removing the oil scientists is to eliminate the defenses against him before we ever had a chance to deploy them."
"How many men do you have on this?" asked the president.
"One man. And his trainer."
"One man? One man? What kind of an operation are you running? The world's facing disaster, and you've got one man and a trainer on it?"
"He is a very special man," the acid voice answered coolly.
"Will he be enough?" asked the president wearily.
"If he isn't, then nothing will be."
"I hope so," said the president.
After he replaced the telephone in his office inside Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, Dr. Harold Smith looked at the phone and said softly, "I hope so too. I hope so too."
95
Chapter Six
Chiun watched porters carrying the fourteen lacquered steamer trunks out of the door of the suit in the Copley Plaza Hotel. Remo knew he referred to the porters as "cheap white help" even though half of them were black.
Remo was glad Chiun had the porters. If he didn't have them, he would have tried to get Remo to move the trunks around. Or some passerby. Remo had seen Chiun directing women and children whom he had conned into carrying the great steamer trunks of the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun saw Remo watching and used the occasion to' lecture him. "The problem with America is the amateur assassin. Nay, the problem with the world. And we are living in an age of great debauchery, where these services are given away. Randomly given away. Willy nilly given away. On street corners."
"We have a noon plane to Anguilla," said Remo. "We're going to sail to St. Maarten's. Smith just made contact with me on that. They're making that germ stuff on St. Maarten's."
"Decent competent assassins are now being affected by this wanton attitude of giveaway," said Chiun.
"We'd better hurry," said Remo. "Boston traffic is a mess."
"Years of training, poof. Gone like the wind that never was, and all that is left for a tired old man is the
96
ingratitude of he who has benefited from years of the old man's wisdom."
"Smitty asked if you'd like a lighter, more portable tape machine," said Remo.
"But who cares?" said Chiun. "Who cares that the training will begin to suffer because of bad attitudes? Who cares that the Masters of Sinanju are, have been for ages, responsible for the food and the roofs of the whole village? Oh, no. We do not care anymore. What is tradition? What is responsibility? Poooffff."
"I told Smitty no," said Remo. "I told him it took you a month to learn how to work the tape machine you've got. I told him you didn't like new things."
And then in somber fury, the Master of Sinanju turned to his pupil and said in majestic and awesome tones, "You should have taken it, idiot. Suppose the one I have now breaks?"
In the hotel lobby, a man in a three-piece suit and a monocle, with a British accent you could paddle a canoe on, inquired if Remo were perchance a professor at MUT? And did he, perchance, work with an Oriental? And was he, perchance, an authority on bacteria, the fast-breeding bacteria that consumed oil?
"That was yesterday," said Remo. "We know where your headquarters is now, so we don't need you anymore to find your boss. Go home and get lost."
"I beg your pardon."
"I am catching a plane. I am too busy to kill you. You are going to try to kill me, right?"
"How impertinent," said the Briton.
Fourteen steamer trunks came out the fire exit in a caravan, led by Chiun, an Oriental wisp in a golden day robe.
"Ah, your colleague."
"Hey, Chiun, this guy wants to kill us, but we've got a plane to catch."
"Another amateur," said Chiun haughtily.
And then, as in no other time in his life, Merton Lord Wissex felt the sting of insult.