Chiun would never have believed that when Remo finally agreed to settle in Sinanju, it would be the beginning of the greatest pain he would ever know: ignored by his ungrateful villagers, cast aside by Remo for a mere girl. All that he had worked for had turned to smoke.
And so, because he dared not admit his unhappiness, he had fled to America and tricked Harold Smith into another year's service, confident that Remo would follow him. And he had.
Yet now Remo was leaving again. He was actually returning to Sinanju, alone. Chiun would not see him again for a year, or longer.
The Master of Sinanju walked to a window. A clear full moon hung in the sky. Chiun wondered if that same moon shone down on the aircraft now carrying Remo back to Sinanju. Just the thought made him feel somehow closer to his pupil.
Chiun had gambled that Remo's love for him would be stronger than his love for Mah-Li. He had been wrong, and now he was prepared to pay the price-a year of separation.
Out in the hallway, the elevator door opened. Chiun cocked his head in the direction of the door.
A soft padding sounded on the carpet. It was not the heavy tread of American-shod feet, or the crush of bare feet. It was an eflortless gliding that only one pair of feet other than Chiun's could make.
The Master of Sinanju burst into the hallway in his sleeping kimono.
"Remo, my son! I knew you would return. You cannot live without me."
"My flight was canceled," Remo said sourly.
The Master of Sinanju looked stricken. Then he slammed the door in Remo's face like an offended spinster.
"I didn't mean it like that," Remo said exasperatedly. There was no answer from the other side.
"Look, I'll make you a deal," Remo called through the panel. "I'll stick around until this Ferris thing is over, then we'll talk to Smith and get this straightened out. Okay?"
The door opened slowly. Chiun stood framed in it, moonlight silvering his aged head. His face was impassive, and his hands folded into the sleeves of his sleeping kimono.
"Deal," he said, his face lighting up.
Chapter 21
Ilsa Gans sent the specially equipped van circling the block for the last time.
"It looks clear," she called back over her shoulder. Peering through the privacy glass, seeing but unseen, Konrad Blutsturz searched with avid eyes. There were no signs of guards in the lobby of the Lafavette Building, no obvious FBI agents posted an foot or in cars. No danger.
It was night, the perfect time. konrad Blutsturz decided everything was perfect.
"On the next pass," he told Ilsa, reaching down to unbolt his wheelchair restraints, "park."
Coming around the block, Ilsa looked for the open space she had picked out in the parailel-parking zone, the one with the spray-painted stick-figure-seated-on-a-half-circle-wheelchair-symbol-the universal sign of handicapped-only parking.
A blue Mercedes suddenly pulled ahead and cut her off.
"He took it!" Ilsa said suddenly.
"Who took what?"
"The space," Ilsa answered. "The handicapped space. That guy in the Mercedes just scooted right in. He knew I was going for that space."
"Is there another?" demanded Konrad Blutsturz anxiously.
"No," Ilsa said miserably. "That's the only one."
Konrad Blutsturz banged his hand on the armrest. "There is always only one," he yelled. "What is wrong with this country? Do they think we handicapped travel only one at a time?"
"What do I do?" Ilsa moaned.
"We must park here. Is there another space of any kind?"
"No, and even if there was, it wouldn't be wide enough to offload in."
"Ram the car, then."
"Okay," said Ilsa, turning the van around until its rear wheels rode up on the opposite sidewalk. She pointed the van at the rear of the Mercedes in the handicapped space. The driver was just stepping out.
Ilsa sent the van shooting forward.
The van hit the back of the car like a tank, which, being built of bulletproof materials, was what it really was. The van pushed into the parking slot.
The Mercedes lurched forward, throwing the driver off his feet. He picked himself off the ground, swearing. "Hey! What do you think you're doing?" he demanded.
"This is a handicapped space!" Ilsa yelled indignantly. "Are you handicapped?"
"It's the middle of the night, lady."
"They don't regrow their legs after dark, you know," said Ilsa, stepping out.
"I'm a lawyer, and I'm going to sue you for this!"
"He's making too much noise," Konrad Blutsturz said. "Kill him."
Ilsa reached for her Luger.
"No," hissed Konrad Bltststurz. "Quietly."
"Right," Ilsa said, extracting her swastika-shaped letter opener from the glove compartment. Its edges gleamed in the moonlight.
"Catch," said Ilsa.
The man caught it. In the throat. He went down clutching himself, his fingers splitting open where they touched the multiple blades. He writhed and gurgled in the gutter.
"That'll teach him," Ilsa said, opening the side of the van. "The inconsiderate bastard."
Konrad Blutsturz sent his motorized wheelchair onto the van's hydraulic lift. Ilsa grabbed the control levers and jerked it first one way, then the other. The steel platform, carrying Konrad Blutsturz, lifted out through the side door and settled to the street with a low hissing release of sound.
He sent the wheelchair scooting to the building entrance.