"Because we eliminated the dirty spy of a woman."
Despite the earlier hint, Remo was taken aback by the Master of Sinanju's venomous pronouncement.
"One of your ancestors killed Amelia Earhart?" he blurted out.
"No," said Chiun.
"That's a relief," said Remo. "For a minute I-"
"I did," added Chiun.
"You!"
"It was during a prelude to the Second Idiocy of the Barbarians," Chiun explained. Remo recognized the oft-used euphemism for World War II. "This woman was a spy, working for the Americans."
"Who did you work for?" Remo wondered.
"Why, those she intended to spy upon, of course."
"Not the Japanese?" Remo demanded.
"Possibly," Chiun said in an evasive voice.
"You worked for the Japanese?" Remo said, aghast.
"I said possibly," Chiun admitted in a quieter voice. "It was many years ago."
"The same sneaky, treacherous, unworthy Japanese you revile at every opportunity?"
"Not all Japanese are to be described so harshly," Chiun allowed. "There are a few who are worthy-for Japanese."
"I thought you hated the Japanese."
"I do not hate their money," Chiun retorted, gathering up his autumnal kimono sleeves.
"You don't hate anyone's money," Remo snapped. "You worked for the Japanese. The people who conquered Korea, so-called land of eternal perfection?"
"It was a special case," Chiun said, tight voiced.
"So tell me the story," Remo invited, toeing a tatami mat in front of him. He sat down, folding his legs, and assumed a patient expression.
The Master of Sinanju looked to the telephone. His many wrinkles bunched together in frustration. Then he stalked back to the television and assumed his own mat. He sat down with his back to his pupil.
Remo vented a sigh, got up, and brought his mat around. When he resumed his seat, Chiun wore an inscrutable expression, but his eyes gleamed with his minor victory.
"This was in the starving years," began the Master of Sinanju in a doleful voice. "There was little food. The babies were hungry from sunup to sundown. The Chinese were at war with the Japanese and the Japanese vexed the Chinese. For the House of Sinanju, the finest assassins known to history, there was no work from either of them. I was young then-not that I am not young still-but younger, not yet having seen the majority of the years I have so far enjoyed."
"Get to it," Remo said.
"The emperor of Japan had heard of an American woman who sought to spy in his empire. Word was sent to the village of Sinanju. A man came on foot, and because he was Japanese, he was not allowed to tread our sacred soil."
"Mud, you mean," said Remo, who had been to Chiun's ancestral home, a pitiful mud flat on the West Korea Bay, where the men fished and the fish hid. The women did most of the work of feeding the village. The Masters of Sinanju-a line that stretched back five thousand years-supported them all by working as royal assassins to the great thrones of history.
"I treated with this man and accepted the gold that paid for the flying woman's life," Chiun continued. "That was the difficult part. Accepting Japanese gold. I was forced to wash it. Twice."
"Cut to the chase, will you, Chiun?"
"It was a simple matter then to journey to a place where the aircraft was being refueled and gain passage."
"You were a passenger on Amelia Earhart's last flight?"
"She did not know that-until it was too late."
Remo winced. "So what happened?"
"She experienced what might be called mechanical difficulties and, in the parlance of that time, ditched in the ocean."
"Then?"
"The unfortunate woman drowned, along with her craft."
"And you?"
Chiun's feathery eyebrows shot up. "Need you ask? I did not drown, and therefore I am here to pass on the heritage of the House of Sinanju to you, its latest heir. Ingrate."
"You killed Amelia Earhart," Remo whispered in shock.
Chiun shook his aged head. "No, we killed Amelia Earhart, for it is written in the Book of Sinanju that each Master builds on the work of the Masters who came before him, and each Master's achievements are a gift to later generations. You are Sinanju, Remo. Therefore you have claim to the credit, and the reward. Ten percent and not a penny more!" Chiun said quickly.
"No deal," Remo shot back. "And let's stick to the subject."
"This is the subject."
"No, it isn't. I came in here to talk about my lousy sex life."
"How can something that does not exist be lousy?" Chiun pointed out.
"Exactly."
"I am prepared to talk to you about your lousy sex life, Remo," Chiun offered. "Within the bounds of good taste, of course."
"And for a price," Remo said acidly.
"Five percent of your ten percent. Agreed?"
"No. I don't want to talk about my sex life anymore."