He was greatly relieved to discover it on the bed stand of his hotel room, although he had been virtually certain he had taken it with him before leaving.
"Mustn't forget my Vanceril," he said, pocketing the inhaler. In the lobby he purchased a large packet of salted peanuts. They had become his latest comfort food.
Chapter 27
Remo Williams found the Master of Sinanju in the White House kitchen hectoring the Presidential chef.
"What are these sauces you inflict upon your liege?" he demanded.
"These are French sauces. I am a French chef."
"Liar. You are not French."
"I did not say I was French. I am a French chef. I cook according to the French way. I am Italian."
"Then you cook the Italian way!" said Chiun. "And the Italian way is the Borgia way. Are you a Borgia?"
"I resent the implication that my cooking is poisonous."
Chiun noticed Remo at the entrance to the White House kitchen and said, "Look at these concoctions. It is no wonder the President is grossly fat."
"He has lost ten pounds since I have began cooking for him," the chef said, his tall white hat shaking with indignation.
Chiun held two bottles, one in each hand. He carried them over to a stainless-steel sink and gave then a squeeze. The bottles broke. Chiun's hands withdrew so quickly his fingers were neither spattered with hollandaise sauce nor touched by flying glass.
He stabbed the garbage disposal button, and it was impossible to say which howled more loudly, the glass in the disposal or the chef at the sight of it.
Chiun fixed the chef with glittering hazel eyes.
"From now on you will serve steamed rice. No cow tallow or spices will despoil your rice. Duck will be your only fowl. You may serve any fish that you do not ruin with your gross ways. No chicken. No beef."
"The First Lady enjoys shellfish."
"No shellfish. Proper fish do not have shells. Insects and turtles do."
The White House chef sputtered. "I will resign first."
"You will be doing your country a great boon," said Chiun.
"Then I refuse to resign."
"If you cook acceptable food and the food tasters do not sicken and die, then you may be allowed to remain," retorted Chiun.
The White House chef pawed his tall hat off his head and started chewing off pieces of the starched fabric in rage.
"Can I see you a minute, little Father?" Remo said.
Chiun left the chef fighting with the garbage disposal.
"What is it, Remo?"
"I'm not an assassin anymore."
Chiun's hazel eyes narrowed briefly. His smooth brow grew furrowed. Then the tiny wrinkles radiating from the hub of his face, his button nose, went smooth in shock.
"You are Sinanju. You will be an assassin until the day your lazy bones lie moldering in the dirt."
"I've got a new job description."
"Imbecile."
"Don't call me names."
"Is that not your new description?"
"Don't be like that. You're looking at the new Remo Williams."
"You look like the old Remo Williams."
"The old Remo Williams was an assassin."
"And what are you?"
"A counterassassin. "
Chiun regarded his pupil stonily.
"You assassinate counters?" he squeaked. "Is that like the karate dancers who break boards with their hands because boards do not fight back?"
"No. I'm a counterassassin-as in an assassin who foils other assassins."
Chiun made a face. "There are no other assassins except you and I. All others are inferior and therefore not worthy of the name."
"I like the sound of it. Remo Williams, counterassassin. "
"Schmuck," said the Master of Sinanju, dredging up a word he had picked up on a Florida beach so long ago he hadn't used it on Remo in many years. "You are a schmuck."
"I am not a schmuck."
"Counterschmuck, if the distinction pleases you."
"Look, I'm just trying to find myself. Okay?"
"It is too late. I found you many years ago. You have been found and made whole by my largesse. And what do I get in return? No gifts, no gratitude, no respect. Putz."
"Don't call me that."