Chiun's eyelids fluttered but he said nothing.
"You've come to kill me," Remo said. There was no accusation in his voice, only the sorrowful sound of resignation.
"I have been so commanded," Chiun said.
"Ah, the contract," Remo said. "That's right. Money for Sinanju. Don't forget the money, Chiun. I hope you got paid in advance. Your ancestors will never forgive you if you get stiffed on this job. The great Sinanju god. Money."
"You are cruel," the old Oriental said softly.
Remo laughed, a harsh sound in the thin noon air. "Right, Chiun. You go on telling yourself that. While you're killing me, just keep thinking how cruel I am."
"I might not be able to kill you," Chiun said.
"Oh, yes, you will. But I'm not going to make it easy for you," Remo said. "I'm not fighting back."
"Like a sheep, you will stand there?" asked Chiun.
"Sheep if you want. But that's the way I want it. You're going to have to kill me where I stand."
"You are permitted to fight," Chiun said.
"And I'm also permitted not to fight. Sorry, Chiun. I'm the one who's dying. I'll pick the way."
"It is not the way of an assassin," Chiun said.
"You're the assassin, remember? Chiun, the great assassin." Remo's eyes welled with tears. "Well, I'm going to give you something to remember me by. A parting gift from your son. When you kill me, Chiun, you won't be any assassin. You'll be a butcher. That's my gift. Take it to the grave with you."
He ripped open the collar of his shirt and lifted his chin, baring his throat. "Go ahead," he said, his moist eyes fixed on the old man. "Do it now and get it over with."
"You could have lain in wait for me here," Chiun said. "You could have killed me when I arrived."
"Well, I didn't," Remo said.
"Why will you not fight me?"
"Because," Remo said.
"A typical stupid answer from a pale piece of pig's ear," Chiun snapped. "What does that mean, that 'because'?"
"Just because," Remo said stubbornly.
"Because you could not stand the thought of perhaps hurting me," the old man said.
"Not that at all," Remo said.
"It is true. You knew my mission. You could have attacked first."
Remo only looked away.
"My son," Chiun said brokenly. "Can you see there is no other way?"
"I love you, Little Father," Remo said.
"Yes," said Chiun. "And that is why you will fight me. We must not disappoint our audience."
He pulled himself up to his full height, then bowed once more to his opponent.
This time, Remo bowed back.
They were talking and Abner Buell was growing annoyed. Stop talking and fight, he mentally commanded them. He tossed his lawn chair away and sat on the edge of the cliff, his legs dangling over the side.
The old Oriental, he thought, certainly looked nothing like a Dr. Smith. But Remo, that was the Remo he had seen on his television monitors, haunting him day after day. Until today. When Remo died.
Buell saw the old Oriental bow and the bow was returned by Remo. Buell wondered if Remo knew what was going to happen to him. Probably not. Remo was just too cocky and Buell was going to enjoy seeing him go down.
The Oriental struck first. He was small, but as fast as a squirrel. He seemed to levitate from the ground, hesitate in midair for a moment, and then slash down with enough ferocity to lop off a horse's head.
The first blow missed as Remo spun away, moving so fast himself that he was almost a blur. Then he catapulted upward in a double spiral and came down with both legs drawn in. They shot out at the last moment, hitting the old man square in the stomach. A spray of bright blood shot from the Oriental's mouth. Dr. Smith staggered backward a few steps and while he was trying to get his footing, Remo came after him.
"Come on, Dr. Smith," Buell said softly. But for a moment, it looked at as if Remo had won. The old man staggered backward, ready to fall. But at the last moment, instead of going down, he sprang suddenly upward, his arms moving in front of him like blades. Remo's head snapped backward. He was trying to get away but the Oriental's hand snaked out again and before Remo could so much as turn his head, the old man had him by the throat and then yanked back hard. There was a sound like the beginning of a cry but it was choked off suddenly. Then Remo sank to his knees. At the same moment, the old man raised his arm high. In his hand was the bubbly, bloody interior of Remo's throat.
Buell gave a whoop of triumph and leapt to his feet. "I won," he shouted. It did not bother him at all when his champion, the old Oriental, weaved on his feet, dropped the dripping mess in his hand to the ground, and collapsed in a heap. The sunlight glinted off a trickle of slick blood pouring from his mouth.
"Kee-rist," Buell said between his teeth. "That Dr. Smith is some fighter."
"His name's not Smith," said a soft voice behind him. Buell whirled around. On the opposite side of the rock shelf was a gray-haired middle-aged man wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a three-piece suit. In his right hand was a pistol that seemed the size of an electric drill.
"What'd you say?" Buell asked.
"I said his name's not Smith. Mine is."
A confused smile came to Buell's face but when the barrel of the oversized gun did not waver, the smile faded. The man with the gun was not joking and behind his steel-rimmed spectacles, his eyes held the kind of desperation that made killers of ordinary men.
"What's this about?" Buell asked, swallowing hard.
Smith's eyes wandered for a fraction of a second to the two bodies lying motionless on the field below. "It's about sanity," he rasped.
"Come on," Buell began but Smith cut him short.
"I know sanity isn't a big part of your life," Smith said. "Not somebody who's willing to blow up the world because it's some kind of game. Some of us don't think the world's safety is a game. So some of us are willing to kill for it." He glanced down again. "Even to die for it."
"If you're Smith, who are those two?"
"They worked for me," Smith said. "Enough explanations."
He started to tighten his finger on the trigger but before he could, a strong arm was clamped around his throat. A gun was pressed against his temple.