"He is available," Smith conceded.
"Use him, then," the President ordered. Smith took a moment to consider.
For whatever reason, Remo had wanted Chiun to stay home. But the stakes had just gotten much higher. If Remo succeeded in his original assignment and eliminated Assola al Khobar, he could inadvertently trigger an incident both at home and in the Mideast. And, Smith thought with some bitterness, if the great figure of conciliation, Sultan Omay sin-Khalam, struck the right spot in the Arab-dominated world, the fragile peace that had held for years could be shattered forever.
On top of all this there was yet another problem. With his endless parade of political difficulties, this President was increasingly looking to CURE as a tool to be used in his own self-interest. Of course, Smith had and would always refuse such entreaties. But that wasn't the point. This man who occupied the highest elected seat in government simply didn't understand or didn't care that the organization had been deliberately set up so that the sitting President could only suggest assignments. It was the oldest fail-safe Smith employed and it had always served him in good stead.
All this did Harold Smith consider for a few long seconds. It was too long for the liking of the leader of the free world. Angry, the President was about to break in again when Smith finally spoke.
"I will see what I can do," the CURE director said simply.
And with that he hung up the phone on the protesting voice of the President of the United States. As soon as the red phone was secreted back in its drawer, Smith lifted the blue contact phone on his desk surface. He hoped with all his heart that the Master of Sinanju was in an agreeable mood.
For the sake of the entire world.
Chapter 8
The Master of Sinanju was in a less than agreeable mood.
The deadliest assassin on the face of the planet was seated on his simple reed mat in the center of the living room he shared with Remo Williarns. He had not moved from this spot in more than twelve hours.
Before Remo had left on his assignment, the old Korean had badgered his pupil into going out to an all-night video store. Chiun instructed him to rent several films that had been termed "blockbusters" by their respective studios.
He found them all dreadful. They lacked warmth, depth, beauty. Everything that his original screenplay had possessed in spades.
The new screenplay he had been working on the previous evening was in sections on the floor. It was arranged like a large paper quilt. In a flurry of creativity, he had written many more such sheets while watching the succession of awful popular films. He was attempting to infuse new elements into his original story by dropping various dinosaur, alien and explosive car-chase scenes amid his older scenes.
The new screenplay was largely complete, but he was not happy with the way it was turning out. Tired from his sleepless night of creativity, the Master of Sinanju rose from the floor. Turning from his patchwork screenplay, he padded slowly down to the kitchen.
The refrigerator yielded only a little cold rice left from the previous evening's meal. Not even enough to fill his hungry belly.
Remo had been a glutton last night. Every time Chiun questioned him about the assignment Smith had given him, Remo crammed even more food into his mouth.
If the Master of Sinanju were of a suspicious nature-which, of course, he was not-he would have been suspicious of Remo. This he told Remo at dinner. Several times.
For his part Remo had fumbled through a mouthful of food each time, finally agreeing to rent Chiun's movies in order to-in his words-get Chiun "off my back."
It seemed to be the poor old Korean's lot in life. An ungrateful pupil for whom the slightest effort on behalf of his Master became a massive undertaking. An entertainment industry that refused to recognize simple beauty when confronted with it. And on top of everything else an empty belly.
He determined to make Remo somehow pay for all three miseries when he returned.
This thought cheered him.
Chiun dumped some of the cold rice into a large stoneware bowl. He returned the remaining portion to its shelf in the fridge. He was just padding over to the low taboret when the telephone rang.
His first instinct was to ignore it. After all, answering the telephone was generally Remo's job. But all at once he decided to answer it. If whoever was on the other end of the line irritated him in any way, he could blame Remo for yet another indignity heaped upon his frail old bosom.
"You have reached the Master of Sinanju," he intoned loudly, picking up the telephone, "but be warned. I need neither storm windows nor inexpensive airfare, for my home is warm and I travel in secret at the whim of your fool nation's government. You have three seconds to reveal your intentions, lest you annoy me. Begin."
"Master Chiun," Smith's frantic voice broke in. There had not been a chance to speak until now. "It's Smith."
"Smith who?" the Master of Sinanju said slyly.
"It's me, Chiun." Smith's lemony voice was more tart than usual. "Your employer."
"Ah, Emperor Smith. Forgive my suspicious nature, but we have had a rash of nuisance calls of late. Remo usually deals with them but he is not here, he having eaten all the rice in the house and doubtless gone off in search of more."
"Chiun, please," Smith stressed. "An urgent situation has arisen."
"Alas, I am quite busy at the moment, O Emperor. Though my soul eternally soars on the wings of eagles to carry out your immediate bidding, I toil now to bring future glory to your throne. All hail Smith the Omnipotent!"
He hung up the phone.
It rang before Chiun had reached the table. "Speak, unworthy one," Chiun announced into the phone.
"Chiun, don't hang up," Smith pleaded.
"Sorry, wrong number," Chiun said, hanging up the phone.
It rang instantly. When Chiun again lifted the receiver to his ear, he did not speak.
"This concerns Remo," Smith blurted out to the empty air. He prayed Chiun did not hang up on him again.
"What of my son, the rice eater?"
"The assignment he is on has taken a critical turn. I need you to stop him from following through on it."
"As I have explained, I am quite busy," Chiun said. His tone was flat, bordering on perturbed.
"It is imperative that Remo be stopped," Smith emphasized. "There is an immediate threat to the Middle East, as well as to our own West Coast."
"I assure you that the west coast of Korea is secure," Chiun said blandly. "There is no other 'our.' "
He was in the process of hanging up once more when Smith finally said something that sparked his interest.
"Hollywood could go up in flames," Smith asserted.
The phone returned woodenly to the Master of Sinanju's shell-like ear.
"Explain," he declared evenly.
"There is not time," Smith said. "Suffice it to say that Hollywood is in danger. Remo, as well."
"How can this be?" Chiun said. "Remo is in the province of Detroit."
"Detroit?" Smith asked, confused. "Remo is nowhere near Detroit. He flew out to Los Angeles this morning."