"He said he was from the NCA, the agency that controls all nuclear projects and factories in the country. He had good identification. He wanted to know where you were all the time."
"I've seen him around," said Remo.
"But I saw the flight manifest. I saw Brewster's name going down to Rio. I double-checked the passport numbers. His was there. I know he went down to Rio."
"I could see him going to Rio, but not to this cesspool. Let's check Rio."
"It's such a big city. We don't know anyone."
"We can get help. You've just got to know how to be friendly," said Remo. Downriver, a bullet of a speedboat pulled away from the shore with a very blond man driving it. It kicked up a spray a full story high as it headed down the Giri tributary toward Rio. Chiun saw Remo watch the boat.
"We are not leaving yet," said Chiun. The tribal elders were preparing a dance of laudation, to be followed by odes to the greatness of the one who came in yellow robes.
"A decent people," said Chiun, "decent to those who know the histories of Sinanju."
"Decent if you like having your feet licked in a jungle," said Remo. He spoke in English now, and so did Chiun. Consuelo listened, fascinated. She couldn't miss the mass of adoring people. Who were these men? And why were they on her side?
"The histories will teach you about peoples. They will teach you who they are and who you are. The histories will teach you to survive."
Consuelo asked Remo what the histories were. "Fairy tales," said Remo.
"I saw what happened with the Giri. They're more than fairy tales."
"The names are right. The incidents are right. But everything else is bulldocky. The good guys are the ones who pay their assassins. That's it."
"So you're assassins. Isn't that illegal?"
"Only if you're on the wrong side," said Remo.
"Who do you assassinate for?"
"You don't understand," said Remo. And he left it at that. Once again, he turned to Chiun. "Consuelo is being eaten alive out here and your foot is getting chafed. Your skin isn't used to so much adulation in one day. Let's get the show on the road."
"Exactly," said Chiun. He clapped his hands twice. "Let the laudations begin."
Harrison Caldwell had moved himself out of New York City, although the office remained there. He kept in touch every day by telephone. He had purchased two hundred and fifty acres in New Jersey, drained a swamp, planted a lawn, and had a large iron fence built around it. It was patrolled day and night by his own guards, who wore the sign of the apothecary jar and sword on their liveries.
He placed his own agents in charge of the bullion office in New York City. The great talk, of course, was why gold had not gone higher. It was the favorite metal of international disasters. Whenever a war threatened or broke out, whenever stocks did wild and crazy things, people around the world invested in gold. It was the one commodity that could be traded anywhere. Money was paper, but gold was wealth.
And yet despite numerous small wars, numerous warnings about the stock market, gold had remained steady. It was as though someone was constantly feeding in a source of gold to the international market, absorbing any frenzy for it. There was always more gold than there was cash and the price remained steadier than at any time in history.
For a bullionist like the Caldwell company, the profits should have been modest. One did not buy gold and sell it at relatively the same price and make money. Yet there was more money coming into the shop than at any time in its history. More people selling for Caldwell. More accountants. Larger bank balances around the world. It seemed that whatever Harrison Caldwell wanted, he could buy.
In fact, the one thing he wanted most, he could not buy. Nor could it be rushed. There was one phone call Harrison Caldwell wanted, but he had not gotten it. He had told his valet that he should be awakened for this one call. He said it would come from South America.
When it did come, Caldwell dismissed everyone. He wanted to talk alone.
"What's wrong?" asked Caldwell.
"They are proving very resourceful."
"I have not made you my sword to find out that there is competition."
"They will be taken care of very soon."
"In the grand days of the court, there would be combat between men to decide who would be the king's champion, who would be the king's sword."
"I will take care of these two now. There is no way they are going to escape now. There will be no problem."
"We appreciate your assurances," said Caldwell, "but we cannot help but remember the grand tournaments of royal Spain. This does not mean we do not have faith in you, Francisco. This only recalls our pleasure in thinking about such tournaments. Can you imagine finding another king's champion today?"
There was silence on the other end of the phone. "What seems to be the problem, Francisco? We know that if there is a problem with the king's sword, there soon is a problem with the king's neck."
"They are exceptional. And they will soon be exceptionally dead."
"How can you give us those assurances, since obviously you have failed at least once or twice before?"
"Because, your Majesty, they cannot escape the world they live in. I am simply going to destroy their world, and them with it."
"You please us, Francisco," said Harrison Caldwell, wondering what a destroyed world would look like. He also wondered whether he should have searched more diligently for a personal sword.
Francisco Braun's Portuguese was not as good as his Spanish but it was good enough to get just the kind of engineer he wanted. The man had a drinking problem which fortunately did not impair his competence, but most fortunately impaired his morals.
He kept looking at the diagrams and shaking his head. "Why don't you just shoot them?" he asked after he had been paid.
"Why don't you finish the diagram of what has to be done?"
"Shooting is kinder," said the engineer. And he thought of what it would be like for those who would know they were going to die, those who would be helpless to do anything about it. He took another drink.
"Are you sure it will work?" asked Francisco.
"I'd bet my life," said the engineer, who had worked on some of the high rises on the beautiful beaches of Rio.
"You just have," said Braun.
There were problems in finding James Brewster in Rio. For one, the South American police were not that cooperative. Second, the three of them could not canvas the whole city, nor would it help them if they could: if James Brewster had stayed in Rio, no doubt, he had changed his name. Last but not least, none of them spoke Portuguese, except Chiun, who refused to help when Consuelo explained what they were looking for.
Chiun made his feelings clear in a luxury hotel room, while he prepared a scroll. It was time to record the second meeting of Sinanju and the Anxitlgiri.
"Chasing thieves is not my business," said Chiun, trying to capture exactly each syllable of the laudation odes so that future generations would know how well Sinanju had been received again in the person of Chiun.
"We may be saving the world from nuclear destruction,'' said Consuelo.
And with that, Chiun dismissed her from his presence. Consuelo didn't know what she had said to offend him.
"Why should he be so angry about saving the world?"