"By whom?" said Chiun. He saw Remo regain functions in the fingertips and the function control move up the arms. He massaged the shoulders. He lifted Remo's lips and examined the gums. Good. Good color. It had not gone too far.
"We don't know," said Consuelo.
"Then why should I attack someone whom I don't even know? The violence in this country is awful. I have seen it on your television. I know your country. Random violence among strangers, and not one professional assassination in how many Presidents who have been killed? I know your country, young woman," said Chiun. He opened Remo's eyelids wider to see the whites. Good. The pupils were coming back too.
"Please," said Consuelo. "Remo would want you to help his country."
"Just a minute," said Chiun, turning to the pleading woman.
"President McKinley. Assassinated. Amateur. John F. Kennedy. Dead. Another amateur. No payment involved anywhere. Your President Reagan missed on a city street by a mind-troubled boy. Another amateur. And this is a country you wish a professional assassin to save? You are not worth saving."
"Remo. Talk to him, please," said Consuelo. But Remo did not answer.
"I'll do it myself then. Remo, if you can hear me, remember I am going to NCA headquarters. I believe what you said. I believe we're the only ones who can save the country. I want you to carry on if I don't come back. I know you love America too. I guess I was always ambitious to prove I was as good as any man. But right now, all I want to do is save our country."
"Are you through?" said Chiun.
"Yes," said Consuelo. There were tears in her eyes now and she was not ashamed of them.
"Then close the door behind you, thank you," said Chiun.
"If Remo didn't hear me, and he comes to, would you tell him what I said?"
"Of course not," said Chiun.
"And I used to think you were the nice one," said Consuelo.
"And you were correct, too," said Chiun.
"You're horrible, you know. Really horrible. Remo was right."
"Did he say that?"
"He said you were difficult."
Chiun smiled. "I can't believe that," he said. His trainer had been difficult. His grandfather had been difficult. But the one thing about Chiun that Chiun understood above all things was that he was not difficult. If he had a problem, it was his tendency to be too nice. That was Chiun's problem. That was where all the trouble came from.
Chiun felt her turn on her heel and walk out the door. He examined the chest, the legs, the ears, all the meridians of the body. Good. Not much damage. The unity of the body, the rhythms, were off. But they would come back. He would be the same again, but this time Remo would meet a different Chiun. No more Mr. Nice Guy. No more being pushed around. He was through taking it anymore.
Since it was midday, he turned on the television. Ordinarily he did not watch advertisements between the daytime dramas. But this day he saw an advertisement that moved him. Someone had finally woken up to the trouble America was in.
An American businessman was addressing the nation. He called for an end to random violence. He called upon America to make its streets safe. He called upon every citizen to report horrendous acts of unpunished crimes to his clearinghouse. The man had a proud high-bridged Spanish face. He spoke with haughty grandeur. There was something nice about the man.
With an American writing implement of crude blue ink, Chiun sat down to write a letter to this man on motel stationery. It began:
Mr Dear Mr. Harrison Caldwell:
You have finally come to save this wretched country from its excesses. Too long has America suffered from the amateur assassin violating the standards of the noblest profession, throwing the streets into chaos ...
If Consuelo Bonner had any thought about trying to get help, she gave it up as soon as she checked with her McKeesport plant.
"Better not come back here, Ms. Bonner," said her secretary. "They're looking for you."
"Who?"
"Everyone. Police, federal authorities, NCA. You're listed as a fugitive."
"I wasn't running from anything, I was chasing something."
"I told them, Ms. Bonner. I told them you were the best security chief this plant ever had. I told them you were better than any man. All they said was that I had to let them know if I heard from you. Or I'd face federal charges."
"I'll get this straightened out myself. I just need my records."
"We don't have them anymore. All the files were seized. They're evidence."
"I see," said Consuelo.
She could turn herself in and explain everything. But would they believe her? Only if she had the files she had left at headquarters, the ones leading to the man who contacted James Brewster. Maybe Brewster didn't know who had reached out for him, but there couldn't be too many people at headquarters who knew a lowly dispatcher outside of the plant.
She would have to break in herself. If she had Remo, he could get in any number of ways. The man could probably break through a wall when he was well.
She had one thing going for her. She was one of the security people who set up the original procedures to protect vital NCA files. She knew what guards would look for and what they would not look for. Such as a clearance badge. They never cross-checked the names, or even compared faces. What they did look for was the number.
Consuelo Bonner carefully cut her badge out of its laminated container, painted in new numbers that looked original, gave herself the name Barbara Gleason, and then resealed it all. Then, at midday, she marched into the vast concrete buildings of NCA as though she belonged there.
Expecting to be arrested any moment, she was almost horrified at how easy it was to get into the records center.
After a short time in front of a microfilm machine she nearly forgot there was any danger at all.
She got Brewster's file easily, saw his date of employment, his early retirement. She even saw some of her queries about him. She had sought background checks on everyone who had anything to do with the missing uranium. But on Brewster, the queries just sat in the file. A note was attached to them. It was dated the moment they came in. The memo said: "Brewster okay."
It seemed to have the highest authority. She checked out the authorization code. When she saw who it was, she couldn't believe it. It was Bennett Wilson himself. The director of the whole shebang.
He was the man she was intending to report to when she unraveled everything.
She closed the file. A guard was looking at her. Something puzzled him about her. She had seen him a few days before when she was here with Remo and Chiun.
She pretended she was busy in the file. She reread Brewster's early application for government employment as though it were a best-selling novel.
What did Brewster want to do with his life? "Retire," was his answer.
If Brewster saw a mother and child drowning and he still had an envelope to lick for a magazine subscription, would he:
A. Save the mother and child, forgetting about everything else?
B. Put down the letter and then save the mother and child, leaving the letter for later? or