Dark Ages

Remo stared at Mark Howard. “Don’t tell me people are buying into that load of bulldookey.”

“Not exactly,” Mark Howard said.

“But the situation is politically delicate,” Harold W. Smith added.

Remo got to his feet. “Fine. I’ll handle it delicately. Where should I mount his head?”

“Sit down,” Chiun said.

“Tulient’s mercenaries killed fewer than a dozen security staff—plus the former premier of Newfoundland and Labrador,” Smith explained. “They hired back most of the staff at triple wages, paying U.S. dollars. They’re promising business-as-usual in St. John’s and throughout the provinces if the people accept the new leadership.”

“So?” Remo demanded.

“So, we have a man who has received a high honor from the queen of England. We have hundreds of Canadian citizens. We have a relatively peaceful assumption of power, and we have a rationale that smells almost credible.”

“To take out Tulient you would have to risk Canadian lives, humiliate a British knight and violate what some would consider a legal warrant.”

Remo pantomimed a duck quacking. “Do you want us in Newfoundland or not?”

“Not,” Smith said carefully, “as of yet.”

“Can I go back to my room?”

“Uh. Hem. There’s another matter I must bring up.” There was an awkward silence.

“Well?” he said.

“Be patient,” Chiun said quietly.

“Why?”

“Can you not see that the Emperor wishes to discuss a matter of some embarrassment?”

“Embarrassing to him?”

“More likely you.”

“It’s not a problem of embarrassing someone,” Smith said.

“Why me?” Remo demanded.

“The logical assumption is that it has to do with your hygiene,” Chiun pointed out.

“There’s nothing wrong with my hygiene,” Remo told Smith.

“I didn’t say there was,” Smith said.

“Also likely, your alley-dweller attire,” Chiun suggested. “Just a conjecture.”

“It’s the Technicolor kimonos that get people staring,” Remo countered.

“Gawking rabble are of no consequence. The unprofessional image you present reflects badly on the Emperor.”

Harold W. Smith could have launched into a lengthy argument with just about everything Chiun had just said. The old Master did attract attention in his brilliant Korean robes, and Smith preferred Remo’s nondescript attire because, obviously, he didn’t want any sort of attention whatsoever directed toward CURE activities.

There was a time when Smith enforced the anonymity of CURE to a harsh degree, but the truth was that such activities, performed by two such, well, personalities, could not stay invisible. In the past twenty years this became all the more difficult as the rest of the world closed in on Harold W. Smith in terms of his ability to collect and archive information from around the world.

Now his efforts were focused solidly on managing the inevitable exposure of CURE’S activities. The real threat was not about the information being gathered, but about what information was gathered by whom—and how it was analyzed for patterns. The true risk to CURE was that someone might come to realize, from circumstantial evidence, that some sort of an extraordinary and covert force was at work on behalf of the United States.

It had happened before.

How close these investigators would get to learning any dangerous truths about CURE would be a testament to the spin doctoring of the intelligence by Smith and his assistant, Mark Howard.

On that note, he had an issue to address with the Master of Sinanju. Emeritus.

“Master Chiun, I’m afraid I must discuss this problem with you directly.”

Chiun went blank. Before the ancient Korean could leap to a hundred conclusions, Smith pushed on. “There is a security issue caused by your mode of dress, as we have discussed in the past.”

Chiun seethed—which was a good sign, actually. Smith considered. The old Master could have simply dismissed the subject and refused to discuss it. A delay tactic like that could stall the issue for weeks. On the other hand, he could rebel rancorously, lashing out at everyone around him and causing CURE’S performance to suffer.

“Master Chiun, the Korean robes you wear are beautiful and fine,” Smith said.

“Of course they are, Emperor.” Chiun was stiff and formal. “The great assassins of Sinanju dress in attire befitting their station—recent draftees notwithstanding.”

“Such finery is not necessary,” Smith pointed out.

“It is,” Chiun said, putting great weight into each word. “When one serves an Emperor, when one serves the leader of the world’s most potent nation, when one is honored to hold the position of preeminent court appointee of such a ruler, then one must project the image of grace and cultivation that reflects best upon the Emperor.”

Remo shifted in his chair, forcing his lips to stay shut.

Smith nodded. He was not an emperor and he did not see himself as the true leader of the United States, but he had long ago given up any serious hopes of convincing Chiun of these things. “And yet, your traditional robes, as fine as they are, compromise your abilities to serve your leader,” Smith said carefully.

Chiun simmered. Remo stopped wriggling.