Ghost in the Machine, page 22
“Not unless it showed up on his plate that way.”
“Splendid. Then duck in orange sauce it will be. I assume you would like the same?”
“Not me. I want the trout Almondine. A side of steamed white rice for both of us, and absolutely pure natural mineral water. Got that?”
“Your meals shall be delivered within the hour,” the room service manager promised. “You have our eternal gratitude for your patience.”
“And you get to keep your mobility,” said Remo happily. He hung up. He looked into the mirror. The face that stared back at him was distinguished by two features: the deep set of his dark eyes, and the high cheekbones. It was a strong face. Too angular to be called handsome, yet too regular to be unpleasant. In certain lights, it looked skull-like. When he frowned, it looked cruel.
Remo wasn’t frowning now. He was smiling. He adjusted his smile and put an innocent expression on his face. Then he walked out into the living room of the sumptuous hotel suite, hoping his expression held.
“I got you the duck,” he said brightly.
The occupant of the other room sat cross-legged on a reed mat before the hotel television set. He didn’t stir a hair. Not that there was much hair to be stirred. The back of his head resembled a seamless amber egg decorated by tiny ears, whose tops nudged twin puffs of cloudy white hair set directly above.
“The duck in this place is greasy,” he announced.
“It is?”
“It was greasy last time.”
“Want me to call back, have them do it right?” Remo said helpfully.
“It will do no good. They are incompetent. If we demand they leech out the grease, the duck will come dry.”
“Better greasy duck than dry duck, huh?”
“Better properly prepared duck.”
Okay, Remo thought, he didn’t drag me back here for the duck. It must be something else. Remo decided to get to the point.
“Little Father, I am curious.”
“So is a monkey.”
“True,” said Remo, trying not to be dragged into a fight. “But monkeys can’t order room service for their jungle friends. And monkeys don’t usually find themselves suddenly rushing off to Miami one morning. Especially since they’ve been there recently.”
“On what channel does Cheeta Ching come on here?”
Remo picked up the local TV directory. “Channel 6.”
The Master of Sinanju picked up the remote channel-selector and punched up 6. His face came into view then. It resembled the papyrus death mask of some impossibly ancient pharaoh that had been sucked dry of all moisture. A wisp of beard clung to the papery chin. His age was impossible to gauge. Even his wrinkles seemed wrinkled.
A low sound emerged from his wattled throat, curious and faintly pleased. “The black box says 6, and behold, Channel 6 appears on the glass screen.”
“I think the cable box is dead.”
“Perhaps we will abide here for a time.”
“Suits me. I’d just like to know why.”
“We are homeless, are we not?”
“Since Smith kicked us out of our home, yeah. I guess I prefer to think of us as footloose vagabonds.”
“There are many homeless in this sad land.”
“To hear Cheeta Ching tell it, yeah. But what does that have to do with camping out in Miami?”
“The homeless of this land, how do they come to such a sad state?”
“Let me see. They lose their jobs. They don’t pay the rent.”
“Exactly,” said Chiun.
“Huh?”
“We are homeless, therefore we are unemployed.”
"Don’t tell me we’ve been laid off.”
“I will not.”
“Good.”
“We have reached an impasse in our contract negotiations with Emperor Smith,” explained Chiun.
“How big and how bad?”
“Enough that we are hiding from him, with all our worldly belongings, until he comes to his senses.”
“So that’s why we’re back in Miami. We’re hiding from Smith!”
“Exactly. He will never think to look for us here, knowing that we abided in this very place but short months ago.”
“Good point. How long you expect to tough it out?”
“Not long.”
“Really?”
Chiun nodded sagely. “Smith will cave in shortly.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because only this morning he ordered us to a certain place, there to await further instructions.”
“He gave us an assignment?”
“Not exactly. He merely asked me to go to this place and await word.”
“Holy Christ, Chiun!" said Remo, reaching for the telephone. “What if it’s important?”
“Then the sooner Smith will capitulate,” said the Master of Sinanju reasonably.
Remo picked up the receiver. He listened to the beeping and electronic chirping in his ear as he stabbed the 1 button repeatedly–the foolproof contact number he used when he had to reach Harold W. Smith.
Normally, after a dozen or so chirps, an electronic relay kicked in and Remo got a ringing bell.
This time, the chirping simply stopped and he was listening to dead silence.
Remo hung up and tried again. This time, he didn’t get so much as a chirp.
“Something’s wrong with this phone,” he complained, turning.
And the severed plastic line to the wall plug clicked onto his Italian leather shoes.
Remo looked down, saw the neatly snipped end, and looked toward the Master of Sinanju, who sat on his reed mat like a wispy little Buddha, as if he had not moved. Remo hadn’t seen or heard him move. Chiun was the only person on earth who could slip something past Remo. His long-nailed bird-claw hands rested open and loose on the bright lavender lap of his kimono. Those deadly nails, Remo knew, had severed the line.
“I gotta contact Smith,” he said. “He’ll be frantic.”
“Exactly.”
“He’ll put his entire computer system to work tracking us down,” Remo said.
“Let him.”
“Look, if you won’t let me call him, at least tell me where we’re supposed to be.”
“In a certain city.”
"Does this certain city have a name?” Remo wondered.
“Yes.”
“What’s it called?”
“Miami.”
Remo blinked.
“This Miami?”
“Do you know of any other Miami?”
“No,” Remo admitted. “But that doesn’t mean anything. I’ve been to three Daytons and five Quincys in the last five years. There might be another Miami tucked up there in Alaska. Smith happen to say Miami, Florida?”
“He said Miami. I took him to mean this very Miami.”
Remo’s dark eyes took on a puzzled gleam. “So we’re hiding out in the place he told us to go?”
“Exactly.”
“Any particular logic to that?”
“Yes.”
“Care to enlighten a colleague?”
“If such a person existed, I would.”
“Har de har har har. How about telling me?”
“Wisdom bestowed upon a monkey is wisdom squandered. But Cheeta Ching will soon be on, so I will tell you in return for silence.”
“Deal.”
Chiun hit the volume control, silencing the set. The local news was on.
He turned on his mat. Remo brought up his mat. He assumed a lotus position identical to Chiun’s own. Their eyes–unalike except for a similar deep confidence–reflected one another. Otherwise they were as different as two people could be. Chiun was tiny, and looked frail in his garish kimono. Remo was tall, lean, and wore a white T-shirt and brown chinos. His hair and eyes were almost the same shade as his pants.
“I am the Master of Sinanju,” said Chiun in a low voice.
“True,” said Remo agreeably.
“You are a Master of Sinanju.”
“Also true.”
“Together we are the only true living Masters of Sinanju, the greatest house of assassins in the history of this planet.”
“No argument there,” agreed Remo.
“We are the best. I am the very best. You are somewhat less than the best, but good nonetheless.”
Remo brightened at the rare compliment. Chiun, seeing that he had overpraised his pupil, instantly amended his rash judgment.
“At least adequate,” he said. “Better than most monkeys.”
“Cut to the chase,” grumbled Remo.
“Smith has hired us because he wished the best. Without us his silly organization, which he continually harps does not exist–”
“Officially exist,” Remo corrected.
“Without us, his organization would be toothless. For over twenty winters we have served him. In harsh times and glad times. Yet now he argues over tiny matters. Insignificant details in our new contract.”
“Like what insignificant details?” Remo wanted to know.
“Such as gold.”
“Since when is that insignificant?”
“Since he refuses to acknowledge its importance.”
Remo suddenly looked doubtful. “Come again?”
“Gold is not important in and of itself,” said Chiun.
“Am I hearing right? Is this you talking?”
“What matters,” Chiun went on, as if not hearing the rude outburst, “is loyalty, understanding, and proper respect. Gold is merely the symbol of these things.”
“Horse crap.”
Chiun slapped the hardwood floor with a yellow palm.
“Silence! I am speaking.”
And because he respected the Master of Sinanju above all others, Remo Williams fell respectfully silent.
“You asked for logic and I give you wisdom,” Chiun snapped. “Wisdom takes time. You will listen.”
Remo listened. He did not look happy about it.
“Smith has done the house disrespect,” Chiun continued. “He claims he cannot shower us with the tribute of before, meager as it was. He claims it is because of this Procession.”
“Recession,” Remo corrected.
“I countered that more tribute is not at issue,” Chiun said, ignoring the trivial outburst. “I will forgo additional gold and take instead certain considerations, I told Smith.”
“Such as?” Remo prompted.
“A new home.”
“We’ve been trying to get him to fix that for over a year now,” Remo pointed out.
“And I have asked him for a place he once before declined,” Chiun countered.
“Yeah? What place?”
Chiun waved a dismissive hand. “It is of no moment. We are not speaking of such trifles now. We are speaking of respect and understanding between a head of state and his royal assassin. There is decorum to such a delicate arrangement. Smith has seen fit to defile this arrangement, so I have spirited us to a place of concealment.”
“Which just happens to be the place we’re supposed to be.”
At that, the Master of Sinanju’s sere face softened. He smiled thinly, his wrinkled face becoming a happy cobweb in which his hazel eyes, like playful spiders, danced.
“When Emperor Smith realizes we are not to be found, he will be beside himself,” Chiun confided. “He will mourn our absence, and be forced to reflect upon the ruinous state of his empire without us. Then he will redouble the efforts to locate us, sparing no expense, leaving no stone unturned.”
“Running up one humungous phone bill.”
“And when he at last succeeds,” Chiun went on, “we will feign ignorance, and swear to vanquish his enemies with all the awesome skill at our command.”
“Once the fine print is settled,” Remo added pointedly.
“No time will be lost in travel. Only negotiations.”
“Okay,” Remo admitted. “It’s smart. Maybe it’ll work. But what if the world is about to come crashing down around our heads? What if it’s a big one?”
The Master of Sinanju shrugged. “Then it will all be the stubborn Smith’s fault, and so it will be recorded in the histories of the House of Sinanju.”
“What if it’s a really, really big one?” Remo pressed.
“There is nothing big enough to compel the Master of Sinanju to retreat from principle,” Chiun said firmly.
“Listen,” Remo began, but the Master of Sinanju lifted a frail arm for silence. He had been looking neither at the television nor the clock radio dial, but as if a chime had rung he announced, “It is now time for Cheeta.”
Remo looked to the screen. As the Master of Sinanju repositioned himself so that he was facing the screen, the sound came up.
“Good evening,” said a female voice like steel nails caught in a trash compactor. “This is the BCN Evening News with Don Cooder. Don is off tonight.”
"Don is off every night,” Remo growled.
“Hush!" Chiun admonished. Remo folded his arms at the sight of the Korean network anchorwoman called Cheeta Ching.
Her face was a flat mask of some jaundiced ivory, expressionless except for a perpetual frown on her viper-slim eyebrows. Her mouth–the only part of her that seemed to move–made shapes that reminded Remo of some bloodsucking flower.
“She is more beautiful than ever,” Chiun said happily.
“Looks fatter,” Remo pointed out.
“Philistine! That is the bloom of motherhood you see.”
Which only reminded Remo of the unpleasant series of events that had brought him and Chiun into contact with the anchorwoman who had become a heroine to career women everywhere, but who was known–and feared–as “the Korean Shark” to her network colleagues.
For years, the Master of Sinanju had nurtured a secret crush on Cheeta Ching. Recent events had brought the three of them into contact, first during the bloody special governor’s election in California, and more recently in Manhattan, where they had been called in to deal with a bizarre, seemingly haunted Fifth Avenue skyscraper.
During the first contact, Cheeta had been rescued by Remo and Chiun–after which, she and the Master of Sinanju had disappeared together. Only days later, Cheeta had announced that her heroic struggle to become a forty-something mother had resulted in an ovulatory breakthrough. Chiun had declined any comment, but was looking forward to the birth. It had been his stated goal to ensure a male child by Cheeta for the express purpose of creating the next heir to the Sinanju line.
No matter how much Remo had tried, he could not get Chiun to either confirm or deny paternity. As the due day approached, Remo grew more and more worried.
“Tonight,” a puffy-faced Cheeta was saying, “tensions between the United States and Cuba are increasing, in the aftermath of what some are calling ‘Bay of Pigs Two.’”
The graphic behind Cheeta’s head expanded to fill the screen. It showed a battle-torn beach, where the Maximum Leader of Cuba was storming about like some hulking, olive-drab Moses.
“Pah!” Chiun said, as the face of Cheeta Ching vanished from sight.
“Relax, Little Father. You know Cheeta’s got her face time written into her contract. She’ll be back in thirty seconds.”
The footage rolled on as Cheeta screeched on.
“What Havana is calling ‘a cowardly imperialist attack on the heroic Cuban Revolution’ began in the early-evening hours when a team of unidentified mercenaries infiltrated the Bay of Pigs area, site of the cowardly botched 1961 invasion launched by the quasilegal CIA.”
“Since when is tyranny heroic?” Remo grumbled.
“Remo! Be still.”
The footage showed a line of shackled prisoners being herded into a Soviet-made BMP armored vehicle.
“U.S. officials deny culpability,” Cheeta screeched on. “But reliable sources abroad, as well as the historical significance of the landing site, clearly suggest U.S.A. fingerprints.”
“How about giving the American side for once?” Remo complained.
Chiun glowered. Remo subsided. When Chiun merely shouted, he was blowing off steam. When he glowered, it meant a volcano was rumbling in warning. Remo decided he could do without a lava-and-pumice shower.
Cheeta’s flat face returned to the screen. “In a furious, three-hour-long speech given this afternoon, Cuban President Fidel Castro promised swift and–”
Snow filled the screen with a swiftness and violence that caught them off-guard. It hissed and crackled. Cheeta Ching’s mouth continued to make flexible shapes, but her words were drowned out. Then her face was gone, replaced by busy white pixels.
Chiun leaped to his feet. “What outrage is this!” he demanded.
“Easy,” Remo said. “It’s probably just a reception problem.”
A moment later, it was clear that reception was not the problem.
A new face appeared on the screen. It was mostly beard–gray and curly. From a mouth hidden in all that unruly hair, a cigar about half the length of a Louisville Slugger jutted.
A meaty hand reached up to take the cigar from the mouth. And the mouth began speaking.
“Ceetizens of Miami!” it proclaimed in a distinctly Latin accent. “Ceetizens of the world! The Imperialists have declared war on Cuba and its magnificent Revolution. So be it! The Socialist Revolution now declares war on Imperialist interests everywhere! For every blow struck against our peaceful shores, a greater, mightier blow will be struck against the aggressor!”
“Crap,” Remo said.
“Who is this man, Remo?”
"Don’t you recognize him? It’s Castro.”
“He is ugly.”
“I thought so when I was a kid, and I still think so now.”
The President of Cuba resumed speaking. He gesticulated with his free hand, with his cigar, and as often as not with his bearded head. The man looked spastic. His voice rose and fell feverishly, his accent at times so thick his words ran together and were indistinguishable from one another.
Worst of all, he went on and on for what promised to be hours, warning, threatening, blustering, and making Remo, less than twenty minutes into the performance, mentally wish for the return of Cheeta Ching, owl-screech voice and all.
“Why don’t you change the channel?” Remo suggested.
