“I am not angry at you for several reasons,” Chiun persisted. “Would you like me to list them?”

  “Not really.”

  It was as if he didn’t hear. “First, I am not angry at you for whatever disgusting things you did last night. Although if there is a baby, it is your responsibility. You will not take advantage of me like other grandparents.”

  Remo sighed. Chiun had a knack for taking all the fun out of fun. “Next,” he said.

  “The second reason I am not angry at you is for calling me racist. Although I should be angry at you for this, Remo, I am not.”

  “Fine,” Remo said. “And since you shouldn’t have been listening in the first place, I’ll be magnanimous and not be ticked at you for eavesdropping and voyeurism.”

  Chiun raised an instructive finger. “This is not about me,” he insisted. “This is about you and the reasons that I am not angry with you, even though I clearly am justified in being so. Do you want to know the third reason?”

  “No.”

  “You are white,” Chiun said. He held up a staying hand, warding off any argument. “Yes, there is a speck of Koreanness in you, for which we should all be eternally grateful. Yet you are white in appearance, in attitude and in your barnyard habits. I have decided, Remo, that I can no longer hold this against you. You are what you are and it was wrong for me to conceal the truth, lo these many years. Once we I have completed this task for Emperor Smith, I will sit down and dutifully record the truth of your heritage in the Sinanju histories. Let the accusations of fraud fall where they may.”

  Remo saw the look of sad resolve on his teacher’s face. Even though he didn’t agree with all the wringing of hands over race that had been going on, he could see that the decision had been a difficult one for Chiun to make.

  “What brought this on?” Remo asked.

  “It was becoming clear that there was no other alternative,” Chiun said. “I know you would not keep silent. I will just set it to paper with no attempt to make it anything other than crystal clear.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “I am, however, nearly angry about one thing. That you would refer to the only one who ever bestowed anything of value upon you as a pint-sized pest. Pest I could live with. It is the diminutive pint-sized that I would find offensive. That is, if I were angry at you. Which I almost am but am not.”

  “If your ears are so good, you also heard me say you matter a lot to me,” Remo said.

  Chiun shook his aged head. “That, I didn’t hear,” he admitted. “This boatman you hired snores so loudly all the words were not clear.”

  Remo didn’t mention that there was only one person on board who snored at all, and it wasn’t Chim’bor.

  “You got a pretty good list there, Little Father,” Remo said. “In the old days you could have kept all four plates spinning for a month. Any particular reason why you’re letting me off the hook?”

  The old man directed his gaze far ahead. For a lingering moment he was looking beyond the river, beyond the jungle. His hazel eyes saw a world far away.

  “Because winter has arrived for me,” the old man said softly. “Soon it will no longer be my time.” He sensed the tension that suddenly gripped his pupil. “You don’t see it now, Remo,” Chiun said, “because you are in the summer of your own life, with years of promise stretching out before you. But with age comes acceptance. I forgive you all these sins against me now because I do not want death to forever rob me of the chance.”

  In spite of the heat, Remo felt his blood grow cold. “Little Father, you’re dying like the sun is dying,” he grumbled, clearly uncomfortable with this topic of conversation. “A hundred years from now, you’ll both still be here, so knock it off.”

  He didn’t realize how angry his own face had grown as he stared at the water.

  “Perhaps,” Chiun admitted. “If you never fulfill the tradition of Master Nik, you cannot assume the title of Reigning Master. In that case I would be forced to stay on, with you as my perpetual apprentice. At that point my shame would be so great I would rather live forever than die and face the ridicule of my ancestors.”

  “Master Nik can go take a flying leap,” Remo grumbled. “So sue me for not finding the one person in six billion who I should do something nice for.” He continued to stare at the water. Chiun saw the heavy weight that had settled on his pupil’s shoulders.

  “The sun will someday lose its brightness, Remo,” the Master of Sinanju said quietly. He didn’t pull his eyes from the river. “It is the nature of all things.”

  Remo said nothing. The last thing he wanted to think about was the Master of Sinanju’s mortality.

  Together they watched the rushing waves break white against the prow of the boat.

  The Amazon widened to a basin where the Tapajos River broke south. By noon the small charter boat was steering into the basin. The small-boat traffic grew thick. They wound their way between the other boats.

  The area was as big as a lake. Several ocean liners were docked at both shores. Tourists in loud clothes scoured kiosks in open-air markets for authentic South American trinkets that had been made in China.

  Amanda was awake. She sat in the shade of the cabin, away from the punishing sun.

  There were too many other boats heading in every direction for them to cut straight across. It took Chim’bor three hours to break through to the other side. Even when they’d left the basin and returned to the Amazon proper, the distance from shore to shore remained great. The river was still as wide as a lake.

  The water was so deep ocean liners could travel as far again as Remo and the others had already come. There was another cruise ship anchored beyond the Tapajos-Amazon basin. Remo noted much activity on the deck. People were streaming from shore and up the gangplank. Several big freighters were anchored all around.

  The jungle beyond the boats had been clear-cut. One line of trees had been left near shore. Peeking over them was the big domed shell of some kind of outdoor amphitheater.

  “What’s that?” Remo asked.

  Chiun crinkled his nose in displeasure. “I do not know,” he said.

  Amanda stepped out of the cabin. She shaded her eyes with her hand. “It must be the stadium they built for the Pan Brazil Eco-Fest,” she said. “It looks like they cut down a lot of trees to build it.”

  “If that’s where Prick’s gonna be singing, I hope they recycled them into earmuffs,” Remo said. “Hey, Chim’bor, step on the gas.”

  In addition to the departing cruise-ship passengers, there were other people hurrying around the docks and shore. Men carried cameras and heavy equipment from one of the freighters. Wires ran everywhere, connected to huge generators that were nestled in gouges of earth where plants once grew.

  Remo had grown bored with the activity onshore. “Chiun, let’s see that map again,” he said.

  The Master of Sinanju produced the map from his sleeve. He watched as Remo spread it out on a rusted tool chest.

  “We’re here, right?” Remo asked.

  As the two men looked at the map, Amanda continued to watch the shore. “That’s odd,” she said all at once. Her face tightened in puzzlement.

  “What is?” Remo asked without looking up. “There’s someone on that dock,” she said. “I think he’s waving to us.”

  “Does he have a Hair Club for Men suture weave and a crummy singing voice?” Remo asked, hoping for a moment that Prick was preparing to drown himself.

  “No,” Amanda replied. “He seems pretty agitated. I don’t blame him. Who wears a three-piece suit in weather like this? Hello?” she called questioningly as she waved to the stranger on the dock.

  Remo had already felt the telltale waves of interest from someone onshore. At Amanda’s description, he raised his eyes slowly from the map.

  Standing at the end of a distant dock was a familiar gaunt figure.

  Harold W. Smith’s omnipresent briefcase was at his ankle. He waved at their passing boat with one hand, trying desperately not to be to conspicuous. A pointless exercise, given his choice of attire.

  “Remo,” Smith mouthed once he had the attention of CURE’S enforcement arm. Worry flushed his ashen cheeks.

  Smith’s presence alone was evidence enough that things had somehow gotten worse. Remo turned to the others.

  “Who’s for sailing right by and pretending we didn’t see him?” he suggested. “C’mon, show of hands.”

  To his great disappointment, after a quick count his was the only hand raised.

  Chapter 23

  “Remo, thank God,” Smith breathed as the boat chugged to a stop next to the dock. The CURE director took the tossed bow line, quickly knotting it into an expert clove hitch which he tied to a rusted cleat at the dock’s edge.

  “I wasn’t certain I’d find you at all,” he continued as Remo and the others climbed up to the dock. “I had to make a rough guess at speed and distance based on your likely departure time from Macapa and your mode of transportation. When you didn’t pass by ten minutes ago as I had estimated, I began to worry.” He offered a crisp nod to the Master of Sinanju. “Master Chiun.”

  Chiun gave an informal bow. “Emperor Smith.”

  “Smith?” Amanda asked Remo. “This is your boss?”

  “In the monochromatic flesh,” Remo replied. Amanda looked Smith up and down.

  “No offense,” she said, “but your firm must have a great reputation, because my father certainly didn’t hire any of you for your looks.”

  Remo noted that for the first time she didn’t refer to her father as Daddy.

  “Er, yes,” Smith admitted uncomfortably. “Remo, we need to discuss something alone. Perhaps Dr. Lifton would care to take a tour of the concert site. From what I could see on my way in, it’s quite impressive. Master Chiun, could you please look after the doctor?”

  “My heart soars to do your bidding, Emperor,” the old Korean said. “Come, temptress.”

  Taking Amanda by the elbow, he led her down the dock to shore.

  “How’d you get here, Smitty?” Remo asked when Amanda was out of earshot.

  “A military flight straight to Macapa. I rented a helicopter there,” Smith answered. “And that is irrelevant. The situation with St. Clair and the CCS has changed.”

  “Tell me about it,” Remo said. “We had a boatload of those clown-suited cowpats attack us last night. I’m still picking corduroy from under my fingernails. We didn’t get that big grease stain St Clair.”

  Smith’s expression grew hopeful. “What of the seeds?”

  Remo shook his head. “He transferred them to the last boat. We know where he’s going with them, though. Here, take a look.”

  He ushered Smith down to the boat Chim’bor was in the back tinkering with the motor. Remo showed the CURE director the map they’d collected from the CCS jet. It was still spread wide across the tool chest. He had told Smith about it when he called from the hotel back in Macapa.

  “X marks the garden spot,” Remo said, tapping the encircled region of jungle with his finger.

  “Yes,” Smith said. “When you called you suspected that he was taking the seeds to that valley for planting, and I concurred. However, that has now changed. This is part of why I came down here.”

  He quickly went on to tell Remo about the satellite surveillance photographs, as well as the course of action for dealing with the C. dioxa situation that had been recommended to the President.

  “You think he’d really nuke Brazil?” Remo asked once the CURE director was through.

  Smith nodded. “Given what is at stake, if it becomes necessary, yes,’ ‘ he said with unemotional certainty. “When this President makes a decision, he sticks with it, whether it is the politically popular thing to do or not.”

  “Great,” Remo groused. “I must’ve dodged a hundred nukes from a hundred tinhorn foreign jackalopes since I’ve come to work for this outfit, and the one that’s gonna finally dust me gets dropped by my own team. Well, ain’t that just a kick in the keister. When you talk to Mr. Integrity, tell him he just lost my reelection vote.”

  “That is part of why I was forced to come down,” Smith said. “To relay information to the President during the crisis. You know, Remo, things would be easier for all of us if you would just carry a cell phone.”

  “Don’t like gadgets,” Remo said, shaking his head. “They throw off the body’s rhythms. And if all you needed was a spear carrier, you should’ve sent Bonny Prince Mark down instead of coming yourself. What good’s the twerp if you can’t use him for the scut work?”

  Smith hesitated. “Mark is not feeling well,” he admitted cautiously. “Given that fact, I thought it best to leave him in charge at Folcroft rather than commit him to the field at such a sensitive time.”

  Remo noticed the odd undertone in the older man’s voice.

  “Yeah, he was looking kind of green around the gills last I saw him,” Remo said slowly. “Besides, I’ve seen him at work in the real world before. That twitchy Don Knotts stuff he does is only funny if he winds up dead.” His eyes narrowed. “Is there something up with the kid, Smitty?”

  Smith shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I believe he’s feeling some work-related stress, that’s all. It is nothing that a few days off can’t cure.”

  Remo arched an eyebrow. “You’re giving Junior a vacation? I figured you’d just chain him to the boiler like the rest of the galley slaves in that nuthouse.”

  “I am as generous with time off as the law requires,” Smith said. He changed the subject from Mark Howard. “We should go,” he insisted, setting his briefcase to the deck. “If it is as you say, St Clair’s boat is weighed down. At full speed perhaps we can overtake him before he reaches the valley. If that is indeed his ultimate destination.”

  “And assuming we don’t get zapped by that nutty German who’s after us,” Remo said. “By the way, I don’t think he was behind those guys last night.”

  “It is likely he was not,” Smith said. “His name is Olivier Hahn. According to the information I uncovered, he rarely hires out. He prefers to work alone.”

  “Olivier?” Remo asked. “That sounds French.”

  “It is,” Smith said. “Although his father was Swiss German, he was raised by his mother, who was Swiss French.”

  “He stunk German, not French,” Remo said, puzzled.

  “That I cannot explain,” Smith said absently as he looked around for a clean place to sit. He chose a life preserver that was lying on a tackle box. “By the sound of it, he never even met his father. However, I am certain that Hahn is your attacker. He has had a covert relationship with the CCS as far back as the days of Sage Carlin. It has continued under Hubert St. Clair’s regime. Now, I must check in with Mark. Please collect Master Chiun and Dr. Lifton.”

  Smith took his phone from his briefcase.

  “Hmm,” Remo mused to himself as the CURE director began dialing. “Smelled like a typical knockwurst-breath to me.” He shrugged. “Oh, well. I’ll be right back.”

  Leaving Smith to place a call to his assistant, Remo scampered up the ladder to the dock and headed off toward the domed concert hall.

  Chapter 24

  “Nothing new to report from here, Dr. Smith.”

  The old-fashioned blue phone felt clunky in his hand. Everything about the CURE director’s office felt strange.

  Mark Howard’s own office was much smaller than Smith’s. He hadn’t realized how used he had gotten to the cramped space. He was uncomfortable enough working at his employer’s desk. The size of the room merely added to his discomfort.

  “I’ve been trying to locate him via satellite,” Howard continued. “But boat traffic is hard to track on the Amazon. It’s so heavy it’s like a needle in a haystack. The jungle overgrowth doesn’t help, either.”

  “Very well,” Smith replied over the scrambled line. “Continue to monitor the situation in Washington and report back to me if there are any changes.” With a beep, Smith was gone.

  Mark hung up the special contact phone. When he leaned forward in Smith’s chair, the springs squeaked. With a frown, he pressed the office intercom.

  “Mrs. Mikulka, could you do me a favor and get someone up here from the custodial staff?”

  “Right away, Mr. Howard,” Eileen Mikulka replied efficiently.

  Releasing the button, Mark pushed the seat back. It squeaked again. He leaned forward. Another squeak.

  He was surprised Dr. Smith would let something like that go. Mark had heard the squeak many times over the past year. It was likely Smith didn’t even notice it.

  He’d do his boss this simple favor. From his first job as a stock boy at a local supermarket to his days as a CIA analyst, Mark Howard’s work ethic made him always want to leave things in better shape than he’d found them.

  Mark pressed the concealed button beneath the edge of Smith’s desk. The buried computer monitor winked out.

  His cell phone was tied into the CURE system. It would alert him if the basement mainframes pulled any relevant information on the South American situation.

  He had realized something the other day when Smith sent him to the previously unknown attic to retrieve Remo and Chiun. He didn’t know Folcroft as well as he thought.

  There seemed to be a lull now. Time to complete the tour he apparently hadn’t finished when he first came aboard.

  Leaving the computer behind, he stepped out of the office. Mrs. Mikulka glanced up from her desk.

  “A custodian is on his way up, Mr. Howard,” she offered helpfully.

  “Thanks, Mrs. M.,” Mark said. “There’s a squeak in Dr. Smith’s chair. See if they can find it and kill it.”

  Mrs. Mikulka returned his smile. Mr. Howard was always so nice. Dr. Smith was a good boss and a fine man, mind you, but Mr. Howard was just, well, different. There was a lightness to his attitude that, was unusual for stodgy old Folcroft. He was like a breath of fresh air.