Look into my eyes, p.13
Look Into My Eyes, page 13
The blow was not the result of force but created the force itself. You could move your hand through walls and the force would not be behind it like in some weak, imitative karate punch breaking bricks. Rather the force would pull the hand and shatter the wall. It was basic, but not quite as basic as the breath of life that attuned the Masters to the real forces of the universe.
It was no accident that the first thing a human baby did when cut from the umbilical cord was to breathe. Never did the infant seek food first, or even warmth in times so cold that the temperature would kill it. First was breath, and so too was it last in death.
The breath was the hello and good-bye of life as Sinanju called it, as Chiun had taught him so long ago in those basic lessons when Remo thought there was something worth learning in this world.
“Recorded this day in the Masterhood of Chiun, discoverer of America, teacher of Remo, devoted pupil, for the greater and continuous glory of the House of Sinanju. It was by the hand of Chiun, agreed this day with the mad emperor representing the rich country of America—see Chiun’s discovery of a happy people—a negotiation that will be considered basic in the business of Sinanju.
“Faced with a client emperor in desperate need, for whom a perfectly performed service, while adequate in itself, proved inadequate for the emperor’s needs, Chiun first established for the Master of Sinanju and his pupil Remo, now a Master but yet to achieve final levels, that they were free to leave. This was most important because from this came the basic and perfect negotiation, performed by Chiun himself.
“Having thus established that Sinanju had performed perfectly and was now leaving, the Emperor Smith, who only at times could be considered mad, but at this time had to be considered as shrewd as any emperor ensuing generations might face, made this offer. He would outbid any rival for the services of Sinanju.
“While this was basically a perfect position, Chiun, in his keen sense of proportions, understood it was only the beginning. For the country was rich, the richest in its time. And Chiun understood there was much more where that came from, for Chiun had already made arrangements with the same emperor to replace the entire treasure of Sinanju. That is, in one Masterhood to earn the total of all other Masterhoods. (For reference to the treasure, look under ‘not Chiun’s fault.’)
“At that point, Chiun established no fixed amount, but rather a percentage above any other offer, so that Chiun would be free to get any other nation, emperor, tyrant, or king to make an offer, which Emperor Smith would be bound to exceed by ten percent. Chiun himself, in this one deed, had established the first limitless fee.”
Chiun stopped reading and stepped back from the scroll.
“What does Smitty want?” asked Remo.
“I’m not altogether sure. He’s still out there. I’ll ask him,” said Chiun.
“That hypnotist fellow. He wants him, I think.”
“Some silliness. We do not call him Mad Harold for nothing,” said Chiun.
Chiun looked at the five stars he had dared to give himself and smiled. They would hold, he was sure, if future Masters really understood the greatness of his breakthrough.
He put the scroll back in the lime-green steamer trunk, making sure it was tied perfectly.
Remo did not look back.
“Say hello to him for me,” said Chiun.
“Who?” asked Remo.
“The Great Wang. You’re going to see him soon,” said Chiun. “And it is I, Chiun, who have brought you to this point.”
“What should I say to him?”
“Ask him about whatever bothers you. That is what he is there for.”
“Since he’s dead, he’s got to be an apparition.”
“No. Definitely not. Not alive, but definitely not an apparition. You will see the Great Wang’s smile, and the gentle curves of his too-full stomach. You will even feel the strength of his eyes, and his presence will be a bounty unto you.”
“Close the door on your way out,” said Remo.
“Good-bye, my son. When we next meet, you will be at a level you do not even suspect now,” said Chiun, feeling the joy again of the time he had met the Great Wang.
But now to business and fulfilling the wishes of Mad Harold. It was a typical white American assignment, full of contradictions and absurdity, with no clear goal in sight.
For this virtually limitless price, Mad Harold did not want the throne of America called the presidency. He did not wish a great personal enemy destroyed, nor did he wish control of any land. As usual, reasonable requests were out.
There was this man from Russia.
“Ah yes, the czars—powerful men whom we respect—but we must warn you, O Wise Harold Smith, you have seen their danger only in part. We who have served the czars, and therefore do not speak ill of them, nevertheless respect your resolve to protect what is yours.”
“It’s not protecting any property rights. This man is dangerous. He has this tremendous ability to hypnotize.”
“Ah yes, the mind players. We know them. They are of little importance usually, but of course this one is of great importance. Most great importance,” said Chiun, who knew that an ancient Master who had worked in the Roman Empire was once paid with five of them, Greek slaves who could do mind tricks, as they were called. He was given five of them in lieu of one good field hand to carry his luggage. Chiun remembers the comments about how the Master had been swindled by a Lucius Cornelius Spena, a very rich businessman who wished that a senate seat be suddenly vacated. It was not honorable work, but supposedly it was to pay well. And of course, it didn’t. Sinanju never used slaves well and didn’t believe in them. Every man, Sinanju preached, should be free to make a fool of himself, therefore leaving more work for assassins.
These things Chiun thought about as Smith went on about the man called Vassily Rabinowitz, an immigrant in a nation of immigrants. Smith would provide the tracking, and Chiun would perform the elimination.
“Most dangerous. Most dangerous. But may I ask, how, if we kill him, can he entertain for you?”
“We don’t want him for entertainment. He’s dangerous. Perhaps the single most dangerous man who has ever entered this country.”
Chiun overlooked the insult because of the tremendous fee Sinanju would be getting. What could one expect from a madman but to think a hypnotist was more dangerous than his House of Sinanju that Smith had paid for? Any sane emperor, if he really thought that, would keep the whole matter quiet lest his lords serve those who bought the services of the other one, the one who here and now Smith declared as most dangerous.
“We will struggle but win, as always,” said Chiun, careful to play on the fact of an awesome opponent, but just as careful to remind Mad Harold that when he bought Sinanju, he had bought the best in assassins. In fact, Chiun was thinking of adopting a fine American practice. In every new appliance he saw a note informing the purchaser that he had bought the best of its kind in the world, congratulating him on his wisdom in doing so.
Chiun thought it might be nice to have a scroll prepared for every future tyrant, despot, and king Sinanju served, letting each one know how wise he was in employing the finest assassins in all history. Begin it with: “Congratulations, you have employed the finest… ” et cetera.
Chiun nodded again to some more nonsense and then squeezed a small box Mad Harold put in his hand.
“Not now, Chiun. When you have succeeded in eliminating Vassily Rabinowitz, then press that button. I will know he is dead.”
“But you know he is dead already, now that your Magnificence, O Wise Harold, had decreed him so.”
“Nevertheless, I’d like you to use that. We are paying an extraordinary tribute for this. We don’t even know how much yet. And this is the way I want to do it.”
“Of course. We always appreciate direction and help in this thing we have only been doing forty-eight hundred years before America was born,” said Chiun, allowing himself a little sarcasm. But Smith did not respond.
“Death to the evil hypnotist,” said Chiun.
As was his strange custom, a scant time later the telephone rang and it was the voice of Harold W. Smith. They had tracked down a probable place for Vassily Rabinowitz, the poor little hypnotist whose life would be forfeited in the most splendid financial arrangement in the history of the House of Sinanju.
“O Wise One, how is a person in a probable place? A place is or it is not.”
As soon as he said it, Chiun realized he never should have mentioned it in the first place because the answer was ridiculous to the point of the absurd.
Smith’s system was tracking incidents most probably done by the poor hypnotist, things that would be reported to the police and to intelligence agencies. Smith had a machine that could scan and analyze these reports, and from these reports Vassily Rabinowitz was probably in Fort Pickens, Arkansas.
When Smith was finished prattling, Chiun asked the important question.
“Do you want the head or not? I know you traditionally don’t take the head for your palace walls, but we recommend it, especially for an important assassination. It can be done quite tastefully.”
“No. Just make sure you do kill him. There was an incident in Russia where tough KGB troops thought they had him and they ended up shooting each other.”
“And secret, too, I take it. The usual secrecy.”
“Oh yes. Absolutely. Secret. Of course. We don’t want anyone to know we exist.”
“Yes. Of course. Make a great assassination seem like a head cold. Very subtle, O Wise One.”
“No. In this case I don’t care whether it looks like an accident. I want him dead. I want to be sure he’s dead. Use the box. He’s already probably into our armed forces. We only missed a nuclear launch in Omaha by a hair’s breadth. This man has got to die.”
“With the speed of the winds of the Kalahari, O Wise One,” said Chiun, who made sure he took enough time to be properly dressed. Nothing loud, even though America tended to be loud. A basic pink would be good for the kimono to be used in this assassination, a basic pink, a simple blow, a quick death, and then perhaps wait a week or so before hitting the button on the box. For after all, if the assassination proved so easy, might not Mad Harold think of reneging on that awesome reward? Of course, speed would show the greatness of Sinanju, and Mad Harold paid for the strangest things.
· · ·
Chiun thought about that and by the time he reached Ford Pickens, Arkansas, Chiun decided to risk informing Mad Harold immediately. Then he would whisk Remo away to a saner emperor, a new Remo, a Remo who had seen the beneficence of the Great Wang and asked the important question only to get the important answer.
At the gate, Chiun was told that people who dressed in pink had to be women, or they could not enter the base.
How typical of American whites that they would insist that entrance to a military base require a sex-change operation. No wonder they had lost their last war, and probably would lose the next.
The guard held out his palm to bar Chiun’s entrance and then didn’t bother Chiun anymore. Most people didn’t who needed immediate treatment for multiple fractures of the hand.
Chiun glided into Fort Pickens. He saw the flags, the uniforms, the appearance of activity while people were generally doing nothing. He could come in at night and do unseen work, but killing a lowly hypnotist for a vast fortune was so bizarre to begin with, he wanted to do it in daylight to make sure it was really happening.
Chiun surveyed the camp. Nothing much had really changed since the Romans except this camp was not defended properly. Romans would always have a moat and a wall. Americans made do with fences. Perhaps that was because they had guns nowadays.
He saw dust in the distance, always a sign of cavalry.
He stopped an officer to ask if he had heard of a Vassily Rabinowitz around.
“You mean Old Blood ’n’ Guts Rabinowitz?” asked the officer.
Horror struck Chiun. Had someone already filled this enormous contract on the hypnotist?
“He is only blood and guts now?” asked Chiun.
“Only? He’s the toughest, smartest general since George S. Patton, Jr. We call him Old Blood ’n’ Guts.”
“Oh, he sheds other people’s blood. Ah well, this is good,” said Chiun. Not only was Rabinowitz alive, but he blessedly had a better reputation than just a lowly hypnotist, a man who could convince some souls that it was warm when it was cold, cool when it was hot, and that they were barking dogs.
Some people could even be made to not feel pain, although why anyone would want to do that to his body, Chiun never knew.
One could sense, like with any great conqueror, the presence of Rabinowitz far off. Soldiers and officers alike looked strained and angry. It meant they had been worked properly. Great commanders could do that. Good soldiers did not resent it, rather they respected it even though they might complain from time to time.
“Old Blood ’n’ Guts is something today. I don’t know if he’ll scare our enemies, but he sure as hell scares me,” Chiun heard one officer comment.
“First time we’ve ever really done real maneuvers. I’ll be grateful for war just to stop this torture.”
When Chiun got to a broad plain surrounded by foothills, he could make out clearly by the deference of the men who the commander was. Tanks were firing on moving targets with surprising accuracy. Rebel yells came from men in the armored vehicles. This definitely was an army preparing well for war.
It would be a noble assassination, to go along with the noble price.
Rabinowitz was waving his arm and yelling. He stood on a platform, pointing with a swagger stick. He could yell orders to two people at once.
He had been described as a sad-eyed man, but these eyes flashed with joy. It was a shame that Chiun would have to end his career at this moment, not later, after he had become as famous as Napoleon, Alexander, or Caesar. But a contract was a contract.
“Rabinowitz,” cried out Chiun. “Vassily Rabinowitz.”
The man now called Old Blood ’n’ Guts turned around. Chiun saw by the movement even before the voice that this was a recognition of self. People could not help doing it. It was more a proof of identity than the face, or even the Eastern magic of the fingerprint. This was the simple reflex of the person identifying himself.
And Rabinowitz had done it with his eyes. Chiun knew that all the soldiers were looking now at him because of the beauty of his pink robe in this drab setting. Mad Harold had ordered secrecy, not invisibility.
The platform was just over his head. Chiun moved to it with grace, less effort than a leap, more motion than a step, and now he was face-to-face with the most gloriously rewarded assassination in all history.
The center of the skull begged for a single penetration, quick to the point of invisibility. The simple, basic blew with the force of it working inside the cranium, not outside, not even needing to penetrate.
Rabinowitz wore a plain battle helmet and fatigues. A small pistol was strapped to his waist. The light dust in the noon sun made the air almost like clay in the mouth. The boards on the platform creaked ever so slightly, and a few soldiers started to move up to the platform to get between Chiun and Rabinowitz. And then Chiun stopped his blow, stopped his blow short of the high yellow forehead and laughing black eyes and the equally pink kimono. A jolly fat man, no taller than Chiun, but with thicker hands and forearms, and legs one could tell were chunky underneath his trunk, looked at him, laughing.
“What are you doing here? What’s your name? How come no one could stop you at the gate? What is that silly pink dress?”
The questions came so quickly that Chiun could barely answer them, but answer he must.
“Great Wang, what are you doing here?”
“Look, I asked you first. If I wanted to answer I would have answered first already. So what’s with you and that pink dress?”
Of course the Great Wang was joking, but Chiun would never presume to refuse an answer.
“O Great One, it is I, Chiun, I am here on the most wonderfully paid assassination in all history. A mere hypnotist named Rabinowitz, and the price I got—”
“Who wants to kill Rabinowitz?”
“The Mad Emperor Harold. He is nothing, but I did not expect to see you again, great one, in my lifetime. It is Remo’s turn.”
“Why would anyone want to kill a nice person like Vassily Rabinowitz?” asked the Great Wang. Soldiers who had been advancing on Chiun made it up to the platform. In order to be absolutely perfect before the Great Wang himself, Chiun used the simplest of breathing combined with the basic force stroke, taking off heads as a form of honor. Nothing special, single movements through the spinal column, leaving the heads for the dust. He could have popped them up, caught them, and done a presentation, but that was flamboyance for customers.
The soldiers, seeing jackhammers smash off heads, went for their weapons or for cover. No one watched the horror without doing something, except for Old Blood ’n’ Guts and the strange killer in the pink dress.
The old Oriental was talking weird. One of the soldiers thought of getting up on the platform with them, but the prospect of a severed head made him think twice. Far off, tanks stopped their firing.
Men crowded around the wood platform to see what the man in pink would do to Old Blood ’n’ Guts. Someone chased a head, trying to match it to a body. Not knowing what to do with it, he put it down on the ground and covered it with his own helmet. Graves Registration should take care of that, thought the soldier.
“Mad Harold has the strangest assignments, Great Wang. But why do I see you twice in this lifetime? Is it that I, perhaps, am the greatest Master after you?”
“Shut up already with the greatness, hazarei. Is this Mad Harold a communist sympathizer?”
