Why could America not handle its social problems in the same efficient way it handled its need for assassins and their skills? But that would be simple, and simplicity was not the white man's way. It was not their fault; just that they had been born defective.
Chiun heard the knock on the door but decided not to answer it. If it was Remo, he could get in. Anyone else would be looking for Remo or the girl, and since neither of them were here, there was no point in opening the door to say that when a closed unanswered door could deliver the same message.
Rap! Rap! Rap! The knocking was louder now. Chiun ignored it more, if that were possible.
«Hey. This here is Room Service,» a voice brayed from the hallway. Rap! Rap! Rap!
If the man hammered on the door long enough he would eventually get tired, perhaps so tired that for sustenance he might eat the food he was carrying. That would be punishment enough. Chiun dozed.
In the hallway, Lhasa Nilsson put a hand on the doorknob and turned it. The door opened noiselessly.
«No one here,» he said. «Bring the cart and we'll wait.»
«Why bring the cart?»
«Because it gives us a reason to be inside. Bring the cart.»
Chiun had heard the door open, had heard the voices, and as Nilsson and Barenga entered the apartment, he rose and turned to face the two men.
Nilsson saw the last part of Chiun's fluid rise from the floor and the way he turned. Something he recognized in it made him move his hand close to his jacket pocket, where he kept the small revolver.
«Hey, old man, why don't you answer the door?» Barenga growled.
«Quiet,» Nilsson commanded. Then to Chiun, he said, «Where is she?»
«She has gone,» Chiun said. «Perhaps to join the circus?» He folded his hands in front of his light green robe.
Nilsson nodded; he watched Chiun's hands move, slowly, without threat, carefully.
«Check the rooms,» he told Barenga. «Look under the beds.»
Barenga headed for the first bedroom while Nilsson returned his eyes to Chiun.
«Of course, we know each other,» Nilsson said.
Chiun nodded. «I know of you,» he said. «I do not think you know me.»
«But we are in the same trade?» Nilsson said.
«Profession,» Chiun said. «I am not a shoemaker.»
«All right, profession,» Nilsson said with a small smile. «Are you here to kill the girl too?»
«I am here to save her.»
«Too bad,» Nilsson said. «You lose.»
«There is a time for everything under the sun,» Chiun said.
Barenga came out of the bedroom. «That one's empty,» he announced, and went to the next bedroom.
«It is good you have such efficient, intelligent help,» Chiun said. «A young house like yours needs assistance.»
«A young house?» Nilsson said. «The Nilsson name has been famous for six hundred years.»
«So too was that of Charlemagne and other blunderers.»
«And who are you to be so officious?» Nilsson asked.
«It is unfortunate that you are so obviously the youngest of your family. Your elders would not need to ask the identity of the Master of Sinanju.»
«Sinanju? You?»
Chiun nodded and Nilsson laughed.
«I can't understand your arrogance,» Nilsson said. «Not after what my family did to your house at Islamabad.»
«Yes, you are the youngest,» said Chiun. «Because you have learned no lessons from history.»
«I know enough history to know that the army we supported defeated the army you supported,» Nilsson said. «And you know it too.»
«Masters of Sinanju are not foot soldiers,» Chiun said. «We were not there to win the war. Tell me, what happened to the pretender you put onto the throne?»
«He was killed,» Nilsson said slowly.
«And his successor?»
«Killed, too.»
«And did your history lessons teach you who then assumed the throne?»
Nilsson paused. «The man we deposed.»
«That is correct,» Chiun said. «And yet you say the House of Sinanju was defeated? By an upstart family only six hundred years old?» He laughed aloud, a high piercing cackle. «We should always lose thus. We were to protect the emperor and maintain his throne. A year later when we left, he was still alive, his throne still secure. His two enemies had met sudden death.» Chiun extended his arms to his sides as if administering a blessing. «Pride is a good thing for a house to have, but it is dangerous for its individual members. They stop thinking and live on pride instead, and he who lives on pride does not live long. As you will learn.»
Nilsson smiled. His right hand came away slowly from his pocket, holding the automatic revolver.
Barenga reentered the room. «Whole place empty,» he said.
«Fine,» Nilsson said, his eyes not moving from Chiun's. «Sit down and be quiet. Tell me, old man, how did you know me?»
«The House of Sinanju never forgets those it has fought. Each master is taught their motions, their characteristics. Your family, for instance. As it was with your forebears, it is with you. Before you move, you blink your eyes hard. Before you put your hand to your pocket, you clear your throat.»
«Why learn that?» Nilsson asked. «What good can it do you?» He now aimed the pistol squarely at Chiun's chest, across the eight feet of livingroom carpet that separated them.
«You know that,» Chiun said. «Why ask?»
«All right. It's to learn your enemy's weaknesses. But then why tell the enemy?»
Barenga sat against the wall, watching the conversation, his head swiveling, as if he were watching a tennis match.
«One tells the enemy to destroy him. As with you. Even now, you worry about your ability to pull that trigger without blinking your eyes. That worry will destroy you.»
«You are very sure of yourself, old man,» Nilsson said, a slight smile playing at his face. «Is that not the kind of pride you said could destroy a man?»
Chiun straightened to his full height. He still was a head shorter than Lhasa Nilsson. «For anyone else, perhaps,» he said, «but I am the Master of Sinanju. Not a member of the Nilsson family.» His contempt, crisp and unmistakable, triggered fury in Nilsson.
«That is your hardship, old man,» he said. His finger tightened on the trigger. He tried to concentrate on Chiun who still stood, unmoving, in the center of the floor. But his eyes. What would his eyes do? Nilsson felt the first nudge of doubt creep into his brain. He tried to block it out, but could not. So he squeezed the trigger, but as he did, he realized he had blinked. Both eyes had shut tightly, an ancestral curse handed down through the ages. He did not have to see to tell his bullet missed. He could hear it chip off the plaster wall. He did not have to be told that he would never get another chance to fire. Suddenly, he felt the pain in his stomach and felt his body drifting away. All because of a blink. If only he could warn Gunner.
Before he died, Lhasa Nilsson gasped, «You are lucky, old man. But someone else will be coming. Someone better than I.»
«I shall greet him with kindness and respect,» Chiun said. Those were the last words Lhasa Nilsson ever heard.
Those were the last words that Abdul Kareem Barenga ever wanted to hear, «Feet, get moving,» he yelled, and, wailing like a flute at midnight, he ran to the front door of the apartment, yanked it open and raced off down the hallway.
Remo had been worried. He had found no trace of Vickie Stoner. No one had seen her, no cabbie, bellhop, policeman, no one. Already he and Chiun had mucked it up, and right at the moment, he had no idea where to look. The girl had been so spaced out while Remo had been with her that he could not recall anything she might have said that offered a clue to where she might go.
Losing the girl made him angry; not knowing where to look for her made him more angry. Neither factor really had anything to do with Abdul Kareem Barenga, but it was Barenga's bad luck to be the unfortunate vessel that received Remo's displeasure.