years because they are not too tolerant of mistakes.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that if a Master of Sinanju ever failed, he felt his entire village would starve. So the training is not designed to give someone a colored belt. If it succeeds, the man knows Sinanju. But if it fails, well, another failure and you go on to the next candidate. It’s life and death from the very beginning.”
“You think Remo may be dead.”
“I haven’t heard a complaint from Chiun for the last two days.”
“Well, maybe you ought to find out.”
“Yeah,” said McCleary. “Except you don’t just call up a Master of Sinanju and ask if he’s killed the pupil you stood on your head to get for him.”
“What do you do?”
“You wait until he phones with another complaint.”
“Call him,” said Smith.
The Master of Sinanju was approached in an extraordinary manner at a most unfortunate time. The Lawsons’ son, Jim, had survived the operation, only to find out that while he couldn’t play football anymore as an all-American, he did have a fantastic talent as an interior designer. Yet to become an interior designer meant endangering his love affair with Jill Anderson, who had escaped Mafia threats to become the only addict of a special drug meant originally to cure her grandfather’s rare case of leukemia.
It was, of course, the grandest art form of the west, a surprising respite from the drone of this civilization. It was the one meager pleasure Chiun allowed himself.
And the phone call came before the advertisements for the washing products.
Chiun, of course, did not answer it, and made sure its ringing would stop. He wondered why the Americans did not stop all telephones while this art was in progress. Of course great art, like great assassins, was not always appreciated.
On the other end Con McCleary heard the phone go dead.
He cursed under his breath. He wondered whether he should take a gun. He probably wouldn’t be much better than Remo with a gun. Therefore, a gun would be useless.
Throughout the far reaches of Asia, legends of the Sinanju assassins maintained that the Masters never failed. To McCleary’s mind, this meant that no one lived to tell of their failures. Maybe they protected the reputation of Sinanju by burying their mistakes, six feet under. Maybe an emperor they failed never woke up some morning.
Would it be important enough for them to kill a client? McCleary thought about that. Of course it would. What else did a centuries-old house of assassins have but its reputation? How did he hear of them? The legends of perfection.
Remo was a bit of a wise-ass. Maybe he made one wise-guy remark too many.
Con McCleary thought about these things as he drove to the training house on the West Side, the large barn of an industrial building with a brownstone facade. He found a parking spot immediately, and he was disappointed. He would happily have driven around another hour looking for a spot. It would have meant another hour of breathing.
“Time to find out what’s what, laddie,” McCleary told himself in a voice so clear it might have been to another passenger. But the words he did not mouth were, “Time to die.”
At least it would be quick if it happened. The Masters of Sinanju did not waste time with cruelty. They were too perfect for that. They might lead people to believe they were cruel, but only to reinforce the legend in people’s minds.
That was the most important lesson one Master had taught to Ivan the Terrible, the especially brutal Russian czar. And that was one of the references that had convinced Smitty to try Sinanju.
In the early years of Czar Ivan’s reign, a French noble recorded in his diary that the czar told him of a magnificent house of assassins that could do anything. By the time the name reached the French language it was Seinajuif. But the location was clear. This was the village on the West Korea Bay, and what the noble recorded in French was that Czar
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that if a Master of Sinanju ever failed, he felt his entire village would starve. So the training is not designed to give someone a colored belt. If it succeeds, the man knows Sinanju. But if it fails, well, another failure and you go on to the next candidate. It’s life and death from the very beginning.”
“You think Remo may be dead.”
“I haven’t heard a complaint from Chiun for the last two days.”
“Well, maybe you ought to find out.”
“Yeah,” said McCleary. “Except you don’t just call up a Master of Sinanju and ask if he’s killed the pupil you stood on your head to get for him.”
“What do you do?”
“You wait until he phones with another complaint.”
“Call him,” said Smith.
The Master of Sinanju was approached in an extraordinary manner at a most unfortunate time. The Lawsons’ son, Jim, had survived the operation, only to find out that while he couldn’t play football anymore as an all-American, he did have a fantastic talent as an interior designer. Yet to become an interior designer meant endangering his love affair with Jill Anderson, who had escaped Mafia threats to become the only addict of a special drug meant originally to cure her grandfather’s rare case of leukemia.
It was, of course, the grandest art form of the west, a surprising respite from the drone of this civilization. It was the one meager pleasure Chiun allowed himself.
And the phone call came before the advertisements for the washing products.
Chiun, of course, did not answer it, and made sure its ringing would stop. He wondered why the Americans did not stop all telephones while this art was in progress. Of course great art, like great assassins, was not always appreciated.
On the other end Con McCleary heard the phone go dead.
He cursed under his breath. He wondered whether he should take a gun. He probably wouldn’t be much better than Remo with a gun. Therefore, a gun would be useless.
Throughout the far reaches of Asia, legends of the Sinanju assassins maintained that the Masters never failed. To McCleary’s mind, this meant that no one lived to tell of their failures. Maybe they protected the reputation of Sinanju by burying their mistakes, six feet under. Maybe an emperor they failed never woke up some morning.
Would it be important enough for them to kill a client? McCleary thought about that. Of course it would. What else did a centuries-old house of assassins have but its reputation? How did he hear of them? The legends of perfection.
Remo was a bit of a wise-ass. Maybe he made one wise-guy remark too many.
Con McCleary thought about these things as he drove to the training house on the West Side, the large barn of an industrial building with a brownstone facade. He found a parking spot immediately, and he was disappointed. He would happily have driven around another hour looking for a spot. It would have meant another hour of breathing.
“Time to find out what’s what, laddie,” McCleary told himself in a voice so clear it might have been to another passenger. But the words he did not mouth were, “Time to die.”
At least it would be quick if it happened. The Masters of Sinanju did not waste time with cruelty. They were too perfect for that. They might lead people to believe they were cruel, but only to reinforce the legend in people’s minds.
That was the most important lesson one Master had taught to Ivan the Terrible, the especially brutal Russian czar. And that was one of the references that had convinced Smitty to try Sinanju.
In the early years of Czar Ivan’s reign, a French noble recorded in his diary that the czar told him of a magnificent house of assassins that could do anything. By the time the name reached the French language it was Seinajuif. But the location was clear. This was the village on the West Korea Bay, and what the noble recorded in French was that Czar
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