"You little yellow bastard," MacCleary growled, panting to catch his breath. Though bruised from the exercises, there remained a mirthful glint in his bloodshot eyes. His blotchy face glistened with sweat.

Chiun tipped his birdlike head to Smith. "Begging the Emperor's pardon," he said, "but do you have many generals?"

By this point Smith was lost in thought. As the afternoon had progressed, he slowly came to the realization that this crazy scheme might work after all.

"What?" the CURE director asked, snapping from his reverie. "Oh, er, no," he said. "He is my only one."

"A pity. Traditionally one ends a demonstration such as this by offering the head of his worthy opponent to the prospective employer."

"I'd like to see you try." Conn grinned. He raised his hook near his shoulder, his other hand directed forward.

"That is not necessary, Master Chiun," Smith quickly interjected. "MacCleary, back off."

With great reluctance Conn did as he was told.

"I told you we had a winner here," MacCleary panted.

Smith couldn't disagree. "Very good," he said. "Master of Sinanju, we would like to formally retain your services."

Chiun offered a bow that Smith assumed signified some kind of acceptance. "Sinanju desires only to serve America's true ruler." He tucked his hands inside the voluminous sleeves of his kimono, latching on to opposing wrists. "Now, this dead man you would have your unworthy servant instruct," Chiun asked. "Is he here in your palace?"

The old Korean seemed a little too nonchalant. For the first time Smith saw a hint of eagerness in the Master of Sinanju's hazel eyes.

Smith shot a wordless glance to MacCleary.

"I told him a little bit about his trainee back in Korea," Conn explained. He wiped the sweat from his face with his T-shirt.

"I suppose it doesn't matter," Smith said reluctantly. "You would have found out when you met him."