"Damn their eyes!"
Chiun's hands fluttered with uncharacteristic nervousness.
"That is Emperor Smith's voice, and he sounds very angry."
"He sounds more like a pirate with his peg leg caught in a knot hole," Remo said.
"Perhaps he is angry with us," squeaked Chiun.
"If he is, we'll just have to take our medicine."
"Blast their cursed bones!" came Smith's voice, twisted and low.
Abruptly Chiun got behind Remo and started pushing with both hands. "You go first, Remo."
"Why me?"
"Because you are half-white, like Smith. He will not turn on one of his own."
"Here goes," said Remo, pushing open the door. Harold Smith looked up sharply from his work. No trace of relief touched his patrician features.
"I am glad you are here, Remo," he said in a voice that contradicted his words.
"A mastiff ate our assignment!" called Chiun in a loud voice. "We are not to blame."
"What is this?"
"Chiun's making a joke, Smitty."
"I need you both."
Noticing the blind system on Smith's desk, Remo asked, "Computer crash on you?"
"I am attempting to enter this captured system."
"Captured? Who captured it?"
"I did," said Smith.
"No kidding. Who'd you capture it from?"
"If I am correct, the perpetrator of the rash of bombings in New York City."
"Anyone who would dare bomb one of your most famous cities is indeed rash," proclaimed the Master of Sinanju, stepping into the room. "Greetings, O Smith. How may we be of assistance?" And Chiun bowed formally, his hazel eyes peering upward to assess Smith's reaction.
"What did you say about your assignment?" asked Smith.
"Went off without a hitch," said Remo.
"Good," said Smith.
"Don't you want to hear about it?"
"Later," said Smith, tapping his keyboard with frustrated fingers.
"We dropped a locomotive onto Nishitsu headquarters in the middle of the night. Nobody killed that we know of. Message delivered."
Smith said nothing.
"The hotel accommodations were really special," Remo added. "You must have a saved a bundle, you old skinflint."
Smith nodded his gray head absently and addressed the Master of Sinanju. "Master Chiun, is your Arabic up-to-date?"
"It is impeccable," said Chiun.
"Please join me on this side of the desk."
With a low smile of satisfaction, the Master of Sinanju bustled up to Smith's desk and took a position beside his emperor. His eyes, meeting Remo's, were bright and taunting.
"I dropped the locomotive, but it was Chiun's idea," Remo continued.
Chiun's eyes turned venomous. A low hiss escaped his papery lips.
"We figured Nishitsu'd realize it was the American response to all those train wrecks, and rethink their global marketing strategy," continued Remo.
"Emperor Smith and I have no time for your prattle," said Chiun quickly. "We have important work to do. Why do you not take a walk?"
"Where would I go?"
"There is a short dock at the water's edge. It is a good place for a long walk," said Chiun blandly.
"No, thanks. I want to watch. This should be interesting. The hard-of-hearing leading the nearsighted."
Throughout this exchange, Harold Smith continued tapping away furiously. He seemed to have registered none of it.
"The owner of this system configured it for the Arabic language," Smith started to explain. "I cannot read Arabic. But I have a program that will convert it once I am inside"
"Inside what?" asked Chiun.
"The system," said Smith.
"What system?"
Smith pointed to the humming hard-drive case on the desk.
"Impossible!" squeaked Chiun.
"There is no system I cannot enter once I bypass the security firewalls."
Regarding the bright plastic case, Chiun said, "If touched by fire, that box would melt quickly."
"That's not the kind of firewall he's talking about," offered Remo, taking a seat on the green vinyl divan across the room. "He means the system is password protected."
"Ah. Now I understand. You seek the password?"
"Yes," said Smith, squinting at his desktop monitor, which was displaying a changing sequence of gibberish. "I believe it is asking me for the password. But I cannot tell."
"Allow me to gaze into this oracle's innermost recesses," said Chiun, bending to peer into Smith's desktop. "Yes. It is asking for the secret word."
"It says 'Secret word'?"
"Yes," said Chiun, laying his jade nail protector against the black tinted glass. "You see this script? It says, 'Secret word.'"
"I don't see a colon."
"Arabs retain their colons within their bodies unless put to the sword. But it is asking that you inscribe the secret word in that space."
"Damnation," said Smith. And Chiun shrank from the soft vehemence of the unexpected word from his emperor's lips.
"What is wrong?" he asked.
"My password-attack program takes hours to run. Sometimes days, with a particularly obscure password. The additional step of converting its data base of likely passwords into acceptable Arabic would take weeks-perhaps months with the transliteration problem."
"Then why not simply guess the secret word?" Smith shook his gray head savagely.
"That could take years. Only a sophisticated computer system has the brainpower to enter a protected system without knowing the password in question."
"Why do you not seize the owner of this device and wrest the secret word from him?"
"We have yet to trace him. And I have the system, not the owner here. And I am determined to crack it."
"You say the owner of the box is an Arab?"
"Yes."
"A cattle or city Arab?"
"I have no idea. His name is Al Ladeen."
"Ah, a cattle Arab. Bedouin are very colorful in their language."
"There is no telling what password he employed. It could be a name from the Koran or The Arabian Nights or anywhere at all."
"Could the secret word be more than one word?"
"Yes, it could."
"Inscribe 'Iftah ya simsim,'" said Chiun, slowly stroking his wispy beard.
"What?"
"'Iftah ya simsim.' Cattle Arabs have employed it for centuries in their secret intrigues."
"Hah," said Remo. "Fat chance this is going to work."
"Hush. You know nothing of these matters, counter of ribs."
"I am willing to try anything," said Smith. "Please spell the phrase, Master Chiun."
Chiun did. Smith input the English approximation, activated the conversion program and in a moment the Arabic script equivalent to the words Iftah ya simsim appeared in the wake of the blinking amber cursor, which moved right to left, the direction Arabic script was read.
The screen winked out. Instantly music emanated from the system.
"What is this?" asked Chiun.
"It's a song," said Remo. "Sounds like harem music."
"It is of no importance," said Chiun. "For we have succeeded in our task."
Remo shot out of his seat. "What? This I gotta see!"
"Hold," said Chiun. "Emperor Smith has not given you leave to join us behind his royal table."
"Remo may join us," said Smith.
"If you deem it fitting," said Chiun in a thin voice. He eyed Remo unhappily.
Remo stared into the desk. "Don't you get neck strain from looking into this thing all day?" he asked Smith.
Smith didn't reply. He was eyeing the black screen expectantly as the hauntingly familiar music tinkled. Abruptly a new screen appeared. It showed Arabic script for several seconds, then changed.
"What did it say?" Smith asked Chiun.
"It said, 'Here dwell the secrets of Al Ladeen. Infidels and idolators turn back before it is too late for you.'"
"That name sounds familiar," Remo said.
"Yes, it does," Smith agreed.