But perhaps it wasn't luck after all. Mark Howard seemed possessed of a gift that could be a positive boon to the organization. Smith was not a religious man. Such ideals would be hypocritical for someone who had sent so many to their deaths. Yet part of him could not help but wonder if there was some larger force at work here, guiding his agency, his nation.
If Mark Howard was to succeed, he would need a strong hand to guide him. There was much the young man had to learn. And much Harold Smith could teach him.
Smith's eyes came sharply back into focus. Out beyond the one-way glass of his office window, the February wind continued to tear at Long Island Sound.
Although in the winter of his own life, Smith no longer felt the beckoning of the waves.
With a steely resolve, he spun back around. Surprised at the renewed vigor in his own arthritic fingers, Smith attacked the keyboard at the edge of his desk. He was quickly absorbed in his work.
Behind him, the comforting siren song of the Sound faded to silence.
Chapter 12
A yellow cab brought them from Rye to the airport in White Plains. Thanks to Smith's string-pulling, an entire runway had been shut down. An Air Force transport squatted like an impatient bird at the far end.
At Remo's direction, their driver steered them through a gap in the chain-link hurricane fence and out to the waiting plane. The driver had barely slowed before they were out of the cab and scampering aboard the plane. Before the taxi had even left the tarmac, the aircraft was screaming skyward.
The Master of Sinanju had remained silent since they'd left Smith's office.
Over the years, Remo had cataloged sixty-two distinct variations to the old Korean's silences. Most of these fell under different subheadings in the overall ticked-off-at-Remo category. This was different, however. This was the Master of Sinanju's contemplative silence, which was always the most worrisome because it usually had to do with something else and only marginally reflected the old man's customary irritation with Remo.
Remo let it go on for twenty more minutes. The airport had long disappeared behind them, replaced by wispy clouds and featureless land, when he finally opened his mouth.
"I know you're probably cheesed off at me for countermanding you back there," Remo said, "but I wasn't gonna let you fly all the way to Alaska by yourself. Plus we don't know what's even going on there."
The Master of Sinanju didn't turn his way. "Speak for yourself, white man," he said, his voice flat.
"Okay, so you know," Remo said, exasperated. "Why don't you let me know so that we'll know? That sound like a plan to you, or are you gonna leave me in the dark till we get there?"
Chiun considered for a long moment. Finally reaching a reluctant inner decision, he turned to face his pupil.
"You are avatar of Shiva, the Hindu god of destruction," the old man began, "the dead night tiger made whole by the Master of Sinanju."
Remo had heard this many times over the years. Chiun had been convinced for ages that Remo was the fulfillment of some ancient Sinanju legend.
Even though Remo had experienced too much in his life to totally discount the claim, he still found some small comfort in offering at least token resistance to Chiun's assertions on the subject. To do otherwise would be to accept something that Remo preferred not to even think about.
The younger man shook his head. "Chiun, I-" he began.
"Do not argue," the old Korean cut in, his tone sharp.
Remo could see by his severe expression that his teacher would brook no argument. "Sorry, Little Father," he said quietly, sinking into his seat.
The hard lines of Chiun's wrinkles softened. "Your Masterhood was prophesied by no less than the Great Wang himself," he resumed. "He of the Sun Source, the first Master of the New Age. Wang said that a Master would find among the barbarians of the West one who was once dead. This Master, who we now know is I, would prepare his disciple for the coming of Shiva."
"I heard all that before, Chiun," Remo said. "What's it got to do with Alaska?"
"You heard only part of the story. Wang also spoke of the time of hardship, when Shiva's avatar would be put to the test." He folded his hands in his lap, and his voice took on the familiar cadence of instruction. "'And in this time will be reborn one of the dead, but beyond death, of the Void and not of the Void, of Sinanju, yet not of Sinanju. And he will summon the armies of death and the war they wage will be the War of Sinanju, the outcome of which will decide forever the fate of the line of the Great Master Wang and all who have followed him.'"
By the end, the old man's voice was barely a whisper. His wrinkled lips puckering in a frown of concern, he waited for his pupil's reaction.
Remo carefully absorbed the Master of Sinanju's words.
"You think this is happening now?" he asked quietly.
Chiun nodded. "I have seen the signs," he intoned. "As have you, for it was prophesied to you that you would face hardships in the coming years. Some have already occurred, others have yet to pass. Yet this is the time. Your time."
Though he felt for his pupil, the wizened Asian didn't let the emotion seep to the surface. His face was etched in stone.
Remo's own expression had darkened. He dropped a frustrated hand to his knee. "Well, ain't that just a turd in the water tank," he exhaled. A sudden thought came to him. "Hey, wait a minute. You just said you think this is what's going on now. This dead, undead whoever-he-is leading his corpse army to wipe out Sinanju."
Chiun nodded. "The false Master is to be of Sinanju, but not of Sinanju. Although it is unclear the form the armies of death will take, you yourself said that these beings Smith spoke of appeared to have abilities similar to our own. They appear and vanish at will. Those who have seen as would say the same of us."
"Okay, so what the hell did you think you were doing running off by yourself?"
The old Korean's eyes flicked to the window. "I was not certain," he said, smoothing a wrinkle in his brocade kimono. "Nor am I now. Rather than waste all our time, I thought it would be wise to first reconnoiter alone."
"Baloney," Remo said. "You were trying to protect me."
Chiun arched an eyebrow. "Someone has a high opinion of himself," he sniffed. "If you must know, what I was trying to do was give myself a few hours of time alone. Since moving into Smith's palace, you have been underfoot every waking minute of the day. I was welcoming the solitude afforded by this trip. And then you had to come along and ruin it all with that big nosy mouth of yours."
"Right," Remo mumbled, crossing his arms. "I believe you about as much as I believe all that bilge water you were pumping up what's-his-face's blowhole."
Chiun's hands retreated to his kimono sleeves. "I will say whatever is necessary to garner the goodwill of Smith's heir," he said.
"No kidding," Remo said blandly. "I'm surprised you weren't volunteering me to wax on, wax off his car. Which reminds me. After the way I left yesterday, I figured you'd rip me a new one when I got back this morning. I'll probably live to regret asking, but you wanna tell me why? Maybe I can do whatever it is I did again."
The old man's face was flat. "That is extremely unlikely," he said.
"Why?" Remo asked. "What'd I do?"
It was clear from the way he shifted in his seat that the Master of Sinanju did not welcome this direction in their conversation. Chiun looked not at his pupil, but dead ahead. When he spoke, his voice was low.
"It is possible, Remo, that you were correct," he said. Each word had to be bitten off. His jaw trembled at the painful admission.
At first, Remo had no idea what to say, so shocked was he by the tiny Asian's statement. He blinked. "Oh," said Remo.
"Oh," he repeated.
"Oh," he said a third time after a prolonged pause during which he still had no idea how to respond. "Oh," he said, suddenly more brightly than the first three times. "What was I right about?"