"It is possible after your audience with Smith that you will be the one who wishes to leave," Chiun said cryptically.
"Why?" Remo asked. "He is kicking us out, isn't he?"
"Not at all. He has opened the gates of Fortress Folcroft wide for us," the old Korean said. "A decision fraught with risk given your questionable associates of late. There are other forces at work here."
"I bet," Remo said doubtfully. "Look, Chiun, I don't think Smith is too hepped on the idea of us getting another permanent home right now. We kind of made a scene on our way out of town with the last one. It even made the local news."
"We were not seen by any television cameras."
"Maybe not, but we were known around the neighborhood. People saw us off and on there for ten years. Then came the fire and us turning up missing afterward. Even though it's only local, I'm sure people are still talking."
"Any interest will soon wane."
"Probably," Remo said. "But you know how Smith is. He doesn't like us here any more than we like being here, but until the heat dies down he'll want us close enough to keep tabs on. If he is planning to kick us out, my guess is we've already got rooms in the seediest no-tell motel right here in Rye."
At the top of the hill now, they struck off across the short stretch of parking lot toward the building. Chiun's black sandals made not a sound as he padded thoughtfully beside his pupil.
"Necessity has forced us to find temporary lodging in this village," the Master of Sinanju said. "But Rye is Smith's home, not ours."
"No argument there," Remo said.
Beside him, Remo caught a flutter of golden silk. One of Chiun's hands appeared from his sleeve like a cobra from a snake charmer's basket. A shiny pamphlet was clutched in his tapered fingers.
"I am glad you agree," the old man said, his voice laced with cunning.
"Why?" Remo asked, stopping in his tracks. "What's that?"
A blissful smile cracked Chiun's walnut-colored skin.
"Our new home," he replied.
With a sinking feeling, Remo took the pamphlet. On the front, cheerful white letters read: Making Maine Your Own. Even as he was reading the words, Remo was shaking his head emphatically.
"No way," he said firmly. "I told you already, I'm thinking someplace hot. Florida. Hawaii maybe. Someplace with palm trees and sunburns and bikinis held in place by nothing but dental floss and wishful thinking."
"There are doubtless streetwalkers in Maine," the Master of Sinanju droned. "Besides, your soul cries not for scorching climes. It begs you to return to the mild temperatures of the land of your birth."
"That'd be Newark," Remo said, deadpan as he flipped through the pamphlet.
"Pah," Chiun snarled. "I speak not of the shell in which you walk and rut and speak ill of your betters. I refer to your blood. This place hearkens to your ancestral home of Sinanju."
When he glanced up, Remo's eyes were hooded. "And that's supposed to be a selling point, right?"
The pamphlet was gone, plucked from his fingers in a flash.
"Of course, O Visigothic one," Chiun said. "And since we cannot live in the true Sinanju, we must settle for the nearest available facsimile."
"That'd be the Rye city dump," Remo said blandly. "The rats can double for the people. Course, the rats won't try to stick a shiv in our backs and steal our teeth while we're sleeping."
The pamphlet vanished up the old man's sleeve. "We will discuss this later," he said. He headed for the side door of the sanitarium.
"There's nothing to discuss," Remo insisted. "I'm not being bamboozled this time. I am not-repeat not-moving to Maine."
He yanked the door open. Chiun preceded him inside.
"It reminds me of home," the old man said wistfully.
"In what way?" Remo asked as they mounted the stairs. "The remoteness? The rocks? The freezing winters that last all summer? Help me out here. On second thought don't, because it doesn't matter. No Maine, no way, no how."
"Your lips say no, but your soul says yes." Chiun nodded wisely.
"Stop saying what my soul wants, dammit," Remo snapped in frustration. "I don't even know what my soul wants these days."
Chiun took special note of his pupil's troubled tone. Unseen by Remo, the old man's face darkened in sympathy. He grew silent as they exited the stairwell on the second floor.
Together, they walked down the hallway of Folcroft's administrative wing.
Smith's secretary looked up from her desk as they entered the outer room.
Eileen Mikulka smiled at Chiun. "Back again so soon?"
Remo shot his teacher a quizzical look, but the old man's eyes remained locked dead ahead.
"Dr. Smith said you should go right in," Mrs. Mikulka advised before returning her attention to the papers on her desk.
Wordlessly, Chiun preceded Remo through the inner-office door.
The room beyond was drab and functional. As they entered, a gaunt, white-haired man who sat behind a big desk across the room glanced to the door.
"Hey, Smitty," Remo said, bored. "I'm back. And in case you were wondering, capitalism hasn't made Russia stink any less, and I was afraid to use the bathroom at the airport for fear of getting contact syphilis."
"Ah, Remo," Harold Smith said, a hint of anxiety in his lemony voice. "I saw you out back."
"Three cheers and a tiger for you," Remo said. "You figured out how to use a window."
His senses were telling him something odd about the room. There was an extra heartbeat inside.
As Chiun padded calmly across the room to Smith's desk, Remo peeked behind the still open door.
He was surprised to find a young man in a business suit sitting on Smith's worn office sofa. The stranger smiled nervously up at Remo.
Remo shot a look at Smith. "Who's this goomer?" he asked, jerking a thumb at the man on the couch.
"Mind your manners," the Master of Sinanju warned in Korean. He had taken up an imperious sentry pose next to the CURE director's desk.
Remo raised an eyebrow at the old man's admonishment.
Smith cleared his throat. His chair squeaked as he sat up straighter.
"Remo, allow me to introduce Mark Howard," Smith said, gesturing across the room to the man near Remo. "Mark has assumed the position of assistant director of Folcroft."
The door was still open. Remo let it slip from his fingers. It closed with a soft click.
"Of Folcroft," Remo said flatly.
Smith leaned forward, shaking his head slowly. He tipped his face down, peering at Remo over the tops of his spotless rimless glasses.
"Of CURE, as well," the older man said gravely. And as he stood near the door, the CURE director's shocking words echoed like dull thunder in the stunned brain of Remo Williams.
Chapter 5
Beside Remo, Mark Howard climbed to his feet. The young man wiped nervous perspiration from his palm before offering Remo his hand.
"I look forward to working with you, Remo," Howard said, his youthful voice tinged with worried excitement.
Remo was coming rapidly back around. He looked, stunned, from Smith's serious face to the Master of Sinanju's mask of stone. He paused just long enough to glance at Howard's outstretched hand before looking back to Smith.
"What the hell is this all about?" Remo demanded.
"Remo!" Chiun scolded. He bowed apologetically to Howard. "Forgive my son's rudeness, Prince Mark. He was raised in a poorhouse where he had to fight the other urchins for crusts of bread. I advise you to do what the rest of us do and just ignore him."
"Ignore this," Remo said.
"Of course, sometimes it is easier to do than others," Chiun told Howard through tightly clenched teeth. His eyes shot daggers at Remo.
"You mean to tell me you knew about this and you didn't tell me?" Remo said to the Master of Sinanju.
"Master Chiun met Mark formally last night," Smith explained. "You would have, too, had you returned to Folcroft after your assignment was through."