"I had some thinking to do," Remo said. "It sure as hell didn't have anything to do with this." He stabbed a finger at Howard. "When did that happen to us?'
"Apparently, things were set in motion before the previous President left office," Smith explained.
Remo threw up his hands. "That's enough for me. This is wobble-bottom's revenge for not making him and his wife Mr. and Mrs. Kingfish of Siam for life, isn't it? Well, let's get this over with and kill him right now."
He took a step toward Howard. The young man stepped back worriedly, almost tripping over the arm of the sofa. He had to grab the back of the couch to keep his balance.
"Remo, stop it," Smith commanded.
The order wasn't necessary. As Mark struggled to regain his balance, Remo stopped dead. His deep-set eyes narrowed.
"I know you," Remo said slowly as he studied the young man's wide face.
"Yes," Smith said from across the room. "You met him several weeks ago during the Raffair business."
"We encountered Prince Mark at one of the lairs of your iniquitous Roman friends," Chiun supplied. He quickly offered Howard an apologetic bow. "It is to my eternal shame that I did not recognize your regal bearing straight away."
Remo snapped his fingers. "Miami," he said. "You were the doofus who didn't know which end of the gun the bullets came out of." He wheeled on Smith. "He's CIA, Smitty."
"Formerly CIA, yes," Smith replied.
"There's no formerly CIA," Remo insisted. "Not unless they started installing Brain-O-Matic 2000s in their agents when they issue them pink slips. They go in stupid, come out stupider."
"I wasn't a field agent," Howard interrupted. There was a growing edge to his tone.
"Got that right," Remo scoffed. "You should have seen this joker, Smitty. He actually made the rest of those Maxwell Smarts at Langley look like they'd know their spyglasses from their elbows."
Sighing, Smith rubbed the bridge of his patrician nose with arthritic fingers. "I didn't think this would be easy," he said wearily.
"He is stubborn, as well as rude, Prince Mark," Chiun explained. "But in spite of his many-" his eyes grew hooded as he stared directly at Remo -many many character flaws, he has served his emperor faithfully for years."
"Um, about that," Howard said, his voice vaguely troubled. "Emperor, prince? Are these terms...?" His voice trailed off.
Howard's implication was clear.
"This oughta be good," Remo said. He flopped back on the couch, his arms spread wide across the back.
The CURE director fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.
"They are not my idea, if that is your concern," Smith said, his gray face flushing with embarrassment. "Sinanju Masters are effusive in language and devoted to title. It eventually became easier to accept the honorific than to argue against its use."
"Perhaps, Emperor Smith, a clearer delineation is necessary now with the arrival of the prince regent," Chiun mused, stroking his beard pensively. "How would you feel about His Royal Highness, Smith the First?"
Smith's face sickened. "There is no need to change at this juncture," he said quickly.
"Yeah," Remo agreed. "Especially since the Campbell Soup Kid here won't be around very long."
"Remo," Smith said evenly, "like it or not, Mark has been installed here as assistant director of CURE. Given that simple fact, he will be here for the foreseeable future."
"Nope," Remo said, shaking his head. "Last CIA guy a President sent in to take over almost blew the whole shooting match and nearly got us all killed in the bargain. I say a corpse in time saves mine. You'll agree soon enough."
"That individual was NSA, not CIA," Smith reminded him. "And this situation is different. In that instance my taking ill caused the President to install a new CURE director. In this case the President simply wishes to have someone in place should something happen to me."
"Dr. Smith?" Howard interrupted, concerned. "The President never told me he sent someone else in to run CURE."
"It was a previous President," Smith explained. "Years ago."
"May I ask what happened to him?" Howard questioned.
"That is not relevant," Smith said tersely.
"Got cooked to death in that very chair," Remo said, nodding across the room to where the CURE director sat.
"Remo," Smith warned thinly.
"What?" Remo said. "Weren't you gonna tell him what he's gotten himself into?" He leaned forward on the couch. "Guy before that got a pen stuck through his head," he offered conspiratorially.
"That is quite enough," Smith snapped.
"Hey, I'm just letting junior know he's not in Kansas anymore. This is the big leagues, Baby Huey."
Howard would not be baited. "I'm aware of what goes on around here, Remo," he said. But there was a troubled undertone to his words.
"Sure, you are," Remo droned. "Smitty," he continued, "why are we bothering to go through the motions like this? I mean, is all this even legal?"
"Pah," Chiun scoffed, dismissing Remo's words with a wave of one bony hand. "Legalities are for the peasantry. They do not apply to emperors or handsome princes." He smiled at Howard.
"That is not true, Master Chiun," Smith said gravely. "At CURE we are governed by a set of very strict guidelines." He leaned back in his cracked leather chair. "There is nothing in our charter that explicitly prohibits this," he said, steepling his fingers to his chin. "After all, I was appointed by a President forty years ago. That a later President would appoint a second in command at CURE does not violate our founding principles. And I had recently begun to consider the possibility that I might one day be replaced. I assumed that it would be after my death, but it makes more sense this way rather than bringing someone to the job cold."
"Why?" Remo asked blandly. "He's just gonna be leaving that way. Cold, stiff and with a really surprised look on his face."
Although Smith's lips pursed unhappily, it was Howard who broke in.
"I know this is hard for you, Remo," Mark said reasonably. "The three of you have worked as a team for a long time. I can see how you'd see me as an intrusion."
"Buddy, intrusion is way down the list," Remo said. "I mostly see you as a waste of space with just a smattering of pain-in-the-ass tossed in for good measure."
A dark thundercloud crossed the Master of Sinanju's leathery face. In a swirl of silken robes he swept around Smith's desk.
"You will excuse us, O Emperor, but your humble servants have taken up enough of your precious time. We will leave you and your young princeling to the work of governance."
"Yes," Smith agreed, his flint eyes trained on Remo. "Perhaps that would be wise."
Chiun gave a curt bow. "Move, lout," he barked, kicking Remo's feet.
With a deep sigh Remo pushed himself up from the couch. Before he'd even stood, a bony hand seized his bicep.
"Come, loudmouthed one."
"Yeah, yeah," Remo muttered.
Like a child being led to the woodshed, he allowed the old man to guide him to the door. Before they'd reached it, Remo paused abruptly. When he turned back there was a look of sincere concern on his hard face.
"Are you okay with all this, Smitty?" Remo asked quietly.
Across the room, the CURE director seemed lost behind his big desk, a wasted figure propped up from another age. Behind him, the one-way picture window overlooked the cold waters of Long Island Sound. A fitting backdrop to the thin, gray man. In that instant Smith had never looked so old.
"It will work out for the best, Remo," Smith promised, giving a tight nod. His bloodless lips were drawn into a grimace that could have been either a smile or indigestion.
"I agree with Dr. Smith," Mark Howard said. "I think we all just need a period of adjustment."