Pursing his lips in displeasure, Smith picked up the ringing phone. "Yes," he said with mild annoyance. "I need some help, Smitty."
Smith had almost been hoping that the caller would be the frantic woman from Chiun's village. The Master of Sinanju would not be home yet. When he heard Remo's voice, the CURE director exhaled disapproval.
"I do not like being involved in this," Smith said unhappily, straightening with fussy annoyance in his chair.
"Join the club," Remo grumbled. "I've got a problem, Smitty. The guy Germany was supposed to use as cannon fodder has taken off. No one knows where he is."
Smith breathed hotly through pinched nostrils. Once it was decided that Chiun would return to Sinanju to check into the matter of his caretaker, Remo had hastily called Smith back, turning the phone back over to his teacher. Chiun had given the CURE director an encyclopedic list of people, places and tradition to help guide Remo through the Time of Succession. At first Smith objected, but threats from Remo to quit CURE if he didn't help finally brought him around, albeit reluctantly.
"I do not appreciate being blackmailed," Smith said, restating his earlier objection.
"No kidding," Remo replied. "I missed that the first hundred times you said so."
Smith spun in his chair, staring out at the night. "It is not as if this is a CURE matter," he said, more to himself than to Remo. "If the two of you wish to go off like this, it should be your business, not mine."
"Earth to Smitty," Remo snapped. "I need help." Smith exhaled loudly.
"You say the German assassin has rejected Sinanju's challenge?"
"I'd say chickened out, but your way works, too."
"Chiun informed me that this happens from time to time during this ritual."
"So what do I do?"
"Traditionally you would go in search of the individual who has fled to avoid confrontation. I understand there was a Master- Wait." Smith turned back to his keyboard, pulling up the relevant files. "Yes, Master Hwyack. Apparently he spent eighteen years searching for a Vandal champion who ran away from the contest."
"Pass," Remo said.
"Chiun was quite clear on this, Remo," Smith insisted. "The chosen champion must be defeated."
"Smitty, do you really want me to waste the next six months knocking on the door of every gingerbread house in the Black Forest to see if Germany's best assassin is hiding under the bed?"
Humming thoughtfully, Smith tapped a finger on his desk. "That would not be an effective use of time," he agreed.
"Fine. It's settled. I'm all finished here. Put a check on the chart next to Germany."
"I doubt Chiun will be satisfied with this outcome," the CURE director pointed out. "But you are right. I would prefer to limit the amount of time you waste on this matter. Perhaps we can approach this more efficiently. I will see if Mark can track him down. You continue to your next destination. Do you have the German assassin's name?"
"Wilhelm von Murderstrasse, or something like that. Wait a sec. They told me on the chopper. Let me find it."
"What helicopter? Who were you with?"
"Couple of Germans," Remo said absently as he searched for the name. "I think one of them was chancellor or something. Didn't have a little mustache, though. It was all I could do to keep the other guy alive till we got back to Berlin. Germans have heart attacks real easy. Found it."
In the dark of his Folcroft office, Smith had been pinching the bridge of his nose. He pulled his hand away, readjusting his glasses.
"What is it?" he sighed.
"Hermann Heyse," Remo said, obviously reading the name.
Smith typed the name into the computer along with the rest of the data he had compiled on the Time of Succession.
"Very well. I will have Mark track him down. In the meantime you may continue to your next destination. "
The CURE director read a quick summary of the where and who of Remo's next appointment. With instructions to call if there were any questions, he broke the connection.
Once the blue phone was safely back in its cradle, Smith sank tiredly back into his leather chair.
Remo had been on a helicopter with the chancellor of Germany. Another name to add to the growing list of world leaders CURE's Destroyer had met.
The only thing that was keeping Smith's sanity intact was the knowledge that no one in any of these foreign lands could allow word of what they were involved in to get out. Despite the requirements of this particular ritual, from Master to Master, Sinanju had remained successfully hidden from the eyes of the world for millennia. Smith trusted that the secret would remain hidden. It had to.
Smith sat back up in his chair. It squeaked. It hadn't done that for some time.
Taking odd comfort in the noise, the CURE director stretched his hands to his keyboard.
Chapter 19
Kim Jong Il, Leader for Life of North Korea, was in his office in the concrete bowels of the People's Palace in the capital city of Pyongyang when he got the terrible news.
"How soon?" the premier demanded.
"The plane will be arriving in approximately thirty minutes," replied his secretary, an army colonel.
A flush came to the premier's cheeks.
The colonel who stood before his desk looked worried. The officer had just learned that a commercial jet had been "borrowed" in South Korea. That was the term the South had used. In this age of heightened awareness over hijackings, it was a very odd choice of words.
The highest leadership in the South had called the highest leadership in the North to tell them about the plane. In that urgent call they had mentioned one word the significance of which the colonel didn't understand. That word was Sinanju. The colonel was told that it didn't matter that he didn't understand. He had been informed that the premier would know what it meant.
It seemed as if the caller from the South had been correct, for at the mention of the word the North Korean premier's face visibly paled.
Sitting behind his desk, the premier had to grab on to his seat to steady himself. "Half an hour," he lamented.
"Less than that by now, my premier."
The premier had a clump of knotted hair that, left to its own devices, stood at bizarre attention on his head. With the news from his secretary, the premier's face had begun to match the impression of cartoon shock given off by his plume of sticking-up hair.
"They're early," Kim complained. "He swore to me they wouldn't work their way to Asia for another couple weeks."
"Sir?" questioned the confused secretary.
The premier didn't even hear the question. "Quick," he snapped. "Get on the phone to General Kye Pun of the People's Bureau of Revolutionary Struggle. Tell him the Sinanju schedule's been moved up. Tell him I need his special boy at the airport ASAP."
"Yes, sir. Now, about this rogue plane. Do you want to give the order to shoot it down?"
The premier's panic was so great it looked as if his spikes of hair might start launching at the ceiling. "Hell no," he snapped. "He's mad enough when I don't fire missiles at him. I don't even want to think about how pissed off he'd be if I shot a plane out from under him. Now, hurry up and make that call to Pun."
As his secretary hurried from the office to place the call to the head of North Korea's intelligence service, the Leader for Life was rummaging in the bottom drawer of his desk. He pulled out a bottle and a crystal tumbler. With shaking hands he poured himself a good stiff belt.
"Why do bad things happen to good dictators?" he moaned to his office walls.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, when the plane appeared as a little black dot in the pale white sky, Kim Jong Il was shivering at the Pyongyang airport.
He wore a big furry hat that covered his wild hair. A heavy coat didn't block the wind that whipped the tarmac.