His words seemed to satisfy the king.
"Greetings, Master of Sinanju," the king replied in English. "You do us honor with this visit. We trust your journey was safe and bid you welcome to our shore."
For some reason Remo couldn't explain, the king's words warmed him. Maybe it was the connection to the past. A ritual greeting between monarch and assassin. Knowing that all the Masters of the modern age had said the same words during the same rite of passage. He was living history. It surrounded him on all sides. Hummed with life.
What with finding the secret passage right where it was supposed to be and seemingly making happy the ghosts of Sinanju past, Remo actually started to feel good.
The feeling was short-lived.
The prime minister cleared his throat. "I am afraid, Master of Sinanju, we have a problem."
The life hum stopped. Remo was back in a cold stone cell smeared with pigeon shit.
"Why?" Remo asked, eyes narrowing. "What's wrong?"
The prime minister looked to the king. The king looked to the pigeons flapping and crapping at the ceiling. The prime minister looked back at Remo.
"It has to do with our entrant in the contest," said the prime minister. He offered an oily, apologetic smile.
REMO STOPPED at a little restaurant a few miles down the road from the Alcazar.
When he asked if there was a pay phone, he was told it was out of order, which didn't surprise him. From what he had seen in this short trip, the last thing to work properly in Spain were three little wooden boats that had, in 1492, gotten the hell out of the country.
He peeled off ten hundred-dollar bills from the roll in his pocket and offered them to the owner for private use of the kitchen phone. As the owner was chasing the kitchen staff from the room, Remo was dialing the multiple 1 code that would connect him to Folcroft's secure line.
"Are you finished in Spain?" Smith asked without preamble.
"Everything's finished in Spain," Remo said. "I don't think they've started anything new since they figured out they can kill bulls with red blankets and shiny pants."
"Yes," Smith said dryly. "May I assume you are calling for the details of your next appointment?" For some reason the CURE director's voice sounded echoey.
"You know what they say about assuming, Smitty," Remo said, sitting up on the little desk that was tucked in the corner of the restaurant's kitchen. "I haven't finished this one yet."
"Did something go wrong?"
"Maybe. I'm not sure. I think there could be something screwy going on. You know how the German guy said auf Wiedersehen without a fight? Turns out the Spanish guy did the same thing."
There was a pause on the line. "Are you certain?" Smith asked after a thoughtful moment.
"Depends on how much stock you can put in the king of Spain's word. Seemed like an okay guy. Nice suit. By the way, did you know Spain still had a king?"
"Of course."
"Oh. Anyway, maybe I should just take it as an ego boost that this one took off, too, and jump over to the next square."
"I'm not so sure," Smith said. "While Chiun said that it was not unheard-of for a contestant to flee the contest, it was my impression that this was unusual in the extreme. Unfortunately, Mark has not been able to track down the German yet, so we cannot ask him if there is a connection. Do you have the name of the Spanish assassin?"
Fishing a scrap of paper from his pocket, Remo read Smith the name the Spanish prime minister had given him. Over the line he heard Smith's fingers drumming against his special keyboard as he entered the name in his computer. The sound had the same strange hollow quality as Smith's voice.
"Why do you sound so funny?" Remo asked.
"I have you on speakerphone," Smith explained. Remo knew that the CURE director had the device for some time but rarely used it, preferring the privacy of a clunky old phone pressed tight to his ear. If it was on now, that could only mean one thing.
"Tell Howard I said hi," Remo muttered.
Smith didn't hear. "There," he said, finishing his typing. "I will include him in our search. For now I suppose you can do nothing but move on to your next appointment. According to my list, Italy is next. You have a meeting with their president at midnight." Smith quickly gave him the details.
"Swell," Remo grumbled once the CURE director was finished. "I think I figured out the real reason Chiun's putting me through all this. He's hoping to wear me down so I wind up hating everybody like he does."
"This tradition dates back well beyond Master Chiun," Smith reminded him.
"Chiun comes from a long line of racists," Remo said. He cupped the phone to his chest. "No offense," he announced to the empty kitchen.
"I did have one question before you go," Smith was saying as Remo raised the phone back to his ear. "I have been going over your itinerary. Not that I approve of any of this, but there are countries that have been left out. For instance Hungary, the Czech Republic and Poland are all skipped."
Remo laughed, shaking his head wearily.
"Chiun says we don't bother with Poland because their assassins kept effing up the rules and shooting themselves by mistake. I think he's just being racist and writing them off 'cause the zloty's worth spit. If you look at that list he gave you, he's skipped over pretty much all of the old Soviet countries. Mostly because the Franklin Mint's got more gold in their Wizard of Oz collector series plates than those countries have in their whole damn treasuries these days. We're great assassins, but we're even better money magnets. Spain is probably only still on because it had a pretty big empire four hundred years ago. It takes time to get knocked down a notch. Another couple of hundred and it'll probably be dropped, too." He slipped down off the desk. "There's a lesson for America in there," he warned quietly. "See you, Smitty." He dropped the heavy black phone in the cradle.
"DID YOU HEAR all that?" Smith asked. The first hint of worry creased his gray brow.
Mark Howard sat in a plain wooden chair across Smith's desk. The young man nodded.
"Do you think it's a coincidence both guys backed out?" the assistant CURE director asked.
Smith shook his head. "No, I do not." Even as he spoke, he was reaching in his desk drawer. Taking out a bottle of baby aspirin, he shook two pills into his palm. "This business should not even involve us," he said as he measured out some liquid antacid into the tiny cup that came with the green bottle. Throwing back the aspirins, he washed them down with the chalky liquid.
Across the desk Mark hoped he wasn't getting a glimpse of his own future.
"I tried calling him a few more times," Howard offered. "The line's still not busy, but he isn't answering."
Smith knew exactly whom his assistant meant. The CURE director took off his glasses, rubbing tired eyes.
"Do you have a sense that there is something larger going on?" he asked.
It made him uncomfortable to ask the question. His assistant had an unusual ability that sometimes allowed him to see beyond that which was known. Howard's sixth sense was something neither man liked to discuss.
"No," Mark admitted. "But given what Remo just told us, I guess we have enough of a pattern." Smith nodded his understanding.
"Most likely," he agreed wearily. "But we need to know for certain. Our obligations in this were made clear enough early on. I will have to go check. You will be in charge here while I am gone. You may use my office if you wish."
Replacing his rimless glasses, he began reaching for his keyboard to order plane tickets.
"Wait," Mark said, standing. "I should be the one to go, Dr. Smith. I'm expendable. You're too important to CURE to still be doing fieldwork."