No good. There was no way Chiun would let him get away with claiming success.
Failure. Barring complete and utter success, that's what Chiun would call it. Remo's only hope was for Smith's assistant to track down the two AWOL killers before the Master of Sinanju found out what had happened.
For the time being Remo was relieved that Chiun was off in Sinanju. Despite the circumstances of the old man's trip, going home always put the Korean in a better mood. And if his caretaker had indeed been murdered, Chiun would enjoy meting out justice to the perpetrator. He might even enjoy himself so much that he'd let slide Remo's not-entirely-complete success in Germany and Spain.
"Fat chance the way that old skunk keeps score," Remo grumbled to himself as he deplaned in Rome. Near the cabstand outside the airport, Remo was relieved when a man with a gun assaulted him. Maybe his luck had turned and these sissy-boy assassins were finally going to start earning their keep. Then he realized it was just Italy, it was just a mugger and practically everybody else on his late-night flight was currently being assaulted at various spots up and down the sidewalk.
"Well, hell," Remo groused as the man jabbed the gun deep into his ribs and demanded all his money. As the rest of the tourists dutifully handed over watches and wallets to their muggers in a charming Italian tradition that was as old as recycling Christians into cat food, Remo was stuffing his own mugger face first in an airport mailbox.
"Couldn't work for the government," Remo yelled at the man's kicking shoes. "Couldn't give a guy a break."
After seeing what Remo had done to the mugger, the driver whose cab Remo got into decided to break with another great Italian tradition of driving American tourists around in circles until they got nauseous and then mugging them for whatever the muggers hadn't mugged them for.
He drove Remo straight to his secret midnight rendezvous with the Italian prime minister.
The meeting took all of two minutes. Practically as soon as he'd left the cab, Remo returned to the back seat with a deeply angry expression on his face. "Take me to a phone," he demanded.
The driver didn't argue. He took the fare directly to an outdoor pay phone.
"It happened again," Remo complained when Smith picked up on the first ring.
"Another assassin has disappeared?" Smith asked. "No, I lost the freaking evening-gown competition because I had visible panty lines."
"Oh," said Smith. "Did you get the man's name?"
"No," Remo said angrily. "And what's the point? Chiun's going to kill me whether or not we make a list of all the no-shows."
"I doubt Master Chiun can blame you for this."
"Hello, McFly," Remo said sarcastically. "I don't think we're talking about the same Chiun. Mine's the one who still somehow blames me for the networks preempting his soap operas so they could air the Watergate hearings thirty years ago. This is going to be my fault. Case closed."
"I am not so sure," Smith said. "It seems almost certain at this point that there is something larger going on here. One or two men turning up missing is a coincidence. Four is more than likely a conspiracy."
"Three," Remo corrected.
"Hmm?"
"Don't jump the gun on me, Smitty. So far it's only Germany, Spain and Italy that's pulled a disappearing act."
"Yes," Smith said, clearing his throat. "That's what I meant. But with the three missing men, we have established a pattern. There must be a connection."
"Okay, so we've got a conspiracy. What has the Little Prince found out about the missing guys?"
"Mark has, er, not been successful in uncovering any information on the men in question. For all intents and purposes they have vanished without a trace."
There was an odd ring to the CURE director's voice.
Remo had recently come to find out about Mark Howard's sixth sense. It was after the affair with Jeremiah Purcell, when Howard had become an unwitting dupe, aiding the Dutchman in his escape from imprisonment at Folcroft. Smith and the Master of Sinanju seemed to think there was something to Howard's alleged ability. Remo was more skeptical.
"He's using a computer to search, right?" Remo asked slowly. "He's not wearing a swami hat and rubbing a crystal ball while picking his toes through soggy tea leaves?"
"Of course not," Smith insisted. He quickly changed the subject from his assistant. "Now, since you have been unsuccessful in Italy-"
"Not my fault," Remo interjected.
"-you should continue on to your next appointment."
"Aw, c'mon, Smitty. Can't I just call it quits?"
"This is not up to me. If it were, you would not have started on this ritual. Chiun, however, made it clear that it is a critical rite of passage."
Remo sighed loudly. "Where to next?"
Smith gave him the directions to his next meeting, a late-night rendezvous in the Kremlin.
"Try to be politic when you meet their president," the CURE director pleaded when he was finished. "U.S.-Russian relations are at a pivotal stage. There is opportunity for a long-term shift for the better in our relationship."
"You got it," Remo vowed. "I won't mention his submarine asphyxiation program. I'll just limit myself to talking about their booze-and-whores-based economy."
He slammed the phone so hard it shattered like glass.
SMITH WINCED at the crackle over the line. Frowning, he folded up his cell phone and replaced it in his battered leather briefcase. Setting the briefcase between his ankles, he sat back in the unfamiliar chair.
The chair had an ugly green vinyl seat and cheap wood. On the arm someone named Judy had used a set of keys to inscribe her eternal love for a gentleman suitor named Len.
Smith was annoyed with himself for mentioning a fourth missing assassin to Remo. But he was tired. This had been a long day.
At the moment Smith didn't know how to handle the Benson Dilkes matter. He had attempted to call Master Chiun in Sinanju for guidance, but for some reason the phone there wasn't working.
For the twentieth time in the past half hour, Smith checked his watch. As he did so, the door finally opened.
The doctor was middle-aged and balding with a too dark tan. It seemed as if no one on staff at the hospital appreciated the dangers of ultraviolet radiation. Smith assumed the climate made it too tempting to stay indoors.
At the doctor's appearance, Smith got to his feet, picking up his briefcase. The two men met at the foot of the hospital bed where Mark Howard lay in gentle slumber. Near the bedside an EKG monitor beeped relentlessly.
The doctor cast a concerned eye over the sleeping patient before addressing Smith.
"You've been briefed by Dr. Carlson. Just so you know, we're not sure what's wrong. Physically there doesn't seem to be a problem. We did a scan and can't find any problem with his brain. It looks like it's some sort of shock."
"I know all this, Doctor," Smith said impatiently.
The doctor nodded. "He seems to be giving signs of coming around. Dr. Carlson and I both think it would be safer to keep him here in Florida rather than move him."
"Is he in any immediate danger?"
"Not that we can tell. But in cases like this it's always better to-"
"The facility where I'm taking him will give him the best of care," Smith interrupted.
The doctor bristled at the gray old man's frosty tone.
"It's your decision," the physician said. "We just wanted you to be certain you knew the risks. I'll send someone in with the forms."
Without another word the doctor stepped from the room, leaving Smith at the bedside.
It was another few minutes before a plump nurse entered, a clipboard tucked under her meaty arm. Smith had seen her come in and out of the room a few times in the past hour.